THIS IS NOT CHIHUAHUA WEATHER

Yes, I have a chihuahua-type dog and, yes, she wears a jacket in the wintertime. It's been frigid by Portland standards this week, so I had to keep the little one warm. Plus she looks pretty crazy adorable in her purple fleece (she's become a true Portlander), though it does cause a fair amount of static.

My mom and I laughed over the phone together this past Sunday evening at the city of Portland freaking out over two inches of snow.* They had already pre-closed the schools that night, and schools have been closed 3 of 4 days this week. We'll see what tomorrow holds.** Yesterday the school closings were truly ridiculous, as there was absolutely no reason for it. It wasn't even that cold, and any ice left had turned to slush. The snow lazily made its way down from the sky like its mom was calling it for dinner, dragging its feet and complaining, "I don't wanna!" But of course that only lasted for about 15 minutes before Snow forced down its meal and retreated back to its room to continue playing World of Warcraft and listening to the Cure.

Of course I used the "snow" as an excuse to work from home Monday through Wednesday, and was also getting over a flu thing, so I shouldn't complain. I did take a break yesterday to walk the jacket-wearing chihuahua-type dog and have a snowball fight in the park with the boys. The pup was so freaked out by the snowball pelting that she tried to climb into my ear (at least I think that was her objective), or possibly my mouth, scratching my face in the process. MP decided to "protect" her at one point, effectively turning her into a canine shield instead. And, yes, she wound up in the middle of some wrestling and pilings-on, after which she immediately (and impressively) found a hole in the fence and ran the 5 blocks back to MP's all on her own. That old lady can BOOK when something's freaking her out. It took me a while to catch up, put her in the house, and turn back for more, pockets filled to the brim with snowballs in anticipation of the attack I knew awaited my return. It rained yesterday, which made for perfect packing snow. Hurts, though, when someone whips a firmly packed one at you.

We had agreed on no snowballs to the face or crotch (or chest area for me). However, I received at least three crotch shots, two boob shots (after which BP remarked that I get hit in all the "vital spots"), and one smack in the forehead/glasses. After this one, BP said, "OK, that's it. You hit my dad's girlfriend in the face. You're goin' down," and rightly pummeled MP. Sorry, I just thought that was too cute.

So, I'll be shufflin' off to Buffalo on Tuesday (unless my flight is canceled) for a quick holiday trip. It's also the little niece's 11th (!) birthday on Xmas eve, so I have to be there for my girl. And, the giant insane Italian family Xmases are pretty freaking fantastic, plus we have an addition to the family: my cousin Bodge's brand-spanking-new baby boy Luca Calanni. He was born just yesterday morning. I've noticed that my cousins happen to make great-looking kids, so I can't wait to see how this one turned out. Damn, I really have a lot of cousins. I can't even count how many first cousins I have, let alone the second and third and, yes, fourth ones. My grandparents were an arranged marriage, and it must have worked out well because they had 11 children. Grandma Calanni was birthin' babies from age 17 to 46, I kid you not. (No pun intended.) So when almost all 11 children then have multiple children of their own, and those children have multiple children of their own, it makes for a hell of a lot of cousins—and one giant insane Italian family ya gotta love. Oh, and some great food.


--
*This post was written on Thursday, 12/18. There has been a LOT more snow and ICE since, and I'm not so much laughing anymore.

**School was indeed closed again.

THE PO' HOUSE

I've been on a small hiatus after having my wisdom teeth pulled last week. I had preempted the experience with the waxing, which, by the way, turned out to be a bust. Yeah, without revealing TMI, let me just say I believe I've ended up with a "botched wax job." It figures, with the kind of luck I've been blessed with. I just tell myself that, although I have super crappy luck when it comes to the smaller things, nothing really that horrible has ever happened to me. And I think I'd prefer it this way than the opposite. To keep from totally losing my marbles, I have two mottos/mantras:

You live, you learn

Onward and upward

Whenever I make a poor decision, I have to suck it up and tell myself that at least I've learned from the experience. And the longer I live, the more I'll learn, even if I may have completely screwed myself for the time being. Then, once I'm screwed and have told myself "you've learned something, blah blah blah," it's time to move on to bigger and better things. Onward. Upward. Two prime examples are grad school and the purchase of my electric car.

