Thursday, September 29, 2005

Sorry, get your own jollies!

For the sake of peace and tranquility in my domicile I am quietly dropping the whole footy thing. *THUD* I have been asked to weigh my love of storytelling against my concern for the feelings of others. For me, the story is sacred, and while I hope this is a hazard I rarely have to navigate in my writing "career" it is a reality of sharing my life with the whole world... all ten of you... um, if I want anyone to share their life with me.

Besides, till now it was Foot Fetishists 1, BF 0 and I feel obliged to at least even the score. Tied 1:1.

And the questionnaire was totally boring. Hello! Yawn! The scandal is all on this side of the keyboard. And rest assured, I am out here full force making an ass of myself, tantruming and nicemaking on a regular basis just so to bring you an entertaining perspective of the world around me.


CRAp, I had my heart squeezed out of me the other evening when I was leaving the store with cheese, thinking about my cheese and a toy poodle lunged at me against the glass of the drivers side window in the car next to mine. I squealed and *almost* peed, cursed in an unbecoming manner.

I had parked my car the wrong way in the diagonal spot and my driver side was next to their driver side from where the poodle was manning security. Edison was in the back seat of my car, securing nothing. I rolled his window all the way down and eased my car forward a little until the two dogs were lined up. GET HIM EDISON, GET 'EM Edison fluffed up a bit, leaned out toward the poodle window and URF-ed and growlburped.

The poodle went wild, fogging up six inches of glass. He slipped off the arm rest and fell onto the drivers seat. GET 'EM, EDISON, GET 'EM Edison ARF-ed and wiggled a little bit. The poodle lunged back up from the seat against the glass, little corkskrew curls sprung around his nose.

I looked up just then to see this dude right there, walking up between our cars, probably watching as he had walked across the parking lot, probably just starting to figure out what the hell I was doing. *ohshit* I slid down in my seat and drove away in what can only be described as a slink.

Theme-blogs get monotonous anyway.

Monday, September 26, 2005

Hold That Thought

I know, I know...

Sunday was too short, each moment the last moment of summer and if I could just linger without provoking time I thought maybe I could draw it out a little longer.

I was on campus at 7:35am this morning only to be told that none of my classes started till noon today. I went home and got two more hours of sickly sleep, woke sweaty with a pounding headache and knock-kneed nausea, what if I puke on my teacher the first day?. They already know me so I guess they wont mind as much.

When I got to class I was pleasantly surprised to be cheered and WHEW WE THOUGHT YOU DROPPED OUT-ed... cause I still haven't registered, thus wasn't on the rollcall, and I was actually supposed to be there at 9am, so the speculation and sadness proceeded me. Even small, tiny, ittybitty loves make me happy. I felt the nausea sorta ease off and lightened up a little bit out from under my anxiety.

But, see, I just cant muster up a decent post here about feets right now. I am just gonna say hold that thought.

Friday, September 23, 2005

Too chilly for swimming.

We are going camping up on the Salmonberry river one last time. I should stay home and practice getting up early, or practice sitting in one spot for a long time without falling asleep. I am never prepared for the new school year.

B'sides that, I just got back from my last long training run before the marathon. 21 miles. My calves are sore. Those two bumps on my collarbone always get chaffed by my shirt collar so I wore a bandaid there, and the fuckin' band-aid chaffed me.

Sunday: The Foot Questionaire.

Thursday, September 22, 2005


1. I deleted some a bunch of old drafts off of my blogger account that read like a bong hit, taking you nowhere. Such as this one:

it seems like there is a fundamental lack of officiation in the storytelling around here. I mean, if I tell you

2. Willie is limited use cat, but she finally caught a mouse, which makes her vaguely esteemable.

3. I took a bath with my camera tonight.

+is not waterproot+

4. I live in poverty

5. But my toes are prismatic.

Which brings me to my point...

I am going to put this one out to you guys.

A French foot-fetishist with endearingly crappy book-learned English and predictable French verb-conjugation asked me to fill out a foot questionnaire. All the questions are foot-oriented but not specifically erotic.

I think that I might answer the questions if I can post the questions and the highlights of the dialogue, here on my blog.

What do you think???? I need some advice, am begging for your input.

My bath water got very murky...

Then I showered clean.

