Northwest Bookworm

Zompira: Best Zombie!

2008-05-22T10:44:00.000-07:00

Wow, guess who was named Best Zombie at this year's Zompire Film Festival? (I'll give you a hint, it was the female zombie in the photo above wearing the pink prom dress.) One more costumed win and I've won the equivalent of Portland's Triple Crown among geeks who like to dress up on the weekends! :)

So as soon as my hunkalicious zombie date and I arrived at the Hollywood Theater, one of the organizers grabbed us by the arms and said, "You both need to come with me right now, trust me," and lead us up the stairs leading to the stage.

One of the filmmakers immediately began asking the audience who was the best zombie. I looked to the left and right to gauge my zombie competition. I was the only female zombie on the stage facing a packed house at the Hollywood Theater.

The zombie next to me groaned and then the hand came to me.

"Grrrr?" I said.

"Come on girl, you've got to work it!" the organizer said.

So I did my best zombie crouch, hiked up my pink zombie prom dress to show a bit of zombie leg and projected my best zombie groan out to the audience.

The crowd approved. Being a female who loves to dress in costume can really pay off sometimes!

"Looks like we have a winner!" he shouted out, and suddenly a microphone was in my face. "So, what's your zombie name?"

Zombie name? "Um, Zompira?" I said. Sheesh, who would have known I'd have to invent a zombie name on the fly.

My hands were filled with zombie prizes including a Twilight Creations' Zombies!!! board game and a Cannibal Flesh Riot coffee mug. Then it was finally time to sit back and enjoy the first half of the night's zombie flicks before we needed to rush off to Zombie Prom at Mt. Tabor.

Some of the favorites: "Zombie Jesus," "The Laundromat," the Danish zombie puppet film "Zombie Western - It Came From the West," and the short "El Zombie De La Muerte."

We attempted to slip out during intermission to make our way to Zombie Prom, but were intercepted by Mail Order Zombie's podcaster, who wanted to interview me about the zombie genre.

Ugh. Suddenly I was supposed to be an expert in the zombie film genre? I fumbled my way through the interview, barely. (My current favorite zombie film is "Wild Zero," although I didn't see that for the first time until after the festival.)

"Where are you going?" the organizers called out as we tried to discreetly slip out toward our cab.

"We have a zombie prom to get to," I called out over my shoulder.

Alas, we were intercepted by a woman who spun me around by the waist and asked if we would pretend to "eat her brain" (a zombie's favorite food, after all) while her family took her photo. We snapped a few pics, then she stepped into our cab and drove away in it!

We finally arrived at the Zombie Prom for a night of dancing and drinking with other fellow zombies and zombie catchers. It was totally the undead place to be.

Pluto's Revenge: Best New Villain!

2008-04-14T14:51:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I'm just sore from kicking some serious superhero butt over the weekend, or if it's that I was doing so in a pair of silver thigh high space boots and shiny metalic hot pants, but I could really use some IcyHot!

It all totally paid off though because my alter ego, "Pluto's Revenge," was named the "Be st New Evil Recruit" at the Superheroes Versus Super Villains event over the weekend. Muwahahahah!

I not only successfully dodged futile attempts by superheroes to bring me back to side of good, but I also repeatedly fought off the Red Menace, a fallen Soviet superhero turned villain who was hot on my intergalactic trail all night.

It probably helped that I was double fisting it with a ray gun in each hand AND had an entire meteor shower and ice storm contained within a teleporting device that I kept slung over my shoulder.

Initiation began at the Crown Room where we threw back Dr. Doom's Dirty Shots and were tested on our abilities to steal candy from babies. Thunder Thighs misunderstood the task, stealing the candy, then setting half of it back and crushing the baby between her thunderous thighs. The Satanic Mechanic simply bunt kicked the first baby he came across, passed on the candy, and returned to his Fallen Angel eye candy.

Then the Trimet Bandit was kidnapped from the nearby superhero bar R. Palate and quickly tied up. Damsels were caused distress and sharks were fitted with small laser beams atop their heads. Alligators were let loose. Initiation finished with a mustache twirling and evil laugh contest.

From there we headed to the North Park Blocks where giant blow-up replicas of sharks, alligators and the Earth were volleyed back and forth in a game of World Domination Volleyball. Super Critical gave two thumbs down while the Gold Standard, who was even less impressed, gave it a rating of 1 on a 10-point scale, lamenting that his rating cards could go no lower. Meanwhile Miss Information walked around spreading a bunch of lies about the whole event.

A trip to Blitz felt a bit like the Star Wars Cantina with only a handful of startled Earth creatures in civilian attire as the superheroes and villains came pouring inside to take control of the bar.

I couldn't figure out what had caused the marks on my arms when I stepped out of the shower Sunday afternoon. Then I remembered the 60 person rubber band fight at Paranoid Park. Pluto's Revenge fought well.

By the time we traveled on our evil path of destruction from Paranoid Park through Chinatown tensions between superheroes and villains had mounted once again. A dance off at C.C. Slaughter's between good and evil ensued. The SD card for my Earth camera was full by the time Good Karma had grabbed Alley Cat by the legs and was helicoptering her around the dance floor, but what I did get was uploaded.

With my memory card full (Earth technology is so last galaxy), I resumed battle with the Red Menace, which involved me somehow rolling across a pool table with a ray gun in each hand - twice. I chased and blasted my way from Chinatown to the Pearl, with a stop off for a Philly cheese steak at Ford's on 5th in Old Town.

Having safely distanced myself from The Red Menace, I bent over to pull up one of my silver space boots. Suddenly a horn started honking and a man yelled out the window of his car, "You're my hero!" as I turned to see the Red Menace blasting up behind me.

And again the chase was on!

Good Versus Evil: Dance Off!

2008-04-13T18:47:00.000-07:00

Dance off between good and evil at the AlterEgos: New Recruits event last night.

Cocktails? Let me get my blowtorch.

2008-03-14T06:50:00.000-07:00

So I was chillin' down at Teardrop with my friend straycat last night and decided I need to start photographing more of my adventures. She's pretty much got her neighborhood in NE covered with her well-documented culinary escapades involving lattes, bubble teas and waffle carts on the east side of the river.

Clearly I need to step up my game on this side of the bridges. I tried to lure her into the idea of a competitive blog-off, with both of us blogging about the same experience, but she seemed to just want to relax and enjoy her gin and tonic. [sigh]

Enter the blowtorch cocktail. That's just the kind of specialty drink that makes Teardrop worth checking out. This particular libation was off the menu, a concoction that the bartender had scribbled on the back of a cocktail napkin: Freshly pressed grapefruit juice, homemade tonic water and gin topped with three frothy inches of balsamic-infused foam - charred through with a blowtorch. $5. (Foam had dropped by the time I decided to whip out my camera and start documenting my life.)

Teardrop is known for their homemade tonic waters, tinctures and bitters so you can't really go wrong there; especially if you have an adventurous palate.

"We have a juicy, all-natural, fork-tender corned beef we just made," the bartender said as he set the cocktail in front of me. "It's not even on the menu yet."

About three minutes later I was served the most succulent corned beef I've ever tasted. Fork tender, just like he said, served with cooked shredded cabbage and carrots that had absorbed the full flavor of the brining liquid, topped with a horseradish sauce and chives. For a mere five dollars I just about passed out from delectable delirium. I would have happily paid three times that amount for the same meal, but after all, this is Portland and it was happy hour.

Guess What? I LOVE Pirates!

2008-02-19T17:04:00.000-08:00

OMG, men who dress as pirates sure can drink! So we ended up throwing back sake until 1am at Masu. I believe we ordered every bottle of sake on the menu except one, and a pour of every sake available by the glass (although my memory is a little murky as you can imagine.) There was also sushi of all kinds involved: from sea urchin to eel to octopus to monkfish. Then he helps me walk back to my place (I was a little tipsy from the sake), grabs me and kisses me with the confidence of a man who has raided the high seas!

I was totally blown away, standing there with my mouth hanging open, speechless as he goes swashbuckling back toward the steely grayness of the Pearl, calling out over his shoulder “Next time you buy the Spanish tapas.”

