A Letter to My Roommate RE: Mondo

I'm going to visit my Mama next week. My Mama lives in Montana and for the first time in 11 years, despite visiting at least once a year, I will actually be taking a flight into Missoula.

Normally, I climb onto the Greyhound bus here in Portland, put on some headphones, and self-medicate my self into a 14 hour coma and hope to make it through to Missoula without being murdered by a bus riding hobo.

This year, due to a constrained schedule, flying is really the only option.

While I'm gone, my four-legged roommate Mondo will stay with AM and MK. Probably mostly AM since AM is the owner of Seeley, Mondo's best friend with benefits.

I decided to write this letter to AM as an instruction on how to properly care for Mondo, things beyond feeding him and offering fresh water.

Dear Sister Wife:

Thank you for being so magnanimous as to add the extra burden of Mondo to your already full days.

I realize you are fully aware of what Mondo needs as you see him on the daily, but there are few little unique quirks about Mondo that I thought you need to know.

1. His Busniess Interests - At night, don't be alarmed if you climb into bed and find bones stashed in your pillows. Mondo has a lucrative side career in Bone & Toy Acquisitions. He is aggressively growing his portfolio at the moment and I ask that you look the other way, as a favor to me,  when you realize his collection is mostly of toys you probably purchased for your own beast.

2. Your Business - Mondo is fully committed to assisting you in your bathroom regimen. He believes his observation of your use of the commode is vitally important to his existence. Additionally, please be aware that he will most likely recline in repose outside the shower while you bathe and then offer his services in Therapeutic Foot Bathing, something that requires him to lick your feet the instant you step out of the shower. While I realize Mondo is neither a gentleman nor an apostle, he will attempt to show his affection by licking your hands and feet. The only way to avoid this is to cut off your hands or feet, though I'm sure he will believe your arm and leg stumps are equally needy of his Therapeutic Bathing.

3. The Loo - Mondo remains semi-capable of going outside on his own to use the grass commode. I find that he is more inclined to use the restroom on his own when he knows that I am in my own bathroom and he can therefore run over to the basement window and observe my process through the non-frosted glass like a world class spy (or creepy peeper). I will neither confirm nor deny that in order to see me through the window, I must be using the bathroom with the door open. A lady likes her secrets. As I don't see that it would be efficient and beneficial for you to go to the basement to use the loo, he will have to make due with going on his own. This of course does not apply to when he wakes up and before he goes to bed. At that time, he must be escorted outside like a prisoner.

4. Conversational Needs - Mondo likes to be addressed as Booby Lou, occasionally as Mondo Pondo Pudding Pie, and rarely as GODDAMMIT MONDO! He likes it if you ask, "Do you want some breakfast? Are you ready for breakfast? Is it breakfast time?" before feeding him, this applies to morning and evening meals. If you could also tell him "You are kind, you are smart, you are important"  at least once a day, he would very much appreciate the ego boost. Any time you pick him up, please sing "I like big butts and I cannot lie" while you jiggle his butt fat. He also likes it if you pet his Buddha belly post meal and say "Do you have a baby in your belly?" Finally, any time you refer to Mondo in conversation with other humans, please refer to him as "Little Dude" if you mention him in fondness and "Dick Head" if you refer to him with rancour.

5. DIY - Mondo likes to assist in DIY projects and I like to encourage positive and creative enrichment for his mental and physical health. He especially excels at sleeping on fabric and eating the plastic heads of pin needles. Don't be alarmed if you find your recently sewn craft project in the back yard, that is his way of telling you your project is so beautiful, he wants to sneak onto your desk, grab the project in his teeth, and hide it outside.

6. Walks - If you take Mondo for a walk, feel free to simply walk him to the end of the street and back. I've found that Mondo is equally as excited by walking six blocks as he is of walking three miles. I apologize in advance for his barking. He doesn't like weird looking people, especially the hobos that sleep in the park.

I believe these guidelines will serve you well during your week of dog-sitting. Alternatively, ignore all of the above and just keep him alive.

Thanks again,

Bry

My true colors shining through.

I am the first to admit that I've turned into one of those people who treat their pet better than they treat themselves. It is not a secret in this blog (see examples here, here, or here) that Mondo is both amazing and awful all at the same time. 

One thing that Mondo does that really, really, really gets on my nerves is whine for his wifey at night. 

If I've abruptly ended Mondo and Seeley's play time, and gone down to the basement for the night, Mondo will get really upset once he realizes that it is a) not bed time, and b) he is sequestered from his love. If it is past 10pm, he usually just puts himself to bed while I read or craft or Internet (making verbs out of proper nouns, that's how I roll). 

