Appliance High Jinks

Our washer is broken. Again. Every time I turn around, that piece of arse is at it again. This time it ended with an actual explosion. Delightful. I was cleaning the bejeezus out of the house when I heard the BOOM! from the utility closet. I quickly did the math in my head and sure enough we're due for our 5-month washer/dryer calamity. Last time, the wee bastard flooded the kitchen. That's right. I said kitchen. Our righteous apartments (we moved from a one to a two-bedroom in April in the same complex) strategically place these Eurotrash "high efficiency" front-loading abominations in the least convenient locations possible. So in that case, it was next to the stove in the kitchen. Naturally. I mean, where else would you expect to keep your washer/dryer, Fancypants von Trousersander? So yeah, lame. We're out of a washer until our repairman brings us a new motherboard, as ours was a casualty of the shiny grin grin Saturday morning pyrotechnic display.

Because of this interruption of all things right and good, I gathered up the clothing and took it to the nearest laundromat. I'm not opposed to laundromats so long as they're clean and quiet. As luck would have it there is one just like that only a few blocks up and over. I guess that's part of the beauty of living in a large town, small city. For those of you who've never been to Portland, one important fact to note is that pretty much everyone in this town stands out in one way or another. I was on my way home from work a couple months ago and saw a guy walking a chicken on a leash. The chicken's collar was purple and sparkly, and to me, well, sparkles just don't belong on a chicken. The purple was a nice shade, though. Anyway, a trip to the laundromat here is a like sitting in the lobby of a Cirque de Soleil show that hasn't quite found its niche yet. In the hour and a half it took for me to cycle through my wash, I saw a woman with a tattoo that curled around her neck and read C-U-N-T in big bright red old English calligraphy, a fella whose skirt was hand-sewn from plastic and jeans, and a young lady who practiced her percussion skills on the bank of extra large washers (very talented, I might add).

While all this is swirling around me, I managed to write out pretty much all of the storyboards for our wedding DVD extras, the mailing list for it, and the supplies and fees we'll need to carry out this shindig. Maybe in the overall scheme it's not such a bad thing the washer decided to dump out on us for a couple weeks. My productivity and hometown entertainment depended on it, apparently.

October Affair

It's almost October, my favorite month of the year. I'll never understand those folks who get the love sweats for sunny, 95 -degree weather. I find that sort of day akin to a cosmic spanking--a purely unpleasant bum-hammering, really. When I moved out here, I was unmoved by the incessant griping about the rain. When you live in a temperate rain forest, it stands to follow that you and your precious Jersey hair sculptures are going to get damp, if not soaked.

I strive to create a home that is a place of warmth, comfort, and peace, but from about September 20th to around January 15th, our wee place takes on a glow not enjoyed in July or August. Because we're not outside as much and actually notice the inside surroundings, I can focus more clearly in a way that doesn't happen when the sun blanket is in town. The smell of steeping cider combined with the chilled breeze from the porch mark the fall here in lieu of the vivid changing colors on the midwest trees.

It is with a toothy smile I say, Welcome Home, October. Pull up your hood and break out the warm mittens. It's time to cozy up to Neptune and bid Apollo farewell until April...

A Picture Blog

When I have to hunt for the funny about certain situations I feel like:

But the funny always comes back when I sit under this tree and think about the beauty of absurdity:

And I perk up at the thought of things like:

And:

And oh Lord yes:

So, even when the world looks and acts like:

I know that the next day just may bring:

And that is plenty for me to buy the ticket to the next show...

Unexpected

When I first moved to Oregon, my ultimate goal was to live in downtown Portland and learn the ropes of the non-profit sector in an effort to start my own. For those of you who know the Portland job market, you're aware that it is an unforgiving beast of a process that most often leads to a dead-end time gobbling interview with employers who have made a plastic judgment about you five seconds after you've taken a seat in their conference room, sponsored by IKEA. By the time I entered the place that was to become my first professional home in the city, I was a battered little bunny rabbit that placed little stock in the possibility this employer would be any different from the other 7 from whom I'd already taken a beating. I would soon appreciate that being wrong can bring a comfort few have the pleasure to know.

