Category — feelings

I only had 2 cocktails and half a beer…okay and a few sips of wine….but I just can’t drink like I did back in 1935 when I was a young Irishman working for The New Yorker.

Le Happy was good, but loud last night. For some reason, they had the stereo cranked up to eleven with Journey. I’m not sure what sort of mood they were going for with that. I mean, Journey is not ironic anymore - not since they played Don’t Stop Believin’ in that one episode of Laguna Beach where Steven took Lauren out on a date right before they went away to college and then 6 months later came running back home because reality stars don’t stay famous in San Francisco for very long.

But we had a good time anyway, and Megan had on the prettiest dress and shoes. Her ability to wear heels is something I totally admire and respect. I love them, personally, but never wear them because Dane is only an inch or so taller than me. I’m slowly just getting the f***k over it - thanks to Megan’s heeling. Get it? HEELING?! Awesome, right? Let’s move on.

The air hockey (sorry, no pictures - I think the overwhelming pee smell and frigid temperature at Slabtown both confused and upset me enough to forget important promises made to the internet) was really fun but only for me, I think. Dane won 2 games and I won the last. Obviously, I need to practice more and if that means I have to go to a bar every single night for the next two weeks and drink delicious Jubelales by the gods I will do it. (Oh. Sigh. The Gods. I miss you Battlestar Galactica so very very much.)

I still got up early this morning and ate my oatmeal and cleaned the house and took the dog for a walk until forever o’clock because she would not do her business. And by business, I mean updating her stock portfolio and checking her online banking. IT IS SO MAD MAKING. I’m assuming it’s her new food. Either that, or she’s anxious about future employers seeing her Myspace page. I told her to make it private, already.

Anyway, I’m thinking seriously about either posting here or creating a new blog about my attempts to change Dane’s diet for the better. We’re getting worried he might have adult-onset diabetes or at least is well on his way towards it (thank you America!) and even though I’m not an expert on, well, anything ever really, I do know what he’s doing wrong and what he could be doing so, sooo much better and he’s agreed to let me help. Sort of. He came home the other night and I was chopping peppers and red onions and sweet potatoes and broccoli and then throwing them all in a roasting pan together and all I can say is that the look of fear on his face was so intense I thought there was a man standing behind me and maybe the call was coming from inside the house. But then he ate it (with some chicken sausage and a whole hell of a lot of chipotle mayo - we’ll get there, baby steps) and he was happy.

So what do you all think? This blog? A new blog? A different page on the cookie? Let me know your thinking thoughts that you have with your mind.

Oh also! Here is my review for Then She Found Me in the Mercury. Just scroll down alphabetically. It’s under the Portland International Film Festival reviews.

I kind of feel like this today

So I bought this…

which I will wave around the vicinity of an ice cold glass of this…

Last night we went over to Megan and Justin’s totally beautiful jealous making house (they have a room entirely dedicated to foosball which made Dane weep quietly to himself for a little while in a corner of the room, gently stroking the table with one hand and drinking a beer with the other) to play some Guitar Hero and watch Lost. And naturally, since they are people we like tremendously and we care what they think about us and I had vodka in my hand - I decided to talk about poop.

Look, anyone who has ever known me for more than five minutes knows I have always had stomach issues. Everyone in my family has them and we all blame my Grandmother whose idea of a salad was iceburg lettuce sprinkled with sugar. And I think, most girls put their anxieties into their gastrointestinal area rather than into their fist and then through a wall like men do. I’m not saying one is better than the other but I don’t know if it’s possible to spackle an ulcer.

Megan did not, of course, talk about her stomach things because she’s a lady but I am a 79 year old woman in a nursing home and cannot help myself and went on and on at length about the virtues of fiber and yogurt (the real kind, not the pie kind) and oatmeal. Mostly the oatmeal though because honestly people, it has changed my life. I am no longer a prisoner of my willful innards.

