PDXcuse Me

I owe Portland an apology.


In retrospect, I never had any real anger towards Portland itself. I'm pretty sure I was only mad because Portland kept luring away people I really like. And nothing makes me saltier than people I like moving away. Ugh. I'm sorry, okay, Portland? I was being a hater, and I apologize for talking shit. For, like, years.

I guess this change of heart has been in the works for a while. Me and the dude had a mini-vacay in P-Town (I can call it that now, right?) a couple years ago, and it was just lovely. Granted, we spent pretty much the entire time in strip clubs, smoking, drinking and carousing, and really, who wouldn't enjoy that? But I wasn't sold on Portland just yet. Until this morning, that is, when I found out about their food cart situation.




Apparently, Portland is awash with food carts, and nobody bothered to tell me about it.


View Portland Food Carts in a larger map

If that map were of Seattle there'd be, like, eight of those dot things. We are woefully lacking in food carts, which was much more of an actual problem back when I used to leave the house, but is still a blow to my hometown pride. What hurts the most, though, is that Junior Ambassadors cart exists and I have never been there. These guys specialize in weird ice cream flavors that make our ice cream "mavericks" look like a bunch of snivelling M.O.R. pussies (smoked salmon and cream cheese, you guys. Shit!), "panwiches" whatever that means, and being super fucking whimsical and adorable. Essentially, they are killing my life right now, and I will pretty much feel like half a person until I can convince someone (i.e. Landon) to drive me there. Look. This is how they choose to represent themselves:

AAAAAGH, why are they doing this to me?! You can read all about it at the Food Carts Portland blog. And while you're there, you might as well click around and start planning your food cart tour of Portland.

I feel good, you guys. I've never apologized to an entire city before (though there have been times when I certainly should have), and it's kind of delightfully cathartic. Maybe this will become a series. I have talked shit about a lot of places.
*

What it breaks down to is this: I kind of hate everywhere that isn't Seattle, just for not being Seattle. But what I am starting to realize is that just because I love my wife (Seattle), that doesn't mean I can't occasionally enjoy the charms of other women (cities). And maybe, just maybe, it's time to get me some strange. (Don't worry, this logic does not apply to my actual wife, by which I mean my actual husband, who, thank little baby Jesus, does not read this blog.)

* Did you know that if you Google image search "oops", you will see about a billion nip/labe slips? Neither did I, until about 3 minutes ago. Yowza.

A Vagina Monologue

Last night I saw a vagina on the Travel Channel. Straight up. VA...




I should clarify. It wasn't, like, on display or anything. It wasn't the focal point. It was just this naked-ass Indian lady who, by merit of being totally nude, happened to have visible lady bits. Somewhat jarring, but I got over it pretty quickly. And I get the whole National Geographic nudity clause, where indigenous tribes get a nudity pass because it's non-sexual and cultural and whatnot. Cool. I'm down. But I would like to argue that those standards should be applied to other peoples who have a culture of nudity. Specifically, I think these rules should apply to strippers and stripper-y ladies who go on reality shows in search of love. Or money. Or whatever. The kind of women who, when asked to "dress to impress", show up looking like this:



I watch a lot of VH1 reality programming, and I can tell you from experience, the nudity on these shows (which is always blurred, if not black-barred) is very rarely sexual. Usually, it is simply what has come to be known as a wardrobe malfunction. If you wear something that barely covers your nipples, at some point it will fail to do even that. Thusly:



See?! She's just wrappin' up some cords, and bam! Tit overboard. Non-sexual nudity.

What's more important, though, is that these women come from a nude culture, by which I mean they are strippers. Nudity is what they know. It is their way of life, and should not be blurred out.



They're just people, doing what they do, the way they customarily do it. Which is naked.



I just don't see the difference. Do you?

Baby, It's Cold Outside

About three days into Snowpocalypse '08: Nanook's Revenge, I was called out into the weather for a social engagement. By which I mean Ryann had me come meet her for coffee four blocks away from my house. It didn't seem that far, so I just threw on a sweater dress with leggings and legwarmers, tossed my coat and a scarf on top and headed out the door. Within two minutes of leaving my apartment I was miserable.



I warmed up pretty well in the coffee shop, but never to the point where I was totally comfortable. And then, in walked an object lesson.