Sheesh!

My head is still spinning. I for certain have not consumed that much sake in my life.

No word from him, but what a night! Gotta love pirates!

Well, I’ve got another first date tonight, this time with some guy from a nonprofit. Crimony, I’m exhausted!

Why is Nerve.com Sending Me Pictures of Drunk Guys?

2008-02-13T11:11:00.000-08:00

Wow, there just doesn't seem to be any worse time of the year for horrible ecampaigns than Vday. Here's one that just arrived in my inbox from Nerve.com:

Hello Sasquatcha,
"Instead of sitting around eating Bon Bons and burning pictures of your exes, let Nerve Personals help you set up something fabulous for Valentine's Day!"

WTF? Really nice. Is that how they think I'm spending my Vday? Then, as a supposed enticement, they include a picture of some guy wearing a dirty shirt who appears to be holding his fifth vodka tonic above the pick up line "I likes You. Mmmhhmm."

Gross!

My Date Was Superbad - And Potently Odoriferous

2008-02-08T20:09:00.000-08:00

It's Friday night and I'm sitting in my favorite secret hideaway coffee shop drinking a 16oz cup of hot ginger tea in an attempt to remedy the nausea brought about by tonight's date.

Just so you know, I never have blogged about nice men, the ones who are considerate, but whose values, or ideas, or interests, just aren't a good match by their own account or mine. Those men never deserve ridicule.

Then there are dates like the one I had tonight: the horrendously conniving and potently odoriferous first date who wastes my time.

So I'm sitting at a little table in St. Honore, cradling a cup of Earl Grey tea, watching the minutes tick by. Ten minutes late. Twenty minutes late. Thirty minutes late. "Whatever," I thought. "Game over. I'm out of here." Usually I'm out the door if a man is 15 minutes late without a phone call.

Just as I'm gathering my things to leave he comes strolling in the door and sits across from me at the table.

"Why are you so late?" I asked.

"Traffic was bad," he said. "I had to come all the way from Sellwood."

"Maybe you should plan accordingly," I said.

I was struggling not to just get up and walk out the door. I kept thinking about how some people seem to think I'm too picky or that my standards of acceptable behavior are too high.

"After all you've done the least I can do is buy you dinner," he said.

"What exactly have I done?" I asked. "I don't even know you."

I met the guy for the first time last week at a networking event I attended with a coworker. We had exchanged business cards and he emailed me the next day to ask me out. I accepted.

So, out of sheer curiosity, and since I had nowhere else to be at the moment, I figured I'd give the man 20 minutes. That was a mistake that I won't make again.

"You sure were late," I said. "Did you come straight from work?"

"No, I didn't work today," he said.

"Oh, do you have Fridays off or did you just have this Friday off?" I asked.

"Actually, I don't work."

"What? But you gave me your business card. You have a website that lists you as being the owner of your own accounting firm and the sole accountant for SeQuential Biofuels and about four other big local companies."

"Yeah, that card isn't good anymore," he said without any hint of embarrassment. "I only helped out with a couple of consulting jobs when I was a student. I just graduated with an accounting degree."

The guy was a complete fraud!

This information was rather surprising since he appeared to be in his late 30s/early 40s. It was also surprising that I kept getting these potent whiffs of horrendous B.O. that I assumed were coming from the couple behind him.

"Are you kidding me," I said. "So you gave me a fake card. Why were you even at that event?"

Another whiff of B.O. gust past me, nearly knocking me over as I covered my nose in horror. Thankfully, the couple was vacating their table.

"Oh, a friend invited me," he said with no hint of shame. "I've been networking hard to find employment and am making lots of progress. It's a beautiful thing. Just a real beautiful thing. I am blessed. I'm looking for a company with a culture that I can ease into and take over their accounting practices - and here you are."

Then it hit me - both the realization that the B.O. was still coming in gusts even though the couple that I thought was producing it had left, and that he was trying to weasel his way into a job with my company.

"We aren't hiring," I said. "If you're looking for work then I can't help you."

"Maybe not now, but in the near future, maybe we can arrange something," he said.

WTF!!!

"I don't think so," I said. I was coughing and covering my nose since he had lifted his arms and was gesturing across the table. I felt like I was totally going to hurl.

I seriously cannot believe that the slimy greasebag was just trying to sleazeball his way into a job!

"But you're pretty much executive management," he said becoming even more animated as my gagging reflex began to kick in. "It's pretty obvious."

"Not really," I said as I gathered up my things. "You have no clue what I do. Good luck to you."

"Wait!" he said as I bolted out for fresh air. "I brought a bag of chocolate to share with you! I didn't even eat my wild chocolate ration today!"

WTF is wild chocolate? Chocolate that roams free through the temperate rainforests of the Pacific Northwest?

"No thanks!" I said over my shoulder as I sprinted across the street away from St. Honore. He had a wadded up, old brown paper bag in his hand, which presumably contained the chocolate.

I fell for the chocolate in a battered up brown paper bag trick a couple of years ago and it will never happen again. In that instance, I went on a date the weekend before Valentine's Day and my date showed up with a dusty, wadded up bag of chocolate for me. "Uh, thank you," I had said, and when I checked the labels I saw that every bar of chocolate expired more than 2 years earlier!

So here I sit now, nauseous, the remnants of offending body odor still wafting through my nostrils. I was walking all the way to the coffee shop trying to shake it all off. Bleh! Gross! Ugh! I'm going home now to take a long hot shower and pull out every drop of aromatherapy oils I have stashed around my apartment.

Some dates just stink.

Voodoo, Hocus Pocus and Chemistry.com

2008-01-14T16:33:00.000-08:00

Testosterone builds the length of the fourth (right) digit in the womb. The longer your ring finger (in relation to your pointing finger) the more you are likely to have mathematical, mechanical and/or musical skills. -Chemistry.com

Chemistry.com is on an absolute spamming rampage right now, flooding my inbox with subject lines like “Who will you miss meeting today, Jennie?” and “Jennie, how many more lonely nights will you spend in 2008?”

Whatever. I decided to put their system to the test. Game on. Bring it.

First, I was asked to hold my right hand up to the screen and compare my hand to that of the four hands on the screen.

Next, I was asked to recognize the facial expressions of four models and determine whose smile was authentic. Facial expression recognition score = 0.

My third question involved rating my doodling style. You know, the kind of drawings you might make along the edge of your paper if you’re attending a boring meeting or lecture. My choices were geometric shapes, abstract drawings, symbols, repetitive images, grids, fluffy animals, girly hearts or free flowing doodles. There was no option if you simply write the words, "Get me out of here!" along the border of your notebook.

Then there was the Q & A portion of the test (which was nothing more than a rip-off of eharmony’s testing methods) and an invitation to join for $49.95 per month, which I ignored by pushing the “not now” button.

According to Chemistry.com's "scientific report," I am a Director/Explorer:

"Known for high energy, high creativity and spontaneity. Seeks novelty, risk and pleasure. Intellectually curious and not easily swayed by opinion. Daring, original, direct and inventive. A non-conformist. Skilled at abstract thinking and short-term planning. Often assertive and quite competitive. Tough-minded and efficient. Directors take dating seriously and are clear in their intentions. Directors enjoy loyalty, ambition, competence and stimulating conversations. And the sparks will fly in the bedroom—Directors have a high sex drive."

Good to know.

According to Chemistry.com's Chief Scientific Adviser, (some cultural anthropologist) my most compatible match is The Negotiator, who excels at seeing the big picture, long-term planning and consensus building. An intuitive thinker who is flexible, verbal and socially skilled. Imaginative, empathetic and nurturing.”

A nurturing man? "What does a nurturing man even look like?" I thought. So I pushed the button and Chemistry.com returned....

Zero nurturing men! All they had were a bunch of lousy fellow Directors like myself.

Humph!

Kauai Vacation

2008-01-09T19:36:00.000-08:00

The 2006-07 Dating Season is Now Closed - Game Over Players!