I'm going to be honest and admit that the reason I tried my luck at grad school was most likely just because I wanted to be the holder of a master's degree. That in itself is NOT a reason to do it, just in case you're as dumb as I am. Also, it helps to know that what you're going to school for is actually what you want to be doing with your life. "I think so; maybe?" is NOT good enough. The reason this completely screwed me over is because I had money. For the first time in my life, I actually had money. Surplus. Savings. A vague degree of actual comfort. Before applying to grad school, I spent precious time I could be at work volunteering. I also took expensive tests, and had to take time off to study for them. Once I got in, I had to cut down my hours at work significantly. It was actually impressive, the speed at which my bank account dwindled to nothing, then less than nothing. And now, after one semester (4.0, thank you) and realizing teaching high school art is NOT for me, I am in debt and am constantly struggling. You live, you learn.

Once I started saving up again (while concurrently paying off my new student loan), I decided it would be smart to invest everything I had in an electric car. Sadly, I was wrong. Again. It was a fun and novel way to get around over the summer, but a three-wheeled plastic egg does not make for a reliable mode of transportation in the wet 'n' wild Pacific Northwest. After listing multiple grievances and having them "fixed" by the dealership, talking to the head honcho at ZAP headquarters, and freaking out a bunch, turns out I'm screwed. And broke. I need to unload this thing. I have the car listed on eBay for the 5th time. Wish me luck.

So, onward and upward. I currently have for sale one Zapcar Xebra; one Dell Inspiron 1000 laptop; one karaoke machine with 45 CDs and two microphones; one ping-pong table for a pool table; one mountain bike; one Playstation 1 with DDR and two dance pads; one rusted bar table with two stools; one large carpet remnant; one small area rug; and a bunch of other crap. Let me know if you want to buy anything. I did sell my great little electric fireplace that looks like a woodstove for $100. It's a start.

Don't you just love when the economy collapses? Here's to better times. *Clink.*


--
R.I.P. Donald Westling, Jr. October 1948–December 2008. Also R.I.P. John Lennon, killed 27 years ago today.

WAX ON

*WARNING: NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART*

Today I experienced THE ultimate womanhood rite of passage. Yes, friends, for the first time ever, I done got waxed. And let me just say HOLYMOTHERFUCKINGJESUSCOCKSUCKINGBITCHOUCH. That shit is painful. THAT SHIT IS PAINFUL.

THAT. SHIT. IS. PAINFUL.

That being said, it's also totally worth it. And, let me tell you, I now feel like a real woman. If my ladyparts can withstand that, hell, they can handle anything. Ahem. I also got my 'brows waxed for the first time. I've been putting it off for as long as possible and I finally figured, enough is enough. Time to clean that shit up.

Now that I'm on my third glass of wine, here is a bit of play-by-play for your inquiring minds in case you've never had this particular experience yourself. I was led to a cozy table in the middle of a tastefully decorated room with soothing music and aromatic oiliness in the air and, for a moment, I thought I was about to get a massage. I believe my mind was desperately trying to trick itself out of the realization of impending pubic hair pillaging. I'm a bit of a wuss when it comes to people doing potentially painful shit to me (since I was a kid, I've always imagined the worst happening in every situation, resulting in my freak and untimely imaginary death), so I went in there nervous as a mail-order bride waiting to meet her new pudgy, bald, alcoholic hubby. I told my waxer, Jill, this, and she tried to talk me through the process to calm me down. I kept waiting for her to offer me a glass (bottle?) of wine, for godsakes. Sadly, she never did.

The first few rips were actually not that bad. She was working with the outermost and thinnest patch of hair at this point. The entire time I babbled like the lonely old crazy lady sitting next to you during her first airplane flight ever, and I remarked that it wasn't so bad. I told her one friend of mine had said that nothing can prepare me for this kind of pain and that another friend said it didn't hurt at all, so I really didn't know what to expect. I began to relax a bit, which was the wrong thing to do. What I should have done was hold on to my fucking hat. Because then she did a thicker strip of hair closer in. HOLYMOTHERFUCKINGJESUSCOCKSUCKINGBITCHOUCH.