A child!! (Not those specific children. I had to Google image search "bundled up", which is hella fun, by the way. But you get the point.) "Why," I asked myself, "did I not dress up like that?" The kid was covered from head to toe. Sweater, heavy coat, tough jeans, weather-appropraite boots, goofy little hat, gloves. The whole shebang! And it hit me! I need to bundle myself up as though I were my own mother! I don't know why this never occurred to me before. I am constantly momming everyone around me, offering them multivitamins and telling them they should get more sleep and when are they gonna bring me some grandbabies, etc. But momming myself! This is new.

Yesterday I made my first attempt at actualizing this concept. I donned thick tights, two pairs of tall socks, one pair of footie socks, jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, two sweaters, coat, scarf, gloves, hat, and huge rubber rainboots. And somehow the outfit even looked kind of chic, in a no visible flesh, New England-y kind of way. I was into it. So off I went, into this world of ice and snow, full of optimism.

And then came the heartbreak.

Seriously, you guys, I had barely made it across the street before I realized that my so-called "rain boots" had totally sprung a fucking leak and my feet were so wet and so cold and I had to go back home and try again.

I'm still a little upset. Give me a second.

Ugh.

Okay. So, now I'm thinking, "Wait a fucking second, I live in Seattle. How can I not have a functioning pair of rain boots? Because nothing else matters if my feet are wet, I don't care how warm the rest of me is. I need rain boots." But! I am still totally housebound, dudes!! Consequently, for the time being I am limited to internet shopping. I found some really great boots, though. Check 'em out.

1. Kind of Expensive, but Probably Worth It.



I could see myself wearing these boots pretty much every day until the weather clears up in like, mid-July. But I could also see myself getting bored because they are a little staid. So I found some more adventurous models.

2. Pucci!! Pucci!! Pucci!!

These boots are ridiculous and I love it. Plus I feel like they go really well with my imaginary dog, Miss J. Alexander.

Cute together, right?

3.I Am Not Sure If I Like These At All


But they seem sensible, or something. Y'know what? Fuck these boots. They remind me of a lady I used to work with at Starbucks that was really into those "Shopaholic" books. Gag me, right?

4. Yes, Please!

I was going to say that these are for when my inner eight year old girl comes out, and that you'd be surprised how frequently that occurs, but then I realized that if you are reading this you probably have a pretty good handle on that, in all actuality.

5. Also For The Eight-Year-Old

F! U! N! Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnn!!!!!!!!!!!!! Don't you wanna eat them? It's like a bag of jelly beans decided to band together to protect your feet from the elements.

Then He Should Have Armed Himself

I just watched The Strangers and I have a theory. People talk about how black folks yell at the screen during horror movies. I think I might know why: When one lives in a crap neighborhood, and has to get used to the idea that someone may attack you for one reason or another at any given time, one starts figuring out ways to deal with this and behaves accordingly. So then, when that person is watching a movie where the main characters keep doing everything the opposite way one should in order to stay alive, it gets frustrating. Thus the yelling.

Because horror movie protagonists are usually middle class whites who do not live under constant threat, it would seem that they have not developed these skills. I would like to offer them some tips.
For example:
1. If you think someone is even possibly trying to kill you, DO NOT put down your weapon. EVER.
2. The person who is trying to kill you might not come from the direction you are facing. So LOOK IN OTHER DIRECTIONS. If it is dark out and I am walking even just from the end of the block to my apartment building, I do a quick spin to see what is going on IN ALL DIRECTIONS at least every five seconds. I probably look crazy, but I am crazy and alive, so fuck it.
3. If you have the option of not being alone, DO NOT BE ALONE. In other words, don't split up. You will die, I promise.
4. If you find a gun, start shooting. Don't wait for something crazy to happen, just start shooting. Jesus.

Okay. I feel better now. That movie really tried my patience.



UR DOING IT WRONG

Gucci!?

Frida Giannini, I am calling you out.



Pull. It. Together.



What is going on over there?

I don't care if this is for charity, it is still shit. We're in straight-up Ed Hardy territory here, and that is just gross.



Blech!!

