We Went to Target

And I made you a little photo essay. You see I love Target. With all of my heart.

First stop: Lingerie department.

Look at these! Target has cute panties.

And they have really great nursing bras. (Crissy, that was for you. My maternity camisole got me through so many nights wherein Arch would nearly suffocate because he was in bed between us and I was the shame of our neighborhood because sometimes the kid slept in bed so I wouldn’t have to get up in the night to nurse him co-slept.)

And Target has been getting some cute clothes in. Well, that’s been happening for a long time. But recently they’ve been extra cute. So cute, I need to try them on EXCEPT my body, which under normal circumstances is pretty well-proportioned, is FREAKISHLY MUTANT because nothing fits me at Target. I have actually never purchased an article of clothing at Target. And last night was no exception.

Sweet Jeebus, what the fuck is happening with this dress? Is it supposed to reach my mid-calf? And gather around my armpits? WHEN DID I TURN INTO THE 14 YEAR OLD POLYGAMIST WIFE?

And this dress. This one was okay, but I wasn’t going to spend $20 on okay. I only spend $20 on fan-fucking-tabulous.

I left the juniormisseswomensmaternityoverweightjuniormisses department and wandered into children’s where I was relieved to see Target taking action against the obesity epidemic afflicting our nation.

Ooooh posh stationary!

And I went upstairs to make sure that consumerism wasn’t too rampant. Hand towels specifically for Valentine’s Day? Well, I hope they were made by some Tibetan leper child! Better– they’re on sale!

While I was upstairs, Steve found me and asked which yoga mat he should get. Baby blue or lavender?

He chose lavender.

He also asked me if he should get a bag to put his yoga mat in. I told him it was okay to leave it unsheathed.

And while Archie and Steve got all Oedipal in the toy aisle…

I became insanely outraged on the behalf of all Mexicans, Chilangos, Puerto Ricans, Chicanos, Eskimos, basically anyone with brown eyes and a weakness for cheddar cheese because, hello and what the fuck. Why is the low rider called Ramone?

Finally, someone implied that Archie’s gymnastics class would make him gay. While I’ve often dreamed of Archie reaching an age and living a lifestyle for which I could ostracize him for decisions he makes in his personal life, I submit this proof that Archer is not gay.

After he took that bathing suit off the hanger and held it to his body, he informed me that the swimsuit was “for big boys.” He then hung it perfectly back on the hanger and replaced the hanger on the rack. Who’s gay now?!?

And here’s Steve pretending like two yoga mats are boobs from which you can shoot bullets.

And that was our trip to Target.

Do Your Part

Okay, all of you know someone who could be a better blogger. And who’s in Portland. And has $45 to spend on a class on being a better blogger/writer. Or just wants to learn about narrative.

So go. Tell them about my class. GO NOW.

I do have a blog post. But I can’t remember what it was.

And Then I was Like I Want to Move to Portland!

Here’s the view from this morning.

Will it ever end?

And before any of you people in other parts of the world start talking about snow and feet and it’s way colder on the East Coast than it is there, just remember this one thing: I do not live on the East Coast. I once went to Katz deli in Manhattan and ordered a sandwich with avocado. So just, I don’t know, give me a break.

Here’s some knitting I’m working on. It’s the Noro striped scarf. And I’m sure it would be a better picture if there was sunshine.

I bought that yarn the other day when I met up with Boldmama at Twisted. We hadn’t seen each other since high school and she said I looked just the same. And that’s proof that I dye my hair the exact same color it would be if I didn’t dye it. It was so great to see her and my only regret was that we didn’t get to sit down for a proper catch-up. We weren’t friends in high school, mainly because I was a huge douche when I was a teenager and Nicole was very cool and mellow and I was lame. I’m glad she didn’t spit in my face, which would have been reasonable.

Also, when I saw the snow this morning, I thought I would write something creative. I’d do some creative writing this morning. But I have no idea what to write. So, if you have an idea, please leave it in the comments and I’ll try to write something on the topic and post it here tomorrow. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just lie in bed because I’m on DAY SIX of the Black Death.

Does My Hair Smell Like Vomit?

I’m suffering from the Black Death, Internet.

I blame children.

Archie’s been taking all these classes and I’m around all these little germ monkeys and I’m pretty sure one of them passed me his toxins. So I’ve been crying. A lot. Which doesn’t help the sinus situation. And I’m still sick. It’s been four score and seven years since I first felt the telltale sore throat and still I’m sick.

