Bake and Shake

Let's get some drainage happening!

I've got a nice little cold going on right now, and I am trying to remain positive, you know, so I'm eating lots of soup and toast with avocado and double-bagging green tea in giant mugs.

Things have been sporadic. I've been trying to get some stuff down, prepping and thinking and figuring out how to remain human and I am nervous and excited and easily spooked right now, so I'm running out into traffic a lot and stress-ordering Old Navy clearance items, even though we've had this intervention many a time before. I don't like the store clearance sections, because I get way too excited and then pull the garment out and it is stained, snagged and worn by two generations prior to being returned to the nearest Old Navy store. "That's either poop or hot chocolate and I'm not going to smell it."

The other day someone asked me why all I talk about right now is GARDENS/HEIRLOOM TOMATOES/DETERMINATE-INDETERMINATE/EGGSHELLS/EPSOM SALTS/SEED STARTING KITS and the answer is because I am trying to remember, ahead of time, that there are reasons to enjoy the spring and summer beyond the main thing I'm stressed out about. That growing some of my own food is something I am very excited about, and no matter what happens, I still get to do that.

But I would love to have to ask a few people to step in and weed and water for a bit. So let's do what we need to do.

It's all happening.

There is no answer to why the past week has been so awkward, but it has been and the trend forecast says it will probably continue all month. I've been cursed out, had awkward jewelry acceptance moments, run into people I haven't seen in months but used to see on a daily basis and have to assure those around us that we don't hate each other, farted in the middle of a meeting during a hysterical, silent laughter fit, worn the most awkward pair of jeans with the most awkward pair of shoes I own, managed to arrive for every single thing with runny eyes and a red nose because of the cold weather, turned down a penthouse Hotel Party for grocery shopping with my Dad, spilled curry down the front of my new sweater, fallen asleep during intense text conversations and then farted, again.

I blame the edamame for all of it.

With Special Guests! And maybe the police.

You know those situations where you start out with good intentions, ready to help, listen, commiserate and then by the end of it you're in jail, and the person or people who came to you are like "Cool, I'd bail you out...we just have to go make-out in front of a preschool music concert, and then scream obscenities at one another. Call your mom?"

Last night I realized I was on that train, and I got off with a quickness. Not because I am a master at sensing situations that are about to get crazy, real crazy, but because I've heard about this - this is the festival's second year. First hand knowledge of something you didn't see, not really, but heard about, looked on the drawn, pale, weathered faces of those who witnessed it the first time around, who were floating in the brew, just trying to get shit done but hampered by this tantrum that only refreshed those having it.

It won't be long before both sides have a few random teenagers cruising the streets, promising free t-shirts if you just show up for the main event, throwing out bumper stickers and Quiznos coupons. I don't doubt that one of them will ink a deal with an energy drink no one will have heard of, and that will be the only drink served at "SHUT THIS SHIT DOWN 2009".

Local Security will show, and patrol the perimeters in their yellow shirts and fanny packs. O-Town might reunite and open the show, or maybe they'll just hire people to mace us, so we'll start screaming in agony in advance. And then the centerpiece will be something foul and shrill, designed to draw in as many of us as it can, like Satan's Tentacles.

And then afterwards, the bodies lying on the ground, those not unconscious drawn up into the fetal position, neon wristbands glinting in the unforgiving sun, a few vomiting into the river, the two headliners will pick their way through the crowd and high-five you, as you stand in front of the Churro tent that had to abandon operation fifteen minutes into the whole thing, and say "Hey! What's up? Why do you look so freaked out? What? No, we're fine! We're fine! We're great! Why are you weeping blood?"

Because they'll have made up backstage, and won't know about the Ener-G QUIK mobile, which was set on fire and rolled into the river, flames streaming upwards, the driver pitching himself out the window he broke with his face, a life-vest fashioned of Ener-G QUIK bottles cushioning his fall, while they slow-danced to their song next to the catering tent.

"You are not worthy of your new suitcase"

Lately I've been kidding myself, you know, thinking about ridiculous things like giving myself true manicures at home (triple-layer seduction: base, color and topcoats) - "I would look so polished, I bet," I kept thinking, as I wondered about the possibility of high thread-count monogrammed sheets, watching a lot of PBS, letterpressed thank you notes, calling/business cards, heirloom tomato seeds and sensible footwear and then I looked down at my stubby, small hands with their blunt fingertips and short nails that I maintain with my incisors and the lanolin-like substance my dogs produce, and sighed, before whispering "Fuck that noise" to myself and the elderly woman next in line.

