Apparently I'm not 23 anymore

Still good: only about one drink in at this point. No frogs yet. Photo by Carrie.My newfound appreciation for gin has gone too far, methinks.

We went out last night with some dear friends -- the Kolmers, the Bartleys and one half of the Hyphens -- and I had three drinks. THREE. Two Tanqueray and Sevens (in buckets, mind you, not pint glasses), and one Cu-Tea (some bizarre cucumber and gin concoction). Well, actually, I guess it's more like four and a half drinks if you count the wine I'd had earlier at Jaden's wedding. But still.

Now, keep in mind that I don't drink very often, let alone drink to excess. So a mere three (or 4 1/2, whatever) drinks later, and suddenly I was a hiccuping, slurring fool. My last text message of the night (sent to James, who I didn't realize was sitting right next to me): "I'M FROGS."

I was trying to type "I'M DRUNK."

I have no idea.

Anyway, it was good times, until I got home and relieved myself of the last couple meals I'd eaten, as well as the three drinks. Again, I repeat, THREE. Or four and a half. Whatever.

Le sigh. And in addition to the hangover today, I just found out that the latest Harry Potter movie, which was due out this November, has been pushed back until NEXT JULY.

Why does the universe hate me so?

Could someone please help me with these bootstraps?

Sweet Christ, I'm depressed somethin' fierce.

Who's with me? Raise your hand if sometimes you feel like you just want to lay down right where you are, wherever you are, and never, ever get up. Walking down the street? Lay down. Riding the train? Lay down. Already laying down? Lay down some more.

This is how I find myself feeling today.

Why am I like this? No idea. I don't know whether it's chemical or hormonal or psychological or totally imagined...all I know is that it's here again, and I'm so bored with it I could scream. I wake up with it some days, can feel it right from the start, a steady stream of "I don't give a shit" from morning to night. I imagine it like a flatlined EKG reading, except instead of dying, I just am. Like being on auto-pilot...until something small and inconsequential sets me off, my jaw unhinges and my head flips open to expose a gaping maw of row upon row of razor sharp teeth, and a nasty tongue with teeth of its own, and those teeth have teeth...

And James...poor James. He bears the horrible brunt of my moods so heroically and empathetically...until he just can't bear them anymore, and wonders to himself WHO *SAYS* I CAN'T DRINK WHISKEY AT 8:30 IN THE MORNING. He manages to be so strong even in his own times of weakness that he not only props himself up, but supports my whiny ass too. The makeshift lean-to-for-two may be shaky at times, but it's better than just laying down, right? And for that I am grateful. He's a good boy.

Anyway, I don't write this all because I expect (or want) any pity, or for everyone to ask me if I'm okay (no) and can they do anything (no...unless it involves Hostess cupcakes). This isn't any sort of idiotic cry for help. It's just an exercise. I've never written about it before. So maybe if I put it down "on paper" it'll abate. Maybe if I focus on the action of writing I can manage to pick myself up by my own bootstraps. Maybe if I write about it I'll discover the root cause and experience some sort of blinding epiphany, and my chest will split open and all of the rot will come spilling out in a murky, foul-smelling river of bile and mud and chewed fingernails and infected marrow, and I'll be purged for the time being.

OH, THE MELODRAMA.

The truth is, this just happens to me from time to time. I think normally I operate a level or two below what's considered "normal" on the (bright, sunny yellow!) yardstick of happy, and then once in a while dip down a little further beyond that for a brief and inexplicable foray into moodybitchysad hell. And I know I'm not alone -- God bless the Internets and the myriad options they offer for self-diagnosis! After much research, I'm quite sure I suffer from dysthymia, a word I can't spell without help but which rolls off the tongue with a disturbing familiarity. DIS-THY-ME-AH. Sounds like a Greek goddess...if there were a Greek goddess who wore a black toga, was a cutter (no, Mom, I'm not a cutter...this is just a personification) and only spoke the words "I'm bored" and "So what."

Dysthymia. Apparently it's lower-grade than full-blown depression, but is chronic, typically lasting years. Most people don't even realize they suffer from it because they're so used to feeling the way they do, they think that's just how they are, or they're just moody, or this must be how everyone feels.

So what's the answer? I don't know. The only solution I've come up with (that sounds at all appealing) was a few weeks ago when I was feeling particularly low, and I stood outside for a while and wished with every fiber of my being that I could fly up into the gorgeous, inky night sky -- for some reason, that seemed to me to be a perfectly rational response to how I was feeling: complete quiet, peacefulness, solitude, restoration. Then I imagined flying downtown to Burgerville for a raspberry shake. (I'm not kidding. They are so good.)

