it took me 2 hours to write this blog.

oh man, I just spent the last hour+ zoning out, staring at 18+ pages of cat photos on that freakin' I Can Has Cheezburger website and random videos of animals in the snow. I especially enjoy the ones of different species interacting lovingly, playfully. PeterPeter Jennings and BABYSEAL have been known to interact in such a manner and if I had a photo of them in action I would post it but instead you get a photo from aforementioned time warp url. funnier still is fact that the cat actually looks like PeterP.

that smell is my lunch.

so, for the last, seemingly longest week of my life, I've been on this self imposed cleansing diet that requires me to ix-nay the ugar-say and beef up my raw sauerkraut. why the taste bud torture? I'm trying to alleviate some mildly annoying gastrointestinal imbalance. something about good bacteria being crowded out by bad bacteria. like how invasive blackberries taking over the yard. the sugar feeds the baddies so I'm trying to starve them dead and lovingly nurture the true, internal me. unfortunately for me and those down wind of me, loving nurturing smells bad. like freshly broken wind bad. paradoxically, the ten dollar a jar, made with love, fermented raw cabbage/mixed veggie blend, tastes, well, pretty darn good. zingy even. the epicurian experience is on a whole, pleasant. provided I hold my breath past the initial, I'm embarrassed by association, compost-tastic, nasal stinging blast.

strauss, party of one, your table in exile on the farthest end of the patio is ready for you.

greatest invention already thought up

following a remedial online search, I came to discover that my brilliant idea has already been acted upon by others more electronically capable than I. readers, may I introduce to you sheer manifested genius: the bookmark-dictionary. it's brilliant, useful. no more having to lug around that dusty tome of a webster. you don't even have to put your own book down. short of having your own personal assistant on hand whose sole purpose in life as a personal assistant is to bestow accurate, up to date definitions on demand, this is the proverbial shit. it's the one feature on those disagreeable palm ebook things that make me pause and consider handing over my hard earned money and taking one of those paperless paperbacks for a spin.
the only thing that could make it better is if the entire gadget, and not just the keypad portion of it, fit within the pages. perhaps a few more technological advances are in order. or just a more thorough google search.

post script
I just read a bunch of reviews about the item pictured above, none of them very good. apparently the word selection is as remedial as my initial research. so until the word count of the product expands inversely to the thickness of it, I be double fisting it literary style with a novel in one hand, dictionary in the other.

why this book have no photos?

this year I have taken upon myself the culinary task of baking Geode's birthday cake. a fluffy, moist, white coconut cake. I was given a due date and descriptors to abide by, but no list of must have ingredients. I am not a seasoned baker. but I do love to cook. in my 'you say difficult, I say delicate' diet, I do not eat the cattle dairy or cattle cattle. let it be known, also, that my taste receptors equate 'healthy' with 'yum.' therefore, she, on the verge of 30, is at my mercy.
this evening was Stab 1 at Mission Birfday Cake: recently, I fished out of my parent's give away pile the hot off the press in 1984 glossy covered copy of 'Natural Foods Cookbook, Vegetarian Dairy-Free Cuisine' complete with dessert recipe, tucked almost at the end of the book, entitled 'Outrageous Coconut Date Cake.' while I was warily aware that people's personal definitions for common adjectives ranges greatly, my faith had already been won over by previous completions of several recipes towards the front of the book. so I followed the recipe (well, except for the raisin 'frosting.' I switcherooed half the raisins for prunes. don't knock it till you try it, it tastes good. also, geode already punched me in the arm for it.) and the results, in a coconutshell, were 'hey, that's not bad. no, wait, that's pretty good. except for the frosting.' barring strict adhearence to the request that it be fluffy and white, the cake was a success! leaving me with confidence to forge forward, the Natural Foods way, and, while I'm at it, try other people's ideas of healthy and dairy free 'cake.'

the one thing this book lacks, that, at first thought, would just put this book over the top into the realm of best ever, but at second thought, would, well, maybe it's best they didn't, is photos of the finished product. whilst googleimagesearching other decorated vegan cookies, it became quite clear that sometimes, healthy just ain't pretty. specially desserts. no, just desserts. kale salad is beautiful, cooked butternut squash is ravishing. date/nut bars, 'no-bake' couscous cake, oatmeal cookies, etc etc are, it hurts my hippie sensibilites to say it, ugly. tasty, yes. but sadly lacking in the looks department. MY CAKE AND CUPCAKES ARE NO EXCEPTION. they look, er, healthy. (which, personally, is hardly a cause for hesitation as my hand reaches out to snag snacks of any kind.) but when trying for a food item that is characteristically, name-sakey white and fluffy, whole wheat wholesome with prune paste is a hard sell. but know that they are, in fact, delicious (in the publicly accepted form of the word) in a way that only words can describe.

where no man woman or child, friend, family or lover has gone before. . .

This here is a photo of Counselor Diana Troy of Star Trek, The Next Generation. There is nothing remarkable with it beyond it's inherent awesomeness. Except when you take into consideration that it looks just like my new therapist, minus the hoop earrings plus sweet v neck onesie. I kid you only the slightest bit. The universe has conspired with the galaxies to bring me this fine gift of emotional mentorship in the form of a lovely grad student made in the image of my fantasy childhood counselor. To you, modern day Earth bound Diana Troy, I open my heart and mind. . . it all began back in StarDate 3.2435.18937, I was playing in the yard with my sister, when my mother called us in to . . .

my biologically female body is sore.

I worked the KISS show the other night. they offered me tix! but I was too tired to take them up on it. (also, no one I texted wanted to go. what gives? it's KISS!). they/them being my boss, not KISS themselves, tho I did catch a few songs of their afternoon sound check, all decked out in plain clothes. it's one of the great perks of my career in Stage Hand, seeing behind the scenes stuff, getting free/$3 tickets. it's a trade off for slaving away, hauling kilometers of cable, pushing around gear boxes thrice my size, dealing with Road Crew Dudes till 2am-ish.
Road Crew Dudes, the ones who work on bigger, arena sized shows, are an interesting breed of human. I understand the ease with which one can find themselves acting crotchety/gruff. I mean, their job isn't the easiest. but for reals, you don't have to verbally innuend other's lives as being lesser than thou cretins. news flash: we are just like you. 'cept we don't know what we are doing because, oh wait, we are waiting for you to direct us. that goes out specifically to that one Lighting Dude who I was not stuck working for, thank you, lucky stars.
but anyways, for being such a Dude's club, I work with some great non-Dudes. maybe being in Seattle has a bit to do with it, but at one point during load in, I was working with one (ok, I am totally assuming) straight (but you would too if you saw him) not too much of a Dude dude, one older trans guy, and one my age-ish trans woman. wow, what are the odds of that? Seattle rules. my union siblings rule for being so accepting/not openly assholes about it.
Road Dudes (Bros?) from So-Cal, not so much use to the gender variety that grows so well in this weather. at one point I found myself standing with Stage Dude, who earlier had been "discussing" trans woman with Sound Dude ('her hands were bigger than mine!'), and he asked me what her gender was. or, more specifically, 'that's a guy, right?' honestly, honesty got the best of me. 'well,' I began, 'biologically, yes male, but she identifies as female.' those words precisely did not go over as well as I had hoped and I think they reached his brain in the mutated form of 'yeah, that's a dude.' to which he replied something to the effect of 'eh, he's a wanna be.' sigh.
dear fellow queer union worker, while I did indeed try my best under the put on the spot circumstances to be there for you, I recognize that my efforts fell really really short of their intended mark and will try harder next time by replying with a firm, resolute, 'no, she is a woman. she not wanting to be anyone other than who she is. where do you want this cable to plug into?'

