On Wednesday night I dragged my drug addled body out of the house and somehow made it to Backfence PDX.

I’m really glad I went because I won’t get many opportunities to see Melissa, Barb, Alison, Zoe, Intern Meagan™, or Intern Nathalie™ before we leave for SF. Dane went with me, because he is supportive and because he really likes those girls. And they like him. And now I feel sad, thinking about all of the friends we’ve made in the last year who we will probably NEVER SEE AGAIN.

Excuse me.

BOOHOOOHOO *Blows nose* BOOOHOOHOOO *shakes fist at “God” or whatever* BOOHOOHOOOOOO

Moving on….

The brightest, sparkliest, moment in my Backfence evening was getting to meet Beth Lisick who wrote Everybody into the Pool and Helping Me Help Myself. She was just terrific. And incredibly gracious to me - a shy, goofy, awkward, shiny haired stranger asking for her help in a new city (she lives in SF). Plus, I thought her jacket was super rad. I wanted to touch it. Well, fondle it. I wanted to caress it. KEEP IT TOGETHER KIALA.

Did I mention that I was sober at this thing? Well, I was. And it turned out just fine. Not, you know, awesome, but fine. And no hangzieties. The Effexor still makes me feel sedated so I’m not sure this really, truly qualifies as being sober, parfait.

Finally, last night, the stupid Effexor kept me from going to a fun thing at our friend Erik’s. (I am keeping a list of these offenses, Effexor, and when it gets to ten I am KICKING YOU TO THE CURB) Instead I stayed on the couch, not drinking wine, and watched Stylista on the CW. It was not as much fun as going over to Erik’s. Meh.

I reserved the moving truck yesterday. I can’t believe this is really happening.

The Effexor is totally fucking up my shit, but at least I can sleep now so that’s…something. And I’ve lost 8 pounds in two weeks which seems…weird, but I can’t really drink anymore so it makes some sense, I suppose.

We found an apartment in San Francisco which I LOVE, but it’s going to break us to move. I’m not looking forward to being one of The Poor again but hey, now other people can watch me from their windows and judge. THE TEACHER HAS BECOME THE STUDENT. Or something.

We’re going to have a fireplace, a real one! I’m so excited…or I think I’m excited. The wall of Effexor between me and my emotions is a little disabling, but in a tingly sleepy way. Anyway, I know I should be excited, so I’m going with that. So yes, a fireplace and a washer/dryer and two bedrooms and a private garden for the three tenants in the building and the place is not a modern, bougie loft, so we’ll have indie cred in SF again which is…I mean…thank God, really because having indie cred is the most important thing in the world, right up there with having perfect bangs and the ability to make other people feel small and worthless.

Do I sound as weird as I feel? I miss booze.

More tomorrow, I’m getting back into the swing of things. Sorry I haven’t answered all of your questions. I will. Just as soon as I take this nap.

And I am more than happy to answer them for you today.

By now you’ve all had over 24 hours to let the moving away news seep in (Melissa Lion has had a little bit longer, but her path to acceptance is steep my friends - much like the hills in San Francisco as was pointed out to me by my friend Ned Lannamann) and I imagine you’ve got some simmering resentment, curiosity, and bewilderment in your stockpots of love or whatever.

So ask away - throw your questions into the pot and I’ll bring them to a roiling boil!

Relocation Specialist Kiala™ is here for you.

(Oh! And yes, the blog is coming with me. You people are all I HAVE. Well, you guys and the Effexor. More on the Effexor tomorrow.)

Best Friend Sy Parrish™ just sent this to FOTC HQ. It’s a music video (remember those, kids?) by her friend Dave and our friend Sabra is in it! She’s the hot Asian-ish one.

Enjoy.

Dane and I are moving to San Francisco.

Some of you already know about this via the Twitter and some emails and, I don’t know, the carrier pigeons I had my Seneschal send out last week.

Sorry. In my grief over the puddy we’ve been overdosing on The Tudors. It comforts me. All that velvet and leather and mother of pearl and boots and the political, courtly intrigue! It’s exactly how I imagine San Francisco to be. I’m right, right? With the velvet, etc?

So yes, we are moving to San Francisco in less than one month and I am FREAKING OUT. We had to break our lease here (expensive) and I don’t know if you know, but the rents in SF are not like the cute little ones we have here in Portland. Instead of being filled with magical bunnies and puppies and kittens, the rents in SF are made out of whatever the opposite of that is. Cholera, maybe.

And don’t give me any of that you could move to Oakland and commute into the city business. I know there are parts of Oakland that are great. Not for me. If I’m moving to San Francisco, I’M MOVING TO GODDAMN FOGGY DIRTY SAN FRANCISCO.

