A Brief & Incomplete List: #1

Things I should probably be embarrassed about:

5) I don’t really hate citrus fruit, I’m just too lazy to work that hard for food.

Or maybe citrus fruit just isn’t worth that much effort? I don’t even know. I think I would peel tacos out of a protective rind, but maybe not. Maybe tacos’ accessibility is the root of their appeal, but a’peeling citrus fruit is the worst.

Here are the facts: you buy citrus fruit, you peel it, you dispose of the rind, your fingers get sticky and weird, the world is a dark and scary place. However, if you present me with a bowl of pre-peeled orange segments? I would happily eat them without complaint. Write that down somewhere.

4) I can’t catch car keys with my bare hands.

Ever. It’s not that I’m bad at catching things.  I’m merely terrified the flying keys will puncture my hands. I realize this fear is irrational, because physics. I just can’t risk it. I prefer to kick at them out of the air, or catch them like this dog catches his ball. 

Nailed it. 

3) I have no interest in classic 80s movies (i.e. Pretty in Pink, Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles).

I’ve frequently been in the same room as classic 80s movies. I’ve glimpsed them on shelves, memorized most of their one-liners, and seen the beginning and/or ending scene at least a handful of times. Actually watching these movies from beginning to end has been impeded by A) high-grade pain killers, B) narcolepsy, C) an overpowering desire to scrub the kitchen floor with a toothbrush rather than watch the movie. I would rather peel an orange than watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Don’t ask me why.

The notable exception to this aversion is Dirty Dancing. Nobody puts Baby in the corner.

2) I’ve read an obscene number of VC Andrews novels.

Including but not limited to Flowers in the Attic, “the gothic incest classic which has endured as a nostalgia-fueled oddity”. And every subsequent book in the Dollanganger Series. You guys, this woman wrote incest the way most of us write grocery lists. I also find her plotlines comfortingly predictable, albeit horrifying. Young human beings + terrible trauma = coming of age tale. Anyone with approximately 70 posthumous book publications is clearly some sort of demi-god.

Flowers in the Attic was recently released as a Lifetime original movie. Autostraddle very accurately recapped it. Much uncomfortable dialogue ensured. Don’t worry, VC. I got yo’ back.

1) I potentially love my cat more than anything on this planet.

I feel like this isn’t uncommon, but that doesn’t make it socially acceptable. Thus far, nothing rivals her grump-face in the realm of joyous squeal inducers. Not even a baby porcupine eating watermelon. Or a pygmy goat head butting Shih Tzu puppies. If anybody rolled in my gym socks I’d be disgusted. But That Cat can do no wrong. Even when buffalo jumping live rodents into my bedroom window.

She never judges my marathon television habits. I wish she could Snapchat me. I realize that if I die alone she won’t think twice about postmortem predation, but I’m not even mad about it. She’s the cutest sadistic jerk on this planet. 

That about sums it up. I hope you don’t love me any less.

-b

Every Dog Has His Day.

“And we laughed, you know. Because sometimes you’d rather cry.”

                -Sherman Alexie, The Approximate Size of my Favorite Tumor

I make a lot of jokes about my job.

Most likely I don't know how to explain this. Except maybe it's a defense mechanism. Except maybe the starving artist in me resents a full belly. Maybe the Women & Gender Studies minor in me resents the word receptionist. Maybe it's not cool to be passionate about entry-level desk jobs. Or the child in me resents close-toed shoes, or the poet in me resents the nine-to-five hustle and the limited lexicon of customer service. A short and incomplete list of words I use excessively and primarily during work hours:

·         Absolutely.

·         Fantastic.

·         Perfect.

·         Excellent.

The truth is, I don't get to spend 8 hours a day playing with puppies and watching kitty cat videos on Youtube. People who have worked a front desk know how tedious they can be. The hand holding. The smiling/nodding/yes ma’aming. We sooth people’s anxiety and give them guidance. We help them prioritize finances, schedules, and their pets’ well-being. Behind the scenes we’re juggling technicians, who are juggling doctors, who are juggling the animals. When a ball gets dropped we end up at the bottom of the pile sorting who goes where and belongs to what.

