Bus vs. Bike: A One-Act Play with Themes of Prejudice, Obscenity, and, of course Transportation

The scene: No. 4 bus headed downtown, 8:15 a.m.
The characters: Balding bus driver with deep-seated anger issues; biker with a potty mouth; bus rider innocently reading about Mormons in her new book “Under the Banner of Heaven”

Bus rider is learning about a Mormon prophet’s plan to build a City of Refuge at the foot of the Dream Mine near Provo, Utah to prepare for the coming apocalypse, when all of a sudden she is distracted by a commotion at the front of the bus.

Driver: This is my lane! Get in your own lane!
Biker: I’m in my own lane, ***hole!
Driver: (kissing noises) You’re just jealous!
Biker: F**k you! (obscene gesture)
Driver: Sticks and stones! Sticks and stones!
Biker: F**k you, ***hole!
Driver: (kissing noises) Sticks and stones! Report me! Get on the phone and report me!
Biker: I will! (obscene gesture)
Driver: Report me! My supervisor’s right over there! (indicates nearby TriMet office)
Biker: (obscene gesture)

Both parties scowl at the other. Exeunt.

i cannot control the volume of my voice

I may be 10 days late in posting my resolutions, but one of them was to procrastinate to my heart's content. So really I'm right on track. And now, without further ado, I give to you that which I resolve to accomplish in '10:

• Learn at least three new knitting skills. I've maxed out on boring hats and scarves, and I'm in the middle of a blanket that looks exactly like the last one I made. My buddy Danielle taught me how to do a cabled pair of fingerless gloves on Saturday, the first of which I finished last night. Goes to show me that I shouldn't fear the un-knit-known. I'd like to make 2010 the Year of the Sweater and Sock.
  
  

• Keep the apartment in better shape. I usually have a frenzied cleaning sesh once per week and then let crap pile up for the next six days. I have yet to internalize the notion that if I could just tidy up a little bit every day I wouldn't have to devote half my Sunday to Messrs. Clorox and Swiffer.
• Freeze more leftovers. I recently started freezing leftover soup in my favorite found muffin pan. It amuses me to no end to open my freezer and see soup masquerading as muffin-pops. Plus it's really satisfying to pop soupcicles out of the flexible pan.
  

• Speaking of cooking, I would be a waste of space if I let 2010 pass without attempting Julia Child's Boeuf Bourginon from her chef d'oeuvre Mastering the Art of French Cooking. The dullness of my knives and my tendency to chop vegetables far slower than the average bear will probably make this an entire day's labor, but I shall persevere. Maybe for Valentine's Day.
• Keep my French up to snuff. Dieu knows je can't get by en France with seulement my Franglais, hardcore though it may be. I'm going to attempt to watch French news at least three nights a week for the double benefit of increasing my comprehension skillz and getting in tune with French current events. I used to have to listen to five hours of spoken French per week for my French Business class in college--three of which I knocked off with dubbed American thrillers like House of Wax, and the rest I spent watching the 8:00 news on TF1. If I want to be vraiment sage, I'll write down the vocab I don't understand and look it up, and write a summary of what I learned. Chances of that happening: slim to none. But in case you were wondering, it snowed a lot this weekend in France. It was hard to drive due to freezing rain in some areas. The storm made one very unhappy leek farmer, who lost about 50% of his crop. A dairy farmer was also upset, but I'm not sure why. They are using sand and salt to make the roads more passable. Bam.
• Make my biceps disgustingly large. In the year 2009 I gave my muscles some definition for the first time in my life. 2010 will be the year I make my gigantic muscles define me.
  
• And, finally, I resolve to increase the clarity and volume of my speech. While home for the holidays, I had a record number of people exclaim in frustration that they had no idea what I was saying. One of them, whom I had just met, told me to, "Speak the F**K up!!" In lieu of keeping exclusive company with fellow low-talkers, I suppose it's time to give my vocal chords some exercise.

All of these resolutions seem fairly doable, though not quite as doable as the ones I made two years ago-- all of which I kept to a T, by the by.

Facebook Defriending Flow Chart

How many times have you rolled your eyes when Fratty McDouche fills up 90% of your news feed with misspelled musings about minutiae? How often does Susie Shallowstein's CONSTANT updates of her photo albums with yet another picture of her adorable puppy/hubby/druid make you lose the will to live?

You know it's time to weed out the bad apples in your friend list, but you just don't know how to go about it. Neenuh to the rescue. Click on the above image and use the completely scientific method I spent entirely too much time tonight perfecting to make your friend list one you can be proud of.

