Truth Pirates

Two off the Portland Bucket List

noreply@blogger.com (Neenuh) — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 17:43:00 +0000

In a many-splendored town like Portland, there are more quirky and wonderful things to do than could ever be done. I started making a list of things to accomplish when I first moved here, from the outlandish (getting married at Voodoo Doughnuts) to the things I will throw a hissy fit if I don't accomplish in the next six months (if I don't go berry picking on the Fruit Loop by my birthday there will be hell to pay).

This glorious, sunny, bird-chirping, flower-blooming weekend gifted me with two things I can cross off my list.

The first something was the Beer Float at that pastry shop I can't quit, Pix Patisserie. From the first time I laid eyes on it on the menu I was intrigued. It just makes sense. If a root beer float can work, why not beer? Though the thought of Lance Armstrong's disapproving gaze kept me from ordering one, it didn't stop me from making a buddy get one and then letting me have sips.

World, I have tasted a beer float, and it was good. There's something about chocolate stout and mocha ice cream that just works.

The second item now crossed off my list is the Kennedy School Soaking Pool. There are these brilliant folks here named the McMenamins who took a number of dilapidated buildings like power stations, danky brewpubs, and schools and renovated them into movie theaters, restaurants, and hotels.

The Kennedy School, conveniently located near me, is most intriguing to me because it was always my dream in life to have a sleepover at my elementary school. I just loved school that much. Though I doubt we'll ever rent a hotel room here--our real rooms being so close and all-- the next best thing was to hang out in the outdoor, heated, saltwater soaking pool under the stars.

Tinkle Pirate

noreply@blogger.com (Neenuh) — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 15:14:00 +0000

Alternative title: H20mgI'veneverhadtopeethismuchinmylife

One of the things I like about tracking my calories on Livestrong.com is that it has an incredible incentive for drinking enough water during the day. With every 8 ounces your glass fills up a bit more, and then--get this, guys--your virtual water cup will spillith over and it's as if Lance Armstrong himself is wishing you a hearty "Congratulations!" It feels like what I imagine winning a bronze medal in short track speed skating relay would: frenzied, euphoric, and delirious.

I must have been moderately to severely dehydrated for my entire life because ingesting the recommended 64 ounces has sent me to the little girls' room four times more often than usual. I'm starting to wear a track in the carpet at the office separating my desk from the bathroom. Seriously. I've never in my life relieved myself as often as I have in the past three days, and I don't care that that's an overshare.

Working on my fitness... for real this time

noreply@blogger.com (Neenuh) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 16:54:00 +0000

There was about a two week period last June when I got really serious about my health. I joined a real gym (sorry Curves) and started my patented Don't Eat Crap diet. I was working out four times a week and, well, not eating crap. I don't put much stock in the scale (ours will say I'm one weight before I take a shower and after I'm toweled off it will say I've gained 12 pounds), but I definitely trimmed up during that two weeks.

Then my birthday arrived and brought with it my extremely generous aunt and uncle, who treated me to all sorts of culinary delights. My Don't Eat Crap diet became the Why Wouldn't I Eat Crap? I Work Out diet. Lately, what with Valentine's Day and Boeuf and my sister being in town, it morphed into the I'm Going to Eat All the Crap I Want and Not Work Out So There diet.

But no more, dear readers. This time I'm going to make a concerted effort to be disciplined. I created an account on Livestrong.com to track my calories, with the goal of losing one pound per week for the next eight weeks to put me at the weight my drivers license says I am. I started yesterday and thought I was being so good-- two slices of toast for breakfast; a protein shake for a post-workout lunch; a salad with avocado, olive oil and rice vinegar for a snack; an apple turnover for a post-snack snack; and a serving of my orzo with roasted vegetables and feta for dinner.

But by the end of the day I only had 60 calories to spare! And did you know that one tbs of olive oil is 120 calories and 13.5 grams of fat?? I go crazy with olive oil! I liberally splash it on everything with abandon!

Despite that meltdown, I don't intend to become a crazed calorie counter. I'm thinking of this more like a learning experiment to see what change I can effect in myself during the next two months. I've been inspired by the likes of Sarah (whose posts spurred me to join a gym in the first place) to think I can make a big difference by treating myself well.

Do not foot race on a first date.

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 18:28:00 +0000

So there's this guy I've been seeing. He's just, well, he's great. But after a little while we hadn't really gone on an official "I'm wearing makeup" date yet, so we decided to plan and execute a hot date.

There's this thing though. We're pretty awkward.

We don't feel awkward or embarrassed around each other, and I have to say he's definitely the smooth one of the two of us, but we're two pale, gangling, freckly kids, and that can make for situations that would make an onlooker just cringe. Like this one.