And it continued on like that. Then the tweezing. I remember mumbling something to Jill about "god, the things us women do to ourselves" and how I was fantasizing about making MP get something equally as painful waxed. Jill did mention that some men get Brazilians. Anyway, the tweezing. Imagine a burn victim. Now imagine taking a sharp object and scraping it along said burn victim's mutilated, still oozing burned skin. OK, that's gross and I'm obviously exaggerating, but plucking hairs from red, sensitive skin that's just had patches of hair ripped from it hurts like a fucking bitch. All in all, it wasn't really that bad, but toward the end, it was all I could do to keep myself from crying out, "Enough, Jillyoufuckingbitch! I don't care what it looks like. Please, just fucking stop!" Hoo boy. It was fun in a way, though, and it's something I can now cross off the list of life experiences. Yes, I am a better person for having endured the waxing of my pubic hair. Now, I can conquer anything. Bring it on, bitches!

Sorry for the swearing but, frankly, I think I've fucking earned it after the day I've had!

And, now, I'm off to admire my goods in the mirror, spread some aloe on my red skin, and head out for some cocktails. 'Night.

STRAIGHT FLIPPIN' CRAZY

This favorite expression of MP's keeps popping into my head today. I have a few unmarried, childless friends who have all but completely ditched me for their significant others. What's the deal with that? Romantic entanglements come and go, and you need your friends to get you through it all. Am I right? I have one friend who talked about how she got too wrapped up in a previous relationship and let her girls fall to the wayside, and how she never wanted to do that again. So, after beginning her next relationship, I'm guessing she must have witnessed a murder and was either disposed of by the mob or went into a protection program, because lady's disappeared! Another friend of mine continuously makes plans with me and then flakes every time, and it's been going on for months. She just can't leave her man's side for a second! And a third friend suddenly starts calling me every time him and his girlfriend break up and his schedule is suddenly free. I'm sorry, but this is starting to irritate me.

I won't pretend I'm perfect in this area. I do spend a lot of time with my manpanion. But he's not all I've got, and I don't want him to be. (Plus I'm sure he doesn't want that either!) I really enjoy my bike rides, gym excursions, and watching (the new) 90210 with Roommie; the occasional karaoke jam sesh with my GBF; and weekly happy hours with various acquaintances. I wouldn't trade those times for an Argentinian underwear model. Well . . . OK, I wouldn't trade them for almost anything. It's true, sometimes when we all leave the bar (or wherever), I sneak over to MP's to crawl into bed with him. But I think that's actually a reasonable way of dealing with the issue.

Of course I understand the feeling of being in a new relationship: you're gaga, you're insecure, you're straight flippin' crazy at times. But once the trust and confidence start to build, it should be OK to be apart now and then. And if you don't feel secure spending a night apart, well . . . eh, what do I know. But this is my observation (as a friend who feels neglected).


P.S. The Argentinian underwear model appearing in this blog is Ivan De Pineda.

MOTORIN'

Today was a gorgeous day in the fabulous city of Portland. Sunny and warm even. I just got back from a motorcycle ride with MP, and I have to say it was invigorating! My hunger to experience everything I can in life negates my unhealthy preoccupation with dying, and I am a FAN. It was so much fun. Sooo scary at times too, but so much fun. We went down Burnside and up through Washington Park, then up up up Skyline into the hills. I wish I'd had a camera. The view was spectacular. There was a mist surrounding the hills in the distance, and a CLEAR (wha??) view of both Mount Hood and Mount St Helens.

There is something that amuses me about the motorcycle community. Every time two motorcyclists pass each other (note: I'm not using the term "biker" because I think it brings to mind a specific image), they wave or nod or at least signal in some way. It's usually a pointing sort of wave. It always manages to catch me off guard that we all have to acknowledge each other like we're in a secret club. It's like we think we know something that people not riding on motorcycles can only hope to catch a glimpse of someday. Maybe it's just that motorcycles are dangerous, so what we're acknowledging is something like "Oh, you're a badass too? Right on." It's pretty funny.