On November 21, 2005, I started my career in the non-profit realm. I had much to learn, but my teachers were endlessly patient with my bottomless well of questions. It helped that they understood my loyalty wasn't some fly-by-night commodity, but a genuine commitment to the organization's mission, and they appreciated my willingness to learn, regardless of how annoying my tactics of knowledge acquisition might be.

I met remarkable people who wanted to make sure the past was preserved for future generations, and who wanted to ensure the Museums they maintain maximize the experience of the visitors and event revelers. Each person who works for this non-profit have one job title, but wear many uniforms. Not once have I heard "That's not my job" or "I don't feel like it." We were and are a team.

Over time, my role with the Museum has shifted and shaped itself from working full time as assistant to the Executive Director, David, to working part time as a technology caretaker and assistant to our Event Coordinator, Wynee. Every Sunday I look forward to hearing the organization news while I work through scheduling updates and technology clean-up. Wynee's tales are never dull, and always help the listener feel as if they were in the room when the story-worthy event happened.

I appreciate a person who knows how to laugh, and Wynee is one of those people. She's well aware that one of my biggest "things" is any sort of rodent in my immediate sphere of interaction, so one Sunday she sat me down to tell me a mouse wandered into her office the day before (the building is nestled on a wooded hillside) just to watch me jump ten feet in the air and let out a shriek of undelight. She was a merciful joker, though. She didn't let my fit go on for much longer than the immediate discontent, and settled me down with a cup of coffee and reassurance that she had already banished the little bastard back to its hillside domain.

Wynee died suddenly yesterday. I could say all of the standards about her: She was kind, hilarious, sweet, smart, professional, bawdy, and one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, but it's all trite. None of those words, however apt, can do justice to the mother, friend, woman, who was Wynee. Every time I left the Museum she would ask me if I needed anything, sincerely wanted an answer, and would block the door until I gave it. We would part with a quick hug, a Hollywood air kiss, and a "Have a good week, Honey. Love you!"

Goodnight, Wynee. It has been an honor.

Cut The Crap, er, Cake

My only sister married her high school sweetheart 23 years ago. Twenty. Three. Years. Ago. Fortunately, they both rule, so it's lasted that long. My oldest brother has opted not to marry and has made quite a success of the bachelor lifestyle. My other brother married well to a lady who shares his goals and sense of humor--two essential qualities that have helped them last the ten years they have.

Up until about two years ago, the idea of marriage had me reaching for the Saltines and Sprite. It was about as delicious a concept as I could not imagine. I don't have any sort of a reasonable explanation for my aversion to commitment. My parents were married for 48 years. My siblings sported successful love stories. I had broken an engagement in my early twenties, but it wasn't for anything traumatic. He was a good guy. He just wasn't my good guy, through no fault of his or mine. It was a good decision for both of us, and not one I regret.

So, if my major experiences with love were mostly positive why did I feel the need to kick commitment in the throbbing nads? Part of it can attributed to the wedding hall where I worked for three years in college and grad school where I became so jaded with weddings that my coworkers and I would actually have running bets on when the ink would dry on these asses' divorce papers. There was a formula we used: The higher the cost of the wedding, the faster the marriage would dissolve like alka seltzer in a swimming pool. I would keep tabs in the local papers and sure enough, Mr. and Mrs. X would soon become Mr. X and Ms. Y within months. Shows like "Bridezillas" and "Platinum Weddings" tend to put the bitchy emphasis on the bride herself, but let me tell you who the actual maddening loon was in the family: The groom's mother. Without fail, this grande dame of muttering misery would burst through the kitchen staging area and demand something ridiculous and unattainable like elevating the bridal party table three feet so her 97-year-old uncle could get a "real good look at the ladies". She would be the first to pass out by the champagne fountain and the last to slur, "You kids are some...some....shumething else, you are." Thud.

My experiences there are an endless well of righteous indignance with the wedding industry, but I wouldn't trade my time there for anything. Where else could you get paid to hear a best man "toast" the new couple with "Well, Kim, you won't have to get any more abortions after today"? BEAUTIFUL.