We were leaving a movie theater last night and on a whim decided to have a footrace in the parking lot because, well first off, why wouldn't you? And secondly, we were both fairly confident that we were going to be the winner. Tensions and expectations were high as we addressed the boundary points and started stretching. He expressed concern over my attire (converse chuck taylors, tights, and a jean skirt) but I laughed him off, saying it was only going to help my speed and accuracy.

Taking our marks, I came up with the secret and brilliant plan to start running on the count of 2 instead of 3, giving myself a 1-second advantage, delightfully taking him off guard, winning the race, and then adorably denying that I cheated as we playfully punch each other and then start making out in the middle of the parking lot and thinking about how great we are together.

Oh how I wish that's the way it went down. Oh sweet god's of time past, why can you not make that be what happened?

Instead, I took off a second early and my giant, sprawling torso and over-sized head went much, much faster than my slow legs and slipping feet went and I lost my footing, almost falling over, catching my balance, starting the all-out sprint again and then losing my footing and falling straight to the ground in a loud slap, then sliding on the concrete a few feet while he yelled "NOOOOOOO!" behind me.

The damage? My entire left side is covered in road salt and gravel. My tights are ripped open at the knee and I'm checking for blood. He tries to help me stand up, but the combined force of two awkward, embarrassed, panicking bodies stumble not once, but twice, on the way back up to standing, almost falling two more times. I hysterically laugh at myself, humiliated, as his concern grows for any potential wounds I may have gotten from the scratchy gravel parking lot. I peer over at any potential onlookers, thinking that witnessing an event of this magnitude would be one of the biggest gifts of hilarity that I could give a stranger. Only the KSTP camera man and reporter 20 feet away from us could have seen the fall but if they did, they turned their heads away in disgust.

In the car, mortified, I ask him if he's still attracted to me after that atrocity of unparalleled depths, and he dutifully lies, saying he's even more attracted to me if that's possible.

Back at my apartment Dr. New Manfriend cleans and bandages a bloody, rectangular wound on my knee, and as I reflect on one of the most awkward situations of my life, I balance my crushing shame with my swooning new crush.

We will footrace again. And perhaps I will win. I can't imagine my chances are all that good though as we have mandated an official uniform for me of running shoes, socks, elbowpads, knee pads, a helmet, wrist guards, and snowpants.

But I will try. Oh I will try.

I'm really, really good at making lunch.

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 17:45:00 +0000

Goo!

Gleee!

Haroom!

Aoogaaoooga!

Blaaaard!

Ooooo baby!

Bleeeeeeeep!

Surbleeburblee!

Yummer City!

Yoweezowee!

Loopsiedoopsie!

Yammers!

Healthorama!

Blitzenburpen!

Deliciousnacity!

Cheeseorama!

Hey-o!

Featuring: banana, peanut butter, pretzels, blackberries, wrap, grapes, strawberries, avocado, pepper jack cheese, summer sausage, apple, pickles, string cheese, rice cake, salami, lettuce, blueberries, baked cheetos, luna bar, mac and cheese, cheese curds, cucumbers, carrots, peppers, hummus, pasta salad, olive bread, broccoli, cauliflower, melon, olives, peaches, cheddar cheese, granola bar, cinnamon apple sauce, crackers, butternut squash soup, provolone cheese, mint brownie, raspberries, cottage cheese.

I didn't say it was healthy. But nothing short of delicious...

Marching for Pansies

noreply@blogger.com (Neenuh) — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 16:50:00 +0000

Yesterday was one of the most beautiful days in the whole wide world here in Porty Pants. A cloudless blue sky with that big bright thing in it and a suspicious lack of moisture in the air. To top it all off, it's that magic time of spring when the flower have started to bloom but the allergy gods have granted me a glorious reprieve. I think I have about three weeks before my face falls off, so I took the mister on a forced march to hunt for flowers. Aren't they pretty?

Oddly enough, our walk led to a very magical garden by the name of Pix. Check out this patch of a unique and exotic flower that the locals call "St Honore":

Adjacent to the St. Honore we found these equally intoxicating specimens lined up all neatly as if they had been planted by the gods:

And then, a giraffe decked out in St. Patty's gear. Don't hate; he's just doing his part to keep Portland weird.

Not cool winter. Not cool.

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 18:24:00 +0000

The other day to be able to drive my car not only did I have to scrape off every inch of outside window, but every inch of INSIDE window too. How is that fair?

My first commentary!

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 20:50:00 +0000

Last week, the host of the show I work on was out of town so another producer and I took the show hostage and made it ourselves. The theme is "Living without...".