Yeah, I watched Cyrano on OPB last night, instead of "Real World: Serious Ambition and backwoods views on sexuality and gender", but I don't think that counts.

But if you have any favorite seed resources, please share. I'm serious - Resolution: 'Container Gardening SERIOUSLY THIS TIME' begins soon. Right now I'm looking to plant bush (string/green) beans, tomatoes, strawberries - I'd also like to plant some old fashioned green, grey, white and deep rich red-orange pumpkins (Cinderella, Fairytale, Cheese and the like) and poppies and dahlias.

All in my bathtub.

The Hydrated Hustler and her sidekick, Beta Carotene

I like the idea of living real hard this year. While to some, this means a heroin addiction and Boxcar living, or singing 'I Touch Myself' in front of a strip club on top of a van, to me this means just doing it. Just doing, living my life and loving the people in it. Understanding that there is little fun in fear, but remember that sometimes it is what you need. Hustle it up, understand that hunger is sometimes better left unsatiated, thrive and understand that you need to accept love in order to fully give it, that it all comes full circle in the end and it feels so good to let people know how much they influence and support your life. Be a good person to the world.

I want to travel, enjoy the trips that I have planned and plan more, safely arriving and returning each time. I hope to seize what I have been pointed towards, and I would love it if the people around me, in my life, had equally thriving, exciting, good, fulfilling and electric times. I would like to sow good things, so that the reaping is positive. I would like to drink more water, breathe in and out more, take naps, continue to understand what has happened and look forward to (and out for) what is to come - have faith that there is more to come.

I would like to continue cherishing this last year, and thank what transpired and the people that made it possible. It was so good, and so fun, so thank you. And thank you, self, for letting go of that stale hurt because look what showed up to fill that nice big space.

I do not care if I kiss that man, or make up with that friend. Both would be nice, but it isn't all on me, and I would like to remind myself of that on a regular, calm basis this year. I would like to be strong, kind, hydrated and joyous. I would like to trade legs with Whitney Port. I would like to eat more orange vegetables. And I wish the same for you and yours.

There are more hopes and resolutes, but I don't know them all yet. They'll come though. Because the year is young, friends, and so are we.

I did it, Tracy: A Greedy Christmas Eve Miracle

A little background. I've been looking to buy an Orla Kiely piece for a long, long while. I have not wanted to spend the amount of money required. This summer, I almost bought a used wallet on eBay. And then Anthropologie had this bag on sale, for 149.95 which is nothing, which is 200 dollars less than the MSRP, which is cheap, so cheap for this bag that I thought there was a big joke being played on those of us who like to pretend we have a million dollars to spend at Anthropologie, fill the shopping cart, then close the browser.

I waited on it for three days, promising myself that I would order it after Christmas, that too many signs had added up, I don't splurge on myself during this time of year, I could justify it then, and then I woke up this morning and ran down to the computer and signed in, checked out and boom - OUT OF STOCK.

But then I called Anthropologie, and some incredibly nice people helped me out and located the two stores in the country that had the bag at that price still in stock. I called the one closest to me, was helped out by a sweet, sweet woman - they did have it in stock, it was the same price and no they couldn't do store-to-store shipping but they'd ship it directly to me free of charge. So in the end, I paid 12.95 less than I was planning.

So that is my completely frivolous consumer Christmas miracle. It has brought ridiculous joy to my heart.

And PS: The other store with the above bag (they may have more than one) in stock, for 149.95? NYC, phone number (1) 212 - 343 - 7070. The item number is #843221 and the name is the Crayon Crocus Wheelie.

In 'The Shit'

HEY GUYS.

Let me tell you. Let me TELL YOU. This is INCREDIBLE. I don't know what the Portland-Metro area did, but we're paying for it. I can't form words anymore. This morning, a stray Boxer trotted into the backyard and I beckoned it inside, clapping gleefully because it was someone I was not blood-related to, something, whatever. The owner followed a few minutes later, and I stared mournfully as he hoisted the animal into his arms, hands clasped around it's belly and lifted each leg high as he waded through the bullshit that is 13 inches of snow, in Portland.

And not only that, like some foul cake there is an inch-thick layer of opaque ice exactly midway through the snow. Because after the initial eight inches, freezing rain fell and coated everything. Then yesterday, more snow fell but that was fine, because you figure the air is warm enough for snow, it is warm enough for rain, which will wash everything away.