At any rate, I actually do feel a bit better having written this all down, even if it is at all of your expenses. Sorry 'bout that. I'm sure this was a RIOT (!!!) to read. But for now, this is all I got (though I'm sure I could be persuaded to share a funny anecdote or two...for the price of a raspberry milkshake).

And with that, I'm off to take some pills and listen to The Doors alone in the dark. JUST KIDDING MOM.

I've got a fever, and the only cure...is more siren. And gin.

I nearly died today.

Not really, but I had one hell of a case of sudden onset 4-hour food poisoning. Or something. All I know is one minute I was eating an actually pretty good hotel-food lunch at the conference, and the next I was curled up on my side on a pink velour chaise in the women's restroom, clutching my gut and weirding out all the women who walked into the bathroom and saw me lying there. It was a bit awkward.

CHiPs, anyone? YEAH BUDDY.Anyway, after a writhing, feverish, fetal-position nap back in my hotel room, I  felt a little better and rallied in order to attend the conference's opening night party at a nearby art gallery. On the way there, we passed a few parked SFPD motorcycles, which were so cool and so lonely sitting there all empty that I decided I absolutely had to get on one. I asked my colleagues, "Is it illegal to get on a cop's motorcycle?" Stroud assured me it wasn't. So I got on and struck the bad ass pose you see to the right so he could take a picture.

Then as soon as I got off, he informed me that it was actually totally illegal, and that I should probably start running. Which I did. Straight to the gallery bar, where I celebrated my last few hours of freedom by drinking gin, sweet gin.

But the cops never came for me, and Stroud and I then took to devising a plan to steal one of their helmets, WHICH THEY JUST LEFT ON THE BIKES. Seriously. They were totally asking for it. But they left after a while, and our opportunity for the coolest San Francisco souvenir EVER drove off, hopefully in search of the guys who mugged AT GUNPOINT a few fellow conference geeks the other night.

Anyway, the moral of the story is: Never listen to Stroud, and gin cures all that ails you. I swear. Write that down.

C is for Culture

Dos Fridas. Muy awesome.Today I went to an art museum for the first time in my life. Yes, for the first time. In thirty years. Shut up.

But first, a couple of errands. Barbara and I arrived in San Francisco around 1:00, and after an interminable wait at the baggage claim carousel from HELL (it didn't move for 15 minutes, then circled the same three bags for another 15, and the entire time someone around us was flatulating madly), we set out for the Mission, land of burritos the size of Shetland ponies and pastries made with little more than lard, sugar and the tears of the Holy Virgin Mother herself.

Deftly sidestepping the crazy guy peeing in the middle of the busy sidewalk in broad daylight (it felt just like being right back under the Burnside Bridge in Old Town!) and resisting the lure of such window shopping temptations as stuffed armadillos and Colon Cleanse, we were in and out of the Mission lickety-split...all so that we could get to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art in time for Frida.

SFMOMA is showing an incredible exhibition of original Frida Kahlo works through September, and I was lucky enough to get to experience it today. What a bitchin' show.

Our timed entry wasn't until 5:30, so we wandered through the rest of the museum first, taking in amazing works by Matisse, Magritte, Rothko, Lichtenstein, Picasso, Warhol, Rivera, Dali, Chagall, and more. There was an awesome exhibition of Lee Miller's work, both as a model and as a photographer and WWII photojournalist. 

"The Flower Carrier," Diego Rivera

One of my all-time favorite paintings, "The Flower Carrier" by Diego Rivera, was absolutely breathtaking to see in person -- the colors were so rich and the strokes so perfectly textured (do I sound like I know about art? because I totally don't); I could've stood there and stared at it all day.

Instead, I took photo after photo with my shitty camera phone and spammed James.

But the real treat was the Kahlo exhibit, which was HUGE and RAD. It's so incredible to see famous artwork in person -- sort of like meeting a celebrity. More than once I found myself thinking, "I can't believe I'm inches away from something that Frida Kahlo actually touched, actually made." I know it's ridiculous, but it's pretty surreal to know you're sharing breathing space with the very object that an artist shared breathing space with.

Anyway, it was fascinating to read her history and information on her paintings as we walked through the exhibit, and it was interesting to see how her painting actually improved, visibly, over the years. There was also an extensive collection of photographs of her and Rivera. And Rivera? What a bug-eyed, toady-lookin', homely sonofabitch he was. Incredible artist, no doubt, but not so cute. Strangely, her paintings of him were some of her best, in my opinion -- the detail was so fine, like she was so in love with him that she had memorized every hair on his head and saggy pocket of fat on his face.