M., O.W., I'm glad you are here.

strangers amongst us. well, stranger. there was only one, actually.

a couple of years ago, I picked up my roommate at the time's copy of The Stranger, by Senor Camus, read it, and as soon as I finished the last page, returned to the first page to start it again. I do believe that is the only book I have ever done that with. apparently, I liked it. (incidentally, it is not my most favorite book. both Life of Pi and Watership Down are well above, yet I have yet to revisit either fully. once I chose Watership Down as my at work book, I love it, had been talking it up to roommate to date, wanted to relive the lapine adventure. well, turns out I love it a little too much. After a mere handful of chapters, I forced myself to put it down and pick up something less engaging after missing a cue ('sound, go.' warren this, warren that. 'SOUND?! GO.' 'oops, sorry.') for the first - and last - time that particular show. this concludes my tangent.) I didn't like it enough to write a song about it. no, scratch that. I didn't like it enough to finish a song about it, remember it past a few months, teach it to my band mates, get radio play, and be super cool to boot. owner of said copy of The Stranger roommate informed me that The Cure had beaten me to it. it's called 'Killing an Arab.' oh. alright then. well, at least I'm in good company.
but all this is basically just a lead in to talking about THE STRANGER that we, seattle, are more familiar with. our beloved always weekly, sometimes snarky, name rhymes with danger, artsy hip rag. and why do I chose to bring this up? BECAUSE I'M IN IT! HA! I got a serendipitous review in the Party Crasher column. they called me an 'artistic love child,' to take their words totally out of context. you can read the whole thing at

http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/party-crasher/Content?oid=2712010

or just find pick up a hard copy and flip to page 65. there you will see a photo of two persons I know and a clever title that refers specifically to yours truly, me. yesterday, a friend of mine commented on the article, wondering who it was. 'it' being Party Crasher, 'Party Crasher' being random stranger coming to your party taking photos, taking notes. all I gots to say is that, it is really nice being friends with peeps who eventually end up working for local media. in other words, big warm shout out to my non-stranger stranger. muchas gracias, jv.

trying to awaken my computer's compassion

I just spent like a good few hours (some last night before going to bed, some this AM soon after waking) trying to download the ebook, Awakening Compassion, by Pema Chodron from the seattle public library so I can listen to gentle posi affirmations whilst I clean/wait for the bus. I am looking at a 50% success rate right now. the other book, also by aforementioned American Budhist nun - which, on a slightly unrelated note, did you know that Michael Flatley, AKA Mr. Lord of the Dance, is American? I thought that was pretty funny. anyways. - would not download because the program that the library required me to downloaded in order to download the library book wouldn't support the format of the file even tho the other book that I successfully downloaded is formatted the exact same way. also, the 'wizard' living in the downloaded program couldn't find my ipod (this is all I've ever really wanted to use this ipod for, books on e)(er, ebooks) even tho the icon was right there staring at me from the desktop - I had to go the round about way and, using geode's smarts, find it thru itunes. I have yet to even crack the virtual spine of this book and already things are awakening, tho I think at the moment frustration is beating out compassion.

rounding out my resume

hmmm, it has been a while. . .

so, to bring you up to speed. I spent the later half of my summer in europe, came back to the states and promptly got in a car accident, have been recovering ever since (ie last two.25 months) - a process that includes going to physical therapy, massage therapy, acupuncture, the occasional mental therapy, and taking 3 classes. oh and working oh so minimally.

last week I decided that maybe it is time I look for some kind of regular job. I cast my lines. no tugs to speak of.
then I get an offer for a regular, paid job at a place I like a lot, with flexible hours, that's super part time: cleaning person at a yoga studio. while I don't think this is the most perfectly sculpted gold brick in my illustrious career path (actually, it's more like a bar of soap in the rest area restroom just off said career path than a strong foot hold), I'm doing it. besides, I like to joke to mostly myself and sometimes my roommate, I'm rounding out my latina resume. so now I can proudly put 'maid' above 'dishwasher' and 'farm labor.' I jest. a little.

and just so there's no confusion, allow me to explicar. I am in fact latina. half. tho I look 125% white (how I ended up paler than my midwestern dad is some kind of mendelian genetic conundrum. my honduran mother has been mistaken as nanny to my (pale) sis and (paler) I).

my first job was a dishwasher. not the most fun job, but whatever, it was fine while it lasted. especially when I graduated to fruit cutter/juice prep. I started the job last year of high school and left the job half way into my first year of community college, to focus on my studies which were undecided at the time but fell under the general field of engineering. oh my future looked bright.

farming didn't happen till the rest of college came and went. this time I found myself back at a menial job (bagel and coffee slinger) after trying a few laps around the professional track. ie I worked as an analytical chemist for a pharmaceutical company. for about one month. not wanting to watch my entire soul dissolve in an erlenmeyer flask, or watch it fall cream cheese side down on the crumby deli floor, I sought out other options. and a small door opened to fortuitous fields in northern california, working for 3 weeks that later became 3 months at a small organic, beautiful, mountain side river running thru it farm. I was miles from lab coats, espresso machines and everyone I knew. I couldn't have been happier.

this new chapter in my career book follows several years of working freelance as a theater techie stage hand type. work I love, work i am good at. work that takes more back strength than what I am able to offer at the moment. I'm not giving it up, but I am taking it easy. and looking for something steady. my mother would love me to get a 'real job.' this is nothing new. either for me or, i suppose, for any other kid who isn't working a full time textbook job. I have yet to tell her of my recent new employment (which, interestingly enough, pays like twice what I usually make hanging lights). I think by now she is past the point of being super worried and usually only gets mildly concerned about the choices I make in the job field. I wanna joke with her and my family about filling my quota of latina appropriate jobs but I have a feeling they won't think it's that funny. the look in my mom's face when she found out I've never made more in my adult life to put me above the poverty line. the look in my grandmother's face when I told her I applied to work at a car wash. I mean, I suppose that would be disappointing news on some level to any parent or relative, but to my family, there's this extra edge, a hidden heaviness. my mom (& dad, gotta give credit where credit's due) didn't put me thru school to wash dishes. my grandmother didn't move to the states for me to scrub toilets. my great aunt is baffled (and ashamed?) that I would lower myself to picking vegetables in a field. I'm basically putting myself in every typical position that they, not for who they are but for what they look like, would get stuck doing, would have no other option but to do. me with an education, me with white skin (save for myriad of tattoos - but that is another blog altogether), me with smarts and opportunity. me with a broom in my hand.

It's not like I'm trying to go down the list and check off all the minimum wage jobs. wait. i guess i'm not not trying either. in my brain it is a ping pong debate of 'all jobs are important' vs just doing the job because I can and don't NEED to. no one is forcing me to work these jobs (half) my people are forced to do. is it solidarity? I wanna connect with (half) my people. is it insulting? I can leave when I want to. or rather, when I figure out what it is I really wanna do.

in the meantime, let it be known that I am really good at what I do. that studio will be the cleanest it has ever been. or close to it. I enjoy beautifying my surroundings. I'm already seeking out recipes for alternative cleaning solutions. the supplies closet has been organized to my liking. cobwebs and dust bunnies are on the verge of extinction. at least for 4-5 hours of the week.

dem nuts sho hard to crack.

a while back, the universe bestowed upon me a small gift. the universe being my buddy Cyrus and the small gifts being 30+ pounds of Brazil Nuts still in their shell. i heart Brazil Nuts. i heart even more free Brazil Nuts.

so then the problem arose that i had no nut cracker. cracking 30+ pounds of nuts was not on the front burner of my industrial stove of a life so i just havent bothered. either to find a nut cracker or to do anything productive with the nuts. wait, i take that back. the majority of the nuts, housed in an old pillow case, have come in quite handy maybe once or twice when they were able to double as a hard lumpy bean bag. or nut bag, if you will. contrary to what you would think, sitting on a reasonable sized nut bag is more comfortable than one would think.

but i digress. more recently, that same universe who thought it fit to bestow upon me a large lode of tree nuts, has come forward to gift me what amounts to be the key to the city, a nutcracker, for 27 cents. thank you u district garage sale circa last weekend.
now, the single jointed crushing device turned out to be somewhat of a double edged sword. yes, now i can harvest the gold out of these suckers, but a) Brazil Nut shells are formidable and my hand is sore and b) i am one of those people that likes to do a job thru and thru, not leave it half done, no matter how tedious a task. so now, yes i am feasting upon most excellent Brazil Nut Creme ala ilvs, yet my enjoyment is clouded as the project of cracking the as of yet uncracked shells looms heavily before me.

on a positive note. i did find out that cracking Brazil Nuts is a job made infinitely easier when you soak the nuts in water for at least 2 hours if not over night.

on a different note altogether, i have noticed that when i spend any amount of time around those who speak with a marked or even slight accent, the urge to mimic it is great. i catch myself tossing out words with oblong vowels and clipped consonants. not to the point of being annoying but sometimes it gets real close to the boarder of where charming meets weird. this is something i know about myself with regards to the spoken language. this week, the written language has some thing new to teach me about myself. i am 3/4 of the way thru 'Their Eyes Were Watching God' by the incomparable Zora Neal Hurston. for those of you not in the know, reserve a copy from the library and check out the fact that the practically the whole thing is written staying true to 'the dialect spoken by blacks of African and Caribbean descent in the South of the early 20th century.' that accent has been floating thru my cerebrum for the past 4 days and it is threatening to bubble out my mouth. the result of which would be neither cute nor charming but more along the lines of awkward bordering on inappropriate. lucky for me, i live in a bubble on capitol hill and i dont have any black friends i hang out with on a regular basis so the chances of me insulting someone is real low. er. i mean, lucky for me, the book is only 197 pages long...

this weekend i . . .

