No Time for Cameras, We'll Use Our Eyes Instead

Two hours ago I crawled into the Biscuit, intent on driving to Taco Bell and inhaling a XXL Grilled Streak Burrito. Then I realized my subconscious had sabotaged and left my wallet at work. So instead I made a collage of pictures that make me smile while listening to Matt & Kim. Now I'm sharing it with you, because I'm guessing most of you need something to smile about also.

while I know it’s letters that can spell
I hear now it’s words that can say

I decided to start writing less
and I’m talking more everyday

sixteen of our friends
a five seat bright red van
curbside view turn off of grand

pound my steering wheel
we yell to the windshield
I’m finally home
I’m finally home

I see that we’re made of
more than blood and bones
see we’re made of
sticks and stones

don’t forget to breathe

need locks for your keys

don’t forget to breathe now

forget to breathe now

-Matt & Kim, "Cameras"

I love you all very, very much. 

Hello, Goodbye.

Afraid [uh-freyd], adj: filled with fear or apprehension; filled with concern or regret over an unwanted situation

I’m afraid.

I’m afraid of spiders and dolls and varicose veins. Portable toilets, hangnails, commitment. Dying alone. Living alone. Deadlines. I’m afraid of you, and myself and homeless people who talk to me or themselves. Talk to the demons in their heads, or maybe the demons in mine.

I’m afraid of dark. Of darkness.

I’m afraid of leaving, and afraid I’ll never leave. Afraid that even if I leave everything will still be the same. I’m afraid of having nothing to say. I’m afraid to say what needs to be said. I’m afraid I’ll say what needs to be said and nobody will listen, or everybody will listen and blame me for their wasted time.

I am afraid of deep water and losing my loved ones. Losing my mind. I’m afraid of the silences between our words and the meanings we attribute to them. I’m afraid of growing old, of dying old. I’m afraid of the truth, and even more afraid of the lies. How easily they replace reality.

Like when my barista asks how my day is going, do I tell the truth? That I found out my grandmother is dying and my world feels somehow smaller and also askew, like I’m looking at myself down a long hallway of crooked mirrors. That I’m having a hard time breathing because my jaw is clenched tight around the flow of memories swelling into my throat. Or do I smile, say things are fine. They’re just fine. They’re fine or they will be. There’s a thin line between a lie and a half-truth. Because things have to be fine eventually, right? Or else what’s the point?

I’m analyzing my reaction to loss because I have yet to experience it, holding it at arms’ length, studying. Because I am afraid. I am afraid of feeling grief and even more afraid of an inability to experience it. We expect devastation to accompany tragedy and there is a comforting quality to the natural progression of our emotions. I expected a pure surge of emotion. Instead I’m wrestling with contradictions and tensions, each emotional note feeding off the others until the crescendo crashes over my head and I’m gasping in a community rose garden, my two hands holding each other for stability.

I don’t know how to do this, because I’ve never done it before.

Two nights ago I had a dream about my grandmother. I woke up knowing I should call her. We’ve talked once in the last two years. I called her Christmas morning on the 45 minute drive from my family’s home to my afternoon shift at work. I chose to call her then because I had a legitimate exit route when the time came to end our conversation. I love my grandmother, but she can be hard to please, hard to communicate with. I woke up two days ago knowing I needed to call her, but I didn’t. I don’t know why. I just got wrapped up in my own head I suppose. Caught in my own simple web of problems or accomplishments.

I dreamed about bee stings, a friend I haven’t met and my grandmother. I dreamed about my body covered in open, weeping stings. I dreamed about being sewn back together, the pain inherent in any sort of healing. I don’t know why she was there. I’m not even sure she was there. Just the idea of her, solid as Coca-Cola collectible bottles and rose gardens.

My grandmother is fresh nectarines from roadside fruit stands. My grandmother is country music, Dolly Parton and Garth Brooks. She is Elvis Presley collectors-edition plates. She is summer vacation and “No TV after 6 on the Sabbath”. My grandmother is roller blading; she is sneaking paper bags into movie theaters to take advantage of large popcorn refills. She is doing the best with what you’ve got. And now she is lung cancer.

So my parents will buy me a ticket, I’ll put myself on a plane and fly to California. To say hello, goodbye. And I am afraid, because today goodbye seems so much bigger than ever before.

If you give me a little time

to straighten out my mind

Things will be all right. All right.

All my love.