So, internet, here is the oatmeal I eat every morning which makes life worth living because I am no longer afraid that eating lunch will result in me lying curled up in the fetal postion under a blanket unable to talk or move or watch reality tv. AND IF THEY TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME I WILL COME DOWN WITH THE WASTING DISEASE.

This is half a cup of regular rolled oats from Whole Foods, one ounce of sliced almonds, half a cup of blueberries (I know, I know, they’re not in season and they’re not local but fuck you Michael Pollan, you explain that to my belly), cinnamon, vanilla and almond extract (why not? we all need a little luxury in life), half a tablespoon of peanut butter, and a packet of stevia.

Judge me if you will, but we all poop. Except Eva Green. She probably just glows a little brighter for about sixty seconds and then rides away on her pet unicorn to her silver castle in Rivendell.

I think I’ve got my finger in too many pies. Or at least, my fictional finger in too many very real, very important to me to not let down people, pies. I haven’t written anything for Pampelmoose in two weeks, just one post for Engamer, and still NOTHING besides the About Us section of Geektoob. I went to a screening for the Mercury on Friday at Cinema 21 and then another screening on Monday at the Whitsell (for the Merc too) Auditorium inside the Art Museum.

I don’t know if any of you have ever been to a Silver Screen Club screening before, but let me tell you it’s like watching a movie with the entire cast of Cocoon sitting next to you and gumming their popcorn. Except you’re not allowed to bring any food into the new renovated fancy pants theater so I suppose they’re just gumming some prunes or Centrum Silver they somehow snuck into a tote bag or a fanny pack.

Anyway, I spent most of Monday writing about the movie for Friday and all of yesterday writing the one for Monday. I just wonder if I maybe don’t have a knack for journalism. Sometimes I can spit out a review or a post in 15 minutes and sometimes it takes me an hour or two, but it always breaks my brain. If I write more than one post in a day, I feel like I’ve just run a smartypants marathon and need to carbo load again by reading the internet for a few hours (Seriously, will that walrus ever get his bucket back?!!!?) and then sleeping until next month o’clock.

I’m actually reading a real book right now - the kind I can take into the bathtub without getting electrocuted. It’s The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollingurst (you can see it over there…a little to your right) and it’s about a GAY. I didn’t know this when I picked it up or surely I would have set it on fire immediately lest the gay get on me. This book is so good. It’s like a panacea for all wayward english lit majors searching for a lost Henry James novel. It makes me happy. Correction: It makes me GAY.

Wait, where was I? Oh! My inability to focus (see what I did there?), yes.

Dane will tell you all about my problem with multi-tasking. Seriously, just ask him, he could go on for HOURS. Basically, if I have to do more than one thing in a day besides the normal cleaning the house things, the overwhelmingness of it bullies me into a panic which then becomes a kind of lethargic neurotic coma. I’m like a dog who’s been kept inside too much and starts to scratch itself really, really hard in one place (I can’t believe I just compared myself to a dog. With fleas.) Too many things to do short circuits my action taking ability. I know this would be helped with some medication (I love you klonopin), but I am so resistant to putting my liver and kidneys through any more trauma than I already have (Vodka + Advil = oh my god DIALYSIS), I’d just rather learn to manage it on my own. Like our ancestors did when they had to hunt and gather in JESUS CHRIST KIALA THE SAME GODDAMN DAY AND NO ONE BLOGGED ABOUT IT.

So now I make to do lists and I breathe deeply and one day when I’m old I hope to be able to go to a Silver Screen Club movie and remember to sneak in my prunes and my Centrum Silver and then go to my bridge club without freaking the fuck out.

Whole Foods Pear Spritzer Soda + Grey Goose Vodka = A boozegasm.

I don’t even need people. I have this now.

Oh good lord. This dog has taken over my life. I feel completely and utterly derailed. But I love her and her stinky fur. I do.