I want to ride a cable car (a real one and not one of these Fisher Price trains we have here), and eat rice a roni, and get mugged and die in an earthquake. I WANT TO HAVE IT ALL.

Also, I’m going on anti-depressants. Whee! And I have high blood pressure. WHEE-ER!

It really, truly seems like the universe is compelling me to make MORE serious life changes and do LESS relaxing. Don’t you agree?

Not enough Puffs Plus in the world…

Arthur from Kiala Kazebee on Vimeo.

Arthur: 1993-2008. I love you, you stupid little thing.

But I am excellent at hoarding.

I had lunch with Lizzy Caston and Melissa Lion at Por Que No? on Mississippi Ave yesterday. I ordered a fish taco and a diet coke and they put a straw in the soda which made me feel either very ladylike or hospital patient-y. I haven’t decided yet.

Afterwards, Melissa and I went up to Muddy’s Coffehouse to talk about me and my stuff and my things because if you ever have the good fortune to sit and have a conversation with me it will always - ALWAYS - turn back around to the subject of me and my things. Good luck with that, future yous.

It was a really nice afternoon.

And then I drove fast and took chances in the rented Zipcar (I’m so maverick-y!) in order to be home and drunk in time for the Prezzy debate live blogging extravagasm with The Mercury people. We ordered delivered dish from Sansai (so many sushis), logged into the liveblog thingy, and then Dane and I ceased talking to each other for over two hours. Our plan was for Dane to feed me smart, political stuff to say when I started floundering but he got so involved with commenting under his pseudonym, that I WAS LEFT ON MY OWN TO BE SMART.

And I did just fine, thank you very much. Score one for feminism…I guess…I’m not sure. I’ll ask Dane if that’s right.

And finally, to kick your humpday in the pants, here is my very most favorite wardrobe_remix person. CLICKYANDSHIT.

Thank you all so much for your kind comments yesterday. They totally reduced me to a wet, blubbery mess while reading them on the treadmill at the gym and later, walking the dog and then again at the Rite Aid. Great job, people.

Seriously, though, thank you. It means a lot. And we finally got the hang of giving Arthur his shots, we think. The vet assured us that if we do accidentally hit a vein we won’t kill him. Bathed in relief.

To lighten things up a bit I thought I’d post this old photo of a photo of me and my best friend, Sy Parrish. This was taken when we were both about 21-ish, I think? Sy looks gorgeous and I look well, at least I look young. And skinny.

Clearly, we were both of us going through a pretty heavy Henry and June period - a movie I believe we watched approximately eleventy billion times together. Well…that and The Newsies. And Swing Kids. And Reservoir Dogs. And Until the End of the World. And Romper Stomper.

Moving on!

in other news I will be liveblogging the Prezzy debate tonight with the Merc peoples! I’m pretty excited about it. And also confused as to why they would need my expertise on ankle boots and shiny hair for a political whatchamacalit but whatevs - I’m down as the kids say.

I hope they know I’m a Republican.

Arthur, our 16 year old gay cat, is dying. His kidney’s are for shit and he has some kind of tumor-ish mass which we can’t afford to have biopsied and really, in light of the kidney thing, it’s a moot point anyway.

Dane and I have to give him an IV of subcutaneous fluids everyday and so far, we’re pretty bad at it, but it seems to be working. He’s definitely feeling well enough now to yell at us every time we stick him with the  needle - which is often because as I mentioned up there in that sentence, we’re not very good at it.

And we are both TERRIFIED we’re going to hit a vein and accidentally inject his blood stream with lactate whatever-it’s-called . This is why I make Dane do it and then nag at him the whole time. It’s a pretty good system.

This is the triage IV thingy Dane MacGyvered over the weekend. He’s tremendously proud of it.

And I bailed out on an assignment for The Mercury and put my editor/friend in a bind and feel terrible about it, but when this all went down, it went down fast and I was such a blubbery stupid weepy mess on Friday that I couldn’t even decide what to do so Dane had to make the decision for me. Because I am 8 years old and can’t get on the effing IM like a big girl and deal with shit.

He also took the call from the Vet for me because I just didn’t want to hear what I knew she was going to say.

It’s not as if any of this came as a big surprise. I’ve been preparing myself for years, but it’s still ridiculously painful.

So now we just wait, I guess. I apologize for not being funny this Monday morning but look at it this way…at least you don’t have to sit here and watch with horrified embarrassment as I sing Arthur’s favorite songs from Gigi and Singing in the Rain while I sob and blow my nose. Count yourselves lucky you’re not Dane - I’m going to make him sing the harmonies with me when he gets home tonight. Come to think of it, we’re not very good at that either.