I put together an audio commentary on this theme, sitting cross-legged on my apartment floor. It appears in the podcast at 15:30. If you're eyeballing the play bar, that means you can hear it at a shade earlier than the halfway point. Enjoy!

(Plus, you'll get to hear me talk about taking my pants off. So. You're welc.)

I can't not share this picture with you.

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 20:48:00 +0000

It started with me (arm with puppy temporary tattoo) throwing M&M's into Josh's mouth. It moved on to Skittles. It moved on to fun-sized Snickers bars. And it ended in the glorious culmination of a fist-full of nerds. Straight into his face. Yay Valentines Day!

Boeuf'd

noreply@blogger.com (Neenuh) — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 15:10:00 +0000

I wanted to do something really special for my beloved for what some call the most romantic day of the year: President's Day. I consulted with Taft's ghost for a good long while and came to the conclusion that only one thing would do for such a special occasion. Julia Child's Boeuf Bourguignon.

I had received Madame Child's chef d'oeuvre Mastering the Art of French Cooking this summer during one of my bouts of selfsame literary obsession (immediately preceded by Marie Antoinette and followed by fundamentalist Mormons), but had yet to try one of her delicious dishes due to rabid fear and self-doubt... and an affinity for my arteries.

But lo, twas time.

I dutifully went to my grocer and picked up the exorbitantly expensive ingredients with nary a complaint. I spent the afternoon reading and rereading the recipe and mentally psyching myself up. When the time came, you better believe I made sure that the beef was dry as a Sahara so as to ensure proper browning. Julia only knows I simmered those pearl onions in their herb bouquet and broth until the liquid had reduced properly. And those mushrooms. Those sinfully buttery mushrooms. Don't worry; I merely browned them lightly, just like Julia wanted.

During a lull in the simmering and stewing and sauteing, I started on a luscious and light dessert suggested to me by my m'ma via that other culinary goddess, Lynnn Rossetto Kasper: honeyed figs with marscapone. I first presented this dish to rave reviews at a pasta party on Friday night, so I knew Julia would approve of its pairing with her boeuf.

Five hours later (I shittake you not), everything was ready. The table was set, the boeuf was bourguignoned, the figs were honeyed and soon to be marscaponed, and I was all Betty Drapered up in my best dress, heels, and a pink and white half apron with Eiffel Towers on it. I even did my hairs all nice!

Taft, Julia, and Lynn would be proud, for the boyf pronounced this the Best Thing I've Ever Made, a distinction he does not give lightly.

And now, with my fears of her tome evaporated like so much Cotes du Rhone, I am ready to plow through it to find even more buttery fulfillment in her pages! March on!

Creepy Valentines by Neenuh (TM)

noreply@blogger.com (Neenuh) — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 17:29:00 +0000

It was a dark and stormy craft night five days before V-day. I had some valentines to make, and I needed to make them clever and I needed to make them creepy (like I like my men). Thankfully my hostess Erin had some Halloween stickers just aching to make me reverse my middle name (Ruth--->Ruthless).

Drunk-cooking not advisable.

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 20:48:00 +0000

Come along with me, to a snapshot of my life:

It's 2:30 am on a Monday night. (Yes, I know, technically it's a Tuesday morning but shh I'm telling a story.) A 24-year-old girl shuffles home from the bar, up three flights of stairs to her apartment, and smiles as she gazes dreamily upon a stew that has been dutifully crock potting itself for the last six hours. If she can depend on nothing else, my good people, she can depend on this delectable vat of turkey chowder.

She feels a little cloudy-headed as one in her situation would, and is mightily amused and distracted by her phone buzzing with messages from her sentimental pals with the desire to giggle and delight over the antics of the evening. She boils some water, throws some egg noodles in, and starts transferring the stew to a hefty 3-gallon pot.

The noodles finish! She stirs them into the potato/corn/turkey/carrot concoction and tells herself that this stew is one step away from perfection...and that step is named "a generous dash lemon pepper". She shakes the lemon pep over the top of the stew - but wait! - something is amiss. She immediately feels confused about the texture and look of the ingredient. Upon closer inspection, she realizes that she has just covered her stew in...CINNAMON!

And instead of scraping the cinnamon off and salvaging the taste of the soup, she, in her unreasonable state, stirs it in. All the way in. Thus dooming her future sober self to roughly two gallons of cinnamon-flavored turkey chowder.

Stupid, stupid girl.

Let's talk doppelgangers.

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 23:56:00 +0000

I just have to say that I am fascinated by all of this doppelganger business! People posting pictures of their friends, significant others, their old selves, celebrities...all people they think they look like. It is just supremely interesting to me how people really see themselves physically.