... hung out at the canterbury and watched 3/4 of the seahawks game, drank 3 glasses of water, shot 4 arcade stags...
... watched the last 1/4 of the paul taylor dance company and stayed to work till 3am but felt like 4am...
... learned about 3/4 time signature from book one of three in the adult learning piano book series...
... took the 43 to university district twice but only 3/4 of the time cuz i got a ride home late after buying 3 apples and 4 carrots...
... bought a nutcracker for 1/4 dollar, spent 3/4 of an hour filling a jar 1/4 full of brazil nut meat...

things better said and done.

as of this morning i have discovered i like to go for long walks with my headphones on, music turned up louder than usual. i space out, enjoy the mosquito net of invisibility it offers me.
today, mid-space out, i saw a guy stop walking his dog only long enough to hit the beast hard on the back. twice. with some space in between that he filled with some incomprehensible, loud human speak. i was taken a back, half a block back, and started to gain ground on him and him as a taste for green grass halted the pair on the corner and gravity continued to pull me downhill.
i wished for this to happen: i went up to him, still with my headphones on, and with out waiting for him to talk, i said: sometimes i think about how i'm really glad i don't have kids cuz i don't think i have the patience to deal with them and how that probably means i have a lot to learn. and then i wonder about what it takes to raise someone and take care of them and then i'm filled with a sense of uneasy relief that i am the sole person under my care. that's all.
or something to that effect.
what really happened: i stopped at the corner, not 20 feet from where the dog was grazing, where the dude was standing, and just stared, listening to my headphones louder than usual.

what is that burning smell?

it is summer months of dust being burned off the gas wood burning stove (not an oxymoron. the 'wood' is ceramic. it runs off gas) caused by the abrupt need for artificial warmth due to the sharp dip in atmospheric temperature.

fall turned on like a faucet yesterday. that kind of weather makes me want to hermit and drink copious amounts of tea. lucky for me, my free as in unemployed schedule allowed for just that. i like fall. i will take fall over spring any day.

my only complaint about the turn of seasons is the onset of cold. as in, i never want to take any of 6 layers of clothes off because doing so would disrupt the state of me being warm. yesterday, after mentioning my desire to acquire a permanent layer of underwarmth for the slate cold upcoming months, roommate geode ambivilently gifted me a pair of long johns. a pair of grey long johns she no longer wore because they fit funny. read = they be ugly. whatever, i thought, i don't care, as long as they are warm. i wore them to bed last night and can attest to their functionality (waking up feeling like i was on fire - literally, not figuratively speaking - was a bittersweet occurrence).

but as for their inherent fashionability (or severe lack thereof), i find myself faced with a bit of a conundrum. i love warmth. i am a practical person. this trait extends to my taste in style. but only to a point. i have my limits. one of them being this particular pair of unflattering, uninspired long johns. yes, they keep me warm, no, no one can see them under my pants. but they make me feel tragically undesirable. it feels like all the bad parts of high school cinched up too high with a too tight elastic waist band. and when faced with the sight of them first thing in the morning, they sour my foggy thoughts and make me want to slip back into the dark shadows where no one but she who bequeathed me with these can see me maybe if that. sigh. if it's a battle you want, long johns, it is a battle you will get. tomorrow, armed with a sewing machine, victory will be mine. in the shape of warm, proper fitting, cute underpants.

but speaking of bequeathing. my coronation is this saturday. i am getting crowned. or to be more exact, my tooth is getting a crown. apparently root canals are not so effective in the long run when they are exposed to the elements. regardless, the ceremony is this weekend. i would invite you all, but i am under the distinct impression that my dentist will not approve of such deviations from tradition. er, protocol.

exactly one month ago yesterday

today is the 17th. exactly one month ago yesterday, something happened in my life that i shall, from this moment on, refer to as the 'accident'. cuz there are no real accidents. right, universe? right.

today i have my physical therapy appointment. i'm going to acupuncture on a weekly basis. same for massage therapy, if the lady would call me back finally. all for free. and by free i mean insurance is covering it. insurance is also covering 70% of my lost wages as a direct result of injuries incurred in the accident. ahem, 'accident.'

allow me to explain. but first, my tea water is boiling.. .

ok, enough suspense: i got in a car accident driving home from the airport after being gone in Europe for 7 weeks. i had been up for about 26 hours already (7 hour layovers in Newark are bogus). we (my cousin f, whom i was flying with) landed in PDX around 1130pm. my mom and other cousins (j (f's brother (more info than you need to know)) and his daughter) picked me up. f caught a different plane home and it was 1230 ish in the morning by the time we got out of there. driving off in my mom's minivan, we headed to gresham to drop off the cousins. there was no one else on the road so it was hard to miss the suv that was headed towards the intersection we were about to pass thru. heading towards, not slowing down, not stopping, oh god, impact. he came at us from the right, i was sitting front passenger seat. at the critical moment, i did not see my life flash before my eyes. i saw, in non slo mo, non sped up, perfect time, car hit car, metal buckling, my limbs tossed around despite best bracing efforts. it happened fast. 1st impact, then 2nd as both cars bounced and reconnected, 3rd as we parted ways and ran into the pole on the corner of the street. deafening crunches followed by a split second of absolute quiet, followed by crying, my mother's, my little cousin's. jesus fucking christ. what the hell just happened.

sober, 19 yr old dude from Gresham ran a red, that's what happened. there happened to be a police officer watching that intersection at that moment. i count that as one of the extremely lucky details of the evening. that no one died, that no one was seriously injured (mom got a broken wrist and major bruising, that was the worst of it), that i am covered by my mom's insurance, that i am covered by dude's insurance, all get filed under that same heading.

insurance, with it's paperwork hoops in triplicate, is tending to the mending of my body. my mind, my other non physical bodies, on the other hand, are under the care of yours truly. . . .

i have apple care but no health insurance.

THE OTHER DA - why am i yelling. the other day i was describing to my dear friend marisa just what exactly was going on in my mouth. specifically the back upper left molar who is known in dental circles as 'Number 15.'
To adequately convey the scenario, something words alone could not define, i chose to flex my humongous 'i should be grandfathered a masters in fine art with an emphasis in life drawings' muscles and, brandishing my tools of the trade, a black sharpie and scrap piece of paper, i executed with aplomb - or with as much grace and giddiness that my sleep deprived overworked brain/body/self could muster- a piece of work that so clearly represents previously mentioned situation that i might as well tell people i am the reincarnation of leonardo di vinci but with xray vision cuz that is the only conclusion they will be able to draw once their stunned brains compute the mastery of such an image.
the 45 minutes i spent downloading scanner software earlier this morning was totally worth it. funny thing is, i did finally get in to see a dentist (not an easy feat for those with zero health care coverage. unless you are cool with dealing with problems by full extraction of said problem from your perdy mouth. . . i digress.) and the xray they took looked pretty much exactly like my drawing. cept instead of a white space circled by dotted lines, there was darkness.
according to wikipedia, root canals are painless. WHEN DONE CORRECTLY. i will, whether i like it or not, be the sole judge sitting on that lovely panel.

and lest my hygienic reputation be tarnished in any way shape or form, let me set the record straight with the following FACT: yes, i floss religiously.
wish me luck!

why i don't sleep with snakes

that last entry, the reference to lying with myself, reminded me of the following:

i forget who told me this story:
so there was this lady. (pardon the generalizations that riddle my story like air pockets in pumice.) she owned a snake. one of them big ones like a boa or a python. the snake slept not in a terrarium like some common reptile, but with her, curled up at the foot of her most comfy bed (im gonna take a guess that she checked the single box when filing her taxes). now, they had a fine relationship for some time. snake provided cold blooded comfort, and exotic pet owning cool factor, woman provided small warm animals for reptile's digestive pleasure. everything cool? everything's cool. for a some time, at least. then woman noticed that snake was not eating as per usual. time passed, still no interest in the proffered rodents. woman took note. then snake exhibited some strange behavior. snake, instead of taking the usual assumed coiled position at the tucked end of the bed, snake decided one night to lay down next to woman, stretched out to snake's full length, which was longer than the full length of prostrate woman. hmm, woman thought, curious. more time passed. still no interest in feeding time. woman called vet.
woman: snake not be eating,
vet: snake not hungry yet maybs.
woman: oh, and snake did this weird thing and stretched out next to me in bed.
vet: stop sleeping with your snake immediately. snake is going to eat you.
apparently, (tho i have not had the time to verify this fact on wikipedia) stretching out next to live object is snakes way of sizing up their next meal. this snake was trying to see if this woman would fit inside snakes body. snake was planning on eating woman. w.t.f.
i am assuming woman took vet's recommendation and snake was sentenced to lockdown in the terrarium for attempted assassination via the unhinging of the jaws.
blast, time to go back to work. moral of the story: maybs you wanna think twice bout bunking up with slithery reptiles.