The other night I was watching IK, an easy enough task as he was already asleep. I was sleeping on the couch in case he woke up, which meant that Mondo and Seeley got to stay up way past their bed time and it was as if they were two pre-teens at a slumber party. 

After getting up and yelling at them several times to knock it off ("it" being fighting, growling, running around the house), I finally took matters into my own hands. 

In my defense, I was really tired, it was after midnight. 

This might be me at my laziest and I'm not proud of myself. 

There was a broom standing behind the couch, a leftover pole from a couch fort I once built for IK . I grabbed the broom and reached out to break up the dog's rambunctious endeavors. 

Now had it been Mondo alone, it would've worked. But Seeley lacks the flight part of the fight or flight response. She immediately attacked the broom. 

And then turned into a robot. 

It was at the exact moment that I took her picture that I realized what a lazy hobo I actually am. And I could see her judging me.  

What is the laziest thing you've ever done? 

I bet I could top it. 

Ways in which I am a hobo #4867

I used to have glasses like this:

And then I got a dog. This is him.

One day Mondo ate my glasses while I was sleeping. 

So now I have new glasses and I look like this.

There is a bit more to the story than that and if you'd like to hear it, then read on. If you don't care about my new glasses, than you might be interested in this, instead.

I actually ordered these glasses last fall. I lost my job at Borders and was about to lose my health care. I wanted to use my eye care benefits because glasses are expensive, yo!

I went to an eye doctor, who was very pleasant, and then ordered the glasses. After spending an hour trying to pick out some frames, I finally (apparently) settled on some brown tortoiseshell frames.

Then the eye tech told me about much the glasses cost. And I sort of lost my mind. Like my entire brain dibbled out the side of my head and instead of saying. "Oh. You know, perhaps I should pick out some more affordable frames," I said, "Okay, sounds great. Here is a down payment and I will pay the rest when I pick them up." And then went on my merry way.

But I wasn't so merry. I was angry with myself for not being smarter about my glasses shopping. But instead of doing something about it, I stayed quiet. I've never spent more than $200 on glasses. Ever. And now I was spending $300. Though to be fair, they are $900 glasses (I got a good deal). But I left the clinic with a pit in my stomach.

And then I proceeded to forget about my new glasses for approximately six months. I didn't go pick them up. I just left them at the eye doctor's. That was my punishment.

Until this dude...

...ate my glasses. Just a bit of the lens on the bottom, but still. He ate them.

I wore the chewed on glasses around for more than two months until I finally said "All right you hobo. Enough is enough. You look like a crazy person."

And I buckled. I picked up my glasses.

My first thought upon going into the clinic, after mild embarrassment that I was there to pick up glasses they'd been holding for six months, was "Holy shit! These are the frames I picked out?"

Because I kinda think I got hipster glasses.

I had absolutely no memory of picking out these frames. Shopper's amnesia.

And every night when I go to bed, I very carefully place my glasses in their case on top of a bookshelf that Mondo would have to be superman to scale.

Because I love Mondo, but he ain't eating my $900 glasses. I'd have to ship him off to a farm in Montana.

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.

Your plucky heroine gets snark(ier).

A lot of customers at the store have been asking personal questions.

What are you going to do now?
Do you have a job?
Are you worried?
Do you have a backup plan?
Will you be able to live off unemployment?

They usually add a "The economy sucks, good luck!" for good measure before they leave the store with crap they are buying just because it is on sale.

I decided yesterday to start answering these questions like so:

"I'm not sure what I'll do next, but my parole office has some ideas."
"My blackjack career is really taking off."
"I'm looking into selling my eggs."
"Don't worry, you can find me on Craigslist, but I'll be selling something more expensive than books."

The same people who ask such terrible questions are the same people who would dare touch a pregnant stranger's belly. The kind of people who sample all the jelly beans before buying.

I fully believe the only appropriate time to ask "What are you doing next" is when they follow it up with "I have a job opportunity for you, one that doesn't involve a pyramid scheme."

Oh yes. The vultures are here to con the naive into taking jobs selling Amway or Prepaid Legal or calling cards.



Yesterday I took a call from a woman who was actually asking for EFB and when I explained EFB was not available, and no I wouldn't give out her schedule, she explained that she previously talked to EFB about hiring some of our employees. But she was really shady.

Lady: I'm looking to hire a smart and hard working person.

Me: Okay. We employee a lot of those types of people.

Lady: Can you give me a name? Or give them my name?
Me: What exactly is this business opportunity? It would be helpful if I could tell the employee what exactly it is they would be doing?

Lady: Well I can explain it to them.

Me: And I think they would want to know what they are calling about.

We had this circular conversation until she agreed to email me a flyer about the job opportunity, an email she never sent.