This is an entry-level position that requires assimilating a vast amount of knowledge in a very short amount of time, with little acknowledgement. We’re helping people make important decisions with medical training that we picked up as we went. We have to recognize red flags. We have to know when to trust our instincts and when to defer. We have to learn from our mistakes, and often those lessons are hard. The sort of hard that follows you home at night, sits in the back of your mind for months.

I make a lot of jokes about my job. Because it’s easier to call myself a desk ornament than to describe the way a woman can sound like a car accident.  How her voice twists like metal when she calls to say her dog dropped dead mid-run, and what does she do now? I joke about paper pushing, because it’s socially acceptable. Casual acquaintances don’t want to hear about yesterday’s abdominal tap over drinks. I can’t describe a man’s hands trembling while he’s saying goodbye to a friend for the last time.

I promise this rambling monologue leads to cupcakes and sparkling cider on a Thursday afternoon.

As a courtesy, we routinely call our clients the day before their appointment. This allows us to confirm all the little details (ex. date, time, and that the pet is still kicking. Unfortunately working in a cardiology office means that last one isn’t always a given). Halfway through my phone calls with nothing out of the ordinary when this happened

Female client: Hello?

Me: Hello! This is Brenda from Cardiology Northwest. I was just calling to…

Client: Not interested, thanks.

Click. Silence. After a moment of deciding whether or not that counted as confirmation, I redialed and waited with bated breath. This time a clearly exasperated client answered the phone.

Client: Hello.

Me: HelloI’mcallingfromCardiologyNorthwesttoconfirmanappointmentforDogtomorrow!

Client: …What’s this about?

Me: This is Brenda. I’m with Cardiology Northwest. I’m calling to confirm Dog’s appointment.

Client: Are you sure it’s tomorrow?

Me: Yes, we’ve got him on the schedule for 4pm. Will that work for you folks?

Client: It’s TOMORROW?! But his birthday isn’t until March. Are you sure it’s for Dog?

Me: Yes, tomorrow at 4pm with the doctor for his cardiology appointment.

At this point in the conversation I was vaguely aware that we weren’t communicating effectively. I didn’t realize how far off topic we’d gotten until

Client: Oh, how lovely! And you’re sure it’s tomorrow? Oh, he’ll be so surprised!

Me: ….

Client: ….

Me: … What do you think we’re talking about?

Client: A surprise birthday party for Dog! With Party-ology Northwest! I don’t know who set this up for him, but I’m so excited.

You guys. I’ve taken a lot of difficult phone calls in the last two years. But I hated breaking the news to this woman that we were in fact a Cardiology clinic, not a super-secret dog birthday party planning committee. After a lengthy exchange of

Me: CARdiology Northwest.

Client: Yeah, PARTYology!

Me: No, no, no. CARDIO. CARdiology!
Client: Oh, this is so exciting.

I finally settled the matter with a C-as-in-Cat breakthrough. Laughter ensued, the appointment was confirmed, and we ended the call on a high note. The next day, Dog and a very sheepish gentleman showed up at 4pm clutching a small party bag. Dog’s mom had packed us cupcakes, a bottle of sparkling cider, tiny paper cups, and party napkins. She also wrote a lengthy note thanking me for being so patient with her on the phone, and hoping the gift bag would put the Party into Party-ology. [Note: If I had known that Party-ology was a thing, I think we all know what I would have my degree in]

The moral of this story: my job isn’t easy. I often downplay how difficult it is because I’m “only a receptionist”. But some days there are cupcakes. And every day with cupcakes is a good day. Cheers, Dog!

All my love, you creeps.

-b

The Aftershow: Year in Review Pt. 2

Welcome to Important Shit You Missed, 2013 Edition (Part 2), AKA highlight reel of my soul!

[Note: contrary to what this Year in Review appears to indicate, I am not under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol 100% of my life. I’ve practiced moderation at least once. I frequently eat a well-balanced diet and get the recommended hours of sleep. My biggest mishap last month was purchasing laundry detergent that makes me smell like Skittles. While this tragedy haunts my every waking moment, it doesn’t make for compelling reading material. Sorry mom.]