my just waking up from weak nap precludes me from coming up with clever title

i just woke up from a hazy nap. im at work, standing in the middle of the palindromic paradox that is my epic work day. basically, i am getting paid to, amongst other things, rest and recuperate from my 3 week old 'i got in a car accident' incident. my main responsibility this long weekend as 'communications manager' (a clever 'get well' from boss man/woman [uh, they be two people, one sex apiece] in the form of fancifide title) is to hand out fresh radios to the workers in the morning and take them back stale at night. this keeps me busy for approx 2.75 hours in the morning and 2.75 hours in the evening. the middle, my oyster.
what does one do with said oyster? i read, walk around, nap, check internet. nap again. listen to the mixed bag sounds coming in from the ajar windows that cast minimal light in the room that adjoins the closet i am stationed in.
my closet has a closet. it is brightly lit with bare fluorescence and teeming with radio chargers. it is positioned directly behind me, half the size of the main closet. afront: an awkwardly long hallway. i can see people coming from minutes away. what looks like me staring them down is actually my attempt to get my eyes to readjust to not still helvetica sitting on eggshell pages in my lap, trying to figure out if i recognize the person as they walk up, trying to remember what radio they are assigned, then willing them to take a sharp left steps before my desk and into the main office so that i can continue reading/interneting/spacing out in radioinactive peace.
and when i tire of that, i take a break from my closet to attempt horizontal respite in the smaller closet that is off the main office. i go to a closet to take a break from my closet. and me sans my homies to make 'it's ok cuz we be gay too' gay jokes. . .
in the closet, (___ ___ ______ !) i herded together an ikea cushion bed on the floor behind the ikea frame and settled down for some fully clothed resting of my eyes. next to me, leaned up against the wall and extending beyond my full frame by .5 feet in either direction, lay several mirrors. this room is dark but not pitch. i look over and i am laying down with myself.
did you ever play that dare in middle school, where you close yourself in the bathroom with some lit candles, stare at yourself in the mirror and recite some quasi religious incantation, the result of which the gift of some kind of apparition of the bloody mary variety? i recall several giddy half assed attempts at friends houses none of which resulted in anything more than the heebee geebees. a limp scratch at the mild rash called perfectly normal adolescent morbid curiosity.
anyways. i have since not dedicated much time/energy into staring at myself in a dimly lit room and i was certainly not gonna start today. tho i am a little curious as to what would happen. . .

the dirt: blaming your shortcomings on drugs only works if you actually do them.

and even then you gotta face the music at some point.

pardon my absence. i have been on drugs. but only for the past two weeks. and really only otc ibuprofen. and when that ran out, my roommate's prescription muscle relaxer. why the muscle relaxer? because it goes so well with the book THE DIRT - confessions of the world's most notorious rock band. that and i got in a car accident and now my spine feels like it got punched in three places. oh, and this happened on the way home from the airport. where was i? you ask. well,

prior to all this, i was in germany, stockholm, germany. it was both phenomenal and tiring. i felt in awe of the place, lost, and in awe of how lost i felt. i rode borrowed bikes along cobblestone streets trying not to see how far i could go without pulling out my tattered hand me down map. i drew buildings and beer bottles. i built up sketchy bikes. i swam in lakes. i was frustrated by my sudden illiteracy and not being able to find a single drinking fountain in all of berlin. i return with an even greater appreciation for population density and friendly usable public transportation. the last two weeks of my journey i dedicated to reading the last 300 pages of DON QUIXOTE. a goal i had set

in the two weeks before that. the full goal was reading all of it, actually, not just the last 300 pages. (which i did eventually manage thank you very much). aside from setting personal literary milestones, i was preparing for my trip by not really doing any kind of research. in fact i was doing so little that it dipped into something that resembles negative planning if there is such a thing and there is cuz that is pretty much what i did. i had 2 contacts, too much free time and a plan that i bailed on last minute.

ilvs, meet europe. europe, meet ilvs. 

uh, it's pronounced 'elvis.'

BOOK REPORT: fried green tomatoes at the whistle stop cafe,

or: i feel really gay reading this book.
i pretty much devoured this book in like 3 days. not sure what it is about a tragic love story between two women that is obvious but never called out for what it is eventho there is no denying it, but count me in. that and i really liked the movie, wanted to see how the printed word compared. i won't spoil it one way or another for those of you who have not seen one or read the other, but i will say that the movie is better on a whole. tho the book does go into the lives of the slavey folk in more detail and that is satisfying to read about. but the movie, despite major changes to the plot, did it justice.
which is the same opinion held by my 5th grade teacher Mrs. Larsen. Of course, when 12 year old me heard her say this (to my mom i think who was standing there next to me), i assumed she liked the movie better because it played down the gay mary s m/mary l p relationship. which it does. and played up the not gay kathy bates/jessica tandy relationship. at least, that was the reason i remember her giving.
regardless i was a little disappointed. perhaps a little heart broken. i had had a little crush on her. not in a 'song by that 80's hair band whose name i never bothered to remember' kinda way, but more of a 'you and i are cut of the same cloth at least that's what i'm banking on' kinda way. similar to the crush i had on Sr. Christine. 'cept i wasn't in awe/scared of Mrs. Larsen.
if ever in my adolescent life there existed a clearly gay, strong role model for me, it was her. only at the time, i did not recognize her lesbianism as such. it was hiding just barely behind the cover of the convent, excused by her title of PE teacher, silently flouting about behind her loud colorful hammer pants. i see it now tho, in friends, acquiantences, in myself. in our mannerisms, our speech patterns, that certain look, attitude. eh, i wonder what ever happened to her. . .
but yeah, the book is alright. pretty easy. makes me want to eat bbq and cornbread. there are recipes in the back of the book but the bacon fat and buttermilk theme is a bit much for me with the sensitive constitution/aversion to bacon.

(ok, so this is like 2.5 weeks old. never got around to posting it. i am in berlin right now, more on that later.)

BABYSEAL is a SAINT. and cries. tears of blood for you.

two days ago i wake up to a phone call from my roommate who woke up to a phone call from random stranger saying she found BABYSEAL's collar in the middle of John street. not the worst news ever, but certainly not definitively good. i got off the phone with not even gone 24hours roommate and head outside. i found the collar and only the collar by the bus stop where random stranger said she put it. there were no SEAL bodies lying in the street that i could see, so i headed back home.
and who should be waiting for me at the door but Peter Peter Jennings (SEALBABY's brother), Darma (sp? there's probs an 'h' in there, my neighbor's hiss inducing black and white cat) and non other than BABYSEAL! alive! and well, mostly well. she looked like she always does (uh, handsome, sturdy) except for the giant bloody tear drop coming out of her right eye. mother mary, check out the photo, it looks fake, but trust me, BABYSEAL's blood tears are real. (for the record i feel a little bad about getting all paparazzi on the SEAL in her time of trauma, but i had to get documentation.) it was like one of those statues that people flock to holy pilgrimage style. i was close to calling the pope but instead called her human back to report the news of BABYSEAL being cannonized as saint sometime in the wee hours of the morning. since when did being made holy require a trip to the vet?
the seal doctor was nice and SEAL was well behaved. she (dr.) surmised that she (her holiness) got in some kind of scuffle that ended up with her (meow) getting a small laceration on her (again with the meow) eyelid, before running like hell and losing two nails to the asphalt in the process. ouch. i looked at her (furry beast) and thought, damn, you are gonna be sore tomorrow. then came the purr stopping rectal thermometer followed by some glow in the dark eye drops to check for retinal/corneal damage. there was none. but later on the way home, the stuff started gooping out of her eye and it looked like she was a cyborg crying robot juice. unfortunately, no photographic evidence exists of that. . .
so now we are home safe. SEALPUP is doing her best to keep the rug from flying up and away, waiting for half her whiskers and spots of fur on her hind legs to grow back. i am happy to have her home and now am extremely reticent to put her out. i think maybe this calls for a BABYSEAL slumber party: we stay up late watching WINGED MIGRATION, eating smoked salmon, napping on the table. im sorry, boss man, but i cannot come into work today i am busy. tomorrow, too. and the next day, for good measure.


for the record, administering antibiotics by jamming them down the held open jaws of a held down SEALPUP sounds like the worst idea ever, dear roommate whose seal i am watching over. you can take your life into your own hands, i, on the other hand, choose life. (thank you marisa for the crush it up in wet food idea. i owe you my life. or at the very least, a pint of blood.)

we both like mice

i have been a touch busy as of late. so here for you now is the written portion of a performance i did at the Pink Door recently with modern dance sensation Jody Kuehner. it truly is better live.

we both like mice
written by ilvs strauss, performed by MouseBones.

i dont remember how i got here exactly, but i can tell you what is happening now.
it's pitch dark out and i dont really know what day it is. the moon is a tacky bedside table lamp circa 1979, floating large in the sky not 5 feet from me, lighting my immediate surroundings.
between me and the ground is an inky body of water.
between me and the water is creaky tan row boat.
between me and the boat is a grade schooled desk
between me and the desk, the curling pages of my open notebook.
i am head down, hunched over, sitting at this desk in the boat in the sea, furiously taking notes. my professor's voice drones on about the life and times of a certain historical figure, circa 1979. i am several pages into my notation, when i realize i have no idea who it is my professor is talking about. my body creaking like wood under pressure, unrolls upright, hand raising above head in the accepted question asking formation. only to then stop suddenly, frozen in place in a visceral response to the startling nature of the orator's appearance: my teacher is an owl.