(This photo was from a previous ride.)

Ode to our Old, Part II

I thought I'd share another story of my grandfather's—the late, great Burke Casper. Here we go, a short one. Hope you enjoy it.

***************
After delivery in our clinic, we kept the mothers about 12 hours and then sent them home in the local ambulance, furnished by the funeral home. We hired a practical nurse to stay with them during this period. She was friendly, warm, and capable, and came any hour, day or night. One night her husband came in. "Doc," he said, "I've lost my courage." This was the term used to mean impotence. I put him on shots of B-12 twice a week. Since impotence is mostly psychological, almost any treatment helps, but injections do best because they are a more dramatic treatment.

He made me promise not to tell his wife that he'd lost his courage, so I told her that he was a little run down and needed some vitamins. I smiled inside when she later told me, "Those vitamins sure are powerful; he wants to fool around all the time."
***************

Ode to our Old

I just found out that my friend's grandmother has passed away. I know that this happens to grandparents (and with increasing velocity as the years pile on for us grandchildren), but I also know that this particular granny was remarkably special to my friend. They were close, and she seemed like a truly fantastic person: a smart-as-a-whip, tough old Energizer-Bunny type. I think she was 96 years old. Their relationship is something I, personally, can only partially grip.

I only had one biological grandparent I ever knew, and we were not close. He passed three years ago last month. I have 100 regrets as far as he's concerned; he was another one of those rare amazing people. And I'm not just saying that because he was my Gramps. As a young doctor, he spent a decade treating gnarly backwoods Kentuckians and came through with some damn incredible stories. We actually had a book of his stories published not long before he died.

One of my favorites involves him showing up at a house where he was called to examine this pretty burly (read: fat) teenage girl. He was trying to listen to her lungs and he told her, "Big breaths." She responded, "I know, and I'm only 16." Love that one. Gramps told hands-down the best jokes, the kind that start out as innocent, casual stories and go on and on and on until the punchline. I heard he was cracking jokes until the end. We get together every year and sit around telling jokes and playing music—no one says it, but we all know it's never the same and that it never will be.

I'm sorry I never knew your Granny, Foges. I'm thinking about you, her, and your family. I know you won't get over it, but I hope you are celebrating the life that she lived and all she gave you. I know it was a ton. xo

I painted this watercolor of my Gramps the
week before he died. It hangs in his bedroom.

SIKE! NOT.

I've been too in shock the last few days to write about it after what happened the last two elections, but I think it's for real this time. Barack Obama is going to be our new president! I can hardly believe it's true. It really hasn't sunk in yet; I guess the last 8 years have just been too long.

My mom is jazzed that I won't be moving out of the country, but I was kind of looking forward to an excuse to relocate to Brazil. Oh well, another time! The U.S. and I are on good terms now for at least another 4 years. For the first time I can remember, I am not completely ashamed of my country. Hooray! Plus, our new president is totally sexy. Yes, I've joined the "crush on Obama" bandwagon. Here are B and myself as we celebrate his victory:


Don't we make a handsome couple? I think so. Speaking of which, I would like to discuss the idea of attraction. Personally, I find that I am usually attracted to people who are not necessarily hot in the typical sense. Sure, there are classically gorgeous men like one Paul Newman—but, while his looks really can't be disputed, part of his sexiness comes from the fact that he was such a good person too. In the world of celebs, I would hands-down choose someone like, say, Anderson Cooper or Brian Williams over Justin Timberlake. Hmm, I guess that just means I like men who are good-looking AND smart. Well, that's really not that atypical then, is it. Oh, Manpanion too—he's way into Tina Fey, which is much better than him being into someone like Jessica Simpson. Photo montage . . .

But, OK, take a real person on the street. I just don't tend to go for the super hot guy. Besides the fact that he's probably a dick, I really prefer someone a little quirky, a little nerdy, a little neurotic. Ack, never mind, I just described this guy:

Did you hear about SP? That she thought Africa was a country, not a continent? Ummm. And that she couldn't name all of the countries in North America? "All" of them?? There are three—one of which lies between her state and the rest of the United States. Seriously, what a dummy. We really dodged a bullet with that one. I need to thank a friend, CD, for sending this Daily Show clip:

http://www.thedailyshow.com/video/index.jhtml?videoId=209420&title=sarah-palin-is-so-dumb

Enjoy.