2007-05-28T08:34:00.000-07:00

Today is Memorial Day, which marks the end of the 2006-2007 eHarmony Dating Season. I've canceled my membership (my last match can only be referred to as "balloon-hat-wearing weirdo" and last night's date shall henceforth be referred to as "open-fly guy.")

I think that at between 5-7 new first dates a week I've given it a good run. Perhaps that sounds like a lot? It is. I'm exhausted.

I just see no reason to date between Memorial Day and Veteran's Day. The weather is too nice and I've made an entire list of places where I intend to go sea kayaking, hiking, fishing and road tripping between now and then. I'm happiest when I'm in the mountains or out on a sea kayak anyway and all these dates are doing is keeping me from that. Besides, I need to renew my Wilderness First Aid Certification this year and take a sea kayak rescue refresher course. I have a whole list of things all this foolishness has been keeping me from doing.

I told my mom about my eHarmony cancellation when I was out at the farm on Saturday getting some rhubarb. She nearly fainted.

This season wasn't a complete waste though, I did learn a few things about my own dating style. Most importantly was that perhaps I need some new dating moves. Consider the stats:

Eharmony first dates for the 2006-07 dating season: 57.
Eharmony second dates for the 2006-07 dating season: 2
Men who took off physically running when I tried to initiate an OMK (open mouth kiss): 3
Successful OMKs: 0
Longest number of dates with a match in an attempt to score an OMK: 10

The 10 Date Eharmony Match: A Case Study

Date #1: "Match A" a 37-year-old Portland attorney. We each consumed our own hot beverage at Moonstruck Chocolate followed by me walking "Match A" safely to his car since it was raining and he was not familiar with the neighborhood. Handshake exchanged.

Date #2: Gelato followed by Match A turning left to walk himself to his car and me turning right to walk to mine.

Date #3: Repeat of Date #2.

Date #4: Repeat of Date #3.

Date #5: Repeat of Date #4. (Okay, I was in the mood for gelato, so sue me.)

Date #6: Brunch at Bijou followed by me grabbing Match A by the arm as he started to walk across the street to his car. Gave him an awkwardly positioned half-hug. He thanked me for the hug and drove away.

Date #7: Decided to get Match A good and liquored up so I could put the moves on him. So we went to a wine shop for some tastings. Eight samples of wine later I gave him a peck. He said he felt dizzy from all the wine and went home.

Date #8: Match A and I met at OMSI where he got nauseous looking at the 0-9 months fetal development exhibit and I told him that the giant rubber anaconda on the floor could probably eat his whole cat in one gulp. We played some mind-bending puzzles in the OMSI bookstore. I won.

Date #9: I cooked Match A dinner. Match A freaked out when I turned down the lights in an attempt to create softer mood lighting after we were done eating.

"What are you doing?" he asked while standing up.

"Oh, the light was just bright in my eyes," I said trying to play it cool.

Then Match A said he was having really bad allergies, was tired and not feeling well. He gave me a peck on the cheek and was out the door in a flash.

That brings us to date #10: Match A and I had dinner at Paley's Place followed by him giving me a peck on the cheek and turning to walk to his car.

"Hey, how about you walk me home?" I said.

"Oh, okay," Match A said and grabbed my hand.

"Good sign!" I thought.

So then we get to the front of my apartment and he gives me a peck and says "Thanks, I had a really great time."

"Yeah, me too..." I said and moved in for the OMK (open mouth kiss), to which he responded by pressing his lips tightly together!

So then I grabbed the back of his head with both of my hands and tried to force an OMK on him while he was pressing his lips as tightly together as he could and he was going "mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!!!"

Then my neighbor walks out the front door looking at us like WTF?

Then Match A stumbles back and says, "thanks, I had a great time," and ran away. Yes, literally ran. That was the third eHarmony Match who literally took off running from me just because I tried to initiate a lunging/sweeping kiss on them.

Frankly, it's a little discouraging. I've gone through 3 boxes of Crest White Strips to enhance the sparkling cleanliness of my mouth, so I know that's not the problem. I even did a lip buffing and moisturizing plumping treatment prior to most of my dates to enhance the likelyhood of an OMK.

And so I put the 2006-07 eHarmony dating season behind me. It's a bit of a relief to be done with it. Now I can finally start having some fun for a change. Today I have packed my oyster shucking knife and am off to road trip with my own self and consume about 3 dozen oysters, sucked down raw straight out of the shell. That's just the the kind of thing that would make any of my eHarmony matches pee their pants.

The summer has begun!

Currently reading :
SAS Survival Handbook: How to Survive in the Wild, in Any Climate, on Land or at Sea
By John Lofty Wiseman
Release date: By 02 March, 2004

A Guide to Dating the Portland Metrosexual

2007-05-06T01:47:00.000-07:00

After dating no less than 42 Portland Metrosexuals over the past 2 years, I feel compelled to issue a 411-S.O.S. to my fellow female daters in the Portland Metropolitan Region. This is specific to Portland Metrosexuals. San Francisco Metrosexuals, my other specialty, are an entirely different species.

Warning: You can never please a Portland Metrosexual, but you can sure exhaust yourself trying.

1. Portland Metrosexuals might appear to be urban-outdoor hybrids, until you get them out into the actual outdoors. "Hiking" to the Portland Metrosexual does not involve stepping on any actual dirt. I have learned the hard way, and with substantial disappointment, that their idea of "hiking" involves places like the paved trails around Mount Tabor or Washington Park - for say, an extended period of 30 to 40 minutes. Yes, they will be wearing hiking boots and carrying a large bottle of Metromint to help them survive the occasion.

Think you can take matters into your own hands and force the Portland Metrosexual to go "off road"? Consider this conversation I had with one Portland Metrosexual after a kindergarten-level hike up Multnomah Falls.

"You have dirt on your pants," the Portland Metrosexual said pointing.

"Yes," I responded. "That's because we're in the woods."

2. Like food? Get ready for the Portland Metrosexual to question the carb count of anything you try to feed them. Also be prepared for them to blame you for any increase in their waistline. Dessert? Forget about it. They won't touch the stuff even if you are a professionally trained pastry chef. Not even a nonfat panna cotta! (Yes, gross, I know, but desperate times...) Southern cuisine? BBQ? Wonderfully rich dishes that melt in your mouth like butter? Don't even think about it, sister!

3. Think you look pretty hot in that new dress you just purchased on NW 23rd? Think again. The Portland Metrosexual will have you doubting whether you ever looked decent in anything a day in your life. Prepare to hear comments such as:

"Interesting choice of shoes. Do you really think they go with that outfit?"

"Uh, is that what you're wearing?"

"I didn't know they were selling that style again."

4. Cleanliness and hygiene are crucial to the survival of the Portland Metrosexual and your mouth is filthy! Red-flag remarks I have heard during first dates include, "It's really important to me to have a clean living environment to come home to. How do you feel about that?" or "Personal hygiene is very important to me. I typically shower at least twice a day. What about you?" or "Do you think I should have my teeth whitened a shade lighter?"

It's this fear of unhygienic conditions that will also result in you wondering why the Portland Metrosexual still hasn't kissed you after date three. Just remember, it's not you, it's your mouth, your filthy, filthy mouth. There are germs in there!

5. Prepare to have more sex than you ever thought humanly possible... with yourself.

Dr. Neil Clark Warren: You Evil Genius

2007-03-12T10:27:00.000-07:00

Well, finding a husband is turning out to be much more work than I anticipated.

The last time I was on eHarmony, more than a year ago, I had over 400 failed matches who either closed me out, or I closed them out. About 10 percent of those matches resulted in infamously awful, horribly mismatched first dates. First I maxed out all the matches in "my metropolitan area," followed by "my geographic area." Then I expanded my search until I maxed out all the matches in "my country," and finally, "my world."

When I decided to resume my search this January I didn't know what to do since I had already maxed out all of my matches in the only search engine I know of to try and find a husband. I mean, where do you look when you've already maxed out all your available matches on planet Earth? The odds just seemed against me.

