My inner-thoughts and ways in which I'm a creeper.

Yesterday at work we were talking about the serial killer house, which naturally segued into talking about the Tom Waits songs "Don't Go Into that Barn" and "Murder in the Red Barn".

We sat for a time talking about the lyrics. And then I had terrible flashbacks to high school English with  Mr. Woods. Every Friday we would listen to songs and then talk about what we thought the lyrics meant. I remember we analyzed Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit," Metallica's "Enter Sandman," and Matchbox 20's "3 AM." Some really profound music, for sure.

It doesn't take a sophomore English teacher to decipher Tom Waits lyrics. It takes drugs. Lots and lots of drugs.

Sometimes when I'm listening to Tom Waits, I think he sounds like a 40-year smoker on LSD. He sings about some weird shit. I can totally see him as the kid in fifth grade that smelled like pee and sat in the back row, drawing pictures of death on graph paper. But then that smelly kid grows up to write songs about all the weird dreams he used to have.

One of my favorite Tom Waits songs is "16 Shells from a Thirty-Ought Six". I like all his songs about crows, like "Shiny Things." Crows. I want to get a crow and keep it on a leash.

One day I was pulling into the Starbucks drive-up and there was a crow in the way. I knew he would move, being squished by a car would seriously hinder the crow's ability to eat puke, and crows love puke. IK was in his car seat in the back and saw the crow but didn't see it hop out of the way.

"You ran over that crow!" he shouted.
No I didn't. He moved, see. I pointed to where the crow was back eating piles of junk off the asphalt.
"Oh." IK was quiet for awhile. "What do you think is inside of crows?"
Candy, I told him.

A little 3 year-old Tom Waits in the making.


I've developed a mild fascination with crows and I think my spirit animal is the crow. I don't know this in some sort of official capacity. I mean, if you want a spirit animal, shouldn't you just pick it yourself?

Crow. I'm going with crow.

I was mildly curious about how one figures out which animal is their spirit animal and turned to the Native American mystic know as Google to figure that out.

Step 1. Google "How do I figure out what my spirit animal is?"
Step 2. Pick the first search result that doesn't appear to have been written by toddler.

According to wikihow.com, a website that I believe is maintained by Viagra ad copywriters, there are nine easy steps to finding your spirit animal.

Nine steps! That sounds like a lot of work. I like my process a lot better. Step 1. Pick whatever you want to be your spirit animal.

Actually, I do know how you pick your spirit animal. You get really high and sit in a darkened, incense and candle infused living room, meditating and periodically banging on a deer skin drum while a cynical and sarcastic teenager looks on in disbelief. I know this because I was a cynical and sarcastic teenager and I grew up in Montana where people do a lot of weird shit.

Tom Waits had this to say about crows, in a NY Times article from last fall.

Crows…they say if you can find a wounded crow and nurse it back to health it will never leave you. I’m always looking for limping crows. I’ve even considered wounding a crow then, like a doctor – they break your leg and then fix it, just to have your business. I saw a crow building a nest, I was watching him very carefully, I was kind of stalking him and he was aware of it. And you know what they do when they become aware of someone stalking them when they build a nest, which is a very vulnerable place to be? They build a decoy nest. It’s just for you. So that you think, well, that’s where he took the gum wrapper. That’s where he took the sticks. That’s where he took the tinfoil. But the nest is somewhere altogether different that you’ll never know about. That’s a form of intelligence that’s very curious.

And I also think someone would be real scared of you if they saw you walking down the street with a crow on a leash.

What was I saying about people from Montana doing weird shit?

Pick Me Up Before I Pee On Myself

This is my favorite time of year. Spring is synonymous with promise and renewal. I feel like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, ready to flutter. 

Does it count as a metamorphosis when you emerge from the dirty, fleece, cocoon of a Snuggie?¹

Whenever I come home, Mondo is very excited to see me. He emits a high pitched screeching noise that you can hear from outside. My theory is that he recognizes the sound of my car honking when I lock the auto-locks and almost immediately starts his dolphin-like squeal.

Today I tested this theory by locking the door manually from inside the car and walking very quietly on to the porch. I turned the key in the lock very gently and didn't say a word to Dinah when she greeted me at the door. It wasn't until Mondo could hear Dinah's excited "Welcome Home" tap dance that he started screeching.

I descended the stairs to the basement where Mondo and Seeley have their kennel. By the time I started down the stairs, both Mondo and Seeley were excitedly wagging and begging to get out of the crate.

Here's the thing, though. After releasing the kennel door,  if you don't pick Mondo up  right away, you run the chance of him peeing on himself in excitement.

As soon as the kennel door pops open, Mondo runs to the top of the stairs and then turns around and dances on his hind legs. By the time I get to the top of the stairs, he is so excited he literally sprinkles pee as he jumps up and down and the pee goes right on his feet.

He needs Depends. He has a bladder control issues usually reserved for the very old or very drunk. Or Kirstie Alley.

While I hope I make it through this spring without peeing on myself, I am equally as excited that spring finally hurried the fuck up and got here already.

Sorry for the swearing. I felt like the emphasis that word provides was warranted. Swearing is good for many things, saying adios to winter is one of those reasons. The general election is this fall. That too warrants a lot of swearing. Gird your loins in advance.

I felt like it took forever for the sun to set today, something I was concerned about only because it is hard to con a three year-old into going to bed when the sky is still light.

The later the days stretch, the giddier I get. I can't explain it but I'm sure this is because there is more time to read, craft, drink (coffee), gossip and watch Criminal Minds.

Let us hope the spring lasts slightly longer than the life cycle of a butterfly but not so long that it pushes summer back. We need summer so that we are excited for fall. Fall is the second best time of year. But more on that later.

Later as in five months from now.

In the mean time, take a shower and shave your legs. Hug a lamb and plant some beets.

It is spring, y'all!

Be excited, just don't pee your pants.