OBLOGMA

Happy Halloween!

I wasn't planning to talk politics at all on this here blog, but I feel the urge to comment on the Obamerical that aired Wednesday night. Maybe it's because I had just turned in my ballot, or maybe it's the fact that the election is now just days away, or maybe I'm just ovulating, but I really found Obama's message to be quite moving. There were multiple times during the message that I actually got teary-eyed. It's true that I'm a sensitive and emotional person, but I'm also pretty skeptical and I have this strong aversion to hokeyness. (It's why I usually stay far away from your typical romantic comedy.) But Obama's message really touched me, and it left me feeling emotional, scared, and most of all excited. I'm feeling pretty good about this election, like we really have a chance, like things can really change and get better. It's truly exciting. GOBAMA! You're pretty effing spectacular.

LET'S MAKE A CHANGE

I'm all for equality, trust me.* I try to pay for things roughly half the time, take my manpanion out for dinner occasionally, check people out as much as a guy would, brag to my friends about my conquests, etc. Now, you've already heard my spiel on female costumes. (Enough with the slutfest, already!) But women have had to struggle with their sexuality in a male-based society since pretty much the dawn of time, so I think it's only fair that we give men a turn. This Halloween, I propose a ban on slutty costumes for women and a movement to objectify men! Er, maybe "objectify" is too strong a word. Well, no—most men I know have absolutely no qualms over being objectified. So, let me present you with

'GIZZLE'S GUIDE TO HALLOWEEN COSTUMES—MALE EDITION

What follows is a photo montage of my pick for 2008 (drum roll, please)...

HOT PRISONER.

Oh yes. To provide examples, I have called upon two of my favorite hot men of all time: the delectable Paul Newman in the classic film Cool Hand Luke and the scrumptous Wentworth Miller (aka my boyfriend of dreams) from the TV series Prison Break. Enjoy.

If you're wondering what that sound is, it's the saliva dripping from my mouth into a puddle on my desk. No, it's fine—while you were busy gettin' your chain gang on, I went and turned the heat down in my office and splashed some cold water on my face.

Here are a few more ideas for hot Halloween costumes for men:

• scantily clad Barack Obama (what can I say, he's hot)
• naughty Joe Biden (or . . . not)
  
• animal in a cage (shirtless, of course)
• boxer (again, shirtless, of course)
• pool boy (hello! shirtless)
  
• UPS guy (variation: FedEx guy)
• hot cop
• hot professor
  
• hot working-class man (painter, mechanic, anything with a beater/jumpsuit combo and a 5-o'clock shadow)
• slutty nurse (works for guys too!)
• maid (hmm, I think I'm on to something)

I welcome any additions to the above list. So, come now, spread the word! Men, do your part to put the kibash on sexism this Halloween! And ladies, tell your men they won't be getting any if they don't slut it up on Friday!

Happy Halloween,
'Gizzle

_____
*Disclaimer: I am not a feminist; I just believe in balance, symmetry, equality. Thank you.

BLAHG

Take that, D'Artagnon!

Eew, it's Monday.

Remember when I referenced some unique 'Gizzlicious costumes from Halloweens past? Out of the blue, my parents just sent me this one from when I was a young'n. Did I mention I was a weird kid? I remember picking out that whore mask from George's and deciding to wear it along with my toilet costume. What I was thinking, I honestly have no clue. Well, chances are I just wanted a mask to conceal my true identity at school—the toilet costume was my idea, but I likely felt embarrassed once I had actually donned the thing. The reason I chose a hooker with a cigarette, that part is beyond me. Perhaps it was a foreshadowing of my adulthood? Just kidding. (Well, I have my whole life ahead of me, so we'll see.)