July 

This summer was preternaturally sunny for Portland. There were consecutive cloudless days. The temperature hovered somewhere near perfect  for an unnatural period of time. At one point I begged the sky to please, for the love of god, just be overcast because I couldn’t spend another day recreating outdoors.

Enter Saturday: we’re sitting in an Irish pub after browsing ironic key chains, pug bjorns, and overpriced machetes at the morning market. Somebody muses, You know what would be great? If there was a Land Before Time drinking game. Cue the moment I realized my deep and profound adoration for these people.

We purchased 2-6 magnums of Plaid Pantry wine, caravanned to my house, closed the curtains, and whiled the day away. Rules included drinking 1) anytime “Sharptooth” is shouted in a fit of terror 2) Spike eating or Ducky speaking in threes 3) thinly-veiled references to racism. After Land Before Time, rules for Hercules quickly materialized. By The Hunchback of Notre Dame, we had given up all pretense of “game” and settled solidly into the “drinking”, qualifying this as one of the best days I'll never remember.

(see also: Whatever Katy Perry, Procreation)

August 

Sometimes a human needs a break. This was when everything was Please make it home and we’ll talk. But talk wasn’t getting anybody anywhere because continents, and time, and breaking. So I packed the whipped cream vodka, turned off my phone, and crawled into Jareb’s backseat for the 10 mile drive to Somewhere Else. 

According to the Wikipedia:

Sauvie Island… is the largest island along the Columbia River... The north end of Collins Beach is popular among gays and lesbians. This section of the beach is often a party like environment on warm and sunny days**.

Yelp reviews:

If the city of Portland and the planet of Alderaan had a love child (before the Death Star got all Death Star-y), it would be Sauvie Island.  It's so close to the city, but it's like you're in a galaxy far, far away once you cross the bridge…. I never want to see male genitalia again.

A brief and incomplete list of things I learned that day:

1) Air mattresses can be used as rather efficient flotation devices

2) Do you know what contributes to the aforementioned "party like environment on warm and sunny days"? Well nudity, obvs. But also the party boat, which is a floating emporium delivering frozen treats to beach partiers. It is a slow-moving unicorn to be endlessly sought and rarely glimpsed

3) Naked men + tiny dogs = oddly entertaining

4) Sunshine and water inherently possess mythical healing qualities

Parts of August ache all over. Like Welcome to the horror show. Or We wanted to believe in you but you fucked up, kid. Other parts felt effortless: sunsets on the porch couch, imperfect French translations that didn’t speak as clearly as skin and skin.

And there in the middle of all that chaos I have whipped cream vodka and If you were an instrument, what would you be? I’m still not convinced “the human voice” counts as an instrument. But I love you for it anyways.

**Italics added by author for emphasis, because yes.

(see also: I Know Sorry Isn't Enough)

September 

Let’s talk about the night I went shot for shot with Allison’s ex.

Things to keep in mind:

1) There is a brand of tequila called Pepe Lopez. It tastes like a knockoff Juarez, which tastes like a knockoff Jose.

2) Raven and I had interacted on several prior occasions, usually while avoiding eye contact in the kitchen.

3) Allison, Raven, and Amy enjoy a game called Spades which involves a lot of silent communication and complicated rules.

September was “b. Are you fall in love?” and “I am have strong feelings towards a human, yes.”

Sometimes when you love someone, you sit down to play a painfully awkward card game with their ex-girlfriend. Halfway through our game of Spades (which I was helplessly floundering through) we ran out of wine. To keep the social situation properly lubricated, Allison offered us tequila. Generally, I prefer to sip tequila. I enjoy the taste and pace myself better when I’m not taking shots. Unfortunately, 99% of the human population doesn’t sip tequila. So when Raven challenged me to go shot for shot, my pride couldn’t say no.