-b                                                          

This Ain't No Lullaby... At Home in the California Sky

Hello all of you out in Webland! I hope your week is going swimmingly. Mine thus far has been swallowed whole by work and pertussis. Seriously, one of the highlights: finally running out of pineapple jam and deciding what my new flavor would be. For the record, I chose raspberry. With the seeds. I still have a tiny baby porcupine living in my chest [Note: I hope he's eating bananas], but obvs you don’t have to see a doctor unless “your symptoms persist longer than two weeks”. I’ve got three more days for this business to clear up, and I plan on getting aggressive with it. Luckily my friends and roomies are incredible, and have made sure I’m still alive on several occasions. Also, Nyquil gel caps might be one of the greatest inventions of all time ever. Ever.

[Note: this is an exaggeration; I actually think a lot of things are better than Nyquil gel caps. For example Lisa Frank binders, butterscotch pie and glow sticks.]

Despite my recent 45 hour work week, my borderline poverty continues. But! I finally have a totally legit reason to be poor. I mean besides the obvious bill paying and cost of living stuff. I am registered for the second ever, super awesome Autostraddle A-Camp: the place where dreams come true.

Ohmygod, what? You mailed your registration check and everything?!

Once upon a time, the demi-goddesses of Autostraddle decided that inter-webular relations with their readers were great, but they could do more. They put their brilliant minds together and concocted A-Camp, a safe place for readers to come together and just exist and create and collaborate. In the California forest. With bonfires and workshops and vegan-option meals. Seriously, I know this is going to be one of the best experiences of my life. I know because all of these people said it was one of the best experiences of their lives, and don’t they look trustworthy? Absolutely. I would let these people cat-sit for me.

I've been spending a lot of time daydreaming about this experience since I registered on Monday. While I can't be entirely sure, I expect my days to go something like this:

8am: Wake up, well-rested of course because you’re at A-Camp and how could anything in the                whole wide world possibly be wrong when you’re at A-Camp?

8:30am: Optional cabin yoga followed by free time. During this free time I will be brushing my teeth, applying Old Spice Pure Sport and crisply refolding my bandanas.

10am: Breakfast, consume delicious foods. Go vegan if you want. Or don’t! It’s your call.

11am: Unicorn Basics workshop, where we’ll learn where to find our unicorns, as well as tips and tricks for grooming, feeding and tending these delicate mythical creatures.

12pm: Free time (AKA nap in the sun or go for a trail run)

1pm: More food! Good food, lovely food.

2pm: Vegan cooking classes, hopefully led by Hannah Hart

[Note: I mostly want to meet Harto so I can tell her that one week I communicated with my friends entirely through facial expressions and My Drunk Kitchen quotes. Or maybe I wouldn’t tell her that, because she might think I was a weirdo and get a restraining order.]

3pm: Informative seminar, where my views will be broadened and my mind blown

4:15pm: Glitter fight!

5pm: More food… because these things are important.

5:30pm: Riese touching all of our faces

6pm: Bear witness to some sort of talent, perhaps display some sort of talent I possess

7pm: Spontaneous, choreographed dance complete with Broadway musical sing-along!

8pm: Bonfire, campfire songs, s’mores. Perfection.

10:30pm: Some sort of sweaty dance party to tucker us all out before bedtime.

Also, this. 

And that’s just one day! There will be four of them altogether. I can’t even put into words how excited I am about this. Seriously, my first draft of this paragraph was: “!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

However, with great excitement comes great responsibility. Registering for A-Camp has led to a million hours of planning that I intend to put off until the very last minute. Do I really need to know how I’m going to pay for camp? Or better yet, exactly how I am going to get my broke ass down to Los Angeles? No. The lesbian powers that be will take care of me, I trust that. Did you guys know it’s a 30 hour train ride to Los Angeles from here? I didn’t until Monday.

Not exactly Portland's friendly neighbor.

Sorry, this is all I've got for you today. There are lots of big thoughts in my head but they aren't quite ready to be born yet... happy Memorial Day weekend, hope you creeps all have big plans. I will be sleeping off my strenuous week, and maybe doing laundry. Like a grown up. 

Love. All of it.

-b

P.S. did I mention I’m seeing Andrea Gibson perform on June 7^th? Don't be jealous, just come with me. Ok? Ok. 