So I decided to retake my personality profile. Maybe the first time I did the 45-minute-long eHarmony question and answer session I was still bitter and cynical over the demise of my last relationship. Maybe my 29-points of compatibility were off.

I began my re-examination by doing an hour of yoga followed by consuming two packets of Emergen-C energizing drink back to back. Then I ran to my computer and began, trying to be my most positive self the whole time.

I was pretty happy with the results of my new personality. I scored "very curious," "very focused," "intellectual," "imaginative," "self-disciplined," "logical," duty-bound," "driven," "strategic," "orderly," "candid," and "realistic." That all sounds good to me.

Unfortunately, I am once again having horrible, horrible, horrible, horrible luck.

Men seem only too eager to meet for coffee once we reach the stage of "open communication" and then only too eager to leave once they meet me in person. I think that perhaps they walk in expecting to see their dream wife, who is perfect in every way, and instead they get me. :(

I try not to let it get to me that I've been closed out by so many men. Deal breakers for them have included that I don't salsa dance, don't scuba dive, don't water ski, don't jet ski, don't downhill ski and am not interested in riding a motorcycle.

I think perhaps I might be too business like and formal during the first date and am not very good at flirting when I've only known someone in person for a few minutes. I suspect that most of the guys on eHarmony are used to the bar scene and since I don't go to bars I'm not hip to that communication style.

It makes me sad. I think I'm going to let my membership expire next month and then try again in 2008. Maybe I'll have better luck next year.

I Don't Want My Pet Turtle to Hump My Toe

2006-12-12T22:36:00.000-08:00

As the Oregon rain pounds against my studio windows night after night I've started contemplating finding something warm and cozy to snuggle up with on cold winter evenings. If I had the room, and a yard, I would most definitely opt for a cute little golden Labrador retriever, and perhaps a chocolate lab to go along with it. I could cook stew for them and make homemade dog biscuits fresh from the oven. It would be great.

If I had even more space, say perhaps a small farm or even just a good solid acre or two, I would most definitely opt for a goat. I've often daydreamed about having a little pygmy goat frolicking about and causing mischief. I feel like I'd understand it.

Unfortunately, living in a studio apartment limits my options of what exactly I can snuggle up with. I honestly don't think I even have room for a cat. Unless maybe it was a blind or lame cat, then perhaps it wouldn't be fully aware of the size of the space where it was living. I've been checking out the humane society listings for blind, lame, one-eyed and three-legged cats for several weeks now, but so far nothing has turned up.

So I thought maybe I'd get a turtle. I could snuggle up to a turtle. Besides, turtles move slow so it would take a lot longer before it realized it was living in such a small environment. I figured I could just set it down and let it walk across my studio floor and then when it hit the wall I could turn it around and let it walk the other way.

That was my plan anyway, until I launched into extensive research mode to discover all I could about turtle care and ownership.

That's when I read this:
"During the mating season, male box turtles periodically protrude and rhythmically fan their penis. A turtle's copulatory organ is flower-shaped and purple, and may appear unusual or abnormal to those unfamiliar with box turtles. It is most often mistaken for prolapsed organ and may be treated as such by those unfamiliar with box turtle anatomy and mating habits."

I don't like the idea of my pet turtle fanning out its member and fluttering it about my apartment while I'm trying to sleep. It doesn't sound very relaxing.

I also don't like that it's purple and shaped like a flower. From now on I'm only considering female pets and it sounds like it is too difficult to determine the sex of the box turtle before it starts fanning out its purple privates at me.

It also worries me that if that was going on and there weren't any other turtles around, and I was the only other living thing in the entire place, would it start coming for me? That would freak me out. I'm usually barefoot around my apartment and I don't want any funny business going on.

It would be really hard to sleep if I had to always worry about it scaling up the side of my bed and fanning things at me.

I could put it in a tank, if I could think of where to put a tank, but still, what if it was just sitting there in the tank, staring me down, fanning at me.

It's just all too much to handle. I need to give this whole pet ownership thing a little more thought.

Currently reading :
Hermit Crab: Your Happy Healthy Pet
By Audrey Pavia
Release date: By 17 April, 2006

Fly Fishing in the Crater of a Volcano

2006-10-22T21:51:00.000-07:00

Well, Jess is planning another fishing trip that happens to correspond with a time when I'm too swamped with work to join him. He claims that the timing simply has to do with the end of the fly fishing season this month, but I suspect it's more likely related to me humbling him with my fly fishing and canoe paddling skills this past summer.

I'm a simple hook and bait girl by nature, with my favorite catch being a nice rainbow trout. The only person I've ever met who can out fish me is my friend Jodi. Her husband refuses to fish with her because she's so hardcore about it, pulling fish out from dawn 'til dusk without so much as a break for lunch. The last time the two of them went fishing her husband came out to the river's edge as the sun set and asked, "You about done fishing yet?"

"Just one more," she called over her shoulder, "I know I can catch just one more."

Most women I know with roots in the Northwest can out fish their men. That's just the way it goes. So I decided to make it a bit more challenging this past summer by asking Jess to help me make the transition from the old hook and bait method (earthworms dug up after a fresh rainstorm, in case you were wondering, although the rainbows will also bite cubes of cheddar and globs of peanut butter).

The first thing I noticed when Jess and I pulled up to the bait and tackle shop was a big chalkboard listing the top catches of the day and proven methods that scored the fish. Now here's where bait fishing and fly fishing differ. I was shocked to see the devices that other fishers were using to lure in their fish: wedding rings (no doubt a recent divorcee), a flashlight (perhaps the fish were attracted to the light?), a cowbell (obviously the trout were lured by the sound of the bell ringing under water) and even a Ford fender! I don't know what to make of that last one.

All we tied onto our leaders were nymphs and mayflies (boring!) Next time I go out to my mom's farm I'm going to see if there's at least an old cow bell that I can take with me next time, although I'm thinking that wind chimes might work even better because then the fish will be lured by the sparkling chimes as well.

My lesson began with us pushing off in our canoe and padding out into the high-altitude depths of East lake, contained within the crater of an old volcano in central Oregon that blew its top. I can't imagine how the fish ever got there in the first place, other than they must have been blown out of neighboring rivers when the volcano erupted and then landed in the crater. East lake, at 6,400-feet in altitude, is prized for its German brown trout with the record being a 22-pounder back in the 80s, and a 28-pounder in neighboring Paulina lake back in 2002. Then of course there are the rainbows, Kokanee, salmon and chub.

Jess showed me all the basics, tying on the leader, selecting the appropriate nymphs and mayflies, different casting styles. Northwest men have the best skills.

We hadn't been fishing from our canoe long when we suddenly heard a series of high-pitched screeches coming from the woods.

"What's that sound?" Jess asked.

"That, my friend, is the mating call of the Yeti as he prepares to make love to the female of his species," I said. "It's nearing autumn, the time when all the Yetis and Sasquatches and Big Foots claim their mates for the procreation of their kind."

Just as I was about to explain about the gestational period of our hominoid cousin Jess said, "Hey, we need to paddle a bit more, we're starting to drift too close to shore and I want to stay near this shelf where the Kokanee all hide out."

"Fine," I said, "Just give me your oar and I'll paddle while you fish for a while. My biceps could use the workout."

And with that I grabbed a canoe oar in each hand and paddled with a powerful force that few men have seen. I attribute it to my experienced sea kayaking skills, and in no time we were flying across the lake.

"Slow down!" Jess called out from back behind me. "Slow down! The fish can't keep up with the boat!"

(Sigh.) Menfolk.

So I slowed my paddling to pacify the man until it was time to head back to shore, at which point I paddled with a force and agility the likes of which had never before graced the surface of either East lake or neighboring Paulina.

Before I knew it I was paddling the canoe with such speed, an oar in each hand, that we actually became airborne and it was as if our boat was but a well-worn, perfectly-shaped stone skipping quickly across the water.

I must have got three feet of air with each stroke of the paddles as the fish literally dove out of the water after them. Yes, it's true, I had attached leader to the end of my oars and tied each leader off with mayflies. The fish were going crazy, flinging themselves toward the oars as I paddled.