And then my ice-cold heart slowly began to melt...

When Seest0r and I hop on the bus for on our excursions, she enjoys playing with my iPod on the way there and back. Sometimes I'll have her listen to some music, and if she likes it I'll burn it on a CD for her. Lately, she's been filling my woefully empty calendar with important dates like Christmas, New Years and her birthday.

Yesterday, while on our way to see a ballet performance, she started fiddling with the note function and wouldn't let me see what she was writing. When she was done she got a big grin on her face and turned it so I could see.

So verklempt. So very, very verklempt was I.

FUDGE!

When my 9th grade geometry teacher got herself with child, we had substitute teachers for a good chunk of the year while she birthed and cared for her spawn. There was the dirty, bearded man who looked like Santa and smelled of vodka, a couple of quavery-voiced ladyfolk, and a longterm guy I'll call Mr. Mullet. He sported a very greasy business/party combo and was entirely awesome.

Exhibit A: Our first order of business when we came to the unit on matrices was to watch The Matrix.

Exhibit B: One day he came across two pounds of fudge he wanted to get rid of. He announced to the class that whoever ate the entirety in the remainder of the class period would be the proud owner of 70 shiny extra credit points. The New Kid, who no one had ever heard speak a word, immediately volunteered. Throughout the next half hour or so, he methodically worked his way through those bricks. Sure enough, he choked it down and went from a C to an A. It was the stuff of legend.

He soon transferred to the city's private school and I thought I would never again lay my eyes upon the one I called Fudge.

Fast forward three years to the summer before senior year. My buddy had convinced me the time was nigh for me to "get my drink on." She led me to a houseboat in the west end of town hosted by a kid named Squirrel. I didn't know anyone there besides my friend and her boyfriend, but one of the kids looked kind of familiar. It took me a while to realize who he was, but after a plastic cup of Beefeater, straight up, I slurred, "You're the kid who ate the fudge!" And indeed he was.

Fast forward another seven years to last night. I was at my dear buddy's house enjoying a lovely Portland Orphan Thanksgiving (also known as T-Give-Sauce, according to my younger brother's Facebook status). It was a gathering of mostly Minnesotans, and several were even from my hometown. I introduced myself to a couple I hadn't seen before. I bet you can see where this is going... the dude was the kid who ate the fudge! I fudge you not! Amazing.

I'm now expecting him to make an appearance at other meaningful life events. Like my first traffic ticket. Or at the birth of my third child. Or the next time I throw up (which won't be for YEARS...)

Seen in the hood

I'm glad someone's finally working to put an end to the evil despotism of the dreaded fiery sauces of the world. My mouth thanks you.


What is more refined than having the noggins of a six-point buck, a raccoon, and a fox in your sitting room? You can get all these fauna at Flutter.


The geese at Sunlan, the lightbulb shop, are dressed in their Turkey Day finery.


The ants have all gone to their earthly graves, the fruit flies have been vanquished. But the green and silver glamour beetles are peaking this week.

"I have lost my pet serpent, Yggdrazilla, near Le Jardin de la Font Aride. He is fond of the concrete urban jungle, he is drawn to the hum of automobile traffic as he has a voracious appetite for four wheeled things, like Hummers and big diesel trucks. He has been known to chase two wheeled vehicles, but have no fear, he loves two legged creatures, in fact you might have become entranced in his gaze. Although he is friendly, please do not approach him but rather contact me at gjeff88@yahoo.com. Thanks"

My New Favorite All-Purpose Joke

It is this: "Somebody must have pressed their easy button..."

This joke is endlessly adaptable for any situation. Observe:

Boyf and I had to fly home unexpectedly last Saturday to attend a funeral. Our tickets were for 5:30 in the morning and included a very short layover in Seattle. There were any number of things that could have gone wrong, including our angel friend sleeping through her 3:30 alarm and not fetching us, a massive line to check bags, a massive line at security, a delayed plane that would cause us to miss our connection, etc. But no. Everything went swimmingly. Somebody must have pressed their easy button...

Then our plane to Minneapolis got in a good half hour in advance! Somebody must have pressed their early button...

Uh oh... I'm feeling a bit airsick. Somebody must have pressed their queasy button...

AH-CHOOOO! Somebody must have pressed their sneezy button....

You get the idea. It sure beats my previous all-purpose joke: "Oh, monkeys... they're like nature's humans." I read this somewhere (sorry if it was your prose and I'm not attributing) and thought it was thoroughly hilarious. It doesn't adapt very well, however, and I find that people don't look at me as adoringly as I want them to when I bust it out apropos of nothing.