a gentle motor enters the orchestra pit, subtle like an undertow, starts up a conversation with the tiny waves below. their mild chatter floating up like steam off hot coffee. not 4 feet in front of me, 2 large surveillance camera lenses for eyes stare at me from a bouquet of feathers, stemming out of a vase shaped warm (bird) body, perched delicately on the lip of the tiny boat. my hand hangs, still, in the air, a needle waiting for someone to (please) flip the record. the professor, unaffected by my gestural attempt at interruption, continues his discourse.
'wait,' i manage, 'who?' he continues his discourse.
'wait, who?' he continues his discourse.
'wait, who?' he continues his discourse.
we carry on like this, our closed circuit exchange, for an undisclosed amount of time.

the sound, it sneaks on in like a tsunami, the sonic shadow, creeping on in like a curtain being drawn, lifting us out of the deep groove we are traveling. our broken record dialog drowning in the wake of the sound of the motor. he looks at me pointedly, then for the first time in our time, takes his eyes off me, shifts his focus, peers down into the water. i follow his gaze, the furled pages of my notebook waving lazily out of the corner of my eye.
on the water is a tan creaky boat,
on the boat is a grade schooled desk,
on the desk is a curled paged notebook,
and sitting by the notebook on the desk in the boat on the water, the author, hand held high in a posture of prosperity, the singular answer to a question not yet asked: the student is a cat.

i stare at my catself in the water that could be sky that could be one night or another, day as dark as night. suddenly, sweetly, it occurs to me, the motor is me, i am purring. my hand lowers to my chest and it feels like rain, or birds taking flight i'm not sure which. then, the clack whir sound of a shutter opening and closing. i look up, up towards the noise, up towards my professor the owl, (pause) the owl is gone.
between me and the water is a continuation of what is,
between me and the boat is a continuation of what is,
between me and the desk is a continuation of what is.
between me and my notebook is a continuation of what is.

Orgy of Tolerance or Great, Now My Clothes Smell Like Smoke.

i just posted my review on the On the Boards blog posing it as a response to Ben Zamora's review. for your convenience, i will repeat myself here:

the company was upset that i kissed her. she was beautiful - glossy magazine beautiful, fragile, fey. her blue eyes matched her large blue beaded necklace that somehow went with her maroon mumu that complemented her blond hair. she was a psychic dressed like a caricature of a physic. 

upon my return to the theater, i found her friends, her company, sitting in the second row, an air of malice about them. not ones to confront, i discovered they took their anger out on me in a more tangible, property damaging, just-wait-till-she-gets-back manner. upon the stage, my oversized canoe looking suitcase was littered with trash, soggy and soiled with Coca Cola. my property, my things, pristine and cherished, left unattended, had been intentionally ruined. and that is when i uncharacteristically lost my shit.

 

i pulled a rifle on the would be ring leader, some brunette wearing her contempt on her face like a fancy lotion. i yanked her out of her seat, pushed her to the ground and with the gun held to her head, let every ounce of rage i didnt know i had rain upon her now trembling body in an unfettered downpour. this went on for an uninterrupted amount of time, during which the still observer part of me became consciously aware of this woman's raw fear, her helplessness, the utter futility/stupidity of what the moving active part of me was doing. i stopped abruptly. 'i'm sorry,' i told her, lifting the gun away from her teary face, 'this isn't helping.' the theater was silent save for the echos of her sobs. 

had i not taken the time to write this dream down soon after waking, my memory of it, my impression of it, much like that of the performance, would have been forgotten, buried under the footsteps of my waking life.

peacelove,

ilvs 

*********

now, the only other point of contention i have is: 

dear hot belgian dancer, 

instead of imposing yourself all over a fancy old bicycle, you should have done so all over a fancy automobile. we are a car culture. americans hate bicycles. we run them over. if you're gonna throw a glossy, euro chic, cultural critique at us about our own selves, you should at least get the details down.

muchas gracias,

ilvs

the oh so real sting of virtual loss: part II

i stare at my little black laptop, standing here, deciding. the cats are sleeping, traffic is moving along john st, the sun is coming thru the windows. i feel a breeze. i am weighing my options, my heart is heavy.

basically the only way to fix it is to return it to the factory settings. he broke the news to me with little fanfare. reset the computer. i think about the implications. in doing so i would lose all documents. everything would be wiped clean. there is no way to retrieve the files? no secret code or anything? no sorry, ma'am. this is breaking my heart a little, i tell him. not so much to elicit sympathy, but just to verbalize that a crater just landed in my chest and im feeling a little woozy from it. i was about to hang up, tell him thanks anyways, when he slips me this one last piece of hope. you should try this website, there are a lot of informed folks on there, you might be able to find something. i felt like, in that tv movie, where the girl gets pregnant by some unfortunate circumstance and wants an abortion but cant get one cuz it's illegal and it seems there is no hope until the doctor, taking pity and risking his own license, sneaks her a slip of paper with a name of a doctor 'who can help,' and she leaves quickly with tears in her eyes, hands clutching the tiny parchment that could very well be her salvation. ok, except that is way more dramatic than my situation. not to mention im not going to get pregnant and abortions are legal. regardless. i wrote the website down and followed the links. fingers crossed.

i bought this little black laptop like a month ago so i wouldn't have to lug my super expensive apple around town. it rules. i use it for my writing. for my ideas. my scripts. my slide shows. i was typing away on it at work the other day when i had the idea that maybe i should change it so it requires me to log on first. like a golden latch on a diary. i unclicked the log me on automatically box and chose a clever password. then i restarted the puppy. it asked me, ilvs, for my password. i enter it in. INVALID PASSWORD. uh, excuse me? i try again. and again. and again. . . something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

apparently i am not the first to lock themselves out of their own computer. following posted email threads, there are others like me, frustrated, at wits end, driven to use ALL CAPS FOLLOWED BY !!!!!!!!!!! yes, i feel you. i follow a few links and it gets me to some how to hack your own computer page of directions. ah! there is hope. after much reading and rereading, i tentatively begin my reclamation process. i get past step one. success. i get to step two and hit a major hurdle. alas, my love for penguins does not transfer into linux code savviness. i give up for fear of fucking up my computer permanently.

so then i move to option 2: ask for human help. i email the nerdiest (read: he builds his own computers) friend i know. he also does not speak the linux, but is willing to help. next monday evening. today is friday (ok, saturday, but i wrote most of this friday) . i am biding my time.

last chance to back out. y. e... . s. i hit return for a second time and instantly burst into a short sob. the sting of loss. irretrievable loss. my shit is gone and there is no going back. my brief grief is quickly replaced by a the shallow high twenty minutes after my email s.o.s., im standing in my living room/office/foyay/really it's all one room cuz i live in a studio. i decide to hell with it and rip the bandaid off myself. i highlight RESTORE FACTORY SETTINGS, i hold my breath, i hit return. it prompts me to type in yes. one last chance to go back. i hesitate. y. e. . . fuck it, s. i instantly burst into a short sob. the sting of irretrievable loss. my work is done, my writing gone. there is no going back. my brief grief is quickly replaced by the shallow high of well, you did it. fully knowing that the full reprocutions of your actions will be felt more fully in the not so distant future. . .

moral of the story: when life gives you lemons, document the hell out of it. make backups. print out your final drafts. at the very least, share your ideas so that they exist in the safety of someone else's thoughts.

BOOK REPORT - Immunity. (the first 43 pages, at least)

i read moby dick. earlier this year. it took me approximately 3 months to do so. but i did it. it is done. and it was worth it. i won't go into the details cuz, well, you are probably familiar with the gist of it. but what i will tell you is that it has inspired me (that and the most recent library book sale) to catch up on my classics/must read reading. like the somewhat arbitrary top 100 novels of all time.  instead of being intimidated, i thought, you know what, im gonna do it, read all 100 novels, be 'caught up,' be that person who knows all those obscure literary references, pretend i majored in american lit. 

but then reason kicked in. 100 books is a lot. and some sound really boring (no offense tolstoy!). and how come marquez is like the only hispanic/latino on the list? and he only shows up on like 5 of the 7 thousand versions of the top 100 list. so i made some modifications on the list. i still wanna read the books. but i also want to read not so caucasian authors. and those other people, what do you call them? women? yeah. so my new goal reads that from this day forth i shall read: books on the 'top 100' list, books by persons of color, books by women, and the occasional science (fiction) book. oh, and the occasional inspirational spirituality book.

and not one of those criteria is reason for me putting down my latest book after only 43 pages. introducing Immunity, by Lori Andrews. i picked it up cuz it was on the list of reads for the Women's Bioethics Book Club. why am i not going to finish this book? several reasons: for one, i have already touched on the topic of mysterious deadly diseases with my new friend Richard Preston (see BOOK REPORT - The Hot Zone). for two, the writing does not capture me. probably because im too distracted by reason three: there is a love story a-brewing between the main character (army research lady) and some DEA agent (passionate mandude with curly hair) and it is irritating.  now, i dont mind the occasional love story. just as long as it doesnt come with a side of 'hard on'. (um, author's words). call me crazy, or bored of ubiquitous hetero narrative, or just plain gay, but i ain't got time for this bad romance novel/terribly infectious virus charade. i got other books to read. next up: Margaret Atwood. right after i finish How to Change Your Life in 5 Steps.