Which is how I ended up sitting on Raven’s lap at 2am smoking cigarettes and discussing soul mates. Despite my proximity to death when I woke up the next morning, I’m counting this experience as a win. Because some people spent their night projectile vomiting tequila shots, and I was not one of them.

(see also: Adventures in Commuting; Episode 1 and Episode 2)

October 

Dating a graduate student is like having a second mother. Sometime in October, Allison arranged My Little Playdate wherein she dropped me off with our friends in the morning and retrieved me that evening after the approximate duration of a work day. I’m an adult, I promise.

 

Play Day was a gorgeous fall day and I bought a blazer for $1 at a yard sale so I felt like a class act. We loaded up the gay caravan, and headed to Sauvie’s for wine tasting, pumpkin hunting, and general run amok-ery.

Me: Well. Shall we have another glass of wine?

Mo: Oh thank god you’re here and understand.

After unsuccessfully attempting to befriend the miniature ponies, we climbed into the nearest tree and practiced looking indy-rock chic. For the cover art of the album I’m sure we’ll never make. Then tromping through the pumpkin patch, then petting bristle-backed pigs, then photo op by the car with sunshine all around.

By the time Allison scooped me up we were sprawled on Mo’s porch creating our unique and extraordinary masterpieces.

(see also: Writing is Hard)

November 

For my 16^th birthday my parents planned an elaborate surprise party involving a pizza parlor and my soccer team. To keep the surprise surprising, the friends I’d already made birthday plans with had to blow me off last minute. While the party was a smashing success (they gave me a Volvo that was also turning 16 and my entire soccer team fit on the hood), the experience left me with lingering social anxiety in the “making plans” department.

As a result, when I plan group outings I choose activities that I can do alone just in case nobody shows.

When Autostraddle announced another International Meetup Week, after much foot dragging, I signed up to host an event. At 8 o’clock we gathered at Sweet Hereafter for vegan snacks, and migrated to Wonderland Nickel Arcade once we were decently soused. Totally an activity I could have done alone, but I didn’t have to because a slew of beautiful humans showed up.

This event stands out because of the friends before they were friends. Let me rephrase that. There were people there who are indispensable in my daily life now, but I didn’t quite know them yet. They exist there in a weird pre-memory and it blows my mind that every person has the potential to become the next Erin, or the next Ashleigh, or the next Merrick/part of the tribe I call family.

Also I pulled a tricep playing air hockey.

(see also: Prison Ink, You Can't Go Home Again)

December 

Because I am a perpetual Christmas bastard, I've created a tradition that involves word play, comfort food, and heavy tequila consumption. This Christmas marked the third annual celebration of Feliz Navidachos. Started from the bottom, now we here.

Last year Lew, Mo, and I ate nachos in painfully awkward/hangover silence while ULOL and her brother watched Family Guy and drank whiskey on the couch. This year attendance tripled, Lady Gaga sang a rollicking piano duet with Sir Elton John, and I learned how to tell whether or not someone is high on cocaine. We consumed every scrap of food in my house, plus a case of PBR and a fifth of good tequila.

Merry Christmas. God bless us, everyone!   

(see also: Survival Skills, Almost Better than Pug Puppies)

And there you have it! An entire year in my glamorous life. Stay posted for veganism and vending machine spirit animals. Keep it real, you weirdos. 

-b

The Aftershow: Year in Review Pt. 1

Because I am a terrible narcissist, I frequently imagine my life as a popular reality t.v. show. Something along the lines of The Real L-Word meets Meerkat Manor, with a touch of My Strange Addiction. As such, it dismays me that too many things happen in a year to give each its own episode/due attention. 

So consider this post the After Show: a two hour special where the producers reveal everything you miss when life is pared down into a 45-minute-sans-commercials segment. I’ve also included a handy index of posts so you can see what I think the most important parts of last year were, because insight guys. Don’t you want to know how my brain works? God knows I do.

Welcome to Important Shit You Missed, 2013 Edition (Part 1).