Carol's Daughter

Remember when I decided I would only use two beauty products for my entire body? Well, it did not work out, you guys. My scalp itched, like, constantly, and my hair was limp and tired. It had no body at the crown, which I've been told is very (very) important. My skin was, to put it mildly, sub-ethereal. Oh, I was sad. While I am still fully freaked out by unregulated chemicals in the shit that I put on my face (!!!), I am simply too vain to stay the course. So, off to Sephora I went. (For the record, I fucking hate Sephora, but their particular brand of awfulness has been well-documented, so I'll stick to the story.)

Now, I was already aware of Carol's Daughter products, thanks to the lovely Mindy Kaling, but had never come across them in person. And while I normally defer to Mindy Kaling in all matters, Carol's Daughter is also endorsed by Jada Pinkett Smith, a women whose tastes I find questionable at best (Wicked Wisdom, anyone?). Sephora carries their hair and body products, and I was excited to check them out. One thing though: how exactly am I supposed to assess a hair product without actually using it? Do you know what I mean? I tried rubbing something on the back of my hand, but all it did was make me feel like a girl with hair stuff on the back of her hand. It also made me smell like Erykah Badu.



Not that smelling like Ms. Badu is a terrible thing, but I am a busy woman, and I don't need strangers stopping me to ask where the nearest slam poetry reading is every time I leave the house. And anyway, Black Hippie-ness is a slippery fucking slope. One moment you're just trying to find a paraben-free moisturizer and the next thing you know you're at Waid's Haitian Lounge talking to some dude in a Dead Prez t-shirt about Frantz Fanon, and you're totally okay with the word "punani." Or so I'm told. (BTW, just typing out "punani" almost made me yak.)

But I persevered, dudes. I waded through the whole product line until I found one that seemed geared toward my needs; a curl product that has lots of moisturizers and offers control, but does not shellac, and is free of scary baddie chemicals! Plus, it smells like lemongrass and roses, which doesn't evoke any goofy sub-cultures that I am aware of. It's called Hair Milk and I am into it. Apparently it won some Best of Sephora award, which is kind of impressive considering how many products they carry, but whatever. All I know is that I used it and now I look purty. Happy ending!!


Quick Programming Note: Sorry I haven't written in so long, but I got a day job this summer, so now I'm rich but I'm low on time. So it goes! I'll try to be here more, whatever that means.

Snake People

Dudes, I am upset. Let me tell you a story.

This last Saturday was by far the most beautiful day Seattle has seen since this year began. Blue skies, perfect temperature. It was the kind of day that made you want to go to a barbeque. Which we did. In fact, it was basically the perfect sunny day, wherein you go buzzing around from one gorgeous social engagement to another with your beautiful, witty friends, enjoying the sunshine and reparte.

Until.

Until.


(Ugh, I am still so upset about this, I have to go find a picture of something really great that will make me feel okay again. Hold on.



That's not it. I feel different but not better. Ummm... let's try this:



That's not it either. Close, but-



There we go. Okay, I'm ready to get back to the story.)


Until!! We went to Golden Gardens to meet our buddies. It was about an hour before they start kicking people out but it was still packed. It was the busiest I'd ever seen the beach this early in the year. So we were trying to park the car, and I'm scanning the lot looking for open spots, right? When I see the fucking unthinkable!! I see a man


with



a



fucking



ALBINO FUCKING PYTHON DRAPED OVER HIS FUCKING ASSHOLE IDIOT SHOULDERS!!! A FUCKING PYTHON, YOU GUYS!!!


Who does that shit?! What kind of terrible person goes to the beach on the busiest day of the year with a giant terrifying snake? Do you know how many people are scared of snakes?!! Fucking everyone, that's how many!!

I apologize for all the swears, but I have seriously never been this upset in my life. I couldn't relax the whole time we were at the beach. I kept having to look behind me to make sure the snake guy wasn't chasing me. That may sound ridiculous, but it has actually happened to me. One time a few years ago, I was walking down Third and a guy started hollering at me, "Hey, girl, lemme holler atcha!!" I looked and saw he had a snake wrapped around his arm!! A much smaller snake, but still, a snake. So I yelled, "Nuh-uh!!" and quickened my pace. But he followed me! So I started walking really, really fast. Speed-walking, basically. But he kept pace! So I started running!! And he did too!! He chased me for like, two blocks before he gave up!!! It was awful, guys. So you see, my fears were founded in experience.

I don't even know how to deal with this shit. Some people are just horrible. That guy really crapped in my oatmeal.

Post a picture in the comments that will make me feel better about this world.