i like your dead bird better.

i was just at the BFA art show for Cornish grads. free wine, free snacks, free art. i recommend (tho the wine and snack bit was just for tonight's opening).
one artist's work in particular (kelsey fein)(sp?) (photos/woodcuts of dead birds) reminded me of a story:
my roommate's friend was visiting our portland abode from some exotic far away locale. minnesota or something. she was in town for some conference about what i can't remember. she had long dark hair and something about her made me think, witch? i saw very little of her, due mostly to my work schedule. she left a few days later without saying goodbye. she left behind a brown bag of personal affects.
curiosity, fueled by being home alone, led me to search the bag of it's mysterious contents. (ok, that and i knew that she had called my roommate to say she left behind some boots. i'm not really a snoop.) one pair of black high heeled boots, accounted for. one bag of chex mix, score. one plastic ziplock sammich bag with something black in it, hmmm some thing told me i should not bring the bag regrettably close to my face for further inspection. so what did i do? i brought the bag regrettably close to my face for further inspection. it looked like human hair. wet. and clumpy. and black. and crawling with maggots! i flung the bag back in the bag and left it for my roommate to deal with. . .
a week or so later, i come to find out that the bag of human hair was in fact the delicate remains of a dead bird. she was an artist and collected bird wings.
kelsey fein, i like your dead birds better.

my dream vaycay-job . . . jo-cation?

every once in a while i get hooked by some giveaway sweepstakes winner take all and spend a week in some exotic local promotional offer. most times, just my interest is peaked. sometimes, i go so far as to research the website and read the you can't enter if you are a resident of nevada list of restrictions. and then some of those sometimes, i actually take the time to punch in my info in the squares and hunt for the little check box to make sure i don't get random mail/phone calls/charges all the while being pretty much aware of the futility of my efforts. 

my most recent sweepstakes offer came from my unsuspecting rice milk container. dream it, win it, live it. sound like a hay house retreat. but the smiley white folks in the photos had to be celebrating something good, so i followed the trail.

at the website, empty, starred info boxes stare back at me while i think about the choice i have to make.  choose one of three 'dreams' to 'win' and subsequently 'live.' they are, in the order in which they appear on the website: DREAM WARDROBE, DREAM JOB, DREAM VACATION. ok so narrowing it down to two is no problem, i loath shopping and wear the same clothes all the time, several items of which i have had since high school, 12 or so years ago (...making . .  mental. . . calculations...). no new york buying spree for me, thank you. now on to the final round. dream job? or dream vacation? i like my job. and i get to travel with it on occasion. i like vacations, but i get antsy if i don't have a purpose, ie if i'm not working/work trading. now if i could just merge option B & C, maybe a dream job in a far away city? that would be ideal. of course, then i couldn't take a second person of my choice as you can with dream vaycay. . . decisions, decisions.

maybe i'll eat another bowl of cereal in the meantime. no wait! im out of rice milk! maybe the soy milk with have an offer for lifetime supply of soy milk products. . . now that would be a dream come true. . .

BOOK REPORT - The Hot Zone, or Why You Shouldn't Punch a Monkey

my sincerest apologies to all those who have come down with the newest strain of swine - cow - turducken influenza. contagious life threatening viruses are nothing to balk at. i would know. i just read The Hot Zone by Richard Preston.

the Hot Zone is not a book i would recommend to hypochondriacks (uh, sp? someone sneezed on my dictionary. . .). wait, on second thought, it is the perfect book for us. yes, it describes possibly the world's most heinous way to die via blood born pathogen in super gory detail, but it also.... i lost my train of thought. perhaps i was too busy reliving the horror that is having your insides liquify over the course of one week causing you, poor victim, to 'bleed out,' to put it nicely (follow your imagination, then go a step or two further, yup, that's 'bleeding out'). this book is every bit as terrifying as the quote on the cover says it is. and by terrifying, i mean queasy inducing, fear implanting, strong urge to disinfect my entire body making. 

pretty much i read the first horrific chapter that describes what exactly ebola and it's viral kissing cousins do to your body, asked god why on earth would he(sp?) put this book in my hands let alone let it be filed in the nonfiction section, then proceeded to block out everything else in my life as i raced to the final page to see if all of humanity was spared a global pandemic. good news, (spoiler alert!) most of us lived. bad news, now i have the knowledge of ebola squirming around in my brain. great. but wait, this might just be good news (uh, the book i read before was the Dali Lama's Art of Happiness). see, now that i know Ebola is hiding out there, it makes everything else i am scared of seem, to quote the book totally out of context, 'like child's play.' the continuum of all that can be contracted has doubled, no quadruped, no extended far beyond the previous limits of my imagination. suddenly, herpes doesn't seem so bad.

ebola, on the other hand, is indescribably bad. actually, that's a lie, Mr. Preston did a fine job of describing just. how. bad. it. is. such that i now never want to set foot in Africa. and god(sp?) forbid if you ever get a headache around me cuz i'm gonna assume the worst and quarantine you to the nearest death hut where you can 'bleed out' with your kind and the poor woman who was stuck in with you sickos cuz non ebola infested people thought she had it but really it was only bad malaria. oops. 

it did help, a little, to relive my slightly unwarranted fears, to know that you pretty much have to play bloody knuckles with a sick monkey in Zaire in order to get it. that is, until i read the part about the airborne strains of Ebola found stateside. and that, due to advances in modern technology, there are now these things called airplanes that can deliver these little pathogenic packages to pretty much anywhere in the world in less than 24 hours. beat that, fedex. 

so finally, when i come to terms with the remote possibility that i could shit out my innards a mere seven days after contact with the invisible menace, along comes this new epidemical fad from mexico/land of my favorite foods. swine influenza. the fact that i don't work on a farm/in a butcher shop where i would come in contact with said animals is helpful. vegetarians/practicing jews will have the last laugh. that is, until one of you heathens/heathens sneeze in our general direction.

por favor and for our sake, cover your mouth when you sneeze/cough/vomit up your spleen. muchas gracias.

mexican breakfast, part 1

i am a bit of a foodie (or gastronome, if you prefer. i do not). 

i have a grave appreciation for many meals (mexican fare, mediterranean, raw honey). and a dire aversion to others (red meats, cheeses, hot chocolate*). 

mexicany food being top favorite, i ended up with a few leftovers from my birthday dinner (hello 30's, nice to meet you). which means i will be eating beans and rice and tortillas for B/L/D (breakfast lunch dinner) for the next week. this is awesome news to me. cuz really, aside from cereal (more on that in a later blog), my stomach usually defaults to asking for a burrito of some kind or other.

i'm on some sort of half assed quest to find a good mexican food joint near by where i live. or at the very least, somewhere convenient. and cheap. i do like Bimbo's. cept it feels really weird to me being in a mexican restaurant and being the only person who is even remotely hispanic. i mean, i like the food there (sunflower seeds? yum!) and the decor, and it's hip and cool, but for a mexican place, it's not very mexicano. jesus, even the dishwasher is white.  you have to be really trying to make that happen. 

so my next venture will not be the old kfc turned burrito place by cal anderson, cuz that place is haunted by greasy chicken parts, but what once was jalisco's but now is called el farol off 15th. i am looking forward to it. i can even maybe turn a blind olifactory sense to the heavy tortilla chip smell that is sure to permeate my entire wardrobe/being. anything to hear that not from here accent (so familiar that sometimes i cant hear it), listen to the tejano music coming from the kitchen, interact with people whose hair is naturally that black who stare at me and wonder why this girl would chose to have such short hair when everybody knows that the men like women with long hair and why do you scar your body with those tattoos? uh, i just wanted some beans and rice. . . 

*for reals. i don't like hot chocolate. chocolate soy milk, yes. chocolate bars, awesome. mochas when i was a coffee drinker, hell yeah. but hot cocoa? pass. i got better things to do. 