January

If asked to list my expectations for January 2013, I guarantee the answer would not have included “standing in the bathroom with my friend of 14 days, telling rugby horror stories in an attempt to make her throw up”. But that’s exactly where I found myself: propped against the sink recounting tales of Flaming Assholes. And rookies at their first social, weeping and crawling through their own vomit. Or unsuspecting hotel guests standing in urine every time they used the elevator.

After 15 minutes of unsuccessful dry-heaving, my new friend asked for a paper towel. Eager to accommodate, I turned to the dispenser. This is where things went awry. There were clearly paper towels on the roll, taunting me through the opaque cover. Horribly inaccessible. I turned the plastic dial, which clicked ineffectually and yielded nothing. In a last ditch effort, I attempted to pry open the front cover.

You guys. It practically flew off the wall into my arms. After a half second of shocked silence, I turned around still holding the paper towel dispenser. High-pitched, hysterical laugh. Scramble to hide the evidence. Discover broom closet, dump. Run. 

And in that moment, a long and glorious friendship was born.

(see also: Stone Soup 3+3, Pilgrimage)

February

One night stands are an awkward thing, even under the best circumstances. Compounding factors: 1) you were not one of the two people having raucous sex until 3:30am, 2) the stranger refuses to leave graciously very early the next morning, 3) you are harangued into dragging your hangover to brunch as social insulation against a potential Stage 5 clinger. 

Me: Ok, who’s driving?

ONS: I can drive like I’m retarded because I have a handicap decal…

Everybody: Sold.

Sometimes magic happens the morning after National Margarita Day, when your head feels like a bowling ball and you’re trying not to vomit in a stranger’s backseat. That fateful February morning we discovered Tik Tok for the first time.

Tik Tok is a 24-hour eatery with a full bar, located on 82^nd Avenue next to the scenic Unicorn Inn. It’s the sort of establishment where you can order fried pickles every weekend for two months, and they’ll still forget the ranch dressing.  It’s a place where your waitress might ask “What the fuck are you [insensitive slur of choice] doing?” just because you decided to eat an entire meal without using your thumbs. They don’t judge our hysterical bouts of hungover giddiness, or the inevitable 11am round of Tik Tok Shots. They just bake us homemade cookies, and love us for the hot mess we are. 

(see also: Valentine’s Day)

March 

March 2013 lives in infamy as the Season of the Plague. Literally everybody had mono, and I became mono-gamous. Because puns, you guys. They’re a real issue for me. We also established the first annual Pi Day celebration. I assume it will be an annual celebration because traditions are important. Particularly traditions that involve the people I love and also eating pie. [Note: when Friend and I get married we’ll have a variety of wedding pies. And probably a meat buffet + BBQ fountain, but that’s neither here nor there.]

Also, Megan Fox calls her vagina a “pie”, which makes lesbians celebrating Pi Day by eating pie that much better for me. This year we’ll be celebrating multiple Pi Babies. I anticipate upper echelon revelry. Although I’m not sure anything can top Dr. Jill’s story last year. You know, the one about a raccoon with distemper using a hot coal to masturbate.   

(see also: Time Lapse)

April

Did this month even really happen? I literally cannot conjure a single memory from April 2013. Probably this is when the government programmed me to be a sleeper agent in their war against terrorism. Alternatively, tequila. Just kidding, government. Please don't have me assassinated. 

If you remember April 2013, and any role I played in it... get at me, bro. 

(see also: Angst)

May 

Last May I flew home to officiate my friend Dee’s recommitment ceremony, which meant one week in sunny Missoula Montana. I’ve known Dee since I was a lovesick baby gay. She married Adam in 2011, and they adopted Lucy and I (AKA we had weekly double dates that involved home cooked meals and True Blood). 

Following an uneventful one year anniversary, Dee decided to surprise Adam with a small ceremony for their second anniversary. She rented a room at the Gibson Mansion, complete with cake, champagne, and Frank Sinatra radio. I flew in under the radar to give a surprise speech.

The entire experience was surreal and bittersweet. I stayed on the Northside, killing time during the day and catching up with Lucy on the last 6 months every evening. The day of the ceremony time became erratic, moving too slow and too fast at the same time, or stopping altogether. A picture: our four backs on a balcony, hands on our hips, shoulders just touching. Our faces looking into tomorrow.