She may have been perfectly legit, but if you refuse to tell me what this job is you want to hire someone for, then I can only assume you are a serial killer, and a terrible serial killer at best.

If Criminal Minds has taught me nothing, it is that successful serial killers are charming and friendly. That's how they get their prey.

Duncan makes me laugh.

This morning I went on a pseudo-date with a dude I've been pseudo-dating for a few months.

I say pseudo-dating because I've encouraged him to date on eHarmony and Match rather than actually dating me. We still hang out, as friends do, and flirt a lot, but that is about all that happens.

I'm a pretty terrible date. I really have no interest in dating, but I do have an interest in hanging out, laughing, and being the object of someones affection.

This works out perfectly.

This morning we went to breakfast. A breakfast made sort of awkward by a 50-lb dog named Duncan.

I'm guessing Duncan's weight. I hope I don't give him a complex or cause an eating disorder.

Duncan, if you are reading this, I'm terrible at guessing things. My apologies. Maybe you only weigh 30 pounds. Please don't hate me. I think you are beautiful.

Anyways, Duncan is part Great Dane and a pretty solid piece of dog. Yesterday AM said he was "a horse in a dog costume," which is true.

Duncan belongs to KT. KT is in Bend learning stuff. Duncan needs a friend while KT is gone. I'm that friend.

I think he finds me boring. I mean, I take him for walks and I pet him and feed him, but I have a feeling KT does exciting things I don't know about. That is the only reason I can think of for why Duncan stares at me with a bored expression, as if to say, "Criminal Minds, again?"

He does listen to me. And he is a good boy. But he can do pretty funny stuff.

Like this morning.

So as soon as we sit down for breakfast, outside, Duncan goes right for B's crotch. This dog is a total crotch rocket. It doesn't matter - male, female, old, young, child, or animal - Duncan will smell your crotch.

It is like his handshake. How are ya? Nice to meat ya? BOOM! Nose to the crotch.

I apologize the first time. Three seconds later, he does it again.

I apologize a second time and pull Duncan's leash a bit closer to me.

"Oh no, he is fine, he is cute." B assures me.

I'm pretty sure ten minutes later, when Duncan is sitting under the table just staring at B's crotch, B thinks it is not so cute.

"Did you spill anything on your pants?" I ask.

"Uh, no."

Our food comes and we are sitting there chatting. Duncan has slowly inched over towards the edge of the table so that he can watch people walk by.

Another thing about Duncan, he is absolutely adorable. People stop all the time to pet him and ask his age, breed, and sexual orientation. Okay, kidding, they ask about his temperament. As if you would admit, while having a dog in public, that he is a beast. "Oh, is he just a sweetheart? I bet he is the nicest dog!"




So as we are eating our omelets, Duncan has been charming everyone who passes. Finally, he gets a hit.

Two woman are walking our way, glammed up in pretty sundresses, heels and over-sized sunglasses.

One stops.

"Oh my gosh! How old is he? Can I pet him?"

And Duncan, recognizing the impending shower of affection, wags his tale and bows his head as if to say "Yes, you can pet me. Yes, I am handsome."

Right as Glam Girl #1 crouches down to pet him, Duncan looks at Glam Girl #2 as she ignores Duncan and punches away on her IPhone.

Duncan doesn't cotton to being ignored. Because Glam Girl #1 was right there, I had loosened my grip on his leash just slightly enough for him to get petted, but apparently enough for Duncan to make his move.

He stands up and in a flash has his head under Glam Girl #2's skirt.

It takes her a second to figure out why her friend is laughing. GG #2 is wearing a poofy skirt and she is on her cell phone.

But once she realizes there is a dog head up her skirt, she starts screaming.

Almost as soon as Duncan stuck his head up her skirt, I start pulling on his leash. But he is determined and won't budge.

GG #2 is frozen in place.

I reach out and grab Duncan by his collar and yank him back to me.

GG #2 gives me a terrible glare.  GG #1 is laughing. They stroll away.

And I can't help it. I start laughing uncontrollably. My peals of laughter could be heard ten blocks away,  I'm sure.

"What a pervert," B says of Duncan.

And Duncan doesn't even have the decency to look apologetic. He lays down on this side and thumps his tail several times in row before closing his eyes and going to sleep.

Being an embarrassment is exhausting work.

Hobo With A Shopping Cart

I'm really starting to get in the groove of this whole liquidation sale. Lots of people streaming in the doors hoping for free books only to find out they are paying barely below list price. Their grumbling is a balm to my soul. I'm enjoying the complaints.

Yeah, you are right, it does suck nothing is cheap. If we are going under, you better pay full price baby. This ain't double coupon day.

We've been playing awesome random music on the overhead, though today's Janet Jackson CD made me feel like I was in Macy's. A little too hip for the nerds.