Drink Liquid Clocks 'til I See God

This week I have been dying of the plague. My chances of survival have improved since Monday, when my throat may have been housing a baby porcupine. I've literally been on drugs this entire week. If I wasn’t at work staring miserably at nothing, I was home asleep in my bed. I’ve gone through 4 quarts of chicken noodle soup, a pack of soothing menthol cough drops, a combo Nyquil/Dayquil family pack and a box of Alka-Seltzer Cold & Cough tablets. I somehow managed to survive 34 hours of work. Don’t ask me how, considering I phlegmed on my phone headset Monday morning and thought I might be fired. What I’m trying to say is I lost an entire week of life to the strangely viscous reality stew of medicinally-induced sleep.

Will you take the Nyquil, or the non-drowsy Dayquil?

This morning I was bitching to a friend about my life and how little I’ve accomplished. I feel like I left Missoula ages ago, and I feel like I should be a much more successful human being by now. I mean that’s the point, right? Growing up, growing away, hitting my stride out here. I guess essentially I expected to be more. Once I wore myself out on that tangent, she very gently reminded me that I’ve only been in this town for three months. Oh my god, you guys. She’s right. I’ve only been in Portland for three months and three days.

This brings to light my extraordinarily warped perception of time, something I’ve always been peripherally aware of. I never really considered its pertinence to the way I view my life. I obvs know the solid time markers. Like that “last Tuesday” means the Tuesday that preceded the week we are currently occupying. Because time is a thing that we occupy, it’s a conceptual idea that we make physical by being present in it. Or something like that. You should know I’m not really scientifically oriented. I prefer the literary realm. I get more excited by dialects and etymology than genetics or astrophysics. But the scientific concept of time in and of itself is fascinating. Plus human perceptions of time and the way our cultures mark it? Mind boggling.

Here are some examples of the arbitrary ways I process time:

The other day refers to any time in the last 5 years. It could be “I was driving home the other day”, which completely works. You can infer that I drive home a lot, and I’m probably referencing sometime in the past week or two. Just as comfortably, I’ve been known to say something like “So I was talking to S the other day…” at which point my conversational partner becomes confused, because S has been in Africa for the past 7 months and has had little to no contact with the outside world.  

A while ago is similarly broad. I was supposed to be somewhere “a while ago”? I’m either five minutes or five hours late. Rarely but occasionally five days. Related to this: in a little bit really could be within the next five minutes! Unless it’s something I don’t want to do. Then it means sometime this week. Probably.

Forever really just expresses my growing irritation with a situation or activity. It doesn’t pertain to any sort of time measurement. Not even a little bit, not even at all. So when I say “Holy shit, it seems like we’ve been waiting forever”, we probably haven’t. We’ve probably been waiting the expected number of minutes for said activity (ex. getting seated at a restaurant or standing in line for a roller coaster). The length of Forever directly correlates to the amount of sleep I got the previous night, my blood sugar/alcohol levels and my personal excitability.  

Writing is inordinately hard today, like my headspace is all cluttered even though I spent all day today making sure my physical space wasn’t. By all day I mean the approximate hour it took me to do a load of laundry and sweep my loft.

On an unrelated note, I discovered this mid delirium. Seriously, go take a dose of Nyquil, wait 20 minutes and then look at this site.

I love you all dearly. Angels on your body.  

-b

[Note: Did any of you weirdos notice the eclipse today? I blamed it on the Dayquil, but it's just as likely some sort of weird astral energy contributed to my strange mindscape today.]

The Good Times are Killing Me.

[Note: I just woke up from 5 hours of Nyquil induced coma. I had dreams about butterscotch pudding and flying. I still feel a liiiitle zany, and also like there are tiny marbles rolling around behind my eyeballs making them hard to focus]

Hi weirdos! Did you miss me? I missed you... The time has finally come to write about that most sacred event: Maggotfest. For the record, I am currently sitting on my couch having been sent home from work 7 hours early, eating popsicles and nursing a cup of tea. I sound like Abby Lee Miller after smoking a carton of American Spirits. I feel like a grown ass woman who drove 20 hours to spend four days running around half-naked, drinking free beer. Whilst wearing a cape. I’m also incredibly overwhelmed by the prospect of how much information I have to share with you all. So I’ll probably just breeze through this and go back to browsing Animals Talking inAll Caps like any normal human being would.

Before I go any further: this is a shout out to TALULAH (name verified and spelled correctly)! This weekend Talulah shamelessly promoted my blog, which feels a lot better than when I shamelessly promote this blog, since she actually takes time to read it and I mostly just vomit it out into cyberspace. I believe her exact words were “b is really poor! But she writes an excellent blog! Give her $2 or $3”. She made me $8 and the hopeful promise of two care packages. The rugby family takes good care of me, and I am bursting with gratitude.