I didn't take this picture. The NYTimes did.

After finishing the museum, we headed to the hotel to rest our feet a while, then headed back out to see the City Lights Bookstore (where the Beat poets like Ginsberg and Kerouac used to hang out), which was so cool (again, the whole "breathing where a famous person breathed" thing). Next door to that was Vesuvio's, an old bar that had painted above its doorway, oddly enough, "We were itchin' to get away from Portland, Oregon!" The bouncer explained that the original owners moved the bar to San Francisco from Portland during the "1906 flea infestation" that was apparently plaguing the waterfront. Something to do with sewage management issues. Given that the Willamette overflows with raw sewage every time it rains for more than three minutes, I totally buy this story.

Then, DINNER. We ate at E Tutto Qua just across the street, and let me tell you, this was real Italian food and REAL ITALIAN PEOPLE. You know an Italian restaurant's good when half of the patrons are actual Italians, speaking Italian, dressed in salmon-colored sweaters like only Italian men can wear. I had the gnocchi al zaffareno (gnocchi with saffron, zucchini, clams and tomatoes), a perfectly smooth glass of Ripasso Valpolicella, and for dessert, hazelnut and chocolate gelato.

HEAVEN, dear readers. And our waiter was so disarmingly charming and handsome and deliciously Italian,  I nearly licked him at one point. Which I'm sure he's used to.

At any rate, I should have some pretty sweet dreams tonight after a day like today, all monobrows and Allen Ginsberg and clamshells...

...And this is your brain on sun

Note to self: 100-degree weekends? Not really the best time to hold a garage sale -- for various obvious reasons, but mostly because bad things happen to my brain in the heat.

My first clue that it was going to be a very long day of stupid came early on, when a man walked up to pay for an inflatable baby swimming-seat ring.

As I took his money, I asked, "You have a baby?"

Sweet Jesus. Clearly the man had a baby, or he wouldn't be buying a bright yellow floaty that might, if he was lucky, just barely accommodate one of his testicles.

A short while later, a couple wandered by, and I dropped this little nugget of brilliance: "So, out garage saling?"

Sigh.

Subsequent attempts at casual conversation were equally (if not more) idiotic. Were they keeping cool? NO, IT IS ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY SEVEN DEGREES OUTSIDE. Would they like a plastic sack to carry that in? JUST KIDDING WE DON'T HAVE ANY, AND I'VE KNOWN THIS ALL DAY. Sure, I'd be happy to let you have those five candle holders for $1.50 each. THAT WILL BE THREE DOLLARS TOTAL, THANK YOU.

That last one was the best. I basically aided and abetted a woman in stealing two candle holders (and a kids' game) because adding up prices with cents is hard.

I also couldn't stop myself from rearranging everything, in true Information Architect style, ultimately deconstructing my sister's well-thought-out categorical table arrangements. I was just trying to put all the "good stuff" on the tables out front (to lure people in, right?), but ended up creating these weird Frankentables of random shit that would've probably given our more vulnerable customers epileptic seizures of confusion ("I wonder what this curling iron is doing by this pair of men's shorts and these kitchen utensi---"...falls down and swallows tongue).

Then I walked in on my sister's husband, Joe, while he was on the toilet, which was superbly traumatic for both of us.

If I could, I'd just pop some Excedrin PM, down a glass of wine and wait for sweet slumber to save me from myself. As it stands, though, I have to finish laundry and pack for my trip to San Francisco. God help me. I'm probably going to get to the hotel tomorrow, open up my my suitcase and find nothing but seventeen pairs of underwear, the Crock Pot and my cat in there.

I don't care what anyone says, groove IS in the heart

Me demonstrating the vast amounts of groove in my own heart by leaping about willy-nilly. Note the sweet tan lines. Photo by Carrie.Things are finally settling down enough for me to find my words again.

This last weekend was my friend Gina's last as a single gal, and we spent it drinking lots of wine, getting pampered, and feeding our faces. You know. The usual.

My favorite moment of the wedding was when, in true Gina style, we spent the last 15 minutes before heading outside for pictures up in the bride's room enjoying the lovely, calming strains of such traditional pre-nuptial songs as Dr. Dre's "Housewife" ("So what you found you a ho that you like? / But you can't make a ho a housewife...") and "The Humpty Dance." We were shakin' our asses and drinking champagne and eating cheese, and it felt like college all over again.