Along the lines of Halloween costumes and my previous post on the subject, I was delighted to come across this bit from Wm. Steven Humphrey's Halloween Costume No-No's in the Mercury (http://www.portlandmercury.com):

If you're really unsure about costume decisions, start with what NOT to do. For example, don't dress up like Sarah Palin unless you're putting a really creative spin on it (like dressing up as "Sexy Trig"). OH, and that's another thing: Don't dress up as anything "sexy" (like "Sexy French Maid" or "Sexy Lawyer" or "Sexy Little Red Riding Hood") unless you're legitimately sexy and are 100 percent convinced you're going to sleep with me. If you're somewhat sexy, then only dress up like off-kilter sexy things, such as "Sexy Robocop," or "Sexy Randy Leonard" or "Sexy Staph Infection." ... (And no, I haven't decided what I'm going to be yet, but I'm leaning toward "Sexy Nancy Pelosi.")

Moving on, over the weekend, my manpanion, my boypanion(?), my dog, and myself headed out to Sauvie Island for the corn maze and pumpkin patch. I have to say, it was a pretty good time. The boys got awfully rowdy in the corn maze; there was a lot of shouting, joking, roughhousing, and corn poking. Also, Manpanion threw Boypanion into the corn stalks at one point, so BP and I secretly organized a plot against MP, where on BP's signal and coincidentally just as MP started waxing cocky about his corn maze skills, we bumrushed MP and pushed him into the corn. It was pure satisfaction. We also each stole one ear of corn from the stalks in the maze to have for dinner that night. We thought we were so smart. Turns out, we weren't (more on that later).

We took a hay ride over to the pumpkin patch and took our time choosing pumpkins. The place was super crowded, and I swear at one point I heard a mother call out to her child "D'Artagnon, put that pumpkin down!" Seriously? D'Artagnon?? In case you don't recall, D'Artagnon is a character from The Three Musketeers. I also love the scene in Waiting for Guffman where Corky St. Clair (played by Christopher Guest) provides this gem:

What the city council did was really give me a challenge, and it's a challenge that I am going to accept. It's like in the olden days, in the days of France, when men would slap each other with their gloves ... say, y'know... "D'Artagnan!" ... y'know, "how dare you talk to me like that, you!," and smack 'em!

Love it. So, anyway, following our adventures at Sauvie Island (which also involved getting shot at by a duckhunter at the Blue Heron Herbary—well, OK, we didn't actually get shot at, but the dog was definitely convinced!), we went home to carve pumpkins using the carving kit we got at the farm. MP did a tree sillouette, BP did a pirate ship, and here is my spider pumpkin (a little blurry).

Then I attemped to cook the boys dinner for the first time ever. One thing I was counting on to complete the meal was the corn we had stolen from the corn maze. Unfortunately, after 1/2 hour, then an hour of cooking, the corn was still completely hard and was sort of an unnatural orange color. Diagnosis: inedible. My mom told me it must have been "field corn," which is apprently fine for animals but not for human consumption. Bummer. Stupid karma.

And now I'll leave you with this image of the late, luscious Paul Newman as it hangs on the wall in my dining room. He was a talented actor, a truly good person, and pure sex. He was the only 83-year-old I would have married in a heartbeat, no question. Mm-hmm.

BLOG ABOUT IT

Everyone complains about their job, and I am no exception. I definitely get burned out. But I have to remind myself what a good deal I really have. Cases in point: One, my office is super chill and laid back. Two, my workmates are typically pretty chill and laid back too. Three, I am working from home today. I usually work from home two days a week. Why? Because I can. I work from a laptop, so wherever I go, my work can come too. That brings me to Four: Yesterday, I had sent out my regular Thursday email warning along the lines of “Working from home Fri. Have a good weekend.” As I was leaving the office, the admin asst told me I was going to miss a birthday party we were having for my friend/coworker. (Also, I’d be missing tiramisu. Note: My mom makes the best tiramisu, so I never buy it anywhere myself, but I will partake if someone else does.) My boss got in on the conversation and suggested, “Why don’t you just come in for the party and then go back home?” I responded that I really could just come in; I mean, working from home is just a luxury I allow myself here and there. But she insisted, “No, no, just come in for the party.” How cool is my boss? So, that’s what I did. I rolled in at 11 or so, ate some tiramisu, gabbed with my work peeps, snagged another little piece of tiramisu, and came back home.