I'm getting married in February. I'm looking forward to it, not just because he's one cool mf'er, but because he's completely supportive of not having a wedding with anyone besides our officiant, a couple witnesses, and God. We're filming it to send out to friends as a DVD wedding because we do want our loved ones to share in this special moment with us, but also as irrefutable evidence that I, Jaded Commitmentphobe, did not run for the hills as predicted, but instead stood my ground and vowed to make this marriage a success. Not only does that thought not make my breakfast back its thing up, but that thought makes me happy like a little lad in short pants.

Ahhhhhh, l'amour...

A Crinkle in Time

When my dad died a little over three years ago, I was more than slightly aware that his passing would have weird and unexpected effects on my life. I knew there would be times when I missed his voice, or his deep belly laugh. His gentle teasing humor would be a void not easily filled as one day melted into the next. I knew I would want to share the news of my life with him. But there was no way for me to understand how it would feel to be denied the ability to share it.

I can still see him. His eyes had three main branches of crinkles at the corners when he smiled his crooked indulgent grin. Regardless of how genetics and osteoporosis conspired to warp his stance, he still managed to lean back when he talked to you so that your eyes were level and you felt the full gravity of his words. That is, if he said any words. Every glance he cast your way told you exactly what he wanted you to know, whether it was "What in the hell is wrong with you?", "Pass the salt", or the elusive "I'm so very proud of who you are", you knew exactly what he meant. And it meant a lot.

I think of him every day, and that's not surprising, but what I have found to be jarring is the amount of times I forget he's gone and I'll think about what he'll say when I tell him THIS bit of information. And then I remember. The bottomless pain has gradually become a dull heartbeat that is always there, but doesn't slam me to the floor the way I allowed it to in the past. I very much credit my fiance for helping remind me that good men are still here, though one of the best I've ever known might not be.

In about a week my brother and sister-in-law are about to do something completely extraordinary. Their restaurant and his efforts as chef have been chosen to cook at the James Beard House in New York City. For the world of culinary arts, this is the equivalent of winning an Oscar. No, wait. Not winning. Earning. Every time I think about their wonderful achievement, I think how incredible it must be to be Dad right now. Not only does he get to see his son fulfill a lifelong dream, but he also gets to watch over them and hold their hands in a way he never would have done, had he been confined to his fragile body. In a way, his passing is the only thing that allows him to share that day with them.

It is that sort of realization that I never expected to have in the first couple years that were roundly devoted to healing and learning how to live on an Earth that didn't host him anymore. To be sure, it is a different place. But since I've come to look at his death as merely a change of address, I'm grateful he's still available to me in our own way. And when I look in the mirror and see the beginning of those wrinkle branches on my own eyes, I can only smile a little bigger. Crookedly.

Club Nights

My mom is a small fairy godmother of a woman who carries a mad rumpus with her wherever she goes. She's a wee sprite with a penchant for laughter who was my first exposure to quirkiness, and the most enduring.

Every month Mom would meet with seven other ladies from the neighborhood to play pinochle, eat delicious dips and munchies (made by the indentured hands of her children), and talk about what joys and disappointments their families were. Each club member would take a turn as hostess, and the party rotated from house to house so that we would host this hilariously bawdy bunch of women every eight months. It was the one night we were allowed to eat all the hors d'oeuvres we could keep down, and to stay up late for my mom's special raspberry dessert.

During Club, my brothers and I would be banished to our rooms to do homework, or to my parents' room to watch some spirit-breakingly boring special on PBS with our dad while the ladies whooped it up with their coffee cups full at 9:00pm and Virginia Slims blazing in the living room. I was mainly resentful not because I wanted to be in the living room to participate in the card games and big girl conversations, but because that's where they kept the dip and appetizers for a main course that would never come. I was often in charge of hunting and gathering "dinner" for the bedroom dwellers because I was the smallest and had the best chance of going unnoticed. In order to get to the food, I would have to make it past the perfume and 80s beehive gauntlet. And the hugs. Oh Lord, the hugs. It seems that every single one of them had huge chests and an endless supply of polyester blouses. Let me tell you, polyester lives to soak up White Shoulders and Charlie.

Most of the ladies were the coolest folks you could ever hope to meet with kind and generous hearts tucked in their gravity-defying bosoms, but there were a couple doozies that made Florence Jean Castleberry look like the lost courtier of Queen Victoria. They would talk about their latest hot dates with the local Cleetuses to the dismay of all in earshot. No detail was left to the imagination, and inevitably they would reach the pinnacle of their sordid tales of woe while I was scooping up a plate of olive dip for the PBS crowd.