When I was in France I discovered that my humor does not translate very well. During my homestay, my French sisters would often say, "Ce n'est pas grave (It's no big deal)," when I inevitably snorted champagne through my nose onto the appetizers or tipped over a priceless Limoges vase or was so incapacitated by a bloody nose that I managed to leave my DNA on my bed linens and in a trail leading from the bedroom to the kitchen to the bathroom (true story). My response was always, "Si. C'est grave (But yes. It's very serious)" even if it was a minor infraction. They didn't get it.

My one successful overseas joke was in Israel. My travel companions and I were all eating at a lovely restaurant when we noticed our leader, Muriel, was looking a bit morose. We hatched a plan to cheer her up, and since I was the only one with a firm grasp on Hebrew it was up to me to put it into action. I flagged down the waiter and said, "Yom hellenich sameach (happy birthday)" while pointing emphatically to Muriel. "Afo sufganiot (where's the jelly donut)?" Minutes later, our dear Muriel celebrated her 29th birthday five months early.

Cake, my friends. One punchline that's universal.

My Sister by Another Mister

After an application process that took many moons, Big Brothers Big Sisters decided that I was un-scary enough to get a little buddy. It's been about a month since I've been matched, and I thought I'd tell you all about the hijinks that Seest0r and I have gotten into.

On our first playdate we drew pictures. This is a picture of the artiste, by the artiste:

Please notice how the features are tilted to the right, which indicates that she is a budding artistic genius. I also taught her to knit and she picked it up immediately. Not only that, but on our next outing-- a full week later-- she remembered exactly how to do it. Future Mensa member? Almost certainly.

Two weeks I took her bowling for her first time, and helped her get her first spare. I tell you, the smile on that girl's face could have lit a cave at the bottom of the ocean where the fish are colorless and freaky looking.

Last week I took her to see Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, and she spent a good portion of the movie asking how and why things happened. Curious like a kitty. A genius kitty.

We're going ice skating today, and I've spent the morning trying to remember the moves I learned during an ice skating class at the U in the spring semester of my junior year. I was the picture of grace and beauty.

Despite what I'm sure is entirely accurate muscle memory, I think I'm going to have to insist that Seest0r wear a helmet just in case I accidentally bring her down with me when I inevitably trip.

I'm most excited for three weeks from now, when we'll see a production of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I ran into a higher-up at the theater when I went to get my tickets, and he offered to give us a backstage tour if we got there a little early. Bangarang.

If you have any awesome, low-cost ideas for a future hang out sesh for us, please leave them in the comments. Merci!

Gettin' Knitty

When the first nippy breeze fills the air, a chemical called Knitularus Obsessus fills my brain. Tis that time, my friends, when I give myself the beginnings of arthritis so I can whale on knitting projects large and small in time for the holidays.

Among the projects I've decided to commit to fiber is a blanket in the vein of the one I toiled over last year. If I hope to complete this monstrosity, along with the gloves and big-person fair isle hat I've got my eye on, I have to be militarily disciplined in my output. I've given myself an inch-a-day quota, parceled out over my bus rides to and from work, my lunch hour and before bed time. If I do not complete a row by the time my bus reaches its stop (and with 238 stitches it's not as easy a task as it seems), then I must make use of my newest skill: Knitting While Walking.

If you've mastered Knitting While Watching Movies, then Knitting While Walking isn't such a stretch. I had to do so yesterday since I was 20 stitches short of my bus quota. I garnered myself several odd looks and even one snicker (I shake my needle at you, sir!), but I neither tripped nor fell down the stairs. No, that came later in the day, when I didn't even have the needles in my hand. It's not visible yet, but I can feel the beginnings of quite the shiner on my bum.

My lunch buddy had to depart before the full hour was up yesterday. Instead of simply staring into space alone on my bench during my furious knit-purling, I acquired the skill of Knitting While Reading. I had to sit on the book's edge to keep the spine flat, crouching over it in quite the awkward manner. I laughed, I cried, I learned all about Frida Kahlo, but I persevered and I even completing two whole rows.

Next up on the list is Knitting While Elliptical Machine-ing and the holy grail: Knitting While Eating. I might require an extra pair of limbs for the latter, but I got faith.

A peaceful lunch

So there I was on a park bench on a warm autumn Friday, my turkey sandwich in one hand and the last few pages of my book in the other, contemplating how lovely it was to be able to take an hour away from work to do such things.