Several times today I said "If that wasn't so funny, I'd cry."

It was mostly in reference to the loss of dignity the store experienced over the past few days. Everything feels tired and old. Suddenly we've aged and we can't make it to the bathroom without an accident. We are skipping retirement and going straight to the grave.

How many other old-ager analogies can I make?

The real kick to the pride happened when a woman came strolling through the door with a shopping cart.

Wait up. Reverse. Kick it back.

A shopping cart.

Our mall looks like this:



You don't roll no shopping cart through the a mall like this. We ain't no Safeway. We ain't Piggly Wiggly. We have a goddamn Sak's Fifth Avenue and a Crate and Barrel. Have a little dignity, my friend!

AM asked the lady to kindly remove the cart from the store. Which she did. Though she conveniently left it out front where another customer later pulled the same Class A move.

At that point, I volunteered to relocate the cart back to the Storables store it came from.

Which is how it happened that me, a self-proclaimed hobo, rolled a shopping cart through the mall.



Actually, that picture isn't accurate. I would never wear stretchy pants to work. I don't believe in stretchy pants (you might refer to them as sweat pants). Stretchy pants are that article of clothing you put on when you want to fall asleep on the toilet. I don't poop, therefore I need no stretchy pants.

I spent most of my day putting out bargain books. These are books that once cost a lot of money then never sold and were sent back to the publisher and then re-purchased months later at a 90% discount, only to be put back in the store for 1/4 of the original list price.

This all could have been avoided if the publisher hadn't priced them so high in the first place. Or if the publisher hadn't believed The Situation was going to be a #1 bestseller.

I set the bargain area up in the area we used to have a cafe. At first I was really into it. I started making jokes about it being Bry's Bargain Bookshop.

I was going to get a visor and a candy-striped vest and an old timey cash register that clinged and clanged when I pushed the buttons, one with a crank to total the sale.




But then it started to look like a terrible yard sale. Maybe a flea market. And then, worse still, a swap meet.

Eventually, I felt I was metaphorically opening up the trunk of my car to sell hot goods.

Basically, I turned this:



into this:




At that point, I reached the brink. I could stand no more. Thank God it was 3pm and I was out of there.

And now, I gotta go see about a girl.

Do me a favor, send your local bookstore a basket of muffins. Or at the very least, a kind thought.

And for the love of god, DO NOT EVER TAKE A SHOPPING CART INTO A BOOKSTORE.

Yesterday I pulled my pants down to go pee and a nickel fell out of my underwear. I later used that nickel to fund a cup of coffee. What? I washed it off.

Just when I think I am at the top of the hobo heap, I encounter a real hobo and realize I'm playing in the minors.  

I went to the grocery to buy my weekly supply of ramen noodles. Then I got on the bus and went home. At my stop about 20 minutes later, when I stood up and picked up my paper bag of groceries, the bottom fell out. Because it was soaking wet.

And wouldn't you know, a super hot man sitting across the aisle tries to help me with my mess. I am so discombobulated and slightly embarrassed to have a hipster resembling Daniel Craig picking up my ramen, tampons, and sausages, that I don't see the pool of liquid they are all sitting in.

"What spilled?" asks Daniel Craig.
"You must be new to bus riding. Don't ever ask a question you don't want to know the answer to," I respond.

Then I see that my grocery bag was the dam in a river that stretches to the back wall of the bus where there is a man passed out, bent over, with a forty of beer spilling from the crook of his arm.

Daniel Craig reaches onto his seat and pulls a plastic grocery bag from his own pile of groceries. He hands it to me and says "I always double bag."

I grab the bag and flee. "Thanks!"  And I am out the back door of the bus, my tampons and sausages clasped to my chest.

James Bond sure knows how to treat a lady.

Today I left work and couldn't decide if I should go home and go to bed or go out to dinner and drinks with friends. I went shoe shopping to ponder and come to a decision. That was a mistake. Shoe shopping reminds me that shoe designers just assume if you wear a size 11, you must be a man. All the heels were designed for drag queens.

Boo.

That did not put me in a better mood. I asked myself "What would Liz Lemon do?"

So I got some Chinese food and went home.

Really, I should have gotten a block of cheese. Or a sandwich. She really likes those. But I haven't had Chinese food in quite a bit.


And it was delicious.

I've been watching Bones and playing Scrabble for about two hours now. I lead a very exciting life.

I'm just trying to stay distracted while I wait around for them to make decisions at work on if people get laid off and when that might happen.

Yuck. It sucks all around. I told AC today that I have the same feeling in my gut that I used to get at debate meets. When it was time to wait for the judges to post who made finals, I had a feeling of excitement and dread. Excitement because, what if I made finals?! Dread because, what if I didn't? And dread because, if I did make finals, I had to do the final rounds, when I was really just so tired of it all.

