I'm burning my college journals

And the first one I'm getting rid of is the one with all the poetry. Most of it is crap, but there are a few I like. I publish them here for posterity. I apologize ahead of time for the pretentious line breaks.

In the Cab
Where to? Downtown?
Say, you were lucky -
Everyone wants cabs on
rainy days like today.
I came as fast as I could.

Say, know what?
My girlfriend
--I call her my girlfriend--
She says to me today,
"I love you,"
Just like that!
First time.

I tell ya,
she's great.
She looks like Linda Evans
She does wonders.

That your boyfriend
you kissed goodbye?
It's hard bein' alone in this town.
Say, you're lucky.


Nibbles
My tongue is
extra-sensitive today, and my teeth feel
sharper
than usual.
Come here,
dumpling,
And let me bite you.

The Moon
He sat in front of me and I was
trying
to ignore him,
But he dropped his pen
and wasn't wearing
any underwear.

Mid-stream
The voice in the next stall,
frail, old and thin:

"Are you a horse woman?"

I stop.
(Is she talking to me?)

"No."
"You don't ride horses?"
"No."
"Oh, I thought maybe.
Because of your boots."

My mother and That Woman were in town this weekend, and we really need to get a drinking game together for their visits.

1. That woman says "Ich weiß nicht," take a sip.
2. That woman mentions the phrase "Shit, she's short" in reference to a marching band story from 22 years ago, take a sip.
3. Mother calls you by the wrong name, take a sip.
4. That woman says something racist, take a drink.
5. That woman appropriates a memory from your childhood that she was clearly not present for. take a drink.
6. That woman is rude to a cashier or a waitperson, take a drink.
7. That woman or Mother asks you a question where the answer is a lie, take a drink.
8. That woman or Mother asks why you don't have a blog, finish your drink and order another.

It's that last one that gets me. Every fucking time they see me, that woman has to declare her love for my writing and how it's such a shame I don't have a blog and why don't I have one. I suppose I could say that I do have one and that they can't read it, but then you have to get into the reasons why they can't read it and that's just too much talking. It's just easier to say I'm too busy.

Mom scared me a little by asking how one would find out who has a blog (because it's just that ignorance that lets me sleep at night), but K sort of mumbled Google and then said there really isn't a way because people tend not to post under their real names. I've already done a search and found that this doesn't come up when you Google my real name. Whew.

So, the drinking game. There are so many more to add-- feel free to add your own to comments. For those who haven't met her-- just make some up based on my stories. You'll probably be right.

Oh, sorry for not writing in so long. Quick update: I have three kidneys stones, my office has been moved to a different floor, Tbone is fine, I was on jury duty, and I spend most of my free computer time on Facebook now.

There, all caught up!

'Tis a gift?

Every year at xmas, I start to get a feeling of excitement and dread. I like presents and I like my family, but xmas doesn't come with just family. It comes with That Woman. And what comes with That Woman at xmastime are creepy, horrible gifts.

There have been some doozies (The husband once got a book on county fairs, because everyone knows how fascinating county fairs are to the youngsters these days-- unlike those dirty state fairs; State fairs are Sodom and/or Gomorrah with ferris wheels!). She once gave my six year old nephew a figurine of a bear doing taxes. You can count on her giving at least one person something she's received as a free gift.

This year I was afraid she wouldn't live up to her reputation. And then I opened this:

That grey blob is a cat, and I suppose that's why she thought to give it to me, since any time you're at a loss for a gift you can always give a cat lady some sort of cat-related thingy.

This is creepy, right? I gotta say, when I saw this little clay faceless lady holding a blob-- the first thing I thought of was Dr. Who:

And everyone knows Dr. Who creations make great holiday stocking stuffers. Order yours today!

Memories of a poisoning

I meant to post this entry on the twenty-fourth, but I think I took one nap too many that day. Consider this a belated xmas fable.

Picture, if you dare, a smallish dining room that opens out into a living room. Both rooms are cluttered with doily-draped furniture and bookshelves with books. Many, many creches are set up pell-mell on every available flat surface. Finally, the room is lined with an impossible number of ticking clocks, all set to slightly different times so that each clock can ring solo on every fifteen, thirty, forty-five or sixty minutes. As soon as one welcomed inside, any visitor will feel like they're late for something. Conversations will seem to clock in twice as fast as any normal verbal exchange. Everyone is just a little bit jumpy.

There are ten people crowding around a square dining table. On the table, there are dinner and salad plates, salad forks and dinner forks and two types of spoon. There are water glasses and wine glasses and tiny butter pat dishes. The table is so crowded, there is no room for any food.

It is christmas dinner at my mother's house. The wine flows freely as Mom and, more annoyingly, That Woman race back and forth between the dining room and kitchen with plates of food. The whole time, Mom is talking to us and That Woman is talking to herself. We all sit down at the table as That Woman walks us through every single plate and accoutrement at each place setting. She makes a big big deal over the one and a half inch logs of ugly-ass crystal sitting just below the water glass. These are the new knife rests she purchased at the last Questers meeting. There is a story that goes with them, but like everything else she says, her lecture goes in one ear and out the other, inflicting only minor damage to our ear bones. We hope.

As we eat, That Woman continues to jump up every two minutes to get more plates of food. When she does this, she calls back to specific people to offer them even more food.

"K - can I get you more Jell-O? A - how are we on green beans? Young C - can I get you anything? Anything at all? You can have whatever you want, you know."

(She has an unhealthy fixation on my 13 year old nephew, young C. She once announced at lunch one day how much she "love(s) to watch a young man eat". Ew.)

Her food related hollering mostly focusses on my sisters, occasionally calling to me and my mother. One person she never surveys is The Husband (let's call him "Ernesto").

After coming and going at least 5 times, she finally sits and starts to eat. We sisters and husbands talk amongst ourselves whilst buttering bread, pouring gravy and drinking wine. Suddenly, all heads snap to the head of the table as out of nowhere That Woman clangs her knife against her water glass and hisses,

"Ernesto!!!!! Knife rest!!!!!"

It was one of two sentences she said to him that night (the other instance was a snippy accusation about stealing his own chocolate Santa). Not that he minds that she ignores him. I should be so lucky.

Whenever the husband tells this story, he points out that neither K nor A were using their precious knife rests either, but they probably got a pass due to their role in creating young C.

Shortly after leaving my Mom's, The Husband started feeling a little iffy, which soon turned into a horrible case of what could only be food poisoning.

Coincidence???!? You decide!

Weather update update

The Chicken Index measurement tool (the "Chickometer") has collapsed under the weight of the off-the-scale readings. Until the thaw, any further updates are cancelled.

Here's something weird about Portland: there have been several press conferences downtown, discussing how people should be dealing with the weather. Our city has had a pretty good response, opening emergency shelters and adapting the public transportation.

But the press conferences have all been held by the mayor-elect.

Nothing against Sam Adams, but where the hell is Tom Potter? Seriously, the guy's been MIA since the election results were announced.

Lamest. Duck. Ever.

Weather update

Portland received 8 inches of snow on Saturday. To illustrate, I took pictures throughout the evening. Now, everyone knows the best way to gauge a storm is by the chicken index.

Below is a slideshow of my own backyard chicken index.