Saturday, April 19, 2014


My sister's mouth and I, dyeing Easter eggs, in my parents' Heath (before-Heath-was-hip) mugs.

Next week: I love Mark Morris.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Booking it.

My OkCupid date is best described in a haiku.

Moving on.

I decided to go to Portland this weekend.  Portland has Powell's:
I'm going to print out my 4-pg book-wishlist and walk Powell's aisles, finding my books and perusing their 1st pages & front matter.  Cool Geeky, I know.
Also: beer.  Also: coffee.   Also: cable tv in bed.

Next week: city of the roses.

Friday, April 4, 2014

I am the 95 percent.

This Sunday, I have a date with someone OK Cupid says is 95% compatible with me.
This statistic alarms me.  A lot.

I mean, I know they have an air-tight algorithm and all.  Har.

But I am somehow terrified to meet someone their algorithm thinks I'm that compatible with.
How do they mean it?  Is he a freak?  He looks a little freaky, but in a way I like.  Check.   He's arty.... check.  He likes weird music.... check.

But: what will be wrong with him?

My biggest fear, real talk, is that he'll have a voice like Mickey Mouse.
Mickey-voice scares me almost more than hardcore S&M, over-solicitousness, or sudden bursts of rage.  Almost.

Dude had also answered a lot of questions on OKC.  Questions fall into different categories, & then OKC tells you how compatible you are in each category.

Sexually (b/c that's what everyone wants to know--including me), he & I are purportedly 87% compatible.  Problem: he's answered more questions in this area than I have, & I can't SEE HIS ANSWERS until I answer, PUBLICLY, the same SEXUAL QUESTIONS. WHICH I WON'T. B/C I'M A LADY FRAID.

I guess I'll find out Sunday eventually.

In new-blog news: a man I didn't date, but love.

Next week: trip date report.

Monday, March 31, 2014

Teeth on edge.

Shelley got her teeth whitened, apparently.  She said they look like Chiclets.

I didn't need another reason to be afraid of my mother.

Also, she bought a wig.

Thoughtfully, she's weighing in on my appearance as well.

She recently sent me a link about walks one can take the bay area, and how many calories each of those walks will burn.

Reminds me of college days, when Shelley would send me news articles about how much fat it adds when you put topping on your frozen yogurt.  Sigh.

I wish my mother would just call me Fat Ass & be done with it.

Next week: 95% compatible.

Monday, March 24, 2014

A fat lot of good.

Some of you know that I love me a good roast chicken.  I am perpetually searching for the perfect recipe.

Fortunately & unfortunately, I've discovered a chicken so delectable that I can never make it again.  It's the Roast Chicken with Basil, Scallion, Lemon Butter, & Potatoes from the cookbook above.
I am banning it from my apartment.  Banned.

It's just too good.  Excruciatingly so.  I think the clincher is that all the little fingerling potatoes bathe in the chicken fat.  Which may sound vile to you.  Or like the 7th tier of heaven.

A chicken this good means you set it down on your lap and have at it.  It means you put the leftovers in dainty, well-intentioned glass bowls, then re-visit the kitchen 4 hours later; get me?

I don't need to have things that are too good in my apartment.  I have banned several things:  Ice cream, except on special occasions (this rule is rather elastic, btw).  Salt & pepper potato chips.  Mai tais.  My mother (har).  And a certain type of mans.

In new-blog news, one of my favorite subjects gives me what-for.

Next week: I heart Taskrabbit.

Monday, March 17, 2014

Pillow talk.

The dreams have started.

My dad's alive, & we're about to have a conversation.  He's sick, but there's still time.  He has a doctor's appointment later--chemo, or a transfusion.  He's sweating.

Each dream gets me closer to an actual conversation with him.

In the 1st dream, he leaves the house for his appointment before I can get there.  Then I'm in my parents' bedroom & I can see the sweaty imprint his head made on his pillow.  I bend down to smell it.  I run out into the street, yelling "DAD!  DAD!"  He's gone.

In last night's dream, I'm finally in the same room with him.  I say, "Dad--I'm so glad we're finally gonna get to talk..."

And then I wake up.

Next week: something else.

Monday, March 10, 2014

Smelling a rat.

This week, I could write about:

a) unpacking;
b) the dream I had about my dad where his pee was really cloudy;
c) my recent coffee date.

Methinks you'd choose "C."

So I met a guy online & we decided to get coffee.  I didn't know much about him, except: he has kids (teenagers...OW), likes to ride his bike, likes coffee, & he looked like he might be hot.

Which is pretty much all I need to know at that stage.

So I went to meet him, and it's safe to say: dude was not my usual type.  Tattoos everywhere, multiple nose piercings, very sporty clothing.  He was so sporty (in comparison to me) that I don't even know the words for his stylistic choices.  Maybe "rat."  Surf rat?  Skate rat?  Bike rat?  I dunno... some kind of rat.

As he was talking (he did most of the talking, sigh) I noticed that he was Incredibly Good Looking.  Like a model, & also craggy in a way I happen to really like.  Like: take a model, then add 30 yrs of marijuana, 4 yrs of recreational LSD, & top off with generous shots of Jack.
I asked him if it'd hurt.  He said no.  Which seemed wrong.  I asked him if any of his tattoos had, in fact, hurt.  He said when he got the one on his lower back & the ones on his calves.

As confused as I was by the tattoo issue, the dealbreaker came when he wouldn't crack open.
Note: I can smell pain.  It's a gift.  And a curse.  Nonetheless, I could tell in 5 min that he had a troubled relationship with his father.  So I asked him what his dad was like.  He started picking his fingernails, and couldn't describe him.  He also said he himself was fighting w/ his brother.  But wouldn't tell me why.  At all.

10-to-1 he handwrites in all-caps (emotionally unavailable, real talk).

In new-blog news, Grandma throws some shade.

Next week: the Armory.