I keep the pictures in an envelope on my bookshelf. I take them out when I need to unbelieve reality.

(see also: Alpaca Expo)

June 

This is the episode where 10 hooligans travel down the coast to Waldport, Oregon. Hijinks ensue. 

Also I could tell you a story about drinking too much Fanta/vodka (gross) and the 20+ minutes I wandered downtown, searching for somewhere to vomit. But who really wants to hear about Pride weekend anyways? 

(see also: Vortex of Self-Destruction, Dances with Bears)

So there you have it. Stay tuned for the second edition of Important Shit You Missed, 2013 Edition (set to debut whenever I get my act together)! What do you guys think? Did I miss anything? If you created a Top Twelve of Twenty-Thirteen, what would make the cut? What’s the worst thing you’ve ever mixed with vodka? Do we really wonder, wonder what's in a WonderBall? 

Give me your answers and maybe I’ll give you something. Or nothing. Or something.

All my love, creeps.

-b

When There's Nothing Left to Burn

You have to set yourself on fire.

I ended last year in a sea of people with her mouth on my mouth, and strangers’ bodies holding me upright. Champagne in my veins like I’d never be human again. In the morning we both put on my skin to sit across from each other in a booth, with our faces and our hands.

But last year doesn’t matter when I’m making my blood sing, and baby girl is aura dancing with a blue-suited boy, and the new moon, and 3am, and, and. 2014 bloomed my pupils supernova while sound ricocheted off my bones in a living room full of people. My body far away staring at each human being thinking I love you, I love you, I love you. My heart aching with the weight of them pressing hard into each other pressing hard into the future.

A moment: everything slowed and sharpened. Broken glass and champagne fractured across hardwood, a girl propped against the refrigerator fighting gravity, a boy’s gaping mouth and fluttering eyelids. Everything trembling. Everything delicate like walking on a razorblade.

Then sound.

Then turning.

Then fire cracking a Christmas tree’s spine, climbing into black like the summer we piled into her car. Whose car? Some car, fourorfive of us. I was in the backseat, middle, feet on the console. We took the scenic route into hell.

Everything burned that year; fire in the hills, fire in the mountains. Fire creeping up the highways, traffic creeping down them. Fourorfive of us in that car. All eyes, bare skin, and pointing. Me in the middle of the backseat, recalling Dante’s circles of hell. Limbo, lust, gluttony. Everybody silent and staring, embers looking the way city lights look from airplanes. Greed, wrath, heresy. Double back on the disaster, slow like a smalltown parade. Violence, fraud. Wave for the crowd. Hold our breath like driving past a cemetery. Treachery. The best hells are the ones you exit unscathed, but everything burned that year.

This is not a metaphor

Now. Sound, and turning and a tree spitting flames like a fucking phoenix. A semi-circle of bodies all wide eyes/open mouths/pointing. My eyes drinking in these people, these goddamn humans that I love. Everybody looking so perfect I could cry. Tomorrow in the dark, when the sad sinks into that writing place, I’ll remember the wet of their eyes catching firelight.

But tonight I am telling a stranger I want to live in the city. What city? New York. I don’t realize it’s true until it’s spoken and I’m embarrassed by the sincerity. I know it’s a cliché, but…She says every writer needs a story. She says nothing has to be forever. She’s from the east coast, looking for her heart out west. Now a girl with earnest hands saying, I know I’m young but, but nothing darling. Sing your old soul onto the dance floor.

Now my two feet walking toward the door, Allison navigating us home. Puddling into her bed, her body sighing Too beautiful, too beautiful. What is? The world. And everything is too much, and not enough; perfectly imperfect. So I hold her, hollowing my body into a bowl for her emotions. We’ll examine them beneath the skylight while the neighbor builds an ark, his nail gun shattering dawn like a gunshot light bulb. We’ll sink back into our skin, swathe our tongues in new silences, and step into the howbig world of a new year.  

“I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.”

— Virginia Woolf

All my love.

-b