Well it is now time for some tea and a hot bath. If only I had a cat to keep me company.

Wherein Bry has favorite things.

NOTICE: This blog was recently edited by a sober Bry that woke up at 4am for work and thought "Did I take a lot of cold medicine last night and also drink a glass of wine and then blog?" Only to check and discover that is exactly what happened.

Oprah ain't the only beyotch who likes things. I like things, too. Lots of things. Things that have arms and legs. Things that sparkle. Things that look like puppies and wiggle around and lick your hands. Okay. Maybe just puppies that do that since I've met some uggohs out there that behave like puppies.

So here is my list of my favorite things right now.

1. Rain boots. My Momster gave me some rain boots and they are amazing. My feet don't get wet. Imagine that! Proper foot attire in rainy weather is necessary.

2. My super hot friends that have been super awesome to me as of late. Kooter is so pretty and funny and nice. The Beast read my minds and got me a haircut at Dosha! AM and MK and pie. RO who reminded me over the past month how much I appreciate her amazing support even though we don't see each other much. LL for checking on me when I was sick and inviting me to spend Christmas Day with her (though I didn't because I slept on the couch with the sick sweats rather than infecting the public). CJ for being my Scrabble buddy.

3. AA for being a great addition to my Partly Cloudy Hobo Express and a good roommate. He did the dishes and bought toilet paper today. I was about to resort to napkins, but I'm a class act.

4. This yummy bottle of wine and Trader Joe's for growing the grapes and hiring little xxxxxx (this word removed due to my liberal guilt and possible racist content) to stomp the grapes into some super delicious wine with their tiny little nubby feet. Did I mention this wine was delicious. Did I say something racist? Crap.

5. Books.

6. Wine. (I believe I already mentioned this).

7. A nice almost-man-friend who thus far is not mad at me for being a commitment-phobic beyotch. (I am not a beyotch).

8. Wine. (Again?)

9. My recovering health.

10. Wine. (Oh Jesus).

Wherein Bry invests in some risky ventures.

I've been tiring of my hobo ways, but just when I think I've gotten sophisticated and classy, I get pulled back in. I'm pretty sure I bring it on myself.

About a month ago we started getting these pay out bonuses at work for selling membership cards. Because 10,000 people work there and it is split amongst the employees, we get less than $10. I decided to invest mine wisely in some scratch-it lotto tickets.

A little foreshadowing, I'm too lazy to be a gambling addict.

After buying a burrito, I invested the remaining $3 of my payout into some $1 tickets and promptly won $2-3 on each ticket. So I invested the winnings again. And promptly won some more. And again. And won some more.

On about my fourth trip to the Plaid Pantry, I started to get tired of the whole scenario. Part of me was all "But what if you win the big pot?" and the other part of me was all "I'm only a block away from Snuggie. Screw this."

But 30-year olds are supposed to be mature and responsible and I made a commitment and the only way to fulfill it was to go and buy some more lotto tickets.

And win a handful of change and invest again. And again.

The Plaid Pantry girl started giving me dirty looks.

Last night I asked CJ to go for me. Please? I asked, thinking a new hand would spoil the luck.

He bought two tickets, I won $30.

Fuck.

I kept $20, bought 5 more tickets. Won $10. Bought 3 more tickets and...


Thank god, I am down to ONE ticket worth $1.

Which means tomorrow could be my very last day buying scratch-its.

Until next pay day.

When I get another payout.

Fuck.

Wherein Bry is trying to grow up.

I've been slightly less hobo of late.

I have four walls.
No extended Snuggie time.
Fewer burritos.
I've stopped carrying around a large chunk of my belongings in a bag everywhere I go.
I may have expressed adult feelings in a rational manner without feeling bad about them later.

There is some growth!

Last night was gift exchange night with CJ and I have to say, I'm beyond excited about what I received. But you will have to wait and see because he is not actually giving it to me until Thursday before he leaves town.

I will be sure to give you an update.

Thursday is also Christmas tree decorating day. Also very excited.

So far living with AA is going well. He is a good roommate in that he can't complain about what I do and and he also has no belongings. Well, to be fair, neither of us do. But for right now we have no passive aggressive arguments over who gets to put their stuff where.

He doesn't mind that I sometimes don't come home at night and I don't mind if he doesn't. He thinks it is funny that I started a Twitter about him. He goes to the store when I demand cookies.

A match made in grungy heaven.

Wherein Bry is ready, ready, ready to move in to her new apartment.

I've been a bit MIA lately and there are various reasons for it. One, I am, like always, struggling to make it through November in one emotional piece. I'm not sure what it is about November, but I always have a horrible month. Just super unhappy with everything.