NOPE.

Dear Santa

I have been almost good, most of the time.

"But I don't HAVE FIFTY DOLLARS!"

Perhaps you've seen this. I haven't, but that changed two minutes ago when I surfed over to Dave's site, where this was posted. I think it is probably the best gift I could give myself this holiday season. There are so many things I like about it, but the best parts in no particular order are:

The red-haired girl and the girl in the orange-pink shirt with glasses, who are obviously into David A but not really up for getting hysterical about the outcome, either way. They sort of mill around and laugh at the other girls, but when everybody begins to cry, who are they to not join that trend? 

The single hand, atattched to someone out of frame, that points out how crazy middle girl ("Natalie") is. She isn't crazy. She's just feeling this deep within her.

One girl, who shouts "His Dad's going to beat him! His Dad's going to beat him! His Dad's a friggin' abuser!" (1:50 or so). This isn't about David Archuleta getting a centerfold in CosmoGirl. This is about his physical safety.

"They're crying hard because everybody is going to make fun of them at school!"

"EFF  'American Idol'!"

David Cooke's artful facial hair being a result of simply forgetting to shave.

The screaming, and brief mention of a fifty-dollar bet and not having fifty dollars.

The older sister, who can't help but laugh, but first goes around and pats each girl.

Oh man. I was never this passionate of a little girl. Something was wrong with me, no doubt.

"He wants to eat you like a Cuban Sandwich, Girl."

So last night I found myself with a can of Miller Genuine Draft on my right, a scarf wound around my face, a bottle of Diet Coke on my left, and a box of peanut butter Whoppers and a crumpled bag of SmartPop! at my feet. Emmet Cullen in a velour jumpsuit, straddling the back of a Jeep, towered in front of me. It was just after midnight.

Yeah. We had to wait in a line, and we talked in hushed tones about why exactly we were doing this - I had read the books, sick with the flu and bored earlier this year but had made no plans to see the movie. It was a secret shame. My friends, who normally propose midnight showings to Pineapple Express and The Dark Knight rolled out the option for seeing this - "We're bringing alcohol, let's go see that Vampire movie." they said, completely oblivious to what they were about to deal with. We were the only ones not trilling and screaming. My friends were the only men in attendance. The screaming did not stop for the first hour of the movie. I left once to take a piss, and the girls behind us were still screaming when I came back. Someone was wearing a Santa hat. The masses literally could not handle themselves.

I felt a little warm, watching that, the unabashed "I love this so much that I'm going to freak out in public, squeal, recite lines, wear t-shirts, call out declarations of love and not know what to do with myself" attitude of the majority of young women in the theater. It was a safe space for them - to get excited over a boy kissing someone's throat, even if they wouldn't know what to do if the same pair of lips pressed against theirs. Being older, and a little intoxicated, I laughed hysterically at certain points but tried to maintain the same reverence, even though my friends and I couldn't stop keeling forward to exchange aghast looks with each other. It was funny for so many reasons, but most of all it was safe. It was dangerous and arousing and exciting and uniting for them - it was good, for those girls, who not to get all sociological and Women and Gender Studies on you, but don't have many public outlets for those feelings. Trilling and vibrating with screams whenever closeups of Edward's eyes were shown was the equivalent of a sixteen year old boy shouting "NICE TITS!" at the cheerleaders.

At one point we shouldn't have been there. We should have snuck out and into something else, 'Rachel Getting Married' which I really want to see. For the five of us, three guys and two girls it was hilarious, and then everybody was bored. By halftime, our fellow patrons had settled and we had not, getting up to pee, shifting around and sharing snacks, and every involuntary laugh or snort made me feel like a horrible person for disrupting what this movie was for those girls, in the t-shirts, who had played hand-clap games in the lobby, squealing and flipping through their books so they could recite favorite passages. When Edward 'caught' the apple, they tittered. When he angrily tore his shirt open to reveal a plank of glittering vampire sirloin, they breathed in deep and let out little whimpers, tiny wails of "Omiiiiiiiiiggooooooooooood".

And we slurped lukewarm beer, ate junk and tried hard to keep from getting into it. For a lot of reasons we succeeded, and I would like to thank Jacob's very white teeth, Victoria's alpaca shrug at both prom and the killing field, Eric's tie at all times, and "Baby, LaPush. LaPush, baby. Baby LaPush! LAPUSHBABY!" for that.

But.

Robert Pattinson is very attractive when he wears sunglasses.

And this makes me want to weep.