I went to a nude beach today.

Well, technically it was a "clothing optional" beach. It was my first time getting out of the city in a month, and I was just happy to be in lush, green nature--even if that nature involved aged genitalia. My friends and I didn't know what to expect. We figured we'd see the token, chubby, lone naked guy sitting quietly on a towel, reading "1001 Kama Sutra positions" or something of the sort. Oh no. It was a nonstop naked parade. Men, women, couples, swinging couples, mothers, lesbian lovers. I mean, I felt out of place having clothes on.

It did ruin my appetite seeing all that wrinkled flesh waggling around. Getting old plus gravity just doesn't look good on anyone. Who knew your butt could sag that much? I must admit, I admire the sheer courage and, for lack of a better word, balls to walk around blatantly naked. As long as you're not creepy and taking pictures, but just "Being one with your body"--then more power to you. Although it'd be nice if the naked people were like thirty years younger and thirty times more attractive...well, one can dream, can't they?

why I love R. Kelly

No matter what kind of mood I'm in (shitty, stinky, happy, introspective, melancholy, remorseful, overjoyed) R. Kelly satisfies it. When I'm running up a hill and I can't breathe and sweat is dripping into my eyes, R. Kelly keeps me going. When it's late at night and I can't sleep and I'm eating a bowl of Kix, R. sings me to sleep. I find his voice truly beautiful. It soothes my troubled spirit. And every song tells a story. I'll be honest, I don't really listen to lyrics most of the time. If there's a unique voice and a good drum beat and maybe some synth up in there, I'm happy. If you told me the Clientele has been singing about Chinese food and Seinfeld reruns for ten years, I'd probably believe you. But R. Kelly's lyrics are so amazing that I can't help but listen to them. They all weave a magical yarn. For example, look at these lyrics from "Havin' a Baby":

"Wow, I can't believe I'm going to be a father
In nine months a child will be born
Baby you're pregnant in April
Which means we're having a Capricorn"

"Havin' a Baby" is from his latest album, "Double Up." There is not a bad song on this album. Whether you be rollin' up to the club or chillin' with your friends or preparing for fatherhood, you are set. I also highly recommend watching the "Light it Up" tour, available to watch instantly on Netflix. Now, I know that Robert (his close friends call him Robin) has some personal sexual issues, but that's another story. Doesn't make me love him less, I just don't think about it. I do the same thing with Bill Clinton.

the glory of grownup-ness.

Sometimes I fear getting old. I worry about not being able to run without fearing my knee will pop out, not having regular bowel movements, not tasting my food anymore without dumping a mountain of salt on it... But then I watch the show Weeds and I feel okay. They make getting old look fun. Especially if you're dealing drugs! I'm torn between which one is my favorite character. I love the sleazy sassiness of Uncle Andy. I adore Celia and her ball-busting ways and her terrible relationship with her daughter. But Doug also floats my boat as the lazy yet conniving City Councilman. It looks like so much fun to live in a manufactured home in the California suburbs and drink wine spritzers and sleep with the pool boy and take prescription pills like candy. So there's hope out there.

eloquent, simple, honest words.

“Fuck Soulja Boy! Eat a dick! This nigga single-handedly killed Hip Hop. That shit is such garbage, man. We came all the way from Rakim, we came all the way from Das EFX, we came all the way from motherfuckers flowing like Big Daddy Kane and Ice Cube, and you come with that Superman shit? That shit is garbage. Hurricane (Chris) take them fucking beads out of your hair nigga! Man up. You niggas is making me feel real fucking mad about this shit.”

- Ice T on the sad state of rap music

no seriously, why do the crazies love me?

Is it my red hair? The fact that I look younger than I really am? My trusting, naive, unsuspecting face? The fact that I was raised a good Texan and automatically smile at people when I make eye contact, whether I want to or not?

Yesterday was a picture-perfect summer day. Sunny, breezy, not a cloud in the sky. I was downtown in the Pearl and decided to find a park, spread out, and read my Jacqueline Susann novel. Everything was going swimmingly. I even approached a lady with two pugs and we had a nice chat about their shedding habits. While engrossed in my trashy novel, I felt a man's presence looming above me. I look up--shit! Eye contact. I quickly look back down and pray he goes away. But no. He says loudly, "Hey, red. Red! Rosie!"

Ignore. Ignore. Nope, doesn't work. He keeps on. Rather than get involved in an awkward conversation that would end with him asking for change, I decided to grab my stuff and walk away. Quiet park moment of reverie is officially over. I make eye contact with two other young women also reading by themselves. They give me a "that sucks the crazy guy is picking on you" smile. Why me? Why didn't he go for the skinny one eating crackers ten feet over? Who knows how the crazy's mind works?

So I start walking down the street, when to my horror I realize he's following me. This event just went from annoying to creepy to wow, I'm really creeped out. He follows me for about two blocks, keeping his distance, but yelling "Rosie!" all the same. Finally he says, "I'll stop following you, ma'am, if you're not who I think you are."