I looked over my shoulder toward the back of the boat and saw that it was pretty empty. I knew my man would have a powerful hunger after a day of fishing so I began to finish off each of my paddle strokes by bringing the oar out of the water and sweeping it over into the boat, causing the fish to fly over the side of the canoe as they chased the mayflies.

By the time we got to shore Jess had a mighty pile of assorted trout and Kokanee at this feet. In his hand he held what looked like a baby smelt.

"What's that?" I asked. "Did you bring a can of sardines to snack on or something?"

"No," he said, as a single tear fell gently upon his cheek, "This is the only fish I caught, and it is too small for me to see without my glasses."

"There, there," I said, "Don't worry, I caught enough to feed us for weeks. I only wish there was a pan big enough for us to cook them all in."

"Me too," Jess said, "But they don't make pans that big."

That pretty much sums up our fly fishing trip to central Oregon. Anyway, that's the way I remember it.

Currently reading : Hemingway on Fishing, By Ernest Hemingway

My Mom's Bull Busted off the Farm

2006-10-07T21:49:00.000-07:00

For whatever reason, round about the beginning of October, all the menfolk with roots in rural Oregon seem to disappear. My stepdad is gone hunting, my friend Jodi's husband is gone shooting, and my boyfriend Jess has taken off fishing - high up on a mountain and far out of cell phone range for a week.

So of course this is also the time of year when things start happening like my mom's bull busting out of the pasture this week and wreaking havoc on neighboring farms in a testosterone-fueled rampage.

One of the other farm wives called my mom up in a panic to let her know that her bull was running loose, tearing up another neighbor's land farther down the gravel road.

"You better tell Dan!" she said.

"I can't," my mom answered, "He's gone hunting. We're going to have to get your husband to help round him up!"

"He's gone hunting too!" she said.

So my mom made a quick call to two of my younger stepbrothers, Benjamin Jaimison (BJ for short) and Walt. Then she quickly rounded up the cows and their calves from the woods, since there was obviously a break in the fence somewhere.

That done, she went running down the road to meet up with the other farm wife and the two of them set out onto the neighbor's pasture. Right about then the owner of the property came out grabbing her head in her hands, her eyes tracking the rampaging bull.

"You'd better get your husband!" my mom shouted across the field. "Ours are both gone hunting."

"I can't," she shouted back, "Mine's gone hunting too!"

Right about then a huge dust cloud was building on the horizon and quickly rolling toward the three farm wives.

Yep, sure enough. It was my stepbrother Benjamin Jaimison, and he was three-wheeling it over to corral the bull. Walter was right behind him.

The two of them worked together to drive him back toward my mom's field, where, as she puts it, "The bull just leapfrogged right over the fence! He must have got five feet of air... I've never seen anything like it!"

Ahhh, rural fun. Is it any wonder why the metrosexuals I used to date would always tremble and cower in fear whenever I'd tell them stories of my rural upbringing?

Yeah, it's true. I kick heine.

Fortunately, I'm now dating a man who was not only born and raised in rural Oregon, but grew up on a pig farm outside of Springfield.

Yes, he is of my people.

Of course, he too swapped the rural life for an urban one, something very few people I've ever met can really relate too. It can be difficult sometimes, experiencing the juxtaposition of rural and urban life, while trying to fit smoothly into both at once.

So it's kind of nice dating someone who has a common rural history for a change, and doesn't give me a look of complete shock and horror when I tell him that another one of my stepdad's carboys of moonshine exploded in the kitchen, or that I need to renew my Wilderness First Aid certification in the spring, or that I think I might want to hike the high Sierras.

(Of course he does raise an eyebrow when I say I think it might be a good idea for me to work toward becoming a Master Sommelier, or that I'd like to go to Iceland and soak in their famous Blue Lagoon, or that I should probably learn Italian after I'm done teaching myself Latin.)

Anyway, after 12 years in San Francisco, it's nice to be back with my people. I feel like I can just be myself here and no one gives me a hard time about it.

It's nice to be able to have someone to talk to who doesn't seem completely perplexed by me for a change.

I'll have to make sure to remember to tell Jess that... whenever he ever decides to come back from fishing.

Lucy's Table = Culinary Pig Slop

2006-06-08T21:44:00.000-07:00

Last night I ate at Lucy's Table and was scandalized. What should have been a simple dinner on NW 21st and Irving with my friend and neighbor Cathey quickly escalated into a full-scale culinary nightmare that left both of our palates traumatized.

I ordered the signature Goat Cheese Ravioli with Brown Butter Sauce, Parmesan Reggiano, Crispy Shallots, Pancetta ($9.)

The only thing missing from my dish was any trace of goat cheese flavor, any resemblance to ravioli dough, any drop of brown butter sauce, any hint of parmesan reggiano, any crispness to the shallots and any physical evidence that pancetta had ever even brushed up against my plate.

There is a temptation to liken the deep fried shallots atop my goat cheese ravioli to Funyuns, but to do so would be an insult to Funyuns. When I worked the line in the Bay Area I deep fried shallots throughout the evening to garnish ahi poke and cold soba noodle salads. They should be thin, crisp, unbattered and lightly salted.

Lucy's Table deep fried thick hunks of shallots that were drenched in what appeared to be the same heavy batter they use for their onion rings. That is the equivalent of wrapping a single raspberry in a thick whole wheat apple dumpling dough and then expecting people to still be able to enjoy the flavor of the single raspberry.

There was an inconsistency in thickness that could have been avoided with the use of a sharp mandoline. The larger shallot hunks were rubbery while smaller slices were overcooked to the point of being so sharp they tore up my mouth when I attempted to bite into them.

Then there was the goat cheese ravioli. My mouth stretched in desperation to find any whispering hint of goat cheese. Alas, there was none. Nothing but mouthful after mouthful of hot cream cheese that must have had some miniscule portion of actual goat cheese incorporated into it but unfortunately not enough to be detected by the human palate.

A culinary deception I have seen in some restaurants including Lucy's Table is to stretch out expensive goat cheese by incorporating it with far less expensive cream cheese. Perhaps some restaurants could get away with shortchanging their diners back when goat cheese was exotic to most Portlanders, but those days have long since passed. Now it is simply insulting. If we are paying for goat cheese what we should be served is goat cheese.

Also puzzling is why Lucy's Table would pair such a bland cream cheese filling with an equally bland cream cheese like sauce rather than the brown butter sauce they had listed on the menu. My taste buds would have undoubtedly fallen into a coma out of sheer boredom with the dish were it not for the sharpness of the heavily battered shallots repeatedly jarring my mouth painfully awake. As for the pasta, it was rubbery and tasted more like sticky won ton wrappers than handmade ravioli. When pasta is that starchy it usually means that it was cooked in a pot with too little water.

Cathey and I also both ordered another house speciality, the Roasted Beet Salad with Pear, Red Onion, Cilantro, Feta, Cider Vinaigrette ($7.) We hoped it would compare to the delicious beet salad we shared at Serratto two blocks north on NW 21st and Kearny. It did not.

I took a bite and then watched for Cathey's expressions. Sure enough. Instant disappointment. Overcooked to the point that there were no signs of the veins or rings of the beet. The cider vinaigrette was nicely balanced and the red onion and pear both went fine with it, but the quantity of feta dotting the salad was the equivalent of four corn kernels.

I really fell in love with beet salads at Chez Panisse . They can be so wonderful when they are not overprocessed. The Chez Panisse Vegetables cookbook has a nice section on beet salads and the Chez Panisse Cafe Cookbook has a wonderful pickled beet formula.

For her entree Cathey ordered the Grilled Painted Hills Beef Rib-Eye with Mascarpone Potatoes, Smoky Onion Rings, Seasonal Vegetable, Gorgonzola Butter & Beet-enriched Demi Sauce ($24.) Cathey, who as a former employee of Northwest Palate Magazine knows a little something about food, ordered her steak rare, rare.

"Good move!" I told her. "That's the only way to eat steak. Nice and bloody."