But mostly I am MIA because I'm hoboing it up this month.

I've been waiting for various apartment to be completed. Apparently all of the affordable apartments in this city are rented to people who do not take good care of their apartments and do not know how to move out correctly. Which would explain why there are no affordable apartments to people of small means in a decent neighborhood.

This last apartment that I will.......YAYA......get the keys to Monday........is a two bedroom, has a fire place, is on the major bus lines and in a good pocket of SE Portland, on SE Clinton between SE Hawthorne and SE Division. Which means nothing to you if you are not from Portland but means a lot to me as I can walk to Powell's, get coffee in several different directions, and most importantly, have a bus ride home post 12am.

YAYA.

In the mean time, I've been staying with MK, IK, and AM in NoPo. I'm pretty sure they are about ready to throw me out on my ass.

But as I said, I get to move in next week and I'm very excited. The last time I lived alone was in 2005. We shall see how this goes. Hopefully I can afford it but I may have to resort to getting a roommate.

"Pre-maturely old spinster seeks quiet roommate that doesn't make a mess or noise and preferably does not talk. I like Snuggies, pie, coffee, reading and sleeping. You must have a boyfriend or girlfriend and sleep over at their house 5-7 days a week. Prefer if your interests include constantly playing the quiet game, obsessive cleaning, and paying for cable all on your own. I am okay with pets as long as the pet loves me best and you pay all the animal bills. In exchange, I promise to charge you half the rent and utilities."

Know anyone looking for a roommate?

Wherein you should probably stop reading right now.

I feel like I have 1000 secrets that all might burst out of me at once. But really I have none. Nothing is a secret, just private.

I just woke up, at 4am, and stared at the ceiling for about an hour. I have two days of conversations with CJ running through my head. Tonight, at midnight (that's right, four hours of sleep), when I got back to my little couch oasis, I was a bit perturbed and it is just late (or is it early?) enough and I had just enough glasses of wine (two point five) to get up in the middle of the night to post a junky rant on my junky blog.

And it is not even a rant. There are two things I do when I am stressed, 1. Make everything into a list and 2. Turn every sentence into a song lyric.

So here goes.

1. This is my least favorite time of year. We are past fall. Fall is September, October, the first part of November before Thanksgiving. We are no longer in the fall.
2. I am tired of being a hobo.
3. I am not a control freak.
4. I miss my mom and I miss RF and I am tired of missing people.
5. I'm not ready to make nice.


And that is all I got. Mostly because I'm pretty sure there is someone staring at me through this window. Or maybe that is just my reflection. I can't really tell.

After work tonight, as I was walking to the bus stop in the dark, I was trying to imagine the number of home robberies that occur when the intruder knows the family is most likely home. Then I mentally removed the incidents of which the intruder is on some sort of drugs or alcohol. Then I mentally removed the incidents of which the intruder is probably a fucking nut job.

Then I decided I was probably pretty safe living alone.

Or that I could always get an attack cat. If I could get a fatty like Buttons, I would do it tomorrow. But cats, like men, are deceiving. You might think they are fat and cuddly but then they tear your face off.

Le sigh.

Dark and twisty. I'm going back to bed. This blog proves two things: 1) never blog in the middle of the night when you feel sad and can't sleep, and 2) I take the morning train / I work from 10 to 7 and then / I take another home to find Snuggie waiting for me.

Wherein Bry takes hobo to a new level.

My blogs tend to be about the following things:

1. Ways I am a hobo.

2. Ways I am a spinster.

3. Things that happen on the bus.

4. Things that happen at work.

5. My snuggie.

6. Burritos.

If I were able to wear my snuggie to work and eat a burrito while I sell books, I could accomplish nearly all of these things in one day.

On Tuesday I really out did myself.

At about 3pm, as I was trying to leave, I realized my bag was locked in the office where they were conducting a group interview.

There was no way, after being awake since 3am, that I was waiting around an hour. So I knocked on the door.

"Sorry! But I need my bag."

Of course my boss had placed the bag in the furthest corner.

And when I say bag, I should clarify that it was a huge IKEA shopping bag. I hadn't been home in days, was towards the end of LL's wedding weekend and also house-sitting, and was carrying around the contents of my closet in an IKEA bag. I'm pretty sure an adult human being (like CPR!) could easily fit in the bag.

"Yeah, sorry I'm such a hobo!" I said as they shifted around the tiny office to hand me my hobo luggage. I later said they couldn't hire any of the prospectives because they should find out I'm a hobo after they are hired, not before. Kind of ruins the fun.