Speaking of my rugby family, everyone was in top form this weekend! Betterside won all three of their games. I saw two people fall down stairs, one eat a brick of cheese with her bare hands and I nearly murdered one fish. Accident you guys! I was trying to be a good citizen. Shevel Knieval owned the town of Missoula this weekend. Seriously. They made it their bitch.

Shevel Knievel. Boom. 

Maggotfest 2012 Highlights:

1.   Dancing myself stupid to Queen, Buckcherry and Paula Abdul hits with at least 35 Knievals in the parking garage. All while randoms milled through going about their normal daily lives.  

2.   Friend telling me exactly how she would whip Jennifer Lopez’s dance crew into shape, if she were to participate in ABDC. Because those bitches don’t know J-Lo like she knows J-Lo!

3.   Scooping up Little Bird and zipping her wee little boots after she stumbled at a dead sprint out of the Oxford and into the street.  

4.   A friend stumbling up to me in the middle of the Bodega to let me know she checks my blog every morning, and has deduced exactly who everyone is (bad naughty!).

          5. This picture:

6.   The Bear being serenaded with “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” in the middle of the jam-packed Mo Club on a Sunday night.

7.   This really great thing that I want to tell you all about, but I can’t because I’m afraid I’ll somehow jinx or ruin it, and I absolutely don’t want that to happen. So I am going to mention it here briefly and maybe in like 5 or 10 years I’ll be able to elaborate and I’ll link back to this exact paragraph and say “Aren’t you glad we’re still here and I didn’t fuck everything up?”

I’m going to stop there because seven seems like a lucky list-making number. Luckier than nine, which was the number of my last list. I’m sure there are more things to mention, but that’s what you get because I honestly can’t contain the emotions/thoughts/feelings/experiences of an entire Maggotfest weekend in one post. Most of you were there, or have been in the past. You know how it goes. I’d like to mention this was my very first Maggotfest spent moderately sober. Definitely a big deal for me. I like enjoying the details of my weekend instead of losing them to the drunken indistinct mess my past Fests have been. I like remembering who I saw, who I talked to, what was said.

Friday morning, sitting in the sunshine with M and S. Sometimes you just need to talk to your friends about life and love and your new job, and that’s ok. Sometimes you don’t need to talk at all, and that’s ok too. Making capes with the Velvet Fog and S, and Lo busting out the sewing machine to ensure we didn’t look like damn fools. These are the things worth remembering, and the first things we forget.

Over Sunday 2am cheese fries down at the Oxford, while M brutalized a bacon cheeseburger and I thought about remembering what sleep looked like. AK started talking about how scary it can be. Growing up and moving away. She said something like this:

It’s weird, isn’t it? How you get so nervous? Like maybe nobody actually likes you and they’re just pretending. Like once you show up they’re going to show their true colors. Like you’re going to be “that girl” who everyone trash talks. But it never happens that way. These people really do love you, and 12 people will text to see when they can pick you up from the airport. You get here and nobody can wait to see you, because you’re “That Girl”, the one everybody loves. We just make it up in our heads, how unlikable we are.

Still, by Monday I was ready to come home. Some things about Missoula still give me the big heavies, still make me want to curl up like a little fetus and die. Like forcing myself to leave your bedroom after the clothes were folded and the bed was made. Or standing in a field of potential dandelion wishes, wanting to free the seeds from each bulb. You said you wanted them to grow everywhere, and I loved you and the sunshine. I wanted to fill my ribcage with those potential wishes. I have hot sauce and pralines in my backseat. I have a new postcard for my collection. I have two less stamps and a lot less certainty than when I set out. We’re going to be ok. We all have to be ok, or else what's the point?

I don’t even know, you guys. I’m working on this whole self-improvement-live-a-better-life montage bullshit. The funny thing about attempting to enact your own montage is that the movies never really tell you how much time those things take! What flashed by in 30 glorious seconds of transformation could actually take years and years and years. I catch myself thinking that a month or 6 months or a year is a long time. But really? Is it? I guess we’ll see.

“& I don’t mind

if we take our time

cuz I’m all yours

if you’re all mine”

A few things I'm realizing: I'll never be perfect. I know, I know. This news comes as a shock. But the people who love me will love me in spite of that fact. And they respect me for my imperfect honesty over my polished lie. They may be hurt, and I may be hurt, but hurts were meant to heal. Eventually we all heal, and we can all be in a better place together. A more honest place at least, a place where we can all sit in the sunshine with our little bandaged hearts and just breathe and it won't seem so hard. I feel like the universe is slowly converging back into the shape it’s supposed to be. Slowly. Because this isn’t a montage, it’s real life.