Then the bridal party pictures commenced, and I discovered that I really, really wanted to stick my stiletto heel up the photographer's ass. Over the course of the next few hours, he snarkily asked me if I was the junior bridesmaid, rudely referred to anyone over the age of 60 as "grandma" and "gramps," and informed the entire wedding, like a pompous little troll, that it wasn't going to be his fault if the group shot didn't turn out because no one was paying attention to him. I get that it's probably pretty challenging trying to wrangle 75 people into a single shot, but come on, you do this for a living, and DO YOU REALLY NEED TO BE A DOUCHEBAG ABOUT IT. It's a wedding, what did he expect? Frivolity and merriment reign. Based on his demeanor and the slight limp he was rocking, I suspect he may have actually had a zoom lens stuck up his ass. Which might also explain why his fly was down the whole time. (We didn't tell him.)

The newlyweds. Photo by CarrieAt any rate, the day couldn't have gone better. Lars was dapper, and Gina glowed and beamed and floated on air and basically was exactly the way a bride should be on her wedding day. The ceremony was sweet, the weather perfect. The parents all behaved. The toasts were sincere and funny. The cupcakes were delicious. It was a great day. In fact, it was such a great day, I am proud to be able to report that I did NOT do any of the following:

A) fall down on the dance floor just in time for the photographer to snap a shot of me alone on my back looking as though I was laying there in a drunken stupor (this was at the Carnahans' wedding, and to be fair, I was THROWN);

B) fall down any stairs while carrying two full plates of very expensive food (also the Carnahans' wedding, and I blame the overabundance of wine), or

C) commit any drunken thievery involving a 6-foot plastic ficus tree belonging to the Sheraton (Bradi Knight's wedding...my bad).

I've come a long way.

However, I was not entirely without incident. Besides inadvertently flashing quite a lot of people my underwear while striking a pose on the dance floor (in honor of the birthday boy from the Chinook Winds Casino lounge the weekend before!), my crowning glory came when I proved true Sean's prediction that no one but me loves DeeLite's "Groove is in the Heart" and that if I requested it I would single-handedly clear the dance floor. Despite his (and Carrie's, and James's) best efforts to stop me, I did request "Groove is in the Heart"...and did in fact single-handedly empty the dance floor completely.

Well, almost completely. My humiliation was augmented by the fact that the only person still on the dance floor with me was the 8-year-old wedding crasher Natasha, who also totally showed me up by alternating between dropping into the sideways splits every three seconds and writhing about in ways no normal 8-year-old should. She was the vineyard owner's daughter, and had apparently mistaken Gina's wedding for a "So You Think You Can Dance" audition...for precocious little hussies. She later informed me that her mother was starting a magazine called Rock Angels and a website called Angel Rock (why they're different, I don't know) featuring her and her younger sister dressing up and dancing and posing like miniature Playboy bunnies (if her demonstration was any indication). It was very, very creepy.

So Natasha and I soldiered alone through the song while Sean, Carrie and James guffawed and mocked me from the lawn. OKAY. I GET IT, GUYS. No one loves the Groove like I do, and obviously no one wants to dance the night away to it like I do. FINE. As such, I am saddened to say that I have relegated "Groove is in the Heart" to that secret playlist in my soul (which also includes Night Ranger's "Sister Christian," Black Eyed Peas' "My Humps," and that stupid song by Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow), and will never again request the song in public.

My wedding gift to Gina and Lars.

(point) 8 Mile

In a fit of inspiration after last night's heavy bag revelation, I went running this morning with James. Well, it was more jogging than running, really, and I only made it about .8 miles.

And I thought I was going to die.

I was not made to run, I've decided. As soon as we started, my knees hurt. Then my knees and my ankles hurt. Then my lungs caught on fire and my ovaries began to protest (which I still don't quite understand) and before I knew it, I was lightheaded and gasping and thinking to myself that the piss-and-bird-shit-covered concrete supports of the I-5 overpass looked like a nice, safe place to rest...just for a while...

So, about 100 yards later, when James turned south on Fort Vancouver Way, I wheezed BUH-BYE HONEY and crossed the street (sloooowly) to the Ft. Vancouver HS track, where I made two and a half lazy laps (walking, mind you) before he came running back, having gone all the way down to the old apple tree and the new land bridge over Hwy. 14. Then we walked home together, me recounting my various aches and pains and proclaiming that I might actually never run again...three-quarters of a mile.

Shit.