Speaking of house-sitting, I watched LL and KL's critters while they went to San Juan, WA. The two cats (Buttons and Ziggy) and dog (Madeline) always looked upon me distantly, but favorably, when I was just a visitor. But Buttons wanted nothing to do with me as her temporary owner. I was determined to make Buttons love me.

Buttons was determined to murder me.

Or at the very least, make me think she was capable of getting the butcher knife and stabbing me.

She does this thing in the middle of the night where she gets in the cupboards and leaps off her perch by the window, making it sound like someone is opening the door.

Cue Bry waking up several times convinced a crazy person was in the house.

She stopped snubbing me somewhere in the final day of my tenure as her fake owner, and even willingly got on the bed. However, I woke up from a nap (and her napping on top of me) with cat scratches right in between my cleavage.

So thank you Buttons for roughing up my chesties, for not actually murdering me, and making me grateful I don't have pets.

As I like to say, I'm only a cat, or a dolphin figurine collection, away from being a real spinster.

Wherein Bry stole some free Wi-Fi to update this blog.

CPR asked me if I was concerned that CJ may read my blog.

“Well I didn’t tell him I write one so if he does, he Googled me so it is his own damn fault.”

At least that is my memory or my response, though SE may correct this. She is The Corrector. It is her particular brand of super power. She roams the streets, correcting me when I tell stories wrong, which apparently is every day and every story. Rather than finding this annoying, it is actually endearing. It means she is paying attention.

I have a busy few weeks coming up. Starting tomorrow, with RF’s birthday surprise. He conspired with GZ, a mistake I realized too late. I wish he had chosen a friend who was bad at secret keeping. RF himself is playing this very close to the chest. I feel like it is easier for him to be evasive in Boston because he doesn’t get to experience my Death Glare that usually pulls the secrets out of his head.

Then it is LM’s Last Single Lady Lady’s Night (bachelorette party sounds lame) which leads into the wedding next week.

As soon as the wedding is over, I turn my attention to M.O.V.I.N.G. again. I’m very stressed out over this, so much so that I’m quite convinced I’m going to give myself hives. I have no idea where I am moving to and it is only 30 days away. Yikes. So it is quite possible I will be living under the Burnside Bridge and brushing my teeth and changing in the Family Restroom at work.

For all my joking, I don’t really want to be a hobo, the real kind that actually has no place to go.

The older I get, the more I turn into all the things I abhor.

Cougar, real hobo, mean girl.

I hate the days I leave the house unsure of whether I put on deodorant.

I'm pretty sure I did, somewhere between brushing my teeth and spraying on some perfume, but there is a bit of doubt in the back of my mind.

Kind of the same as did I lock the door? did I turn off the stove? did I turn off the hot iron?

Except not putting on deodorant will not get me robbed or burn the house down.

I'm pretty sure I did put on deodorant and this weird little lady I sat next to on the bus DID NOT which lead to my self-doubt. I mean, I am pretty hobo so I wouldn't put it past me, but I should really consider my environment.

A man just turned around and stared at me and I stared back for at least a minute until he looked away in defeat. Then he looked again and nodded. We either just made non-verbal plans to go on a date or he noticed that my clothes don't match.

I should really just rename this blog "Things That Happen To Me On The Bus."

I am having a serious good music drought. I feel like I have no time to listen to new music and all the old stuff is boring me.

This is indicative of a greater problem in my life in which I feel like all I do is go to work and go home. This is clearly not true, but I am feeling stressed out so all the islands of fun in between work are distant memories seconds after they end.

The exception is this week as RF is here, but last night I was pretty much the most boring person ever while hanging out with GZ. I have nothing to say.

I need 12 hours of sleep in a row. Not spread out over three days.

I cannot wait for camping. It is my oasis. If I can just make it to September 17th, I will survive.

Wherein Bry does what she does.

Whenever I post a dark and twisty blog, I feel like I immediately have to follow it up with some lighter topics. So here are some short vignettes of normal-ish Bry stuff.

Overheard on the bus:
A kid said he didn't know who the Indigo Girls were but their name "sure sounded gay."

On Tuesday I wore my black JCrew scarf I've had since college and left it on the desk. I called late Tuesday night, but JK told me it wasn't there. I was super sad. Then today I found it hiding in a cubby and I put it on even though it was 1000 degrees. JAO asked me why I was wearing a scarf. "Because I'm happy it wasn't lost." JW thought this was an adorable answer. JAO accused me of trying to cover a hickey.

The good thing about commuting on the same bus line every day is that it has become fairly predictable. However, I'm beginning to recognize the other regulars and they me. Unlike the other commuters, I believe a bus ride should be spent in silence or talking quietly to a traveling partner. I really think people who talk to strangers on the bus are bat-shit crazy people.