Without turning around I yell, "Nope! Not her!" And he says, "Okie dokie" and walks away. And that was that. Ughhhhh. Funny story to tell friends. Not funny at the moment. The homeless/crazies here are so much more forward than back home. It's one of my least favorite Portland trends here. Is it wrong that I want to taser them? Being a single young lady can really suck donkey balls sometimes.

an intriguing proposition.

This blog (god, I really hate the word blog)is slowly turning into my thoughts on Portland and its seedy subculture and its homeless. Which is fine. I have horrible long-term memory anyway, so this will help when I look back twenty years from now with waves of nostalgia. And most stories will begin with this line:

So I was waiting for the bus...
When a guy walked up to me, opened his wallet, looked at me and asked, "Are you under 18?"
I looked straight ahead and answered loudly, "Yup."
He shrugged and walked away. What does this mean? I'm genuinely curious. And I kind of wish I had said no just to see what his proposition was. Now I'll never know. Perhaps we'll meet again, on a foggy day, on bus #9, looking for love in all the wrong places...

get out of my personal space, please.

I don't know if you would call it OCD, but I have problems with people getting close to me. And touching most things grosses me out. So when I have to ride the city bus (and living in Portland without car, I do every day) I get really uncomfortable every time. Today there was a drooling toddler sitting in front of me. She felt the need to suck on a Ruffles BBQ-flavored chip, and then run the drool-y chip juice all over her seat and then reach out to me. I almost blacked out from the sheer terror. She babbled happily away, not understanding that I was not appreciative of her gookiness and high-pitched shrieks. Then the bus got full and I had like six slightly homeless-looking people all around me and I thought, it doesn't get any worse than this. Until I reached my stop and had to fight my way through the mob to get out.

I just can't deal with people in my personal space zone. I also hold my breath when people walk by because I'm afraid of what I'll smell. Also touching any kind of railing grosses me out. This doesn't mean I'm OCD, right? Just means I'm an uptight American. Excuse me, I have to wash my hands multiple times now.

seedy underbelly.

Austin and Portland have a lot in common. Cities on a river, nature-happy, hipsters in plaid, local businesses and brew pubs abound. But having been here over a week, I will draw the conclusion that there is a seedy underbelly in the Northwest unlike any other. Is it the weather that draws out this dirty, shameful side? Maybe because it's always cold and rainy and muddy you want to stay inside, go to a porn movie theater, and litter the floor with popcorn and shame. Maybe it's just too sunny and hot in Austin for this behavior. We swim, we drive everywhere, we BBQ, we sweat out all the toxins. I worry what effect this weather will have on my behavior. I don't want to turn into a porny shuffling along the streets begging for change. I also don't want to be a patchouli-slathering, hippie goddess who only uses muslin rags instead of tampons. I need to find my happy medium. Oh god, I see a patch of sunlight. Must soak up essential UV rays before they disappear in five minutes.

Craigslist, you have let me down.

Soooo. I'm never buying anything on Craigslist again. Furniture maybe. But used cars? Bikes? No no no no. Perhaps this is obvious to some people. Unfortunately, I had to learn the hard way. Call me naive, but I had no idea people were shady assholes trying to rip you off. They are! Last month I had a really bad experience trying to buy a 1999 Honda Civic. I paid a mechanic $130 to check it out, and he informed me that the car was a piece of poop and to immediately take it back to the owner. Thank god I hadn't paid for it yet. There goes $130, but at least I didn't buy a lemon.

Then I move to Portland. Without a car. I've been bike shopping on Craigslist, and it's been an absolutely hellish experience. I had one nasty lady curse me out for asking "to look at her bike." Apparently, the pictures are for looking. I shouldn't waste her time. So the correct thing to say is, "I want to buy your bike right now, no matter what it looks like." So today I travel forty minutes on the bus to shady town NE to look at some meth head dad's two vintage bikes. He recommends the 1970s cruiser. Says it's good to go, just needs a $5 screw somewhere. It's a little beat up, but it's cute. I buy it for $75. Take it to the bike place he recommends. The guy takes one look at my bike and says, "How much did you pay for it? Yeah, take it back."

I'm crushed. Apparently the bike has major boo boos. Apparently the tires are worth more than the bike. Apparently I'm a sucker and this meth head totally ripped me off. See? I'm naive. I call the guy, which is absolutely awkward. He says no go. I say I'm coming there anyway. He says I'm leaving. I say I'll sit on your front porch 'til you get back. I show up. He's there, with his his meth head wife and children. Three against one. He tells me there is nothing wrong with my bike, and this is Craigslist. There's no such thing as refunds. Have a nice day.

I'm not gonna lie, I felt the tears coming. So I dropped the f bomb, but it didn't make me feel any better. They just laughed and got into their shiny Land Rover. It's at times like this I wish I had Project Pat with me to drop shit on that fucker and roll him out. I don't know what that means, but it sounds good. I need to drink a bottle of wine now.