Imagine our disgust when what arrived was an overcooked stiff hunk of well-done steak slopped on top of runny mashed potatoes that lacked the slightest hint of mascarpone, all floating in a gelatinous sea of demi sauce.

Cathey called the waitress over, politely pointed out that the steak was far from rare, and sent it back to the kitchen. Five minutes later the waitress came back from the kitchen carrying the same plate (in clear violation of both state and federal health regulations.) The chef had cut and discarded a hunk from the side of the steak that clearly revealed a well-done steak but sent the waitress back with it anyway to argue that it would probably be pinker closer to the center.

Cathey called their bluff and cut her steak right down the middle. "Look, she said, brown all the way through."

The waitress brought a second steak back 10 minutes later. I knew they were overcooking it as I watched the minutes tick by. Cathey cut it open. It still was not rare, and certainly not rare, rare. Instead it was medium-well. A step down from the well-done steak, but still cooked four stages above where she requested.

A dinner chef not knowing how to cook a steak is the equivalent of a breakfast chef not knowing how to fry an egg. Embarrassing for a place like Lucy's Table that charges $24 for a steak that the kitchen simply does not know how to properly prepare.

"I think this is as good as it's going to get," Cathey said as she began to saw through the gristle.

I noticed a horribly hard out of season summer squash was wedged between the steak and the runny potatoes.

"Where the hell did that summer squash come from?" I asked Cathey.

"Good question," she said. "It sure isn't summer." The exterior of the squash was rock hard, the interior pure mush.

Cathey dug her fork into the demi sauce, turned to me and said, "You should really try the gravy."

Hesitant, I dipped a spoon into the sea of gelatin upon which the rest of her meal floated.

"Oh! Horrible, so very horrible!" I cried out and was forced to throw back my head and gargle with my 2004 Sokol Blosser Pinot Noir ($8.50) to try and purge the horrible bitter flavor that hit the back sides of my tongue and I knew would stay there until it wore off.

"Country Kitchen," Cathey said. "It tastes like something my grandmother would make."

"Yes," I said, "Well it tastes like something my grandmother would make if she found some rancid 20-year-old beef bullion cubes in the back of the cupboard and decided to mix it with some 30-year-old red Jell-O that she found wedged in her car trunk and then boiled it all up in the old frying pan that my mother used to use to make mud pies as a child and then called it demi sauce."

"I would have rather they just brought me a happy meal," Cathey said as we walked over to Alotto Gelato in a desperate attempt to cleanse our palates post-meal. "At least then I would have gotten a free prize."

Why Lucy's Table even bothers to allow the red-coated parking valets lurking about their front entrance is beyond me. What we experienced was nothing more than posh culinary pig slop.

36 Pairs of Lesbian Socks Are Headed My Way

2006-05-23T21:38:00.000-07:00

Soon, I will be the recipient of 36 pairs of lesbian socks. That's what I get for waiting so long to finally dig out the last letter that my aunt sent me from the back of my mailbox. She's notorious for sending email chain letters so I've gotten in the habit of automatically deleting anything from her that reads "fw: fw: fw: fw: fw:" in the subject line. She must have caught on because now she's doing the same thing via the U.S. Postal Service.

Turns out she signed me up for some big lesbian sock exchange. And I'm not even a lesbian. The letter was so long with all these detailed instructions that I just read the first few lines and then chucked it back in the mailbox to finish reading later. I have a habit of doing that with my mail. If I open it up and it doesn't look good to me then I just chuck it back in so I'll know right where it is later, when I'm more in the mood to read whatever it is.

According to the letter, my name and address have been shipped to various lesbians in the Eugene/Springfield area and soon I will be the recipient of 36 pairs of socks to "jazz up" my wardrobe.

Thirty-six pairs of socks! I only live in a studio apartment; I dont have room for 36 pairs of socks lesbian or otherwise!

I appreciate my aunt and her lesbian, vegan-eating, hemp-wearing, grassroots-political-activism ways, but frankly her socks have always horrified me. Black socks with smiling jack-o-lanterns on Halloween, yellow socks with colorful turkeys for Thanksgiving, red socks with dancing green elves for Christmas, purple socks with green leprechauns for St. Patrick's Day, pink socks with hopping fluffy white Easter bunnies... you get the idea.

I like to keep it simple. I like black Smart Wool walking socks. I own seven pairs of exactly the same sock and do laundry once a week so it works out perfect. Simplicity. Why mess with a good thing?

I asked around the family and no one else received the lesbian sock exchange chain letter. So I decided not to bring it up at our last family gathering a few weekends ago.

Speaking of family get togethers, for some reason every member of my family has spontaneously decided to start wearing Hawaiian attire to any family gathering that coincides with temperatures above 58 degrees. On Mother's Day my mom showed up wearing a green Hawaiian print dress that matched the same material as my stepdad's green Hawaiian print shirt. My grandmother adorned herself and others in large Hawaiian seed necklaces with no explanation.

Maybe my family has always been mesmerized by the tropical breezes floating across the Pacific. I remember when my mother was leading my Brownie Girl Scout troop and we were asked to represent a country at the annual Girl Scout International Festival: we chose Hawaii. In our defense, the Mercator projection maps were still in use in Yamhill County classrooms at that time so we were all under the belief that both Alaska and Hawaii were actually separate island nations located in the Gulf of Mexico, just as they appeared on all of our U.S. maps.

No one ever said anything to us about Hawaii not being its own country so we went ahead and cut the Oregonian into long strips, glued them around some old fishing line and then tied them around our waists to wear as hula skirts (the best use one can get from most of the Oregonian, really) while we danced to my grandmother's old Don Ho record down at the Elk's lodge.

So I guess it shouldn't have been all that surprising to me when I realized a few weekends ago that my family keeps requesting that I make all these tropical desserts featuring pineapple, coconuts and bananas.

In keeping with the spirit of the islands that seems to be sweeping over my family, my aunt announced on Mother's Day that she's been taking ukulele lessons ever since someone stole her banjo. From beneath the Japanese maple trees in my grandparent's yard, she slowly strummed the Turtles' "Happy Together" on the ukulele while my mom hula danced around my stepdad and we all sang along.

I may as well start expanding my repertoire of coconut cream pie, pineapple upside-down cake and banana nut cake recipes. I have a feeling that this whole Hawaiian shirt, hula dancing and ukulele action is here to stay.

Chasing Cars While Wearing Glow-in-the-Dark Pajamas

2006-04-08T23:26:00.000-07:00

Well, my mom got trapped in the chicken house this week after she went out at the crack of dawn to gather eggs and heard the wooden latch swing behind her, locking the door from the outside and trapping her inside.

"I was just in a panic!" she said. "I tried to go down the chicken ramp but I wouldn't fit. Then I tried to squeeze out the chicken house windows, but I wouldn't fit out them either."

As the sun rose over the farm It began to dawn on her that my stepdad wouldn't be home for another six hours to let her out.

"Finally, I just decided to muster up all my strength," she said. "I backed up to get as much of a running start as I could and karate kicked my way out of the chicken house. I knocked the chicken house door clean off!"

Well, that's one way to do it.

My mom relayed the story to me when I called to tell her about how I accidentally shot my car into my grandparents' rock-filled flower bed after Sunday dinner. It took AAA and a 20-foot chain to pull it out.

Thursday evening I was back in my car driving around the neighborhood trying to find a parking place that didn't have a "No Parking Friday Street Sweeping," sign in front of it.

"Screw it," I thought. "I'll just set my alarm, wake up before the street sweeper comes and move it."

So I woke up two hours later than I meant to and went running out of the building in my pink flannel pajamas with the little black poodles and the glow-in-the-dark Eiffel Towers that my mom gave me the Christmas before last. I ran out into the street with my car keys, looked to the left and the right and saw nothing but asphalt.

"Sons a bitches!" I shouted in the middle of the street and stomped back into my building with my car keys.

I called the city for the location of my vehicle and found out that if I picked it up in the next four hours it would cost me $117 plus a $40 ticket. After that the fees would skyrocket even more. So I immediately threw my hair up in a bun, pulled a fleece over my pajama top, put on a pair of jeans and stomped about 25 blocks out to the towing yard that held my car hostage.