I had to inform Steve that he was not to look, speak or touch me amorously because when I lie down, I feel as if I’ll drown in my own mucus.

But then there’s this weird thing happening where I can actually smell ten times better than normal. I’m at pregnancy-level nose-sensitivity. Except, I can smell the smell, but I can’t pinpoint its location, so it’s been seriously confusing and frustrating.

Like the other day when I was reading a book to Archie that we’d checked out from the library and suddenly I smelled vomit. I stopped and smelled Arch, smelled the couch, smelled my yoga pants. Nothing. And then I thought, is that my hair? Is it my hair that smells like puke? It could very well have been. My hair is not, I don’t know, clean. My mother might or might not refer to it as a rat’s nest. But that’s how I get it all, you know, bed-heady.

I’ve found dead bugs in my hair. And Arch has picked food out of my hair and eaten it.

But look at it Internet. It looks good, doesn’t it?
See, that’s my hair after a millenium of sinus congestion.

So I sat there feeling even sorrier for myself because I was sick and my hair smelled like barf until I realized that it was the library book that smelled like barf and I felt sort of better. But Arch is addicted to this book, so we’ll be reading the barf-scented book about 67 more times before I can sneak it back to the library smelling not only of barf but riddled with Black Death germs.

And that, Internet, is how I give back to society.

And I also want five more people to sign up for my class. So go do that, would you. I promise I’ll be all cleaned up and smelling sweet by Saturday.

Prize Winner of Portland, Oregon

I ripped that title off from a book called the Prize Winner of Defiance Ohio. This was a book that when I worked at a bookstore, I claimed to have read. Because it was popular with the customers. And so I’d say, “Oh! I loved it!” I’d say this about A Girl Named Zippy and Reading Lolita in Tehran. I also said it about Eat Pray Love and then I read that book and really did love it. I’m a girl. Sue me.

Anyway, ever since I won my posh camera from Stoogie and Crissy, I’m pretty sure I’m the luckiest person alive. Pre-posh-camera I’d approach contests with a cautious pessimism and now I’m like Bring. It. On.

And because we’re home owners, we must go to Home Depot pretty often and every single time I go there, they hand out this little sweepstakes thing on the receipt and every single time I enter the contest. I’m pretty sure that the blood sample they take and the body cavity search and my swearing away Archer’s future labor just increases my chance of winning a $5000 Home Depot gift card. $5,000 American Dollars!

The next drawing is “on or about April 14th,” according to the sweepstakes rules that were tattooed on my shoulder. And after on or about April 14th, I will totally fulfill my dreams of owning one of theses:

I’m also going to buy a $500 front door because our current front door is…well…I don’t want to say. But it’s not good. And I’m also going to buy a $3000 bbq and a $5000 John Deere riding mower for Steve to do the yard. I’m going to buy 75 fruit trees and provide some tools for my Thai orphan to refinish my floors — some tools, not all. And I’m going to buy solar panels and a new car too. All with my Home Depot gift card!

Gooooo sweepstakes!

Back Fence PDX Day!

Okay, seriously everyone we have all seven storytellers booked. The designs are done by Sadie Medley. Intern Nathalie is sending out the media. We are so on top of February’s event! I can’t wait for it. The lineup is stellar. And I couldn’t be prouder of Back Fence and the work Frayn, Nathalie and I are doing on it.

So go check out this week’s story. It’s by Dave Jarecki, who is a huge supporter of Back Fence. He told a story at our third show and was just fabulous. His blog post is just as honest and poignant. It’s about that experience we all have had. Someone dies way too young. It’s life-altering, if for no other reason than waking the next day and realizing the earth keeps on turning.

I Had a Post All Prepared

Well, sort of prepared, but I just…well…I’ve been spending 13 hours at a time alone with a three year old and I just can’t think right in my brain area.

So you need to watch this.

And then I’d like you to give The Girl Effect some money, please.

I’ll be in the padded room rocking gently and murmuring the Blue’s Clues theme song.

Houston, We Have a Problem

I’m going to post this on the weekend, because I don’t want anyone feeling cheated by a knitting post while surfing blogs during work hours.

Here’s the February Lady’s Sweater thus far:

It’s still in process, I need to keep knitting the bottom, and the sleeves. And if I had any sort of editing skilz, I’d draw a little line on the right side of my upper chest near my shoulder at that raglan decrease because it’s very, very off the mark.