Today, I still make a meal of appetizers when given the opportunity and have committed those dip recipes to memory, much to the delight of my coworkers and party going peeps. Though I never learned how to play pinochle, I surely did learn how to laugh. I think of those days often and wonder what my own kids might learn from my candid conversations with my girlfriends and my openness to quirky lifestyles and bold personalities that I inherited gratefully from my mom. I hope for their sake they're able to grin as widely as I do when I think of my own mother, her club, and the cries of "Hokey Shit!" at one o'clock in the morning on a school night. And if not, well, I hope they learn to like the riveting drones of PBS on a Wednesday evening.

Love Them Or Throw Something Metal At Them

The Oscars please me. If ever I've had a "thing" about anything, it is the holiest of holy nights: The Academy Awards. In fact, I once dumped a guy and asked him to leave my apartment because he wouldn't shut up during one of the moving and deep montages about the use of the New York skyline in movies through the ages. Asshole.

It's not that I love them unconditionally. Oscar and I share a volatile, passionate relationship that takes a lot of work and cultivation. Sometimes he disappoints me so scarringly that it takes years to forget; however I find myself unable to forgive him (I'm looking at YOU, Best Actress Gwyneth Paltrow). In fact, some of the honors he's bestowed are so ridiculous and unfounded, that it's hard to stay angry because the gaffes were so grievous. I manage, though. "Shakespeare in Love" overtaking "Saving Private Ryan" was such a jaw-dropping upset in every sense of the word that I still can't look at a list of Best Pictures (and I often do) without spitting on the ground and cursing each time I read that travesty of 1999. I realize the win is attributed to the aggressive Oscar campaign Miramax, at that time run by the juggernaut Weinstein empire, spearheaded to ensure wins across the major awards, and it really isn't a bad movie for what it is, but COME ON. Really? "Shakespeare in Love"? I don't care if even Dilbert-headed demon Karl Rove is running your Oscar campaign--nothing should have beaten "Saving Private Ryan" if the evaluation were actually based on its film merits, historical importance, or ensemble acting.

But it wasn't.

The Best Picture category isn't the only one to be tainted by popularity nonsense. In 2006, the Best Actor was awarded to Philip Seymour Hoffman, one of my all-time favorite actors. It should not have been. Hoffman turned in a stellar performance as Truman Capote, a feat unto itself, as Capote is renowned for often erratic and difficult behavior. Hoffman truly engaged his audience. It was just the wrong year. That year, Heath Ledger brought to life a character, Ennis Del Mar, so powerful and striking he was able to convincingly imply that every emotion he portrayed was genuine. And he did it with a fifth of the dialogue the other four nominated actors were afforded. Three of the five nominees that year, David Strathairn, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and Joaquin Phoenix, were nominated for roles of real people with visual source material on which to base their character. All of them turned in Oscar-worthy performances, as did Terrence Howard for "Hustle and Flow", but not one of them inhabited their character more than Heath owned Ennis' outsider persona. He was young. His character was controversial. He had his whole life ahead of him to win his inevitable Best Actor statue. Or so we thought. Many a pooch was screwed that night at the Kodak Theater when a young man (he was only 26 at the time) was passed over for politics. The Academy can talk of all the posthumous Oscars for Heath's Joker performance all they want. It's still politics, and doesn't make up for their embarrassing boner of a judgment call.

I'll continue to adore Oscar Night's pomp and self-congratulatory hoopla with rapt attention, regardless of its occasional blunders. It's just that I love Oscar and he doesn't mean to do it. I have to believe that he won't do it to me again. Though my friends have warned me he will. What do they know? They don't know our love like we do...

Character Witness

When I tell people I'm mourning the loss of the great Don LaFontaine or that I'm excited because today is Eileen Brennan's birthday, the majority look at me blankly as crickets chirp in the distance and a tumbleweed blows across our path. But. If I tell them that the guy who does the "IN A WORLD..." voiceovers for movie trailers died on Monday and that today is the birthday of the woman who played the Captain on "Private Benjamin" and Mrs. Peacock in "Clue", then I still get bewildered stares as they wonder why the hell I give a shit about either, but at least they know who they're wondering about.