Ambient noise from the playground a block away began to distract me. Like a thundercloud gathering force, the thumps of several pint-sized feet galloping on the pavement drew ever closer. I looked up from a crucial scene in my book to see a gaggle of schoolchildren brandishing handmade pinwheels racing past me.

"Pinwheels for peeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaccccceeeeeeee!" they yelled as they whooshed by, seemingly about to run into oncoming traffic before making a sharp right and continuing down the other side of the block.


After the first lap some tired and others nursed broken pinwheel backbones. They clustered around my bench, where their teacher had taken up residence for the purpose of pinwheel first aid.

While waiting for some attention, or perhaps while catching his breath before another lap, a boy threatened to cut off his classmate's arm with his pinwheel. "We want peace, not cutting off arms," she admonished witheringly.

Another girl repeatedly declared, "PEACE! OUT! YO!" while violently thrusting her pinwheel in the air to punctuate each syllable.

At some unknown signal the children abandoned their activities to race back to the end of the block where they had first made their presence known, chanting, "Pinwheels for peace! Pinwheels for peace, not war!"

Scenes of Domestication

This photo is entitled, "Still Life with Lamp and Half-Eaten Challah"

This weekend I decided to tackle something I've been meaning to incorporating into my skillz set for many moons: the art of breadmaking. Since it's Rosh Hashana I was feeling extra Jewful, and thus challah seemed the best choice. I busted out my Hadassah Jewish Holiday Cookbook and settled upon a recipe perfected by Peggy Samet Fine from the Hadassah chapter in Houston. Sometimes titchy things like "yield" slip by me in my excitement to go gung-ho on a recipe, and thus I missed the fact that I would be purchasing ingredients for four whole loaves.

It's a good thing the manf was out of the house when I started my yeasty journey, for all manner of unladylike utterances escaped my lips as I proceeded to get flour EVERYWHERE. My jeans and sweatshirt were coated with sticky dough. I will probably get un-inscribed in the Book of Life for the curses that flew when the 15 cups of flour weren't incorporating into the eggs, oil, vanilla, yeast, warm water and sugar (holy Moses there is so much sugar in challah) as they should.

But, when all was said and done, I ended up with two beautiful and delicious loaves of holiday spirit, as well as a huge mound of dough in my freezer awaiting my next surge of carb cravings.

This photo is entitled, "Come visit me, Amanda"

My daddy dearest came to town yesterday, and brought with him my most beloved flamenco ladybug apron, a gift from a star-crossed roommate of yore. A theme party with this apron as its central element is in the works.

This photo is entitled, "Who Says a Pattern on a Pattern is Too Busy?"

Last Sunday marked the start of months of football widowhood for yours truly. Instead of moping around the apartment to try to distract myself from the grunts and dull thuds emanating from el boob tube, I signed up for a fair isle knitting class at Yarnia. I learned to knit when I was a senior in high school, and my knitting sensei stayed put in my hometown whilst I ventured off to my institution of higher learning three hours away. I am thus a largely self-taught knitter, and though I'm really, really good at knitting straight things like scarves and blankets nowadays, I hadn't tried anything new since a half-assed attempt at a sock last spring. Twas time.

Fair isle is tricky because you have to knit with two or more colors simultaneously, a feat that often lends itself to the most horrendous yarn snarlys when done improperly. But my new sensei at Yarnia showed me the light and I am now well on my way to making a lovely patterned baby hat. Next up: toe-up socks, gloves and intarsia.

To whet your appetite

My dear fellow pirate Anna and honorary pirate Steph have sadly left after a whirlwind weekend of wizardry and wallumping in Portypants. We had a magnificent time gallavanting hither and thither, and Anna has plans to document it all for your hungry eyeballs with a culinary photographic tour quite soon. The above picture is regrettably all I have to contribute to such an endeavor, for the majority my pictures from the weekend seem to be of other people's kitties.

But please allow me to entice you with but a small sampling of the dishes and drinks we stuffed down our gullets:

tempura chevre and date balls with honey and sage | yam fries with lemon cayenne aioli | fleur du sel caramel macarons | jammers | pinot noir | pinot gris | lemon raw milk chevre | maple-glazed doughnuts with bacon on top | cream top biscuits with strawberry jam | white sangria | marscapone, grilled bananas and nutella on cinnamon swirl bread | nectarine and raspberry salad with raspberry compote | rosemary hot chocolate | pumpkin ale

OK fine you can see the kitties too.

When the apocalypse cometh, can I be on your team?

As you know, we have about three years and change until the apocalypse. What's that? You didn't know ? Well, there's a film that's coming out called 2012 that would be happy to tell you all the horrible things that are going to happen to us in a few years' time. Meteors will rain from the sky, New York will flood, a ship named after JFK will crash into the White House.