Hondrans...in Belltown!

too bad the phrase 'drug ring busted' has to be inserted in there for it to make the cover of the Sunday Seattle Times. oh, my mother's people, why are you painted in such bad light? at first glance, my heart beat quickened with excitement to see in larger than 12point times new roman font the country of half my origin right there on the cover of seattle's only remaining corporate newspaper right next to some hypey commentary on nickels political future. but then i calmed myself down long enough to read the whole headline. boo. way to take the flappity flap out of my stand proud flag waving session.
i read the whole article on line just a minute ago. well, illegal nature of activities aside, i can state with some amount of bittersweet pride that Hondurans are well organized. and stick together. they really had their shit down. their only weakness, as it turned out, was letting their guard down, thinking that 'the man' had no idea. come on gente, were we absente the first dia of clase? what is the primero cosa that they teach you? never trust el gringo. that and you are always suspect. even si tienes nada pero good intentions, you are being watched, hombre.

allow me to introduce yourself to my friend, Jufran.

over the past 12ish years of my life, i have been making conscious, aggregating decisions about what exactly i put in my digestive system, or rather, to make the list a little shorter, what i do not send down the GI tract. it started with milk and my dad's choice to buy non dairy alternatives. (tho how a person can go from non fat cow milk to low fat rice milk without batting a taste bud is beyond me. that is the largest, unsmooth leap a newly realized lactose intolerant person can make. let me unsolicitously (um, the spell check didn't like this word and suggested 'incestuously' instead. . .) advice you that if you are making the change to non dairy, you best just give up the idea of ever having a refreshing glass of milk or gooey grilled cheese sammich, cuz non dairy alternatives are just that, alternatives - not straight up replacements. cheese especially. they can put a woman in an adult diaper and have her drive cross country but they cant make soy melt like a curdded lactate byproduct. so if you want a refreshing glass of non milk milk, go with enriched soy milk. once you get over the initial well, this isnt what i thought it was going to be, it's actually quite good. save the low fat rice milk for a few years down the road.) and then his option to opt out of red meat, then other meat, then fish. i followed suit, less out of compassionate conviction for los animales and more cuz well, that was what was in the house to eat and im hungry.  eventually, i learned more about animal rights/cruel food animal practices, environmental concerns, health issues (which is what prompted my father to start ixnaying meat and dairy in the first place), sustainability practices, local farming, etc etc etc. i went vegetarian late high school, hit veganism in college, road that bus for a while, then started eating local eggs, local goat cheese (them gots smaller sized proteins than regular milk, makes it ok on the estomago)(i first learned that fact, and others that have nothing to do with dairy, from reading Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. muchas gracias, mr robbins.) and the occasional fish. (tho, upon reviewing the current fish population to fish demand ratio, maybe i don't really need to eat them raw on rice wrapped in nori. . .maybs i will  leave my portion to someone who lives on an island and has no other option for protein intake. . .). 

and my diet keeps changing. mostly for the better. i try and make adjustments every year, eating less wheat, trying futilely to cut back on sugar, stop drinking any kind of soda. more recently i chose to eliminate High Fructose Corn Syrup. pretty easy, despite it's unsettlingly ubiquitous presence in processed food.  mostly because i don't really eat processed foods in general. but i did find it some of my favorite ginger ale sodas. and in random bread products. and juice. all things that i could easily get myself to side step while roaming the aisles of the grocery store (come to think of it, i think the Co-Op doesn't actually carry anything with HFCS. . . that makes it a little easier). the one and only huge disappointment/blow to my diet came about two years ago when i was having a belated brunch at Crave (RIP) with my ex. mid conversation, i casually glanced over at the bottle of ketchup that stood next to my morning mimosa and it was like the little black type jumped out and bit me - high fructose corn syrup. what?! no!! i love ketchup! i had already slathered my eggs (yet another food habit i picked up from my dad) and potatoes with it, i had already downed the hatch several tablespoons worth. i love ketchup. sigh, oh well. i guess there is organic ketchup. but guess what? it's not the same! i've never liked healthy ketchup cuz it be missing the one ingredient that makes it taste authentically ketchuppy. . . 

i mourned the loss of this condiment for some time. that is, until if found Jufran. for those of you unfamiliar with the number one condiment in my world, allow me to introduce you. Jufran not only looks like ketchup, but it kinda tastes like it. or rather, the differences in flavor are such that you are so pleasantly distracted that you don't even remember missing ketchup in the first place. it is all the things ketchup never dreamed it could be therefore never was. it is like sweet, spicy ketchup. made of bananas. with a slightly more gelatinous consistency. that (oddly) needs no refrigeration. it comes from the same Philippino genius factory that invented Magic Mic. it is like $1.75 in stores in china town. it comes in mild and hot. it rules. on eggs. on potatoes. on chips. on plantains. on beans. on rice. it makes me think of wait, ketcup who? exactly. 

now if you will excuse me, i have a breakfast date with senora Jufran.

(blog's not letting me post a photo, but one is coming, rest assured)

3 more cheers for advances in medicinal technology

while ibuprofren isn't exactly a cutting edge laboratory discovery, it is a note worthy standby. again, i would rather focus my efforts and attention on prophylactics, trying to prevent the need for tablets from ever coming up. but things happen. like aforementioned allergies. and simultaneously falling off of and onto your bike whilst attempting a track stand on a sloped cobblestone road.
and yes, i do agree with my fellow human being who happened to be crossing on the same pike street i was getting a close and personal look at, that you should not drink and bike. but i do believe, kind sir, that you have mistaken my temporary combination of bravado and unbalance for common evening inebriation. fine line, i know.
for those of you who do not enjoy the feel of self propelled wind thru the loose hairs that stick out thru your bike helmet, allow me to describe in brief detail one of the very few drawbacks of this lifestyle choice. falling off/on top of your bike feels like getting hit with a steel pipe. oh, wait, that's because that is exactly what it is.
so here i am, several bruises, a swollen ankle and two bus rides later feeling antsy from lack of forward movement and slowly, slowly, working on getting over my difficulty of swallowing pills, two by two. that is, until i read the small print on the label of said generic drug instructing me, person affected by any myriad of symptoms, to take one every 4 to 6 hours as said symptoms persist. well alright then, one by one it is.

3 cheers to long ago advances in western medicinal technology

speaking of allergies, wtf. my world is collapsing in on itself - a direct result of the vicious battle (my body vs pollen) that has been waging for the last few days that reached a fever pitch this afternoon. jehus h christ i almost sneezed out a kidney.  

i was in new york last week and was telling my friend, yeah, i didn't have any allergy problems there, it was amazing. to which she deftly pointed out, that's cuz there are no trees in new york city. point taken. here on the west coast, things be different.  a day or two of rain followed by bright sunshine kicked everything and its amebic version of a mother into motion.  for those of you blessed with bodies who dont decide one day that (insert innocuous species) is now your mortal enemy, consider yourselves lucky.  allergies are dreadful. you know that feeling like you are about to sneeze? take that, multiply by always, add what amounts to a heinous, watery sinus rash, put a bucket (or giant zip lock baggie) over your head and walk around, that is pretty close to what it feels like. oh, and get no sleep the night before. i'm staring at the beautiful blooming trees that surround my house, my feather comforter, the adorable BABYSEAL asleep atop it, and my vision is intercepted by a circle big enough to encompass object of my gaze in a thick red halo with a giant diagonal line across it. get. away. from. my. face. 

today, i finally, after a whole day's worth of violently sneezing, finally, after years of suffering in all my life of residing in the pacific northwest come spring time, finally, broke down at 8pm and walked to the drug store to find some quick (as in not 3-4 months worth of preventative acupuncture) relief. i bot two kinds. on sale. 

. . . ok, i was gonna go on to talk about how, on principal, i generally tend to use nonwestern medicinal fix its. (uh, can you believe both my parents are nurses? and no, it's not some rebellious act. that would be taking things too far/silly). and how i would rather have puffy red eyes sitting pretty above a nose that never stops water making than take over the counter meds. but that today was exception and maybe there is something to the OTC, as long as you don't abuse it. but right now it feels like my fingers are disconnecting from my hands i took the super allergy kind that didn't say *non drowsy*. must not operate heavy machinery.  i will sleep well tonight, there is no question about that .  i , have ,.nothing else. my eyelids weight a thousand pounds. there is an invisible axis that goes straight out from my solar plexus that my chair is slowly spinning on, the computer spins opposite. let us hope i wake up on time in the am. good bye cruel world.

on account of others, including the full moon.

today i ate meat. on accident. it was hiding ever so quietly in the vat of beans that sat between the mango salsa and the tray of white rice. a spread of brazilian fare to make the visiting brazilian dance company feel at home.  i thought i smelt meat, but i had the garden vegan sausage in the bottom of my bowl, it was a subtle, pleasant aroma, therefore easy to dismiss. as i went up to get seconds, i overheard coworker who moments ago saw me go to the bean vat and partake say, 'yeah the beans look really good, too bad they have meat in them or i would eat them.'  so that's why they tasted so good. 

last summer i had 'spinach dumplings' with a friend and the secret ingredient was pork. didn't have the gusto to return it. conveying my self imposed dietary restrictions to native english speakers is tedious enough. i think that, even with the proper asiatic vernacular, my discourse on what i consider to be food would have been meet with a blank stare. i finished my dumplings in silence. with extra fish sauce.

the fall before that, i was at some opening to a play. there was a buffet in the lobby: many unmarked, unmanned goodies. i (thought i) could identify a few's ingredients by sight, one of which was a bruchetta (sp? it's late. . .) style appetizer that had bean paste on it. they were the tastiest thing there. i went back for more. and then more. and ok, maybe one more. the last one i ate, i bit into something the texture of bone. yes, a small bone. oops. well, that will be the last one for me.