1. This is an exaggeration. I've not been a Snuggie pupa. My mother has denied me that God-given right be refusing to return my Snuggie via the United States Postal Service. I understand her hesitation. I'm sure on one hand she is doing it for my own good and on the other hand, Snuggies are very comfortable so she kept it for herself. On a third hand², who can trust the USPS these days?
2. My mom has three hands.³
3. I'm a liar.

Morbid Thoughts and Dead People

My parents have recently started saying things to me like, "If something happens to me, my will is here..." or "I don't want an expensive funeral. If you can't get me cremated for under $3000, just put me in the burn barrel..." or "I've put you down as the beneficiary on (insert name of policy or fund)."

My parents are young. Here is a list of celebrities older than my parents:

Oprah
Howard Stern
Bruce Willis
Denzel Washington
Dennis Quaid
Kim Basinger.

My point here is that my parents are still in their prime. I don't need to hear about their death plans. Rationally, I realize it is very responsible for them to be so prepared. Psychologically, it is too soon.

Though, at the same time, I am more concerned about MY post-death arrangements for my turtle who I'm pretty sure will out live me. Does anyone want my turtle after I die?

The older you get, the more you think about death. Right? Well the older I get, the more I think about serial killers.

Serial Killers.

I watch Criminal Minds EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. This has trained me to be uniquely qualified to assume that every weirdo I see is a murderer.

Case in point.

Two days ago, I pulled up to the office and my normal parking space was taken. I had to park in front of a shady looking house. As soon as I got out of the car, a man pulled up in his truck (it had a canopy, all the better for hiding bodies) and got out with his bag of Burger King (the nutritional go-to of stabbers, shooters, and stranglers). He was wearing sweatpants (the uniform of psychotics) and had a shaggy goatee (murders are genetically programmed to grow mullets on their face).

I went to work sort of perturbed to know I had to be careful about parking near his house and sort of excited that all my research (television watching) had finally paid off. This was doubly confirmed when, without prompting from me, MW randomly told me the same man often has bottles and bottles of empty bleach sitting on his porch.

Bleach. The official sponsor of serial killers.

Yesterday I came out of my house and found a body in the driveway. Luckily, not a dead body. Just a disoriented and ill hobo who had wandered up the driveway to pet the garbage cans. During his tactile affair with the trash bin, he passed out. I called 911. After a time, they took him away.

In the three seconds it took me to realize he was not dead, I reacted very calmly to just the idea of a dead stranger on the property. This is probably because I've seen dead people before. I've done post-mortem care on nursing home patients. I've watched them get zipped up in body bags, wheeled into a hearse and taken away by the mortician.

I was 18 the first time I saw a dead person not related to me. Right after I graduated high school, I took a two week course and was certified as a nurse's assistant. I worked at a nursing home the summer before my first year of college and would go on to work at the same nursing home every summer and school break for the next four years.

In my first week as a CNA, one of the residents passed away. It was our responsibility to clean up the deceased and prepare them to be moved to the funeral homes. There were two other CNA's working that night and one of them outright refused to do the post-mortem care. The third CNA was pretty nervous.

We cautiously approached the deceased patient and worked through the to-do list. It is a short list. Essentially, administer a sponge-bath, wrap them in a sheet, collect their important personal belongings (glasses, teeth, jewelry, watch, etc).

That night, as we rolled the patient over to her side, the last of the air from her lungs released in an audible woosh.

My partner in care immediately let go of the body and left the room, leaving me to go it alone.

So I guess you could say I became desensitized to death at an early age.

It is weird to hear my parents talk about their own mortality when I've yet to get my first grey hair, when I'm still clueless about under-eye cream, and AARP is a distant need.

Until my parents look like Clint Eastwood or Betty White, I'm not going to be too concerned about their post-mortem care.

But just to be safe, maybe I should start stockpiling bleach.

I'm working in the midst of the Great American Work Novel

Every day, when I arrive and depart work, I walk by a plus-sized consignment store. In the window there is a mannequin and the mannequin is missing a hand. I tried to take a picture but the glare on the window didn't accurately depict how creepy it is. I'm sure this second-hand shop got this mannequin second-hand. Last night I had two deeply disturbing dreams and one of them centered around this hand-less mannequin. Today when I walked by the store on my way home from work, I dropped my keys and as I bent over to pick them up, I could see straight up the sleeve on the hand-less arm. I think I will see that stub in my dreams for years to come. Here is the shop's sign. She has this picture above the door and on a sandwich board down the street.

we put Mom on the roof, just like Romney's dog

  

Every day I am sort of embarrassed for this woman. I went in the store once because I could spy rather large looking shoes from the door, and since I wear a a very manly and hard to find size 11, I never pass up the opportunity to look for cute shoes. Having met her, I can say she is very nice, but that sign is ridiculous.

I'm also convinced that a man who has an office in our building is also living in the building. He is always there. MW saw him getting out of a van. Our office shares a wall with the floor's bathroom. He has a very distinctive sounding walk and today I went to use the bathroom shortly after he left the bathroom himself. I found a razor and washcloth on the counter. A few minutes after I left the bathroom, I could hear him walk back to the bathroom and then back to his office. My curiosity got the better of me and I went and checked the bathroom The razor and cloth were gone.

The office building is a mixed bag of crazy. There is an insurance company, a kung-fu studio, the aforementioned thrift store, a guitar-lessons business, an Eastern-medicine massage parlor, a PTSD therapist, and a handful of other offices that are occupied but as of yet anonymous in their dealings.

Here is the scary part, the man I think is living in his office is the PTSD therapist. I would describe him as a cowboy Ronald Reagan meets Matt Foley meets Clint Eastwood in that he looks sort of like a cowboy Regan with the enthusiasm of Matt Foley and the high-wasted pants, furrowed brow, and scowl of Eastwood.