My stupid, I mean, limited-use cat fell into my tubasudsyness

And licked her self dry.

6. A hellish school/work schedule starts this Monday, after one more year of which I will be L.L. Bean pipe-smokin debonaire with squeaky-clean floor-boards.
    • M: School, 7am-7pm (commuting time included)
    • T: Work, 11am-3pm
    • W: School, 7am-7pm
    • Th: Work, 11am-3pm
    • F: School, 7am-7pm
    • S: Work, 11am-11pm
    • Sun: sleep, sex, coffee, run, homework, bagel...
    The horribleness of this schedule is that the BF is monitoring air quality in a high-rise downtown where the remodeling schedule must not interfere noisily with the schedule of money-making tenants like lawyers... um, meaning that he is leaving for work an hour before I come home every night, and coming home a few short hours before I have to get up. It is gonna be stressful, and lonely.
    It seems like just yesterday I was running in the Gel-Cumulus Vl...

    Already they have 413.12 miles on them. Way below my goal but with very few junk miles logged.

    behold... the Asics Gel-Cumulus VII.

    They will be marathon ready after this week, including a 20-miler on Friday.

    I hope.

    Friday, September 16, 2005

    Can We Be OVER IT Already?

    Recently the BF had an encounter with a neighbor that ended with the ladies present taking a walk in the garden. Ya know? They were uncomfortable, decided to stroll among the begonias and hydrangea bushes.

    As it happened it was in passing, on his way to see Hot Rod Dave up the road who still does not know, and would be dumbfounded to learn that chicks don't dig hotrods like they used to, just like they don't wear poodle skirts anymore.

    So the neighbor, a friend of a friend whose son once tried to undress me with his eyes at Hot Rod Dave's BBQ in late June rests an elbow on the fence and says HOWDY-DO NEIGHBOR and the BF stops, says BE DOIN' FINE, HOW-DY-DO? and before you know it the weight of the world is upon these two men, squabbling and differing in all sorta manner.


    HMMMM, says the BF (an environmental scientist), NEVER HEARD THAT ONE BEFORE. And it starts to get tense, starts to feel ugly.

    Who are these people and how can they endure the ever increasing emotional and intellectual contortions necessary to keep believing what they believe? Why do they want to? How can they live with the cognitive dissonance, the pain and the stress. Stress is acid, breaks down the tissues of the heart and crucial areas of the brain.

    I for one, have had enough. We are an adolescent country, we are swaggering dicks, we don't know everything. Having survived my own youthful arrogance, uselessness, knowitallness, stressness I am eager for us all to grow up and move on together.

    (He never seems to get exasperated with me, though last weekend he fairly sighed and observed THE WORLD HAS NO SHORTAGE OF PHOTOGRAPHS OF SEAGULLS)


    Tomorrow I have an 18 mile training run planned. What am I doing up at 1:22am posting photographs of molten metals? If left to my own devices this is just the time of night I start to wake up and produce.


    The learning curve is steep.


    I love the words. Slag. Blast Furnace. Ingot. Crucible. Melting Point. Lost Wax. Oxidation. Alloy. Slurry. Fun words.


    pouring moltenness

    ingot impurties

    I baked a caramel apple pecan pie the other day and had a molten-goo-in-your-mouth moment cause I couldnt resist. My desire to touch metal 9354231 degrees hot was as strong, but by now I have learned a thing or two about consequences.

    It is so pretty.

    Thursday, September 15, 2005

    Me Barbie, You Ken

    I registered for the Portland Marathon the other day after I found out they had re-opened registration to allow for another 1000 runners. At least I think that is what it read. I whipped out my credit card so fast I broke all the sound barriers and was confirming payment before I ever knew for sure.

    Thing is, I am not sure if I am ready. No doubt this last year of time and a half credits in school took all the readiness out of me. By the time June rolled around, relaxing my way out of the residual school stress chopped off another month of training, as did weddings and bike rides and camping and finding water in which to behave like a lily-pad and then acting like lily-pad, submerged to the tip of my nose.

    I kid. I froze incrementally, flailing in the swift, un-lilylike water. Lilies do not grow in the rapids.

    But anyway... I know I am not marathon ready. I know I can run a marathon, its just that I cant run it the way I want to run it. But that holds true for every part of my life and I tend to not let it stop me.