i read this short story once, about a newly wed couple, traditional in their ways. they were very open and loving. the husband had but one request, that the wife never cook or feed him red meat. no concrete answer was given as to why, but perhaps some squirrelly replies involvin phrases such as 'this is how i grew up,' 'my mother's dying request,' followed by an adamant 'just do this, or else.' the wife let it go and focused on the good of their relationship, which was everything but this culinary taboo.  days, weeks, months go by, wife is out shopping, comes across a nice cut of red meat/(insert proper cut of meat verbiage, this veggie is out of the loop) and decides to why the heck not surprise her hubby and make him something containing the forbidden protein. so home she went and prepared a delicious soup, disguising the meat texture with fine chopping, it's flavor with finer spices. husband comes home. they sit to eat. throughout the meal, he tries to get her to tell her what is in the soup that he is enjoying more than any other meal she has cooked for him in their entire abbreviated time of marriage. she teases and keeps him guessing until finally, his bowl is empty, his curiosity is peaked, she drops the bomb and as it lands the smile from his face falls and he stares with horrific disbelief. turns out the guy was allergic to red meat. and by allergic, i mean that the consumption of red meat triggered an irreversible process where in he morphed into a werewolf.  oops. 

moral of the story is: A. make lllittle labels if you bring/make/serve food at a potluck style event. as a courtesy to those with dietary restrictions and allergies. B. if you are strictdfaffse -(woops, 'scuse me, dont know what that was) vegan/veggie, best not just go sampling the spread all willy nilly. (unless it's free, of course) and C. when @9 93 (* Hehisf  (darn, that is weird, it's like i lost control of my hand just there) someone says they don't want to eat whatever food, they probs have HU(eJKjf (oh my, i'm feeling a little woozy, must have been something i ate...) a good rrrrrrreason.  rrrrrrraaaBANGaaaaaaaahhhhhggggggghhhhhh CRASH

AGHGHHHARARRR H GAG aaaoooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuu!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(exits room as wear wolf)

BELATED MIRACLE OF MIRACLES!

BABYSEAL has returned! unscathed, hungry and dandery as ever.  little lost kitten is neither little nor lost no more.  tho the little part and the kitten parts have long since gone out of fashion.

ok, she actually came back like a week ago. sorry to keep all you in suspense. why the delay in announcing such momentous mews- i mean news? well i have not one, but two excuses cooked up for you. ready? here we go:

1. i was ill. i was in bed for a few days, basically adopting the covetous daily routine of my beloved by proxy felines: lay in bed, get up to snack, lay in bed. the only glaring difference in my days and the cats' days was that my routine was punctuated by laborious descension/ascension of stairs to bathroom to properly respond to all the liquids i had been downing. the cats, they do not deviate from the invisible path that marks the beeline from the bed to the snack bowl. prostrate field research leads me to conclude that domestic felines retain their water well. quite well.  further investigation into the matter is neither interesting to me nor called for.

2. i am in new york now and have been here since sunday. i got busy with prepping and getting all my proverbial ducks to fit in one carry on and one personal item. now i am here, sans personal computer. equipped with nothing more than my notebook and a metro card.  this time it is i who is feeling a little lost. . . 

BABYSEAL IS M.I.A.!

and not the pregnant paper planes kind!

i had written some text the other day under the title BABYSEAL WENT MISSING FOR ONE.5 DAYS! but now one.5 days after her return, she is missing once more! what once passed as humourous prose now seems rather insensitive considering the current state of affairs. . . .

so now with all due respect, i shall put here few highlights of the piece which i shall respectfully rename MOMENTS, WITH BABYSEAL:

-BABYSEAL snores in her sleep. it is adorable. and remarkably loud.

-BABYSEAL lives. for snack time. ilvs: did you just throw something at me? geode: no, BABYSEAL was eating and turned her head fast to look at Peter Peter Jennings and a piece of cat food flew out of her mouth. ilvs: BABYSEAL, i love you.

-BABYSEAL is a lover of animals. except for her brother Peter sometimes when he comes in from being outside and smells of foreign smells at which point she turns into a hissing gremlin and lazily swipes at him from her prostrate lounging position when he gets too close.

BABYSEAL, please come home.

it's bloods and CRIPS - not bloods and CRYPTS

'Can i draw on your face?' 

my roommate looked up at me from her book, 'Um, no. But here,' she added, moving her top left extremity in my direction, 'you can draw whatever you were gonna draw on my face on my hand.'

ok i actually didn't have an idea of what to draw on her face, i was just amused by the very idea of it, but as my pen drew near her skin, it came to me.  i inked on her paw a single teardrop. she looked at it and we both laughed. as funny as she thought it was, my request to gift her a matching one under her left eye was rejected. something about not wanting to get beat up or something.

also rejected: my idea to dress up for the movie we were gonna see later on, a documentary about crips and bloods (dir stacy peralta). i was even gonna give her first dibs on colors. . . oh well, probably for the best, i wasn't gonna have time to iron the creases in my dickies anyways.

(about half hour later)

so, you're gonna have to search some other blog to find a descent review of the film. we didn't make it. well, we did, but it was sold out. we opted for some slots on the waiting list and waited in our non represent attire. several seats opened up, we got called to the counter. they had 2 seats, but they weren't together. roommate and i are joined at the hip, this will not do at all. a 2 minute mini conference confirmed our suspicions, separation would be less than ideal. so we passed on the 'well i might as well be watching the movie by myself - oh wait, i am' seats and went home.  probably for the best, the average movie goer who is seated next to me by chance is generally not fond of unsolicited peanut gallerying however interesting/witty/thoughtful i think the comments are. 

that and sitting next to tall one would lessen my chances of being beat up/lonely/kicked out for talking to myself. tho, had we dressed up, we could have divvied up the audience and assigned ourselves leaders of each side and made it more of a participatory event. . . please file this under 'what's black and red and not a very good idea?'

fancy is as fancy does. actually, i'm not sure really what that's suppose to mean. . .

so during my time in milwaukee, i had the pleasure of staying in a 4 (does it go up to 5 or are there only 4 stars. which ever it is, it was full star) star hotel in the historic east side district (hotel metro, for those who value transparency in a writer). i tend to be understated and what im about to say mos def keeps me true to my nature: that place is fancy. it's bigger than my apartment. granted it is a studio on capital hill that i share, but feel me on this one, the room was nice. real nice.

i, on the other hand, am not. fancy. im about as scrappy/rough and tumble as they come. put me in a tent on the roof with a warm sleeping bag and a thermos of hot tea and im good to go. the 5 layers of EGYPTIAN COTTON sheets and not 1 but 2 flat screen TVs were lost on me. same goes for the 12 super fluffy towels in assorted sizes, the cosmic array of travel(er) sized AVEDA products and 24 hour room service that included organic salads on the menu.

for the first day or two, i pretty much tip toed around. i made my bed. i wiped the glass bathroom sink counter top free of post teeth brushing water beads. i avoided like the plague the gigantic bath tub and accompanying salts.

day two or three rolls around, and really, i start thinking to myself, this place isnt all that bad. i nibbled the large piece of ok chocolate enrobed in gold foil. i hung my running clothes in the closet on the pink satin cushioned coat hangers. i broke open the AVEDA facial soap and body soap. 

day three or four and i catch myself midway thru transformation from nice scrappy privileged DIY bike punk to impatient high maintenance privileged DIY bike punk. the hot water spewing from the high pressure variable stream handleable shower head was not hot enough. the shiny white porcelain basin that floored the slate rock tiled shower was too slippery. the 'business speed' internet was not fast enough for my 'business.' the complimentary fruit from the basket on the receptionist desk had a bruise on it. 

wow. so this is how some people get to be that kind of person. somehow in the process of fancyfying my surroundings, the internal relationship between my environment and my dealing with it became inappropriately inversely proportional.  things got superficially nice, i got superficially lily livered/weak. i stopped myself from calling the front desk to file a formal complaint using the phone conveniently located right next to the toilet. 

i put my complaining for the sake of well cuz i can to a halt went for a walk to the health food store market. leaning my graciously offered umbrella into the blustery rain, i set off to find some snacks, my sense of reason. 

back at the hotel, i spent a good 15 minutes tidying up before check out. i wanted to leave a tip on the pillow for housekeeping (i hadnt let them in the whole time i had been there) but stood there with my wallet open, staring at the 4 ones and the single ten. 4 bucks seems lousy, i had been there 5 days. but ten bucks, that felt like it leaned towards patronizing. i agonized longer than necessary then rested mr, uh, mr whichever president is on the ten on the soft feather comforter and walked out. wait, do people even tip housekeepers? i dont know. oh well.

in the lobby waiting for my people, i grabbed an apple from the free basket. i got most of the way thru then stopped because the core and its immediate surroundings were brown. the apple was well on its figurative way south. i stared at the apple, then to the uniformed staff behind the desk, then back at the apple, then at the fancy run on the floor. be right back, i told my on time people, and walked across the lobby to throw the rotten core in the trash can.