There is also a man who brings his two basset hounds. I'm sure he probably has a real job, but every now and then when I walk by his office, I swear he is in there playing World of Warcraft. I like to imagine he told his wife he works in an office but is really making money off Second Life.

Clearly I will be writing a novel or a sitcom or a reality show about this one day.

In the mean time, I'm going to find out what is behind all those other closed doors.

I better copyright this sh*t.

 I have a lot of awesome ideas on a regular basis.

Here is a list of ideas I've had that were NOT so great.

1. Made a four-minute video of a cat.
2. Left Mondo in a running car.
3. Ran over a plastic shopping bag.
4. Took the bus.  Oh yeah, took the bus.  I don't miss bussing to work.

Now that you've reviewed some of my terrible decisions, you will be properly prepared to recognize two awesome ideas I've had as of late.

yes, both of them are about dogs.

Roll your eyes.

Look at a picture of Mondo.

I am adorable. Now give me a treat.

See how cute he is? Wouldn't you become overly interested in dogs if you had a Mondo Fattington Hoegenheimer?

Now, back to business.

Idea #1

A phone app that allows you to take a picture of a dog and then the app will tell you what kind of dog you are looking at and all sorts of facts about the dog. The facts part I don't really care about, I mostly want to know what sort of an ugly mutt I'm looking at when I encounter dogs on Mt. Tabor.

This one is kind of cute.

  
Idea #2

A match.com for dogs! Now there are some websites like this one and and this one for single humans that have pets and are looking for a love match with someone else that also loves pets.

And there is this British site for dogs that is sort of close to what I'm talking about.

I want there to be a website that allows you to upload your dogs information, likes, dislikes, etc and then you can match to other dogs in the area so they can fall in love.

I'm sort of serious about Idea #2. But mostly, Idea #2 came about when my boss and I were giggling over the possibility of her dog Lila and my dog Mondo being online loves, sending each other letters and photos.


I think these are awesome ideas. Not so awesome that I'm willing to invest any money in making them happen, but awesome enough ideas that I would download a free app on to my phone if one so existed.

So if someone could get on with making these two ideas happen, I'd really appreciate it.

I'm much to busy being Bry Hoeg.

Pancakes and Bombs: Suburban Living 101

I believe I've told you a time or two that I do not like pancakes. Turn your head to the right and there, in the margin of this website, you will see "pancakes" on the list of things I hate.

They are gross, the devil's food I like to say. And maple syrup is even worse. Don't get me started. They are little sponge pads covered in poison.

While I do not like pancakes, I am aware that most people do, and I'm aware that "most people" are actually children and Marshall Eriksen.

So when little IK, age three, asked me to make him pancakes on Friday morning, of course I said no.

I really did. Mostly because he was supposed to be going to school within the half-hour. Then I tried to tell him pancakes are gross.

"Will you make me pancakes?"
No.
IK looks genuinely confused for a moment. Did she really just say no?
I think pancakes are gross. 
"Why?"
They are mooshy and taste yucky. You should eat an egg-in-the-hole instead.
"No, I want pancakes."
Well go ask your mama, I'm not making any.

I went to my room and was reading a bit when I realized I could still hear IK mucking about which meant he had not left for school and also meant that MK was probably unaware she was about to be late for work.

After a brief conference, it was decided that I would take IK to school and MK would go to work.

IK was a bit fussy about this change of events. Well, it looks like I have time to make you pancakes, I told him, immediately cutting off the fuss.

I survived making the pancakes. I didn't gag as I mixed the batter and it didn't make me gurggly in the tum-tum to pour the syrup on top (especially since I piled a bunch of strawberries on top).

not the pancakes I made, but I think pancakes all look and smell the same...like death

Immediately after the pancakes were eaten, we got a knock on the door. It was the cops. I kid you not. They were there to arrest me for making pancakes.

Or they were there to tell me there was a maybe/sort of/probably/we are not sure, but just in case, BOMB across the street.

"Get thee to the furthest corner of the house until we knock again," said the Victorian Portland Police Officer (or not).

Was it the pancakes? I wanted to ask. But instead I said, Oh my gosh! Okay! Thanks. 

Like a crazer, I grabbed IK and shouted for AM to meet us in the back bedroom. Cut to AM and I cooped up with a three-year-old and three dogs for more than an hour.


(Somewhere in there is an Anne Frank joke I won't make because that would be in poor taste.)

How neither of us lost our minds, I do not know.

I can only conclude that making pancakes could possibly piss someone off and force them to plant a bomb in front of the house. I completely understand, pancakes are very irritating. And though the suspected bomb turned out to be nothing, it served as a reminder that we are living in tumultuous times and sometimes the terrorists win.  The solution is to never, ever, ever make pancakes again.

Later that night, after picking him up from school, I asked IK what he wanted for dinner.

"Pancakes," he said.

I'm in hiding.

You maybe be wondering what I've been up to. The answer is simple. Let us turn to my sponsors for clues*.

  

*I made that up. These companies are not sponsoring me. I'm sponsoring them.

**And to be fair, I'm buying the generic brand of these medicines. 

*** And I'm not using Kleenex, I'm using toilet paper.

 If the people at Walgreens do not recognize me by now, they are blind. And deaf. I've been haunting their tiled floors, coughing non-stop, for more than a week. 

So until I feel better, I'm on sick leave. 

It started with a shirt and then turned strangely medical in nature.

Around about two hours into my day of work, I realized the shirt I'm wearing is probably not a shirt at all, but one of those really long swimsuit tops that pregnant and/or fat woman wear.

I went into the bathroom and needed to scratch a part of my body under my shirt (I'm wearing a new bra), as I was pulling my shirt down, I noticed the shirt has a rather strange lining. I ultimately ended up undressing, in the men's bathroom of a Kung-Fu studio. Don't ask.

 Fine.