Tiny ginger cat says you've got this

You told me the thing about grand gestures is nobody actually ever does them. They only happen in movies. Give me time, mon petit chou.

Sending you all my love!

-b

I'm losing my mind this time, this time.

[Hey weirdos! I didn't want to leave you in the lurch for an entire weekend, so I enlisted the writing talents of a good friend to do a guest post. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did! Maggotfest is off to a rollicking good start, can't wait to recap the highs and lows of this latest adventure. All my love. -b]


Hello out there!  b asked me to write a guest post since she would be unable to do so while driving across the many miles to Maggotfest.  I, having the day off from work and the sunshine to keep me content, agreed happily, knowing that SURELY I could whip out a post by my midnight deadline.


Then I bought 2 bottles of champagne and mixings for multiple types of Mimosas.  Next, my roommate purchased some Summer Honey and Dragon’s Breath (Missoula beers win. Sorry, Portland.) and the inevitable case of PBR.  Somehow my day mysteriously disappeared... I found myself asleep at 10 pm in the room fondly known as “The Hobbit Hole” or, more commonly, “The Fuzzy Vagina” (Let me explain: TFV is a storage closet sort of thing with a king sized futon mattress folded to fit and faux fur hanging on the walls.  Totally normal, guys.  This is Portland we’re talking about.).  Three other people had decided they wanted a “nap” as well and we all fit ourselves in to the tiny space by becoming a set of spoons.  Shortly, we found ourselves lost in the oblivion of closed eyes and quiet snores.  The alarm we set did little to rouse us, instead inciting riotous choruses of “Turn that damn thing off!” and “Make it stop!”.   And then, there I was, waking up with one of the people climbing back in to bed for the night.  Our house’s Craft Night had obviously dissipated and I dared to look at the clock.   2:00 am, you say?  Better late than never, I suppose...  So, here I am.  After successfully postponing my writing even longer by focusing on the important things in life first... namely Facebook and downloading a bunch of music specifically chosen to be a writing soundtrack... 6:00 am has arrived and I am finally settling in to my papasan to tell you stories.  But, I digress.


For this post, b asked me to recall a scene from 500 Days of Summer in which Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s character, Tom is experiencing the same scenario in split screen.  On one half of the screen is his “Expectation”.  The other is “Reality”.  Let me take this moment to note that I had to search for this scene all over the interwebs (Well, maybe that was hyperbole. I simply enlisted the help of our benevolent Google overlords.) just to remember what the heck b was referencing.  I saw 500 Days of Summer once when it came out and, due to watching it on one of my many insomnia driven nights of joy and wonder, was exhausted and didn’t enjoy it very much.  After rewatching the scene in question I may have to reconsider.


The idea is extraordinarily poignant to me right now.  My life seems to be a series of mismatched expectations and realities.  Not only does this ring true in the general sense, as most of us can relate to, but over the last year it rings true as a church bell at dawn.


For example:  A year ago I was moderately content in my apartment, going to school in Missoula, living with my partner.  I’d thrown around the idea of moving to Portland, talking very seriously at times about how I longed to stretch my wings in a new place and see if I could fly.  However, I was settled in to finish school with a degree in the works and a decent job where I was doing “good” work every day.  As I looked forward to 2012, I didn’t worry about Mayan prophesies or the supposedly impending “rapture” on May 21, 2011.


Instead, I foresaw a new apartment with the two people I loved the most.  I looked forward to someday breaking out of that town and was ready to wait until it could actually happen.  And when I did break out, I was going to be SOMEONE.  I was going to be a name that everyone in town knew, whetherit was in writing, acting, or music circles.  I was going to be a force to be reckoned with.


Reality: Here I am in Portland.  I’ve now been here 8 months and am settled in to a big crazy house in a room of my own.  I packed my things in a dizzy sandstorm of dashed expectations, skidding to a halt when I hadn’t even realized there might be insurmountable obstacles to my idealized future.  I high-tailed it and ran, so to speak, after seeing things fall away much like the scenes in Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind wherein the walls of each memory are slowly stripped away and torn apart.


And here, I’m just another young transplant, rushing through a food stamp application before running off to do a poetry reading in a little hidden cafe.  I can sing with one of the million other musicians here, but certainly don’t have people pounding on the door with special gigs.  I haven’t even attended theater auditions here.