Today I look like a hobo not because of what I am wearing, but because of how ill-fitting it is. Everything is so baggy. This makes me sad, some of my clothes are kinda cute. I told MP I was going to start eating until everything fits again, I just can't afford to buy new clothes. She was aghast. "I'm just kidding, I swear!"

Today a woman asked me for a book by a man called Henky. I said, "Henning Mankell?" No, she was positive that wasn't it. She told me he wrote Scandinavian mysteries. "Right. Mankell. I'm positive." But oh no, she was sure I was wrong. So I lead her to the section. Oh, yah, that was it. Then she asked me if Sarah Waters was similar. Now, this is very book snobish, I do admit, but are you freaking kidding me? How could you mistake them for the same writing. She also took me to task for not reading PD James. "I don't read mysteries. I'm more of a trashy romance kinda gal." I then made a joke about his name being Henna Ankles. So I officially can never read his stuff.

My brother got married today. And his ex-wife got married a few weeks ago. I can't wait for HH, LH, or TG's memoirs in 20 years "That was the summer my parents got married to other people." This is sort of a dark thing to say and I don't mean it in jest or as a criticism. I just like to imagine them growing from the little people they are now into adults who do adult like things, such as drink port, smoke tobacco from pipes, wear monocles, and write memoirs. Oh, and apparently they are early-century British in this scenario.

The End

Wherein Bry is just happy to be alive.

Here is a story to prove how much you love me, because I am the only one who will tell you stories like this.

Yesterday I woke up at 5am and the first words out of my mouth were "Mother fucking son of a bitch."

I have spelled out the full swear rather than masking it with one of these, $@*!, because I want you to feel the full force of my dirty, Orbit-less mouth.

See, it was 5am. And in order for me to get to work by 6am, I have to be in a carpool exactly at 5am and the carpool doesn't wait.

So other than being more than an hour late (not an option when it is your job to let everyone in), I would need to take a cab. I called a cab and then took a three minute shower, dressed, and grabbed my bag. I then proceeded to wait for 25 minutes and was about to call a rival cab, when the driver showed up.

Right from the start, he was a real charmer. As if it were my fault that he was late. That he was now going to be late getting the car back and would probably be fired. That, Holy Crap!, we have been driving for five miles and the meter is not running!

Not to mention the lethal speeds he was traveling at, weaving in and out of traffic.

And not to mention complaining about the distance and asking if he could drop me closer.

"With all due respect Sir, I said up front I was going to Lake Oswego and you accepted the fare."

And then he almost hit someone. Rather than being concerned about the person he nearly ran off the road, or me as his passenger, he asked "How much further? Where can I drop you?"

At this point, I could see work in the distance, and we were near the shoulder of the exit I needed, so I said "Drop me here." And he did. No questions asked. No "But ma'am, we are on the freeway!"

I threw a wad of $5s over the seat, which I thought was $15 but was only $10 (I found another $5 when scrounging up money for coffee). Really, I should have paid him zero. The actual cost would have been $30, so he got screwed in the long run. Not to mention that he probably lost his job when I called to complain later in the afternoon.

But wait! The story isn't over.

As I'm walking down the ramp off the freeway (a gentle slope, not an actual ramp), a car pulls over. And it is TS.

I get in and he is shaking his head. This is what he told CPR later:

"I was driving down the freeway and I see a cab pull over and someone gets out. I think who would get out of a car on the freeway? And then I realize it is Bry."

Later I told my boss, "You will probably hear this rumor that TS found me on the side of the freeway this morning and I have to say it is true. I'd like to say this sort of thing never happens to me but that would be a lie."

Wherein Bry has more of the same.

I felt a little guilty about the blog I'm about to launch into. Like I didn't want to subject you to the awfulness and self-absorbtion you are about to read. But then I decided THIS IS A BLOG. It is the height of self-absorbtion to keep a blog in the first place and actually quite an exhibition to blog at all.

So suck it up bitches (and Mom) because this is about to happen.

Last night I made a list of all the things about me that make me completely undateable. Not the physical, emotional or psychological things. But more tangible things.

1. I don't have a bed.

2. I'm very poor.

3. I'm not tidy. I live in a nest like a bird or a rat. Probably more of a rat. A rat bird or a bird-like rat.

4. I don't take anything seriously.

5. I can be a bitch.

6. I'm very bossy and not in the good kind of way.

That is pretty much as far as I got before I was too sleepy to go on.

I realize that you are probably composing your response to these statements and while I welcome your input, I want you to know that I don't feel at all bad about this six-pointed list.

Some of these items are easily fixed and the others are what make me Bry.

In not completely unrelated news, today I realized I have not referred to myself as a spinster in weeks and this made me very sad. I've also had no time to knit, snuggie-fest, or watch Pride & Prejudice. I'm inconsolable.