It is the closest bathroom to the office. The last time I went to the actual lady bathroom, I had to walk through the Kung-Fu studio and there were three women doing a fan dance. And then I got performance anxiety thinking these women, doing a very beautiful and serene Japanese fan dance, were going to hear me peeing.

Once again, Google Images comes to my rescue. 

As for my shirt, sadly, there was no label to confirm my suspicions. But it feels like swimwear. This is what happens when you do your shopping at Goodwill. Not just Goodwill, but the Goodwill Bins.

Have you ever been to the Goodwill Bins (also known as Goodwill Outlet)?  They are simultaneously the coolest and grossest place you will ever shop. Essentially, the other Goodwill stores send unsalable items to the outlets where they dump the product into gargantuan bins. The shopper then digs through the bins to find their treasures. You pay by the pound, so you could walk away with the some good stuff for cheap.

Unfortunately, the products are usually dirty and stained. You never know when you will come across a poop blanket as you paw through the bins. I've found some cute purses and scarves and a number of shirts. So the risk of catching small pox from a dirty shirt is worth it in the end.

If you are thinking of taking a trip to your nearest Goodwill Outlet, may I suggest the following supplies.

Apply liberally. 

Great for dirty piles of clothes and rectal exams. 

Bargain hunters are strangely aggressive.

My housemate AM recently started a Tumblr of the weird shit found at the thrift store she works at. I highly suggest you check it out. It is funny and disturbing.

First Rate Secondhand is the blog. Here is a sample.

Don't even think of dressing like this. Ever. Not even for  Halloween.

I wish I'd snapped that up. Mom's birthday is in a few months and I'm sure her nursing home staff would love a statue like this.

As for my bathing suit couture. Am I going to continue to wear it? Probably. I paid cents on the dollar for this frock and I intend to get my money's worth. Also, you never know when you need to jump in the river at the drop of a hat.

Be prepared. That's what being a Boy Scout taught me.

I'm not the only hobo creature in my Mom's life.

I've been trying to email with my Mom more often. What I would really like is for her to keep a blog of her own. She is quite funny and I think you would like to read about her daily life in Montana. But she is very busy and I also like having her to myself.

When I was in college, she wrote me pretty often and I kept all the letters. I think I am going to dig them out of storage and reread them. I'm sure it will embarrass her, but maybe I'll post a few of her thoughts here.

What I like most about Mom's emails are the bits of randomness in the midst of paragraphs about other things. A few days ago, she completely buried the lead. In the midst of a paragraph about going to a convention, and before a comment on the weather, she says "We have a peacock who has moved in up by the greenhouse. I have not had much interaction with him but BN has been feeding him."

And then the email ends shortly after that. I had to wait a few days to hear more about the peacock. Who just finds a peacock in their yard? People from Montana, that's who.

Apparently Mom has yet to see this peacock but BN is feeding and watering the bird. I demand a photo of said fowl once Mom returns from her convention.

Symbolically, peacocks mean different things across cultures and religions, but I believe it is universal to find luck, patience and renewal in their presence.

Except for those times when they are being TOTAL jackasses. Case in point, this peacock. We took my nieces and nephew to the Portland Zoo a few years back and had a sort of run-in with this creature.

You can see TG standing behind the plumage, in an orange jacket. The kids had made friends with another little girl while we were riding the train. Said little girl and her mother were going to accompany us to our last stop in the Africa section of the zoo and on the way, this fowl got aggressive and scared the bajeezus out of the new friend. She freaked out and cried and we ended up getting separated.

In the search for that peacock picture, I also came across this doozy.

Look at my babyface! And how young the kids are. This photo was taken in June of 2006 on the same visit to the zoo.

But back to the peacock.

I think the idea of a peacock showing up at your house and deciding to stay is a sign of good things to come. My Mom deserves good things.

Regrets, schmagrets. And all that jazz.

They say don't make any big decisions after eating breakfast.

Okay, only I say that, and it is pretty true. You have a window of clarity between waking up and eating breakfast and then after that the day can go all to hell.

Which is why, after eating some hard-poached eggs and toast, I did something I will probably regret for the next six months.


Here is a photographic hint.

Remember how I always tell that one story about cutting my bangs to look like Janeane Garofalo's in Reality Bites?  Or about watching Kill Bill in the middle of the night and then cutting my bangs to look like Uma's?  No? Well those two things happened.

And then this morning, after finishing my poached eggs, I got up from the table and I walked with purpose into the bathroom and lopped off three inches. I can't explain the steps I made in between  eating and the bathroom. I kind of feel like Lorena Bobbitt, suddenly there was a chunk of hair in my hands.

I said a bangs, bangs, bangity bangs, a bangs, bangs, bangity bangs!

Now here is the real question. What should I do with my hair? I kept it in a sandwich bag.

How weird would it be to use it in a craft project?

Should I:

1. use my bangs in an art project?
2. throw them away?
3. mail them to an ex-boyfriend with a note saying "You're next."

Is there a non-profit group dedicated to the re-hairing of Barbie dolls? Perhaps you have a bald Barbie and would like my chunk of hair so you can make a wig.

Speaking of health and beauty, I got a mani/pedi today and the aesthetician kept showing me the skin she scraped from my feet and the cuticles she cut from my fingers.

Thanks lady, for making me make me feel worse about my manly size 11 feet. And when she gave me a massage, which consisted of beating my legs with her fists, she stopped and said "Strong legs? Very Strong." Then she mimed walking by moving her outstretched palms up and down. Like a horse. I'm surprised she didn't offer to shoe me.

But my hooves do feel silky smooth and look mighty fine.

New bangs and fancy phalanges. What will I think of next?

A Sunday in the life of a dog.

I love Sunday mornings.

I realize an unemployed person can have a Sunday morning every day of the week, but the problem is the rest of the world knows the only Sunday morning that counts is actual Sunday morning.

Everything feels more relaxed on a Sunday morning. You can wake up and just lay in bed.