Finally, instead of working some fast food or telemarketing job like any other starving artist, I made the decision to start working as an “entertainer” at a club.  Definitely the last thing I expected.


Let’s step aside now and look at the blatant “expectation”/”reality” scenario inherent in the simple fact that I dance for a living.


Expectation: The average idea of “stripping”.  Backstabbing women, lots of drugs, pounds of makeup applied with a putty knife, 9 inch heels.  And money. Lots and lots of money.  Enough to take care of not only current bills, but also to fix my poor, poor car who needs some plastic surgery after getting in to a fight with the back end of a Yukon.  I expected droves of people coming in to the club on busy nights leaving me no time to sit between conversations and smiles and dancing.  I expected to hate my job.


Reality: I’ve met a few backstabbing women who fall under the “stripper” stereotype.  They are drugged up and hustling 24/7. They wear the enormous heels and pounds of makeup.  But I’ve also met some LOVELY women.  Women who really are, just like myself, trying to accomplish goals with the supposedly large amounts of cash that they’ll make dancing.  Unfortunately, that is also another unfulfilled expectation.


PEOPLE ARE BROKE.  No money for the average person means that the dancers aren’t seeing the dollars either.  It doesn’t matter how great your body is or how many amazing tricks you can do.  If people are too broke to come in to the club, there is no one to dance for. Alas, while I may be struggling to make ends meet as usual, there is more to keep me working at the club than the coworkers.  I genuinely enjoy my job.  Think about it.  I go to work, get all dolled up, and hang out.  I dance in new ways, working out harder than I ever have in my life.  (My muscles are bulging even as I type this.)  I am given compliments throughout every shift.  Genuine compliments.  I talk to people.  Friends can visit and anyone can buy me a drink on the job.  I am confident.  And I’m steadily breaking through the stigmatized idea of a “stripper”.


Breaking through that stigma built in to me so many years ago by the sexually repressive desert of small town Montana has been a revolutionary experience for me.  Just because this isn’t what I expected doesn’t mean that my reality isn’t wonderful and challenging and eye opening every day.  I don’t feel dirty.  I don’t feel slutty.  The endorphins continually pumping through me from so much dancing keep me pretty damn happy. R, the girl who people meet at my work, is just a character extension of me.  I suppose I really did start in on an acting job after all.


Phew.  And now I’m yawning and exhausted and pretty sure that none of what I wrote in this delirious haze made sense.  But that’s okay.  Expectation: Perfection.  Reality: Doing the best we can.


Thanks, b, for letting me write and reintroducing me to 500 Days of Summer.  Maybe I’ll have you post my blog address sometime so these kids can check it out.


[Note: I would love to get my hands on that address, and will be doing so ASAP. Keep an eye out for it under Things I Love on the control panel]

Until then, folks, I’m sending love across the wires.

-C  

Dance, Dance. We're Falling Apart to Half Time

Well hello there, boys and girls! Maybe just girls. I sometimes wonder what my reader demographic actually is. Any fellas out there? These are the things that keep me up at night. Blog readership and the perpetual expansion of the universe into more universe.

My sun-sodden brain has decided to go stream-of-consciousness on you. Not to mention the fact that I’m Stripparoake bound in t-minus 30 minutes. I still haven’t bothered to put on pants, therefore editing is most definitely out of the question. Today was totes amazing, you guys. I woke up at the crack of noon, walked to Trader Joe’s for eggs, yogurt and free samples (some sort of BBQ pork and a cube of gouda cheese) and sprung for a latte at the coffee shop around the corner. I think the barista liked me. She gave me an extra shot fo’ free. The rest of the day I chased the sun around in my backyard and refused to wear a shirt. All in all, it’s been an exceptionally good Sunday to cap off a phenomenal weekend.   

I finally braved downtown Portland this weekend. For those of you back home, I know how that sounds. Going downtown is easy, right? No. Downtown is an entirely different world. Or at least plausibly an entirely different city. Coming over the Burnside bridge into Southwest reminds me that I actually live in a city at all.

I gravitated downtown because of an overwhelming desire to dance. Not the standard ass shaking I do every morning in my bedroom. I needed a dance floor and strobe lights and a seizure-inducing techno beat and at least 100 sweaty bodies jostling around me. I was willing to fly solo for this experience. Luckily, I didn't have to. The planets aligned and my friends were already planning some dance party mayhem. Naturally we hit up CC Slaughters, because if you can’t find good dancing at a gay dance club where the hell will you find it? Answer: nowhere.