HOWEVER

Yesterday she tried to fit Arthur’s entire head in her mouth. Just to see if she could. She’s very interested in SCIENCE, you see. And I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned it, but I love Arthur as if he had sprung forth from my very own loins. (Ewwwww…loins.) I love him more than chocolate, alcohol, pants that look awesome in the ass area, and pajamas. So the fact that ZeeZee thought this experiment was an okay thing to do did not sit well with me. Let’s just say that maybe I spent the rest of the afternoon in a corner of the bedroom rocking Arthur back and forth while silently weeping into his fur.

I am that kind of crazy.

Today is better, though and we’re going to the vet to make sure his eye and ear are not going to become gangrenous and fall off. And my mom and I are taking ZeeZee with us to Ikea, which should make her happy because she gets to stick her head out the window the whole time which gives her an orgasm. And I totally get this because going to IKEA makes feel exactly the same way.

6 am is a ridiculous time for anyone to do anything. How do birds and bus drivers and old people do it? The only coherent thing I could say this morning was, “gah” and that doesn’t really mean anything. Except maybe to old people. They have their own language, you know. For instance, “Would you like to see a movie this weekend?” is roughly translated as “Gah, dentures” (sucky dentures noise) “Lawrence Welk” (smiling towards a wall) “gah talkies?”

I’ve traveled quite extensively, so I know what I’m talking about.

This morning I had to get up with Dane - IT WAS STILL DARK OUT - and start writing my review for First Sunday. I don’t want to give anything away but Stupid Piece of Trash Not Worth The Time It Would Take To Pee All Over It just about sums it up.

Don’t ask me how I would pee all over a movie. I will do whatever it takes to get my point across. I am a lady. Motherfuckers.

Anyway, I think? the review came out fine. I’m not sure yet. We’ll have to see what Erik says. This one was 300 words which is many more words than the 50 I was doing before. At least, let’s see - add the five, carry the zero - at least FIVE MILLION more words.

I’ve traveled extensively, so I know what I’m talking about.

The screening was interesting. It was put on by Jammin 95.5 (gawd) and Dane and I sat next to the very serious Willamette Week guy. I had something in my eye for the first half of the film which was a bitch. Also, every single resident of Gresham was sitting in the audience. Luckily, security confiscated their cell phones. But not mine. I guess they figured I’d need it to light my notebook. Which I forgot. Instead, I just stabbed myself repeatedly in the hand with my pen to keep awake. Very effective.

I’ve traveled extensively, so I know what I’m talk- ok, I’ll stop.

Dane was not so impressed with the butternut squash. Then again, I don’t think he’d be impressed by anything not made entirely out of Frank’s Red Hot. Or soy sauce. In fact, if science could discover some kind of soy sauce/hot sauce vegetable, I would buy science a shot of Jagermeister. Or Goldschlager. Science is totally a drunk sorority girl. You heard it here first.

Today I have to go across town on the Burnside Bus (sticky) to the Mercury Offices in NE Portland. I’ve been there twice now and I think the office manager is beginning to warm up to me. The first time I came in, I made the mistake of looking him directly in the eyes, which as we all know, is an invitation to THE THUNDERDOME.

But the second time he greeted me with a delicate lift of one eyebrow and an almost imperceptible nod of the head.

Have you ever been hit with a Care Bear Stare? It was just like that. Only with more love.

I think today instead of saying hello, I’ll just wrestle him to the ground and lick his face. No, no, don’t try to stop me. I’m going with my gut on this one.

So today the two film shorts I wrote for the Mercury came out and I can’t look at them for more than 5 seconds without ripping them apart and chastising myself for not tightening up this and omitting that. And, oh my god, why did I use the director’s name at the beginning for both shorts? And is “charismatic” EVEN A WORD?

Once again, instead of just being happy about something for one goddamn minute, I go all Janice Dickinson on my ass and now my vocabulary thinks it’s too fat to live.

What is wrong with me? Can I fix it with Vodka? Can I?