    I am so excited. Have you ever gotten butterflies in your tummy when you heart was already beating 163 beats per minute, six miles into an eight mile run?? It is a really weird feeling. I am not sure if it is safe. I cant shake the adrenaline of knowing the marathon is only a few weeks away and I may keel over dead with that awareness.

    Can you believe I need a new pair of shoes already? Seems like just yesterday...


    Otherwise we are gonna start casting metal. Yesterday we got the custom-made tongs to handle the crucible, chased each other around the house with them. I thought maybe I would make some bronze slug handles for my garden gate. I don't have a garden gate, yet.

    We made a foundry practice run with a Ken-doll head. Whatcha think?
    (the BF has consented to be photoblogged again)


    I had dinner with my girlfriends tonight after I got off work. Five of us cooked and drank wine in a little post-divorce basement apartment just aching with self-awareness and potential. The lighting was sublime and the company was tonic. And of course, the food was fun but the cooking was even funner. I have been such a domestic homebody nerd all summer. Why am I not out feeling vital everynight??

    Yet, I am so happy here, at home. Its new to me.

    Tuesday, September 13, 2005

    Struck By Lightening

    I turned down the pirate party pot-luck with the heavy-duty lesbians and classmate light-weights who count your drinks for you. I appreciate them one and all, quirks even, but for the chance to shack up in a tent with my baby for two more days... well... the choice seems obvious to me.

    T'was the right choice, even though all the meteorologists foretold of pouring rain and thunderstorms. We were not tented and tarped up one short hour before the deluge began. To the north the beach was dark and seamy, to the south, pink and hopeful. Stormy skies make me feel so lusty and pained. I wish I had a palette of colors so vivid as those in the shadow of a thunderhead at dusk. I would paint my clothes on.

    True to my word I can start a campfire in a squall on the Oregon coast with no kindling, and only a damp crossword from the daily paper. Under the tarp we ate hot cheesy potatoes and played cards, our feet an inch deep in mud, timing the span between the huge splashes of water that rolled out of the tarp over our heads when it pooled too deep.

    After the sunset the lightening. After the thunder the rain. After two hours the storm just drifted away like a puff of vapor and the stars came out. We stoked the fire up, didn't say much. Didn't even complain.

    We woke to a perfect morning. Hiked to the end of the cape with only minor theatrics. Nothing so dramatic as falling off the cliff, just shreeky heartstop handfluttertothroat every time a slug snuck up on me. I am ridiculous and foolish. We had to share the tiptop of the cape with an elderly Swedish couple surrounded by strong musky flowering bushes which confused my senses and make me vaguely irritable.

    I am stingy and resentful and want to make-out ten thousand feet above the tranquil ocean without Swedes munching on apples behind me.

    I worry that I will not be able to decompose when I die. I want to be immortal. I want to photosynthesize, roots wrapped around my bones and leaves spread to the sky.

    As far as I know, the only way to become bio-mass is to get murdered and buried in a shallow grave in the woods. This frustrates me.

    I will think more on it later. An acceptable solution is not immediately apparent, yet this is very important to me.

    I cant take credit for this picture. It was the BF who gasped and grabbed the camera. Who will eat the moldy dog turds if not the lowly slug?

    This is the major hitch in my plans. I know I can't pick and chose my decomposers but if I could, for the record, I prefer worms and microbes. Thank you.

    The south end of the beach was covered with the half living debris of an enormous land slide, just before the cliff wall.

    Then the sun set. The end.

    Not really.

    By necessity we drive all through my old life and past my old house and by design I feel ghostly and the wind blows through me. I say a thousand little prayers and tell outrageous stories that exhaust me and help pass the time on the road home.

    Friday, September 02, 2005

    The Blame Game

    I really liked this article so I am posting part of it here:

    A 2001 report issued by FEMA predicted New Orleans was one of the three most likely disasters waiting to happen. This revelation should not have been taken lightly: New Orleans has the only deepwater port in the United States served by six Class 1 railroads, and it's one of America's leading general cargo ports, with top market share for import steel, natural rubber, plywood and coffee. But the administration slashed flood control funding for the city by 44 percent. Last year, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers suggested a plan should be in place to protect New Orleans from a major hurricane, but the Bush administration nixed the notion. Congress did approve a flood control project in the mid-'90s to shore up levees and renovate pumping stations, but by 2003, funding had been diverted into the wars on Iraq and terror. The Bush team also cut, by 80 percent, funding requested by the Corps in 2004 for keeping the waters of Lake Pontchartrain at bay.