I have to admit, this was perhaps the first time I’ve ever gone dancing sober. Sobriety is this new thing I’m trying. It's part of this whole Self Love Plan I've fashioned, along with yoga and vitamins and accepting compliments graciously. But goddamn alcohol is such an effective crutch when you’re trying to do ridiculous things with your body. Like scale fences, or jog home at 2am, or dance. Soda water with lime just didn't have the same effect.

Drinks in hand, we hovered at the edge of the pulsating mess of human limbs and torsos (AKA the “dance floor”). After 20 minutes of awkward head bobbing, I arrived at a conclusion. Dancing is a lot like swimming. The first time you go to the river or the lake every summer you can try to ease yourself in slowly. You can let your feet acclimate, then your shins, then your knees. Eventually you’ll be waist deep, which works. That’s totally laudable. You go, Glen Coco! Or you can take a running leap and fling yourself off that dock.

So I took a deep breath, tucked my elbows and barreled straight into the middle of the crowd. Once you’re in there you can’t help but dance. Because if you stand still too long someone is going to wreck your shit with excessive arm thrashing. I don’t know how you all dance, but I’m definitely not a bumper or a grinder. I do a lot of jumping. I close my eyes and throw my 80s-ballad-rockfist in the air. I lose myself entirely; let my body take full control. It’s like therapy. It’s like entering a time warp. Next thing I know it’s 2:30am and they’re kicking us out into the cold before the back sweat has even dried.

I wanted to give you guys something really profound before Maggotfest, but I think this is about what you’re going to get from me tonight. I’m toying with the idea of real-time blog updates throughout Fest weekend. What do you think? Things could get interesting.

 I love you all more than you know. 

-b

P.S. I think this is the fastest post I’ve ever written, so don’t judge it too severely. It’s just a tiny baby. 

This post is underprivileged

O Maggotfest, O Maggotfest...

[Hey there, kittens. Did I tell you I’m supposedly posting these things every Thursday and Sunday? Self-imposed deadlines might be the worst sort. Or at least the easiest to ignore. Whoops… Anyhow, onward and upward!]

Does everyone miss Dance Moms as much as I do? I haven’t heard Abby Lee Miller’s rasping baritone for at least three weeks now. Since her leave of absence, I’ve been tempted to senselessly fling insults at impressionable young girls myself. Just for kicks. Being reduced to Glee for entertainment has been cruel and unusual.

As some of you know, it is nearly the most magical time of the year. No, not Chrismahanukwanzakah. That’s obvs still months away. I’m talking about Maggotfest (AKA the biggest rugby-centric party in the greater northwest). Never heard of Maggotfest? Simmer a minute. I’ll fill you in.

Maggotfest is an annual rugby tournament held in Missoula, Montana. The tournament features 36 teams (28 men’s and 8 women’s) from the U.S., Canada and usually somewhere far, far away like France or New Zealand. Fest kicks off (literally) Thursday afternoon and spirals wildly out of control until Sunday evening. That’s when you find yourself exhausted, wearing some remnants of a costume, hungover and desperate for a Mo burger. For a first-hand recount, read this: Doc the Maggot’s insider scoop. I also recommend searching “Maggotfest, Missoula” on Youtube.

“Debauchery” is not a strong enough term for this experience. I left my first Fest social wearing a balloon cock ‘n balls headdress, with a beer mug in each hand and one between my tits. Last year I gave the pre-Fest safety talk. I use the term “safety talk” pretty loosely. Mostly I recapped my most inglorious Fest moments, and advised the girls to avoid making the same choices. For example, napping on a stranger’s front lawn? Bad idea. Having your designated driver take you to the wrong house because you can’t remember where you live? Also a bad idea. I’m not going to go into much more detail because my mom still reads these things, but I think you get the idea.

Friend and I leave early Thursday morning. I’d like to say I’m 100% stoked on the upcoming festivities, but I’d be lying. Because of Lefty Lopez this will be the first of my eight consecutive Fests that I don’t play any rugby. I love a good 4-day drinking bender as much as the next girl, but the real allure of Fest for me has always been the game. I don’t know if you guys have noticed, but sometimes I have a hard time moderating my drinking. $5 buys you unlimited refills of cheap beer for the entire weekend, and quite frankly I’m concerned about my odds of actually surviving.

So far one person has resorted to blackmail to keep me coherent, if not entirely sober. I told her I’d rather not make any promises, but I would really like to see her. So! Incentive.