You can fall asleep on the couch in the middle of mending a coat pocket.

You can drink coffee all day and wear your pajamas to do yard work.

This is Mondo's Sunday morning. Not to be confused with every other morning.

Our fearless puppy sleeps quietly on the couch.

His little ears softly twitching as he snores like a lumberjack.

His little feet are small but strong.

Don't let his pig-like position fool you, he is ready to fight crime at the drop of a hat.

"Did someone say treat? sausage? jerky?"

"No?"

"How rude."

My GPS is my enemy, my dog is a foodie, and other tales of woe.

I've become increasingly concerned the GPS on my cell phone is in cahoots with the oil companies. Perhaps Mr. Cell Phone is more concerned with storing my pictures of Mondo, arbitrarily draining my battery, and spell-checking my Scrabble words than it is with assisting me with arriving safely and quickly at my destination.

Up until now, my GPS has been tasked with locating bars and always knowing the address and directions to my rental property's office so I can pay the rent. The office is in a weird little pocket of Southeast Portland that, from what I can tell, is populated by burrito joints and meth houses.  If I don't ask for help, I get lost every time.

My last few searches on GPS have directed me in routes that empty my gas tank. And gas is expensive, yo!  I've taken roads that lead to no where and driven for miles only to realize I could have done a better job guessing the route. Clearly the oil companies and GPS are in cahoots.

About a week ago, Mondo had what I will refer to as the Incident. I found him seemingly non-responsive and dehydrated. Some where during the day, he apparently hurt his ribs and belly and went into shock. I immediately took him to the vet. When I jumped in the car, I searched the GPS for the address, a clinic on Woodstock.

I immediately knew my GPS was bananas. Even though I was hysterical, in what will hence forth referred to Crying Incident #1 of 2 (there will be a second one, sometime in the next 9 months. Just like the gestation of a baby, it will be a waiting game to see when Crying Incident # 2 appears) BUT! there was no way I was going to take a terrible turn to get on Powell, then to go down 82nd to Woodstock. Crying or no crying, GPS could suck it. Instead I started down Holgate to get to Woodstock, a much more direct route.

The second GPS incident occurred on Sunday night when BF and I were trying to get to JAO's Oscar party in Lake Oswego. I've been to JAO's house a few times, but I always seem to drive there from a different route. BF and I were hauling butt up the hill towards the house when we decided we were going the wrong way. I pulled over to look up the address in GPS. The directions took us in a completely different way and in fact drove us in a big loop, past the turn we should have taken, and back down the hill where we came from, only to direct us up the hill on a parallel street, again passing a place we had just been, before finally putting us on the right street. We were flabbergasted, especially since we had originally been headed in the right direction.

Yesterday, while running errands, I inexplicably had a burning desire for a Chipotle burrito. I live in a neighborhood populated by pho and dim sum joints so I knew it would be a little drive. I asked the GPS to find the nearest one and it directed me towards Clackamas. Not exactly where I wanted to go, but oh well. I drive down to Clackamas and past the address, according to GPS, without seeing Chipotle or even a shopping center. In fact, upon closer inspection, the route abruptly ended in the middle of an intersection.

Just as I was about to give up (perhaps my GPS is in cahoots with Jillian Michaels, too), I realized I knew exactly where Chipotle is. The Clackamas Town Center. Sorry  Jillian, sorry Big Oil. I ate a burrito.

Because of the aforementioned Incident, Mondo had to be on a bland diet for four days so that he could rest his belly. and to make sure he could correctly move his bowels.

Is it gross that I mentioned bowels two sentences away from burrito or just appropriate?

I fed Mondo boiled chicken and pumpkin filling for a few days. He came to love it so much that now he thinks anytime I am standing near the stove or handle pots and pans, I must be cooking for him. He is really disappointed when I empty and fill the dishwasher.

After reading a lot of articles and recipes, I've decided to feed him natural food for a while to see if that helps his digestion. He's always had a weird tummy. I think that chicken poop incident at Christmas  probably ruined him forever.  In another week, I will gradually add back dry dog food until he is just on dry food.

But for now, every time I put his bowl on the ground, and he takes an initial bite and then looks at me, I imagine he is saying "it needs more salt."

Things I've Learned Since Moving

A little over two weeks ago I moved into a new house with MK and AM. This is what I've learned so far.


1. Mondo and Seeley really are in love. They are so in love that I fear for their separation. Last night I asked AM, "Do you think that before Seeley and Mondo met they would dream about one day meeting a dog and falling in love and then suddenly here they are, in love?" and I followed that up with a "You complete me, Seeley." I admit to being a bit of a weirdo.






2. Walks are great. They are awesome from sunup to sundown. They are great, though a little cold, from sundown to 10pm. Once you go out after 10pm, you run the risk of finding people having sex in the park.

3. Don't leave anything valuable in the car. Finding your broken car window at 9am is not much fun (not my car, MK's). We thought the thief got away with just a charger for the GPS unit and a pack of cigarettes, but then yesterday afternoon I was walking Mondo and two blocks from home I found two bags I recognized from the car. The thief dumped them when he/she realized little boy's underwear and dog park toys probably wouldn't catch a good rate on the streets.

4. Add ten minutes to my previous driving time estimates. However, if there is a ton of terrible traffic, don't go at all. On Friday I sat in traffic for two hours. Two freaking hours. On the plus side, I listened to the Black Keys album twice and played some awesome Scrabble words. Don't high-horse me about cell phone use while driving. If you have not moved in five minutes, you are really just parked.

5. I live in the Foster-Powell neighborhood. I don't really know what this means, yet, but there is a library just down the street and a park at the end of the block.

6. Though it was one of the selling points of moving, I'm finding that having a backyard is awesome. Mondo gets to pose for super cute pictures and I get to sit outside and drink my coffee while he does his business.