    Turning over more wetlands to developers further exacerbated the situation. Bush reneged on a promise that there would be no loss of wetlands, which act as a natural buffer against storm surge. A study concluded that without wetlands protection, New Orleans could be ravaged by a moderate hurricane. But the White House lumped this information into the "bad science" category along with global warming, which scientists all over the world agree is creating increasingly erratic weather patterns, including more hurricanes.

    When empirical data doesn't fit the Bush regime's philosophy, it is simply dismissed out of hand, regardless of how much proof exists or how many Nobel laureates stand behind it. Instead, the administration perpetually foists policies upon the public that turn out to be expensive blunders: the education-unfriendly No Child Left Behind; the statistically ineffective "abstinence only" crusade; billions of dollars in no-bid contracts for Halliburton; lack of funds and equipment for soldiers and meager health care for veterans; broken promises of foreign aid to fight AIDS and poverty; tax cuts for the rich; soaring gasoline prices; and a bellicose foreign policy that has alienated most of our allies.

    Though Bush's policies left New Orleans more vulnerable to this disaster, he could have redeemed himself by responding quickly. But even after the fifth day of this unspeakable ordeal, the behemoth Homeland Security bureaucracy he created was still unable to get food and water to multitudes of desperate survivors, much less evacuate them. On TV Wednesday, Homeland Security Director Michael Chertoff began offering assurances that, any second now, help would be on the way. He was still singing that tune Thursday and even Friday morning, while millions of Americans watched on TV with growing horror as the 2,000 desperate people trapped in the New Orleans convention center held up signs pleading for relief. Local officials were angry and begging, too, describing rapes and other abuses as people began dying of dehydration and human violence. Yet the breathtakingly inept Chertoff tried to dismiss the reality at the center as a "media rumor" before "confirming" the story and promising to "get help." FEMA Director Michael Brown's lame insistence that "we're doing what we can" are also wearing thin.

    Days after the core event, Bush is doing little more than mouthing platitudes, grinning inappropriately, and reminding us how important it is to "keep fighting in Iraq."

    Make Me Look Good!

    I was going to write about the gynormous slug found in a downed five foot wide nurse log in the Gifford-Pinchot National Forest.

    We oogled him and photographed him traveling and eating by moonlight and by flashlight till my boyfriend proclaimed in a quivering emotional voice HE'S MAJESTIC... *sniff* I FEAR I HAVE WRONGLY JUDGED THE SLUG, THE GREATLY MISUNDERSTOOD SLUG. *sniff* NEW RESPECT, M'MAN, NEW RESPECT

    I gagged and yet I have to concede the grandiosity, the imperial dignity of this slug. Those of you who know me know that slugs, the very thought, make me cry. Somehow I managed to take over 15 photographs of this august terrestrial gastropod mollusk. Ugh.

    resplendent in the moonlight

    In the meantime, I am sorrow-filled and riveted to the television, feeling like a useless jerk. I was in New Orleans a few years ago and the bouncer at Cafe Lafitte in Exile, Big Gay Bob had a huge pink Maglite and flirted madly with my (ex)boyfriend, while the bartenders giggled and said he had legs for days.

    Boys, I sure hope you're alright. *sob*

    These things are easier for me when I can make a personal connection.

    Anyway, I called Piyada tonight, 2:03pm Bangkok time. She was ecstatic to hear from me, recounted the hurricane Sister that does not seem to die down (and who is my horoscopical twin in every way), and told me that she is coming back to the states in January. Man, that is some good news. Plus she has finally acceded to get married to the man who loves her, who she loves... which, for my own selfishselfishselfish ends means she will gain American citizenship.

    is that a tongue inside that head hole????? *shudder*

    I am working tomorrow night, something I don't like to normally do, and am giving all my tips to hurricane relief. Come eat Thai food and tip me lots of money so I can take credit for being a nice person. Thank you.



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