Last night, I went to a burlesque show. Ah, Portland, you always have to be so cool and progressive. It's one of the things I love about you (your "devil-may-care" attitude), but this was pret-ty cheesy, I have to say. No offense to the girls, but they weren't terribly attractive and a couple actually looked like men in drag—I'm still not completely convinced. They were okay dancers, though, and it was mildly entertaining I suppose. (Hmm, it's a little sad that that's the best review I can give.) The music consisted of Bjork, Gwen Stefani, Tony Bennett covers (one was Bust a Move!), and stuff like You're Nobody Til Somebody Loves You and Easy Like Sunday Morning. The girls wore frilly panties, corsets, pasties, and hokey dance-recital grins. I gave it a chance, but I have to say it was lame-o. Soooo not worth $10, especially when you can go to a strip club for free, hold the cheese.

I have an action-packed weekend ahead, involving a chili cookoff, pumpkin patching, corn mazing, and possibly roller skating, so I’m sure there’ll be stories and photos to come. I’m excited about the pumpkin patch; there’s just something warm and fuzzy about the whole thing. Ah, I’m going to buy some spiced cider too, for post-PP relaxation.

P.S.—My quote of the day: "All this over a Labradoodle!"

CASPER THE FRIENDLY BLOGGER

So, Halloween is coming up. I’m trying to decide what to be. It’s currently down to either a vampire or an Oompa Loompa. For reasons I can’t recall, I happened upon this photo of Gene Wilder and some Oompa Loompas yesterday, and those terrifying little buggers are some serious Halloween. See for yourself. I mentioned this to my roommie yesterday, and she suggested we get really bad fake tans in preparation for this costume.

Oh, if you haven’t heard me complain about this before (and chances are you have), I’ll clue you in to how I feel about female Halloween costumes. First off, who the hell changed the theme of Halloween from ghosts, devils, and zombies to naughty nurses, French maids, and slutty bunnies? It’s freaking ridiculous. Yes, I know those things can be equally as frightening (Really, 250-lb kitty cat? Really??) but I’m somewhat of a traditionalist when it comes to holidays, and Halloween is supposed to be about the dead and other ghoulish things. A little respect? When did this day become a competitive slutfest free-for-all? Well, probably around the time I stopped trick-or-treating and started going to parties. But, seriously, it is testament to what a womanizing society we live in. And, furthermore, if you don’t have the balls to dress like a slut in your everyday life, you have no business trying to pull it off one day of the year. If you simply must slut it up, at least be a dead cheerleader or something. And one more thing: aren’t you cold?

Back to my costume. Let’s weigh the pros and cons:

V Vampiress: PROs

• It’s Halloweeny, in the traditional sense.
• It's pretty easy.
• I have a long dark wig.
• My roommate has a cape I can borrow.
• I get to wear fake pointy teeth and bite people!

Vampiress: CONs

• It’s not terribly original.*
• It doesn’t involve much.

Oompa Loompa: PROs

• It's weird.
• I get to paint my face.
• I get to wear that green wig I bought for St. Patrick’s Day but never used.
• I can sing things like “Oompa Loompa doompady-dee, if you are wise you’ll listen to me. You will live in happiness too, like the Oompa Loopma doompady do!” Fun.

Oompa Loompa: CONs

• It’s weird.
• I have to paint my face.
• It could be difficult and/or costly to put together.
• I’ll have to find some fellow smallish people to do it up with me.

Holy shit! I just remembered the boy I had a serious crush on for all of middle school, half of high school, and a little thereafter was nicknamed Oompa! Why was that, anyway? Jerms, if you’re reading this, I know you know. Enlighten me. And, by the way, thanks for giving me that clump of dirt from his bike that one time. Also, thanks for encouraging me to dump my “Oompa pouch” into Ellicott Creek that other time. A true friend you are.

I suppose this is enough procrastination for one day. Time to eat lunch and get some work done around this joint.

P.S.—Sexy Indian girl costume? So not PC.

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*However, I believe I have earned the right to an unoriginal costume, after such oddities throughout my life as mouse princess, toilet, and white trash.