7. Sharing a house with a 3 year-old is a learning experience for both Mondo and I. Wiener (the turtle) is adjusted, though I think I am a bad owner that I did not notice IK (said 3 year old) put Mondo's toy frog in the turtle tank. I am positive that Wiener cuddled with said frog for a day or so before I realized what was going on. In fact, when I changed the turtle's water one morning, he was laying on top of the frog.

8. I've figured out how to get more sleep and to manage my time. Because there is more space and because I am by and large not responsible for the majority of the day to day operations of this house, I find that I have a lot less stress. It has been so easy to spend the morning drinking coffee and reading and then crafting or writing in the afternoon. I can't explain the difference, but I'm doing the things I wanted to be doing on unemployment. I set up a crafting and painting spot in the garage. I'm writing more. A weight has been lifted. I am not worried about money (as much), I'm keeping organized (for the most part), and Mondo is pretty happy (hello Seeley). I do miss living with AA, but I also think, because we have similar personalities and we are both unemployed, it is easy for us to feed off each other's dark thoughts and there was no motivation to be productive.

9. I don't need soda! I didn't really learn this in the past two weeks, but I have not been keeping soda in the house and therefore am not drinking it. Yay.


(I posted a followup to the bully blog. click here to read the post.)

Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose: A follow-up to Don't Be Mean.

Thank you to all the sweet people who commented and messaged me about my previous post. Strangely enough, I had a nice childhood. I remember the majority of it fondly. My blog post was a snapshot of a two year period, such a small part of an otherwise fine time in my life.

There was this two year period when we had transfered from our small country school, Lone Rock Elementary, in to town to the junior high. Those two years were the worst.

By the time I made it to highschool, I had a better perspective and stopped paying attention to their comments. I had my safety net and my group of friends to support me. Plus, I was too busy being a total theater/speech/debate geek. That is a pretty insular and protective world, even for small-town Montana.

Being bullied and picked on is not an experience that is uniquely my own. Even people I went to school with responded with tales of their own, and their bully was not even someone on my radar.

I feel sad for the people who can remember being bullied, but I feel worse for the people I know and love that remember they were the bully.

And on a serious note. No, seriously. Don't be mean.

When I was in eighth grade, one day in art class, I remember getting up to sharpen my pencil and hearing some snickering. I looked around and I saw a group of kids giggling. They were the popular kids.

We were drawing still-lifes and the teacher had assembled a jumble of branches, vases, and antlers on a table in the center of the room.

As I walked back to the table to sit down I had a small panic attack that maybe I had started my period but didn't know. Isn't it funny that as young teens girls, our biggest fear is that someone will know we are on our period?

 I sat back down at the table and the giggling continued. I finally approached the teacher and asked to use the bathroom. As soon as I got to the girl's room, thankfully empty, I was relieved to see that everything was fine. Even my hair looked good (This was shortly before I cut my bangs to look like Janeane Garofalo's as seen in Reality Bites). I was wearing my favorite flannel shirt, it was after all the height of Seattle grunge chic. My love for Kurt Cobain was in its early stages.

I returned to the classroom to find everyone cleaning up so I put the whole incident out of my mind and decided I was paranoid. But the rest of the day, and as I moved through the halls during breaks, I could feel people staring at my back, and when I turned it always seemed to be some of the group from art class in the vicinity.

Later that night as I got undressed, I realized that someone had written on my shirt.

I could only think of one moment when I had taken it off, in art class, so I wouldn't get charcoal on the sleeves.

Written in small blue ink, in the squares of the plaid, were the words SLUT, FAT, DUMB, BITCH.

From the distance of age and time, I can laugh as I think of these stupid kids writing such mean and untrue insults. Well perhaps FAT.

But SLUT? Come on. Not only was I still riding the Virgin Express, but my interest in boys didn't move past maybe we can hold hands.

DUMB? Never a day in my life.

BITCH? Maybe now, but in junior high I was anything but mean. I was a nice girl who just wanted to be friends with everyone.

But that night, as I hid the flannel shirt in the garbage can, I was convinced it was the worst thing that ever happened to me.

I was a nerdy kid. I read all the time. My mom had cancer. I spent two years of my life convinced she was going to die any minute. We didn't have any money. I shopped at K-Mart. I followed in the footsteps of two older brothers, one a sports star and one a well-liked rebel.

This was not the first bullying I was the brunt of, and certainly not the last, but it is a memorable event in that it was one of the first times I remember consciously deciding to keep it a secret.

Last night I had a conversation with a friend who admitted to bullying when she was younger. She said "I'm sure the girl doesn't remember it." And I got really angry. I said "Fuck you. She for sure remembers it, even if she says she doesn't."

Do you know how old I was when this happened? 14

How old am I now? 31

Is it the worst thing to happen to me? No

In fact, when I think back to that time in my life, I'm glad I got bullied because I think in the long run it made me a better person. But I'm also a strong enough and rational enough person to make it through.

But never in my life would I ever want a person to go through the same thing.

On a serious note, don't be mean.

A blog to prove to you that not all of my interactions with children are unpleasant.

A well known fact about Bry, kids are not my forte. 

Sometimes when I look at kids, especially if they are annoying me, I can feel all of my reproductive organs shrivel up and freeze. I'm continually amazed by my friends that want to have children, as much as they are amazed at my disinterest in having children.

This is not to say I don't like children, so don't write me an angry letter or unfriend me from Facebook. I actually love most children but hate their parents. So write me an angry letter about being a parent-hater. Thusly, if I like you, I like your kids.

I like babies. I like to hold them and then give them back to their parents.
I like talking to kids. But I like giving them back when it is time for the feeding and doctoring.
I like it when kids say outrageously funny things. I do not like it when they cry. 


Today I took IK to his daycare for a Valentine's Day Party. He goes to the Y a few days a week and I watch him on Tuesdays.