Character actors make the world go 'round. Let the Academy award all the Washingtons and Sarandons they can stomach, but save me a helping of Slim Pickens, a lovin' spoonful of Zelda Rubinstein, and a steaming side of Geoffrey Lewis. These folks and their kind are the building blocks of greatness. Screw the simpering leads in a love story, and bring their hilarious best friends to my dinner table, Waiter.

Anthony Hopkins won an Oscar for "Silence of the Lambs", and arguably deserved it. But come on now. Who do you quote from that movie when you reeeeeally want to creep out your friends? That's right. It's Ted Levine's ultimately disturbing and memorable Buffalo Bill skin suit speech that keeps the crowds whimpering in the aisles.

And it wasn't Christian Bale's throat lozenge deprived Batman that packed the $500 million seats. It was Ledger's outlandish Joker portrayal slung to the masses with abandon that drew the crowds. Yes, Heath Ledger was a famous leading man in his own right prior to "The Dark Knight", but not in this movie. Oh no. Had he been the lead, his psychotic walking Id would have been considered over the top and too much for one sitting, but because he was a lunatic in the stands, the hero still shined, and the supporting character was an irresistibly wicked indulgence easily enjoyed.

It is with great admiration that I say thank you, Rose Marie, for your hilarious Sally Rogers. May the blessings of the Lord be upon you, Mr. Peter Graves, for your righteous and good Captain Oveur. And finally, to the king of the characters, it is with an abiding fondness and deep sadness that I say sleep well, Don Knotts. You are missed.

IN A WORLD without Don LaFontaine, Jerry Reed, Bernie Mac, Fran Ryan, Jack Soo, Larry Linville, Estelle Getty, and Charles Nelson Reilly, the sun sets a little differently, the moon shines a little dimmer, and our entertainment lacks a bit of the old one, two punch for which we loved them so much.

Stars and Gripes

Astronomy keeps my demons laughing like wee girls on the playground. Whenever a daunting challenge rears its unreasonable, and oftentimes emotionally costly, head, I can look up at the sky and put myself back in perspective as a rather insignificant stardust pollinator bringing remnants of the heavenly bodies from one place to another.

My favorite recourse for self-comfort is a site called the Astronomy Picture of the Day. This site is an old friend to which my mentor from grad school, Dr. Dale Smith, introduced me. I was having a particularly bad day with some irrelevant classroom drama, so he called me into his office where he pulled up the Web page and asked me to take my time reading the description of the astronomical event featured that day. That simple exercise of putting aside my earthly mindbuggery to appreciate that beautiful photo is a coping mechanism I still use today.

Since that time, I've expanded my appreciation of this site to not only crutch the days of my sorrows, but to bookmark my joys with a nod of thanks to the cosmos. What follows here is a list of important dates in my life that APoD helped me engrave with a visual reality:

July 25, 1998: My brother married a righteous chick.

August 9, 1999: I broke off an engagement that was not meant to be.

December 3, 1999: Madeline Kahn died.

December 31, 1999: Spent the night of Y2K in a pub in Northern Ireland trading stories with hilarious local folks and my Irish friends Henry and Tom.

April 5, 2001: Successfully defended my Masters thesis.

August 28, 2001: Taught my first university course as a full instructor.

February 2, 2003: Crystal and my Friendship anniversary. Columbia shuttle explodes.

November 26, 2004: Decided to move my life to Oregon to pursue a career in the non-profit sector.

June 15, 2005: Closest friend of our family, Bill Carr, dies after a long battle with cancer. Anne Bancroft dies.

June 17, 2005: Dad follows Bill.

July 1, 2005: Set off with what I could shove in the Buick and drove to Oregon with Russ.

July 10, 2005: Turbo and my Friendship Anniversary.

October 1, 2005: Moved to Portland from mid-Oregon.

November 21, 2005: Began my career as non-profit sector's #1 fan.

February 28, 2007: Met J.

July 15, 2007: Met Pixie.

March 29, 2008: Saw Asylum Street Spankers for the first time and partied with the band.

June 20, 2008: Said yes.

Of course, when Keith Richards dies or if John McCain wins, I'll have to add more coping dates to the list, but for now...