There didn't seem to be a car in the entire neighborhood. All towed away no doubt. And as I walked farther out toward the tow yard soon there were no longer sidewalks either and I was just kicking trash down the potholed street under the freeway overpass. Frankly, it seemed like the kind of place that could use a damn street sweeper.

Currently reading :
Sam Shepard : Seven Plays (Buried Child, Curse of the Starving Class, The Tooth of Crime, La Turista, Tongues, Savage Love, True West)
By Sam Shepard
Release date: By 01 May, 1984

Sasquatch is Humping My Ceiling Again

2006-03-29T02:17:00.000-08:00

Well it's 2 a.m. and that means the bars in the neighborhood have just closed and the Sasquatch that lives above me is humpin sumpin new against my ceiling again.

I hope this is covered in my Allstate renter's insurance policy because my favorite light fixture is going to crash to the floor any second now.

Here is a transcript of tonight's episode of Humpfestapalooza 2006:

click clack click clack

"hee...hee...hee"

STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP

Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

WHOSH Squeak WHOSH Squeak WHOSH Squeak WHOSH Squeak

"eeeeeee!...eeeeeee!"

"UUUGH!...UUUGGH!"

"eeeeeee!...eeeeeee!"

"UUUGH!...UUUGGH!"

"eeeeeee!"

"UUUGGH!"

"eeeeeeee...Eeeeeee...EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!"

"UUUUUUGGGGH!!!"

Yes, apparently tonight Yeti is up in the bounce house with a damn Ewok.

Currently reading :
Field Guide to the Sasquatch (Sasquatch Field Guide Series)
By Society of Cryptozoology
Release date: By May, 1992

I'm Living Underneath Chickganistan

2006-03-27T04:33:00.000-08:00

Dear Upstairs Neighbor Getting It On With Squeaky Chicks All Night:

Is that the sound of your air mattress squeaking against the hard wood floor above me again or is it another one of your squeaking chicks? It's starting to sound like I'm living underneath a damn bounce house inhabited by a frickin Sasquatch and assorted Keebler Elves who suck in a balloon full of helium before grooving on each other all night.

The other night I thought your mattress had sprung a leak. "Up jump the boogie!" I shouted, threw the covers off of me and proceeded to do a victory dance while lying in bed. Imagine my disappointment when I realized moments later that what had initially sounded like a slow leak from your air mattress turned out to be the growing high pitched squeak of your date going crunk.

At least have the decency to try and drown out your Humpfestapalozooa 2006 with some background noise like the neighbors across the hall do when they get down to the sound of the Simpsons each evening from 6 to 7 p.m. Pacific Standard Time. I end up having to do the work for you by iTunesing it all night.

How about upgrading to a nice futon so that I don't have to hear the click clacking of another wobbly girl's heels across the hardwood floor as she crosses the border into Chickganistan followed by the sound of your motorized air pump. By the way, congratulations on upgrading from that foot pump that I was previously having to listen to you stomp on for a good 20 minutes every evening after the bars closed.

You might consider flippin' your neighbors a low five like the guy who lives on the basement floor does. When the smell of patchouli and incense starts to waft through the hallways we all know that soon, love will fill the air.

You might even up your chicktionary entries with the purchase of a second-hand sleeper sofa or even a bed. Craigslist is filled with just such offers.

The college kid whose apartment butts up next to mine obviously has a bed because it sounds like he's seeing twice as much action as you and your studio bouncehouse. His headboard is banging away every night and most afternoons. He's chillin in a damn Chicktropolis over there. Banging, banging, banging against my wall all night long.

Is this an apartment building or a house of ill-repute?

All of you shut the hell up. You're disturbing my insomnia.

Best Regards,

- Jennie

Currently listening :
20th Century Masters - The Millennium Collection: The Best of Tom Jones
By Tom Jones
Release date: By 08 February, 2000

Diamond is a Girl's Best Friend

2006-03-26T07:05:00.000-08:00

Yes, I admit that I'm enamoured with the man they call the Jewish Elvis. I'm even a self-professed Diamond Girl.

Whatever your mood, chances are the great Neil Diamond has already written a song to accompany it.

Been kicked to the curb: "Love on the Rocks"

Drunk on Pinot Noir: "Red, Red Wine"

Starting your menstrual cycle: "Girl, You'll be a Woman Soon"

Another damn bird just crapped on my car: "Jonathan Livingston Seagull"

Wonder what the kin folk are cooking tonight: "Porcupine Pie"

Just got done checking my account balance: "Forever in Blue Jeans"

Wondering why I have three college degrees and still can't find a decent job: "America"

In the mood to eat some sweet Ben and Jerry's Neapolitan Dynamite ice cream: "Cherry, Cherry"

Welcome to 8 Minute Speed Dating: "Lonely Lady Number 17"

Trust me, those aren't real: "Mountains of Love"

Chillin' with my brother and his girlfriend: "Brother Loves Traveling Salvation Show"

It's quittin' time: "Open Wide These Prison Doors"

I could really use a shot of bourbon: "Kentucky Woman"

Damn bill collectors houndin' me: "You Got to Me"

Shouldn't have eaten that second Philly cheese steak: "I Got the Feelin (Oh, No, No.)"

This cell phone keeps dropping my calls: "Hello Again"

Enjoying my morning bowl of cereal: "Crunchy Granola Suite" (I even saw that one performed on stage in Fosse!)

Just keeping on, keeping on: "Hell Yeah"

Dig, Neil.

Dig.

Currently listening :
Jonathan Livingston Seagull: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack
By Neil Diamond
Release date: By 25 October, 1990

A Barely Legal Preacher's Daughter

2006-03-22T20:26:00.000-08:00

Well, my plan to date my brother, or at least take dance lessons with him, totally backfired this week when he told me that he is now dating a barely legal preacher's daughter.

So begins another tale originating in rural Oregon Country, from whence I ran and no one else seems to have the slightest interest in leaving, mentally or otherwise.

He's been calling around asking everyone where he should take the girl, who won't be able to drink for another 2 years, 11 months and 3 1/2 weeks. My mom's response when she heard the news: "I don't know Brian, why don't you take her home to her parents."

This whole fiasco began when the preacher's daughter called him up last Wednesday saying, "I've had a crush on you for the past two years but you said you wouldn't take me out before because I wasn't legal. Well, today's my 18th birthday - I'm legal!"

They've been celebrating ever since.

This couldn't have come at a worse time. I was counting on being able to distract my family from my single status by tutoring my brother in the finer art of dating women. Okay, so I'll admit that our attendance at 8 Minute Speed Dating was a huge fiasco (see the "Why I Have Decided to Date My Brother" blog entry below), but he had just gotten over that event and had agreed to take dance lessons with me. The line, "Just think, you'll have more dance partners in one night than you've had in your entire life!" really reeled the sucker in.

All I can say now is that someone better have another baby by the next family function because I don't want to hear the theories about my singledome that will come otherwise.

During the last family function my grandfather nudged my stepdad and then shook his head at me and said a little too loudly, "32-years-old, 32-years-old, looks like we missed the boat on that one!"

My stepfather tried to intervene with a heart-to-heart talk informing me that, "Jennie, I don't know how to put this, but every man you ever dated stole your time. You're 32-years-old now and you need to think on that. If you like, your mom and I can drive you out to the Grange Hall. They have dances there most every weekend."

I told him I appreciated the concern, but that I had things covered.

That came on the back of a Saturday night spent watching the Lawrence Welk Show with my grandparents, during which time my grandfather stopped mid-meatloaf, raised his fork and asked, "So, are you going to be like your aunt? Because it's okay if you are. Just let us know if that's why you're single."

My aunt is a 56-year-old vegan lesbian.

That one came about four months after yet another attempt by my mother to have me "bring a glass of lemonade" to a fellow farmer helping my stepdad work the field while I was out there visiting.