Despite my reservations, I’m pretty stoked to see that loveable bunch of weirdos, the Betterside. Not to mention all of my lovely non-rugger friends who have agreed to pace the sideline with me. The weather should be awesome, and there’s always some sort of spectacle to keep you entertained. Experiencing Fest from an outside perspective, I’m sure I’ll have plenty to talk about when I get back. Or nothing at all. Sometimes what happens at Fest needs to stay at Fest.    

How about a photo montage from past Fests? Yes please.

Happy Hoppers amateur jump rope squad! Soon to be Hungover Hoppers... 2007

That one rookie from Alaska who is having an awesome time! Little Red Riding Hood, 2008

A whole Jungle of Janes celebrating Fest '09

Sometimes you have a drunk bus instead of a one-horse open sleigh. Mrs. Claus tears up the town! 2010, the year Betterside won the prestigious award "Most Honored Side"

The Far-Betterside, this is a group shot of past and present players. Our costume was Rosie the Riveter, and we were a force to be reckoned with.  

Maggotfest 2012 coming soon!

Because I’m budgeting for next weekend, I’m inordinately poor right now. Remember that time I was trying to eat everything in my cupboards before buying groceries? That’s still happening. Except now it’s not a challenge, just a necessity. Keep in mind my first reaction to the thought of impending hunger is to eat every single thing I can get my hands on. I realize how counter-intuitive this is. I apparently don’t have the strongest survival instinct. Yesterday I finally cracked and spent $10 on peanut butter, bread, 3 lbs of baby onions and cabbage. I’m banking on getting to next Thursday on that. This whole process has stretched my creative talents to the limit.

Things I’ve learned from being dirt poor this past two weeks:

1.      There are at least 10 different ways to combine cabbage, rice and black beans (Hint: hot sauce makes everything better). My personal favorite so far has been stir-frying the cabbage in a little oil with soy sauce, garlic salt and brown sugar, throwing the beans in for the last 5-10 minutes so they get all warm and saucy, and serving over rice. The whole mess costs about $3 to make and can feed you for two or three meals.   

2.      Freezer burn is a myth/only makes you a little bit sick. Seriously guys, so there’s a weird aftertaste… but I think that’s probably ok? When the last occupants of our house moved, they left a ridiculous amount of food in the freezer. I’ve been slowly working my way through the more edible of these bastard goods. It’s been hit-or-miss, but really only one thing made me notably ill.

3.      Fresh fruits and vegetables are a luxury. Seriously. Back in Missoula I used a program called Farm to Family, which delivered an assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables to my front door every two weeks. Those were the good old days, man. I’m telling you that may have been my peak. Affording hand delivered vegetables.

4.      People want to buy your used junk about as much as you want to own your used junk. So not at all. In a last-ditch attempt to raise Maggotfest funds, I decided to put some assorted sundry goods on craigslist. Let me tell you, the market is small for plastic dog crates and used coffee makers.

5.      90% of your caloric intake can come from your roommate’s leftover birthday cake, and it won’t kill you. Oddly enough, chocolate cake in some form or another has kept me alive more than once. Remind me to tell you the story someday.  

6. You can apply for a credit card online in 5 minutes. Literally. I did this on Wednesday, and it's in the mail. 

7.      I have truly incredible friends and family. These people are determined to help me whether I want it or not. Historically, I have a really hard time asking for help. Mostly this stems from a strong sense of self-reliance. I created this life, and I’m the one who has to live with the consequences. But some people like me enough to bully me into accepting help. Like giving me their leftovers, even if they’re still hungry. Or buying me breakfast. Or sending me care packages like this: 

Unstained white t-shirt, wasabi peas, chocolate bunny, snack pack, book
for the writing in... and a dental dam. That about covers all my bases.

When I first moved out of the dorms, I was gifted a box of Aunt Patsy’s barley soup mix. Somehow this box of soup has lived with me over the past 5 years. A few times I’ve been tempted to just chuck it, but I always stopped myself. I told myself someday I’d be poor and hungry, and then I’d glad I kept it. That day has finally come. And you know what? It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s totes edible and filling, and one little box made about 4 quarts of soup. Kudos, Aunt Patsy.

For the record, I won’t be poor much longer. I get paid right after Maggotfest, and then I’ll be totally set to buy the long, long list of groceries that’s accumulating on my dresser. So don’t worry about me, I promise I’m going to be ok. That means you, mom. 

6 days until Missoula. God help us all. 

Love you all the days!

-b