As soon as we walked into the room, I was surrounded by 20 noisy kids. Several of them had runny noses and I couldn't help staring at their snotty faces and imagining the germs lurking in the rivers of snot rolling down their faces.

Obama should just take a picture of one million snot-nosed kids and send it to all the Republicans in Congress and say "As soon as you wipe these one million snotty faces using nothing but your bare hands, then we will talk about your birth control phobia."

While the kids were eating their special V-Day snack, one of the kids gave me a physics lesson.

This kid is three, mind you.

"Hey, you! What's your name?"he asks.
"Bry."
"Look." He picks up a blueberry and drops it from a height of about two feet.
"That's gravity."
"You're right, it is gravity," I say.
"What goes up must come down."
"What if it doesn't come down?" I ask.
"Everything comes down. That's gravity."

I can't help but wonder if this is his little kid pickup line. Like a "the human brain weighs 8 pounds" for 2012.

Earlier today, as we were dressing for the party, IK asked what Valentine's Day is all about.

"What does Valentine's Day mean?" he asked.
"It is a day every year when you tell everyone you love how much you love them. And sometimes you give your mommy, or friends, or boyfriend or girlfriend flowers and candy."
"Can we get Casius some candy because he is my boyfriend."

After the party, IK and I sat on the couch and read all of his Valentines from his friends.

"This one is from Alaska."
"She gave me a Valentine because she loves me and I love her."

IK has a lot of love to spread.

"Can we go to the lego museum?" he asked.
"The lego display isn't at the museum any more. It went to a new museum in another town."
"Oh. Then can we go to the book museum?"
"Do you mean the library?" I asked.
"Yes. I like the book museum."

Things I am Eminently Qualified to Do: What My Resume Won't Tell You

What my resume WILL tell you:

my name, address and phone number.
a series of jobs I've held
my education
my references (upon request)

What my resume WILL NOT tell you:

I got skillz. mad skillz.

prolific reader
scrabble lover
bingo caller
mediocre knitter
postmortem care giver
pig groomer
aebleskiver chef
walker
lover of Jane Austen
laugher
not-a-crier
gut buster
driver
daughter
friend
babysitter
beach comber
organizer
patriot
spreadsheet whore
amateur detective
bossy-pants-in-chief
creative crafter
dog walker


Yes I have awesome computer and customer service skills. I can supervise. I can project lead.

But more importantly....

I will always have a book recommendation.
I'm a celebrity news hound.
I will set up a Pandora station that will knock your socks off.
I will organize office parties.
I will gladly happy hour.
I will be your Barney Stinson.
I will bake you brownies and brew you coffee.
I have the world's cutest dog.
I can make a diorama out of rulers and paperclips.
I can dance a jig, cook a fig and light your cig.

Oh please, please, I want to find a fun job that let's me be me.

Reflections and Ruminations of the Daily Life of Bryanne R. Hoeg

This morning I woke up very groggy and thought, very briefly, that my toes were extra hairy as of late and perhaps I should do something to change that. And then, as I was dismissing the idea of doing anything about it today, as i would clearly be too busy doing nothing, I realized it was my dog inching his way slowly out from under the blankets, probably to go in search of his best friend and probable girlfriend Seeley. Or food. Or Seeley and food.

I say probable because at 5 months Mondo is too young to have a girlfriend. They are at that stage in life where they can say they are girlfriend and boyfriend but that just means they sit next to each other at lunch. Which reminds me that I keep meaning to tell Seeley to stop sticking her tongue in Mondo's mouth.

Seeley is a dog, too. Thank god. I don't want Mondo kissing humans. That's gross.

I'd like to tell you a lot of really cool things have happened as of late, but I'm sort of just treading water. My life is really just moments of reading and coffee interspersed with sleep and seeing friends. I've sort of retired from life at the moment. I don't mean that in a turn-your-head-to-the-side-look-concerned-and-say-are-you-okay sort of way. It's not a sad thing. I'm having fun. I'm a lady that lunches. A lady that happy hours. A lady that bowls on Friday nights. A lady that goes to trivia in pubs.

It's just that I've put all the messy parts of life in a big pot and boiled it down to a reduced gravy that I'm currently marinating in. It's quite tasty, but not substantial.

For example, I now have a lot of extra time on my hands that I can dedicate to the following useless endeavors:

1. parsing online scrabble words for tone and hidden meaning.
2. organizing dog toys by size.
3. reading Fox News articles so that I have a reason to be outraged about something.
4. drawing pictures of baby chickens as celebrities.
5. writing love letters to trees.

See. I told you I was having fun.

And now, if you will excuse me, I need to go to the post office to apologize for my dog being an a-hole. More on that another time.

I only hope this is rock bottom.

This is the lowest I'm willing to go.

Last week it took me an hour to comb out a rat's nest near the base of my skull. The result of a week of not brushing my hair, the knot had reached the point where it bothered me to lay my head on the pillow. I was seriously tempted to just cut out the wad. I rationalized this laziness by assuring myself no one would notice a chunk of hair missing from the back of my skull. 

But then I realized the sense of accomplishment I would feel at untangling my shame-ball far outweighed the convenience of a few well placed snips. 

That was the moment I realized I needed to make some life changes. 

Since returning from my holiday travels, I've done two important things: watch IK and care for Mondo. 

Sure, there were a few outings with friends randomly spaced through out the last 16 days, but as far as measurable accomplishments, there are none. 

Not unless I can win some sort of reward for marathon TV watching. I watched 7 seasons of How I Met Your Mother in the past two week. The shame I feel at admitting this is akin to the shame seen on Mondo's face when he realizes that I've noticed he chewed up three paint brushes and some charcoals. 

Can one be complimented on the height of a stack of dirty dishes or the sheer volume of seven loads of dirty laundry? Number of naps in one day? 

I'm shooting for a gold medal in the Lazy Hobo Olympics. 