BLOG YA LATER

Hello, out there. My darling roommate (domestic partner) just started a blog, and she has convinced me to do the same. Hmm, I like to ponder and rant about things—why not? Everybody else is doing it, right? And I do love to express myself through the written word. In person, I’m a little slow on the uptake. I think I’m rather a strange one, a little awkward—my favorite description so far (thank you, copyeditor friend) is “charmingly quirky.” Yes, that’s pretty much me; even my mom concurs. So when I’m talking to people (as opposed to writing them), I tend to blush and can’t think of the right words to say. You have no idea how much it sucks to be a blusher; god, I hate that. It’s one of the main things holding me back from my ultimate dream: to be the next Sarah Silverman. Occasionally, though (and I love when this happens), I am on my game. I can be witty, sassy, and a right lovable smart-ass. That me is so great! Why can’t I be like her all the time? Ah well, what are you gonna do. I must be doing something right, because I have a gaggle of great friends and acquaintances, more-than-decent connections, interested parties, proud parents, an adoring niece, and the boyfriend. Yeesh, just saying the word induces this strange emotion that's a cross between trepidation and euphoria. How crazy that the opposite sex (or same sex, whatever your preference) can cause such a reaction from a normally rational and logical person.

Yes, I am becoming a girlfriend. It is happening. I’m doing downright nutty things like deflecting the affections of other quality men, enthusiastically participating in game nights with kids, and, on occasion, not having sex but being perfectly blissful with just sleeping together and cuddling. And I’m happy. Jebus.

Enough about that. More about me. I mean, if you’re going to read my blog, you should know things about me. Earlier I indicated that I’m a “rational and logical person.” If anyone who knows me well is reading this right now, they’re likely exclaiming something along the lines of “Ha!” or “As if!” and with good reason. While it’s true that I consider myself pretty rational, my logic can a bit skewed, and my emotions can definitely get in the way. What do you want, I’m a woman. (Gasp! No she dih'int!) OK, I’m against gross generalizations as much as the next gal, but I’ve known a lot of women, not to mention inhabiting the body and mind of one, and I’m sorry but we sometimes tend to let our emotions affect our decisions more than our logical sides. This isn’t always a bad thing, mind you—I’m sure some decisions should be made by throwing logic out the window. I’ll give an example: I would not be living in Portland right now, happy as a clam (and I mean that), if I had thought about the decision to move here logically.

I’ll set up the scene for you:

Little Me. Barely twenty years old. In a suburb of Buffalo, NY. Just back from spending the summer in LA. Feelin’ groovy. I meet a guy. He’s older, from the city, different. He’s got quite an edge. We start dating, and—you know how it is in the beginning—we’re all cuckoo for cocoa puffs over each other. So, when he gets fired and decides to move to Portland, I want to go too. Well, to be fair, I was planning to move anyway. I had seriously considered Maui (had a good friend there, plus, come on, the place is Paradise), but they had a six-month quarantine for dogs. She’d be on a separate island, and I’ve read some dogs die in quarantine. That was out. I was thinking of going back to LA, but the guy I had there, with whom it didn’t work out, was all “This is MY city” and shit. Whatever, dude, it’s fucking LA. But he had a point, I guess. So, Portland. I had never been here and, really, I knew nada about the place. The plan became for my new guy to set out on his own, driving, and for me to save up and meet him in two months. So, naturally, three agonizing weeks later, I flew out to Denver and met him there to drive the rest of the way together. OK, that is a story for another time. Let’s just flash-forward eight years (and three long-term relationships) to present-day me. I FREAKING LOVE PORTLAND. Moving to Portland was the best thing I ever did for myself. It is fantastic. A friend recently referred to me as “Portland’s greatest ambassador,” and I proudly accept. So, you see, if I had listened to my mother, I wouldn’t be living in this fabulous city that I love. Seriously, if Portland was a person, I would marry him or her. Now, this is damn long for a blog posting, I know, but it’s your introduction to me. So back off and just be happy you’re not reading someone dumb’s blog, eh?

I can’t believe I have a blog.

Yours truly,
'Gizzle

P.S.—Take it from me, don’t do drugs.