Okay, now it’s on the left side because it’s very difficult to figure out how to take a picture of ones own shoulders. Think about that, Internet. I’m like MC Escher. MC Melissa Escher in the HOWZE!

Whatever.

Okay, but see how that raglan decrease is giving me a third boob above my other boob? Gah. You know why? Because I totally screwed the pooch on the increases. When a pattern says, “Increase X stitches evenly” you can bet your sweep boppy (did anyone else’s grandparents say that?) that I will mess up the math. Badly. To the point that I don’t knit sweaters because I can’t work it out. Now, when those increases came, V found me a knitting calculator on the internet and I entered some numbers, hit submit and I not only got my very own Thai orphan, but I also got the correct increases. I’m sure they were correct because the internet is never wrong.

But what I did with those increases is anyone’s guess. You see, V and I spent a solid three hours each evening watching Mad Men. So I’m sure I was sitting there increasing my little heart away and thinking very naughty thoughts about Don Draper that would mimic the knitting motion quite nicely.

Here’s a little poem about knitting:

In through the front door,
once around the back,
peek through the window,
and off jumps jack

Anywayz, I wound up with too many stitches, and when it came to separate for the sleeves, I separated according to a smaller number, therefore one side would have more stitches than the other. What’s worse, is I KNEW IT WAS HAPPENING. But I’d had so much frustration with the sweater until that point, I couldn’t tear it back, because I knew that if I did, there would be no more sweater, just me showing up to Twisted, ala Carrie, except instead of pig’s blood, there would be blue Malabrigo yarn pouring thought my tresses.

So I kept on knitting. Because while pig’s blood is my color, sadly I couldn’t waste Malabrigo yarn.

And now I have a third boob on that sweater. I’m choosing to think of it as every man’s dream come true and not so much something that belongs in a freak show.

And I’m knitting it and watching Mad Men. Still. So if you see me on the streets and I’m wearing that sweater, be kind. Say something like, Oh, what a lovely third boob you have. And gee that yarn is soft. And oh my god, your increases are simply marvelous. Because truth be told, when it comes to this sweater, I’m still not that far off from having a Carrie moment all over again.

Also, this happened yesterday.

That’s my knee. I was walking and next thing I knew, I was landing, very hard, on one knee on the cement. It was painful. A lot of painful. Full of pain, as it were.

And you know what I thought as soon as I stood, felt tears in my eyes, felt sorry for myself because there was no one around to kiss it and give me ice and hand me my computer with the latest episode of Mad Men and take my three year old for one single hour so I could wallow in my self-pity for a little while, was GODDAMN YOU INTERNET.

I thought, maybe I caused this accident because of my last post. Maybe because I wrote about my clumsiness, I then LIVED IT.

So, I will leave this post with this thought: I’M RICH! I’M RICH! I’M RICH!

West Coast Represent!

Jesus, Internet. Crissy just killed today. Killed.

And I can think of nothing funny to write. NOTHING.

I will leave you with these thoughts, I was walking once and trying to impress a guy with how sexxxy I am and funny and lovely and smart, and I tripped over a fire hydrant. Totally tripped. Hit the thing dead on and tripped over it.

I’ve walked into dozens of poles and the white walls of my house are a gentle gray right at the height of my upper arms because I walk into them all the time. I woke today with a huge bruise on the outside of my thigh and I can only think it’s from my bike ride yesterday — you work that one out.

When my ex-husband taught me to surf, I wound up in the ER with a social worker taking notes and ostracizing my husband, because she found it so implausible that a surfboard could land on its edge right on my throat.

When I was trying to impress Steve and we were working together at a bookstore, I walked around for a solid three months with a huge black bruise on the inside of my upper right arm because every time I passed Steve, I’d nail my arm on this one particular corner of a bookcase in the kids’ section.

And this week, I’m thinking of taking a ballet class.

You’ll all keep your cell phones on hand with 9-1 dialed and your finger on the final 1, right?

Back Fence PDX Day!

Hey hey! It’s Back Fence PDX Day. Today’s story about The Moment After is a worst nightmare, and a dream come true all at once. It’s harrowing and so sweet and filled with an odd confusion that I think we all feel when things suddenly go very, very right after being very wrong.

It’s by Ceci Virtue whose writing is quite lovely, if I do say so myself (yes, she did take my writing class).

And most of our lineup is in the sidebar for our 2.18 show. Tickets are on sale now, so read the post, and get yer tickets. Three more tellers to be announced this week!