I don't mind not working, that part is okay enough. However, I do wish JG were there every day to tell me how awesome I am or to compliment me on my book displays. I wonder how much I would have to pay my former bosses to text me every day and tell me I am kind, I am smart, I am important. 

Oh my dear Lord, God in Heaven.

Stick with me for a minute.

As I was typing this pity party of a blog, I realized there is something I've done recently that I can show you a video of as proof I have not been laying on the couch for every minute.

Here are twenty seconds of Mondo doing the three tricks he knows.

As I was figuring out how to upload this video to the Youtubes, I realized I've uploaded videos before. And I found the real rock bottom and It. Is. Not. Pretty.

Before I continue, I implore you not to watch this second video I am about to post.

A little backstory (I told you to stick with me. These cutaways to a new topic are a result of all the How I Met Your Mother I recently watched).

A few years ago I got this idea that I was going to move to California. I packed up all my stuff and went. Once there, I realized it was probably a mistake. Even though I had a full-time job, I was working from home, which allowed me to spiral down into a pit of despair and depression.

My only friends were my brother MY and a cat named Angel (not to be confused with the alley-cat-like human roommate I have now). Angel was not my cat, he belonged to my stepsister and her daughter, but he lived with MY because TL and AS had moved to Escondido. Angel the cat was named after David Boreanaz from his vampire show. How fitting, right?

For some reason, I called this cat Chi Chi Rodriguez. Who knows where I came up with this name.

As I was navigating Youtube to upload my spinster-proud-of-her-dog video, I found a video I made of Chi Chi Rodriquez. A video in which the cat is sitting in my office chair and I am spinning him around and around and giggling like a loon.

The video is Four. Minutes. Long.

Here it is, if you have four minutes to waste. If you do watch it, I want you to feel the appropriate level of sadness at the crazy person I had become.

I suddenly feel a surge of energy to get up and wash clothes, do dishes, and find a job. Pity party has ended, time to pick up the debris.

I'm closer to being a normal human than I am to making four minute cat videos, that is the silver lining.

Ugh. I feel so disgusted with myself, suddenly.

I'm off to be more productive. To take the negative taste out of your mouth, here is my third and final Youtube video, filmed years ago.

My nieces and nephew hunting for Bigfoot.

All is Quiet on the Western Montana Front

I've been in Montana for more than a week. This is my longest visit since I graduated college and most definitely my longest winter visit since 2003.  While in Montana, I don't spend time with a lot of people outside of my family. All of my friends from high school have moved away and everyone else has faded in memory. My social opportunities are pretty limited.

Here is how I've been keeping busy.

Feeding the chickens and collecting their eggs.

Last night, as I was struggling to put the chicken's water pan back together, Mondo and Bip ran off in the dark and started barking. Very vicious vociferation. They were standing under a tree barking up at a ghost coon. Obviously Mondo and Bip have never read Where the Red Fern Grows or they would not be so foolish. 

even the chicken coop got int the holiday spirit

this is a shot of the chickens through their coop window. it kind of looks like a 3-D sonogram or a georgia o'keefe painting.

 

entertaining 4-5 dogs. I have Mondo, of course, and then his parents Rosie and Buddy. Plus his brother Bip. Every now and then, brother Rocco stops by.

he's not heavy, he's my brother!

sleepy time tea

I am judging you.

Dog Party! Go Dog, GO!

renting movies, and by default, driving 8 miles to rent the movies at the Redbox in Florence. it really is a pleasant drive. i get to look for deer and drive by the river.

reading

my reading list:

Blue Nights by Joan Didion 

Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Fly Away Home by Jennifer Weiner

sleeping

Cruising the Montana Craigslist postings. This is by far the most entertaining. Here are a few Missed Connections, my analysis of the post is in bold

Missed Connections.

I saw you at Kriso Liquor on Christmas Eve around 5:30. You were very tall, wearing a black coat. You passed me in front of the whiskey, I was helping my brother pick a bottle of bourbon. I was driving the Chevy Truck and saw you again a few minutes after we both left at the light on 3rd & Reserve. If this sounds like you, what were you driving? I think your car is sexy and exotic. let's do it. 

Hey "J", we played cards after the superbowl back in Feb 2010 at Hooters. I thought you had the most perfect lips I have ever seen. I can't put too much on here because we must be discrete, but if you see this, you will know who this is. You should email me and tell me how the evening ended.   I'm married. Let's do it.

 I have never seen a women so stunning and gorgeous. You are like a chocolate goddess. I couldn't dream of such beauty. You were in Dillard's wed night by the perfume area. Can't help but hope and wait patiently to see you again. Didn't think perfection existed but you proved me wrong. Please respond.   I've never seen a black person. You were hot. Let's do it.

To the man in the camo loading his rig at the grocery store this afternoon, I gotta say its been awhile since a man has made me stare like that! You were also staring and don't think I didn't see you checking me out! If you happen to see this, tell me what store it was and what town! Camo is sexy! Um. Camo is not sexy. And this could be half of the people you encounter at a grocery in any town in Montana. 

building fires

I feel like I build a fire at least once a day. 

A fire for warmth, not for arson. In the wood stove.

I have a modified lean-to style. Today Mom told me I am a fire guru.

watching The Nate Berkus Show  It doesn't matter when I wake up, or when i first turn on the TV, it always seems like The Nate Berkus Show is on. Which really just means I turn the TV on every day at noon because that is when the show is on. After logging 9 hours of interior design advice, I'm convinced more than ever that I really am a hobo. 

This is my To-Do list before leaving Montana:

get my brother to change my oil, Jiffy-Jim

go to The Book Exchange

get a haircut

see The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo (Daniel Craig, oo-la-la)

ring in the New Year

gird your loins Portland, I'll be seeing you January 2, 2012.

(if you are interested, I recapped my blog from 2011 and you can click here to read A Year in the Life of Bry and a Blog)