I think this movie is the height of irresponsibility. There are enough weirdos out there who already know about the Mayan calendar and have made reservations for their cave in sub-Saharan Africa. There is no need to inform the action-movie-going masses that the world is possibly about to end. This is just asking for looting, mass suicides and crazy bomb shelter preparations.

That said, I need to start working on my Apocalypse Plan. A friend came over a while back and asked us to play her favorite game: What Skills Can You Bring to My Apocalypse Team? I thought about it and thought about it, and I came to the conclusion that I really don't have much to offer. I'm kind of an indoors kind of girl who eschews camping, so survival skills like making a fire and putting your food somewhere a bear won't eat it and tracking wild beasts are ones I am woefully without. I can cook, sure, but only when following a recipe. And I highly doubt I'll be able to find the pine nuts and feta I so love using as ingredients when the world ends. I can knit, but again, there will be no size ten knitting needles and worsted wool at my disposal in three years' time. I can't fell trees, I'm not handy with a weapon, my arches start to hurt if I'm on my feet for too long and I NEVER REMEMBER WHAT POISON OAK LOOKS LIKE.

I've read The Road. I know how important plastic will be in the world to come to use as shoe coverings and shelter. Oh, and a shopping cart. We'll need one of those for sure. Should I start hoarding them now? Would that make me team-worthy?

The one thing I have going for me is that I'm highly confident in my fertility. I'm one of four, and my ma was one of four as well. I don't want to brag or anything, but I'm pretty sure this womb could start repopulating the earth in a pinch.

So... um... pick me? Pretty please?

Scrabble with Brother Bear

Hopixie: (n.) A pixie of the whorish sort.
Entgnome: (n.) A gnome tree herder. Found in the bonsai forests of Japan and NE Asia.
Erioky: (n., adv.) Australian curse word; Belgian oyster.
Flang: (v.) Past-past-tense of "flung."
Gront: (v.) To grunt whilst grinning.
Drent: (v.) To dream whilst farting.
Fluic: (n.) (colloq.) Flulike.
Jiwtir: (n.) Highest level of management in a jewelery store.
Gadawaj: (n.) Holiday celebrating yeast in India.
Tronc: (n.) (colloq.) Trunk.
Ditali: (n.) Halibut cheeks in Denali (Mt. McKinley, Alaska).
Weeebo: (n.) Baby earwig. Common to the coastal regions of Belarus.
Sizourfy: (v.) To cut up things with ones legs.
Sheett: (n.) (colloq.) Self-explanatory.
Pabsod: (n.) Grass grown with the water content of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Ovaly: (n.) Oval-shaped, oval-like, oval-scented.

Who's got the beat? (Hint: Not I)

Last night a coworker invited me to a hip hop class at our gym. It'll be fun, she said. You'll be great, she said. It can't be that hard, she said. ALL LIES. I'm scared, I said. PREACH.

I got there early, while a conditioning class was finishing up. The teacher was pretty hardcore, making her students alternate jumping squats, leg curls with weights in their knee pits and jumping rope. I wondered what the hip hop teacher would look like and imagined a delicate flower of a dancer with long, flowing hair. WRONG. Conditioning teacher IS the hip hop teacher. Woe.

She put on some beats for us to loosen up to. That's when I knew I was in for it. The ladies and gents around me were shaking their booties like they were in da clurrrb, whilst I did some of my patented robot moves and felt awkward. Teacher then announced that she was going to build on what everyone had learned the last two weeks with three new eight counts. "I'm a fast learner," I thought to myself. "I'll be able to pick up on this no sweat."

I caught the first three moves, which were a snap to the side with some 'tude, a punch to the right and a punch to the left. Then there was some jumping and some falling backwards and some "drive that car!" and some booty shaking and some dipping. As a lovely young man behind me pointed out, I looked a hot mess. The only part I could do with some semblance of confidence was the eight count of "walkin' it out," which entailed walking in a circle. With some 'tude.

Reader, I was so bad. It brought me back to my failed attempt to try out for cheerleading freshman year of high school. I felt like I was insulting our teacher, who looks like she's straight out of a Missy Elliot video, merely by being there.

The worst was at the end of the class, when she had half of us perform for the other half. Twice. I immigrated to the very back of the room where I prayed their eyeballs would gloss over me in favor of the overweight dude at the front who was dancing his big ol' heart out.

Actually, I lied. The worst is that when I text my buddy to commiserate about how very, very awful I was she insisted we go together next week and I agreed.