"He lives in a trailer on his father's property," my mother began,"But his family is one of the richest landowners in all of North Plains and someday all of that land will be his! You could end up one of the richest landowners in all of North Plains!"

I told her, "Yeah, mom, well North Plains has a population of about 15 people so somehow being "one of the richest landowners" just doesn't doesn't sound all that impressive."

"But he went to college, so you'd at least have that in common," she pleaded. "And one day you could move from his trailer into the big house, after his parents pass on," she paused to open the kitchen tool drawer and pulled out a pair of binoculars. "Here, just take a look at him out in the field and see what you think of his looks. I was looking at him out there earlier. I couldn't see a pot belly or anything."

"You mean you haven't even seen him up close!" I cried.

"Well, no, of course not, he's out working in the field. I have met his father though and his father is a really good hunter."

"What does that even mean?" I cried. "I don't hunt! What do you think I want to marry the son of some hunter who's going to have a bunch of carcasses hanging all over our doublewide trailer, waiting for his kin folk to kick the bucket so that we can move into a real house!"

"But, honey," my mother smiled, "It's not a doublewide, it's just a single trailer. So you'd be able to hitch it up and go places. You know how you love to travel."

For once, I was speechless.

Currently listening :
Original Delta Blues
By Son House
Release date: By 30 June, 1998

Eharmony: 406 failed matches and counting

2006-02-14T18:21:00.000-08:00

Well, another eHarmony match kicked me to the curb Sunday night. That makes 406 failed eHarmony matches since last fall, that's on top of the failed attempts at Nerve, Match, True, Cupid, Love and Seek, Perfect Match, J-date, Christian Singles, Planet Redhead and Craigslist. Then there was the 8 Minute Speed Dating fiasco down at Bar 71 with my brother, whom I have since decided to date. We have so much in common I can hardly believe it.

Having horrified and offended all available men located in eHarmony's definition of "my metropolitan region," followed by "my geographic region" and finally "my country," last night I added Canada, the U.K. and Monaco to the list. I've always had a thing for Canadian Mounties, I like the English accent that a man from the U.K. could provide, at least in theory, and although I've never been to Monaco, the pictures I found when I did a basic Google image search exuded warmth and I think I might have a touch of the seasonal affective disorder.

Perhaps I'm overreacting to Andrew, who I was matched to based on our 29 points of compatibility and who proclaimed to me on Sunday, "You know don't take this the wrong way, but usually when I'm interested in a woman I start working out and getting in shape to keep her. But with you I've really let myself go these past couple of weeks. Look at this roll of fat!" He then lifted up his shirt and waved his roll of fat at me.

I waved back.

"And my tits! Look at them, they're bigger than yours," he cried out.

Ouch.

He then asked me where I thought my looks fit into the eHarmony percentile. I said, "I don't know, how about 70 percent?" He just looked at me and said, "Humph." He bragged that there have been close to 200 closures for him.

Amateur.

I haven't given up hope though. For I have been corresponding with Marc, a Swiss interior designer I met via eHarmony who is now living on Long Island. Unfortunately, we only exchanged one phone call a few weeks ago and have just been exchanging recipes via email ever since, with absolutely no sexual undertones to any of the recipe exchanges. Still, he has given me a lot of insight into making a proper fondue. (The trick is to add a teaspoon of baking soda at the end so the cheese fluffs up nicely like a gentle volcano - if volcanoes were made of Gruyere, Emmental and a dash of Kirsch.)

Then there was Scott, the Sacramento venture capitalist who teaches entrepreneurship and sits on his local symphony board. He said he would continue "open communication" with me if I'd agree to raise our children Jewish. Perhaps I should have mentioned that my knowledge of Judaism doesn't extend beyond the occasional purchase of Matzo crackers when I need to settle my stomach. Instead I said I'd be willing to consider it pending further discussion. He countered with an offer to fly up for a half-day date and forwarded me a copy of a proposed flight itinerary. Then his Blackberry went on the lam and that was the end of our correspondence.

So I conned my 25-year-old brother into signing up for 8 Minute Speed Dating with me so I wouldn't be the only one in my family humiliating themselves. The line, "Just think, you'll have more dates in one night than you've had in your entire life!" really reeled the sucker in.

The evening began with me grabbing hold of the back of my brother's jacket to keep him from running out the door of Bar 71 as the women waddled in, sequined purses clutched tightly to their henna tattoos and flabtabulous sides.

A few of the men who didn't have their older sisters there to restrain them ditched the event by entering, flipping a U-turn and diving back out the open doorway, leaving the male sucker to female sucker ratio down by four. The 8 Minute Speed Dating event coordinator started pulling random men who looked like they fit into the 23 to 34 age category off their barstools and offered to sign them up free of charge and buy all of their drinks if they'd just sit at a table and "chat with a few lonely ladies."

The conversations with the sloshed men went like this:

Inebriated man wearing a name tag with "Number 8" scribbled on it: "So what the hell are you doing at speed dating?"

Me: "Just came here with my brother to check it out."

Man Number 8: "How old are you?"

Me: "32."

Man Number 8: "Do you have a house or anything?"

Me: "Nope. I prefer to rent."

Man Number 8: "Pfft!"

After 8 Minute Speed Dating bilked both me and my younger kin out of $35 each, I next outed a 27-year-old virgin named Chris. Unfortunately, he had left out the 27-year-old virgin part until I was sitting across from him at the Ram's Head. Upon hearing the news I remained calm and asked the most obvious question: "So, do you ever have thoughts about men?" His response: "Well, I did dance with a couple of guys in college and I like to cuddle with guys now and then, but that's it."

The night I went out with Gary the environmentalist I was starting to feel pretty hardened so I ordered a Tanqueray and tonic and a medium-rare steak only to find out he was an undeclared vegan. Apparently that hardened me even more because two days later Dennis the corporate recruiter stood up mid-sashimi at Sin Ju, announced "I have a young son at home and would never subject him to your foul mouth," and walked out the door. That really ticked me off because I would much rather be left sitting alone at Mio Sushi, where the unagi and toro are far more palatable.

Next, I attempted a lunging kiss at the end of a date with Greg the aviation engineer, (the lunging kiss had aided in the acquisition of my ex) but Greg's response was "Whoa! What do you think you're doing?"

Clifford drove from Yakima (the first expansion into "my geographic region") only to spend the entire dinner at Serratto wondering aloud if the rich food would trigger his irritable bowel syndrome and telling stories of monkeys throwing unpalatable things at him during a summer internship at the Cleveland zoo. To be fair, he was in medicine, but still, I shouldn't have had to keep saying, "Clifford, I've already asked you repeatedly to please not talk about anus while I'm eating."

Doug from Microsoft made the effort to drive down from Seattle for a Delmonico steak dinner at Paley's Place only to stand me up the following weekend because he forgot the Seahawks were playing.

Matt, a geographer for the county, was "startled" by my femininity and told me he was just looking for a woman who could play a good game of basketball and hang out like one of the guys.

My date at Palio with Bryant the patent attorney lasted four minutes and fifty-two seconds, which was four minutes and fifty-one seconds too long.

Todd, a New Mexico law student, was the first expansion into "my country" and flew in from Albuquerque to check out Portland for the weekend. Two days of sightseeing concluded with his accusatory question, "Does it always rain like this here?" He emailed me shortly after saying he had decided to move back in with his ex-wife.

At times like this it can be tempting to fall back to memories of one's ex, who emailed me from North Carolina three times last week saying that he was going to call me each of those three evenings but never did. (Okay, I admit that I did try calling him but he never answered.) Then I saw a picture on his blog that showed him at some night club, dancing with assorted females he photographed while being entertained by another female friend of his who was busy eating fire on a stage. Apparently his decision to leave the corporate media and return to grad school is working out well for him.

Now it's Valentine's Day and it's just me, a bottle of Elk Cove Pinot Noir and a half box of Girl Scout cookies. No big deal. I'm expecting the matches from Canadian Mounties, debonair Englishmen and Monaco princes to come in any day now.

Currently listening :
Hound Dog: The Peacock Recordings
By Big Mama Thornton
Release date: By 22 December, 1992