Recently, a friend of mine had to get her photos taken for work and out of maybe 30 or so, her roommate and I picked the same photo as our favorite and the one we thought looked most like her. But the one she picked I have to tell you looked absolutely nothing like her and I don't think it showed how truly beautiful she is at all. The one we picked, to me, looked like a model shot.

Why do we see ourselves so differently than other people see us? And why do some people historically look fantastic in photos and others can't take a good picture to save their lives?

I was nervous to jump on the celebrity doppelganger bandwagon because for the last two weeks I've seen people post photos of celebrities that are a thousand times hotter than them and I did not want that to be the case with me.

So I put it to my coworkers to pick one for me, and this is what they came up with. A young Catherine Keener. I wouldn't say that I'm sold on the resemblance, but at least it's not Pippi Longstocking or Punky Brewster, which is honestly what I was expecting.

Too soon? Sorry, Haiti.

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 20:32:00 +0000

When disaster strikes, there are lots of celebrity artists that want to step up and help.

Even at Minnesota Public Radio!

Listen: Haiti Relief Song

10 artists. 1 (un)clear message. 2 female pop star impressions by your favorite blogging public radio employee.

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

noreply@blogger.com (Neenuh) — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 16:45:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Neenuh) — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 17:55:00 +0000

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.

Allow me to serenade you.

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 17:29:00 +0000

For the record, my a cappella group has been together far longer than Glee or the Sing Off ever existed.

Moving on.

Last night we had a little recording session and one of the songs is a Rilo Kiley ditty that I sing the solo in. Please enjoy.

Download or play: Breakin' Up (Rilo Kiley) by Late Night Menu.

And just to prove to you that I actually can successfully rap at times without making a complete fool of myself, last night we also recorded that Duffy song that I embarrassed myself with during our last performance.

Download or play: the sweet rap part of Mercy (Duffy) by Late Night Menu.

Ok. Happy day to you! Seacrest out.

Happy holidays, my little pirates!

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 17:08:00 +0000

I'm not gonna lie oh readers of TP, I've been feeling pretty festive lately. I decided to put together a little jazzy holiday mix to thank you for your sweet sweetness over the two and a half years npp and I have been regaling you with the minutia of our lives.

Thanks ever so much, and best wishes for a happy holiday season.

(give her a minute to load up, she's a big one)

Or, listen on Grooveshark here.

Woot for small hands!

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 23:49:00 +0000

A coworker crocheted these gloves but they ended up being too small for her. My freakishly long and skinny hands luckily fit them, well, like a glove.

Oh feeble typing hands you shall be chilled no more. Come warmth!

(Though in a weird way I feel like Madonna meets your grandma meets an Easter egg.)

My pics for the Current's "Top 89".

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 23:36:00 +0000

I know not everyone that reads this blog listens to MPR's indie rock station but here are some of my favorite songs that were new this last year. I have to say, it was a great year for music.

Cage The Elephant: Ain't No Rest for the Wicked (Cage The Elephant)
Bon Iver: Brackett, WI (Dark Was The Night)
Brother Ali: Good Lord (The Truth Is Here)
Camera Obscura: Honey in the Sun (My Maudlin Career)
Dirty Projectors and David Byrne: Knotty Pine (Dark Was The Night)
The Bird And The Bee: My Love (Ray Guns Are Not Just The Future)
Ben Kweller: Sawdust Man (Changing Horses)
Alexi Murdoch: Towards The Sun (Away We Go Soundtrack)
Grizzly Bear: Two Weeks (Veckatimest)
The Big Pink: Velvet (A Brief History Of Love)

You can listen to a playlist I have made of these songs here (give it a second to load on this page):

Or if you don't like the widget, you can listen here.

We've got a code 70 on isle 6.

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 22:54:00 +0000

I just witnessed an attempted shoplifting!

I was in Walgreens. Just a regular day at Walgreens, right? I was checking out at the pharmacy department, picking up a prescription and some gum. Classic Walgreens purchase, right? RIGHT?

Then, all of the sudden, the employee that was checking me out calmly but fast like lightening picks up the telephone receiver and says over the loudspeaker "We've got a code 70 on isle 6. I repeat, code 70 on isle 6." I spin around to see 4 blue-vested employees speed-walking toward isle 6 from all angles of the store.

My vision is blocked, but I hear a slight scuffle. Next thing I know, an armload of goods is slammed down on the counter next to me. One of the vested speed-walkers brushes the bangs from her face and says "he had quite the night planned, didn't he?"

I looked over to see what the man had attempted to shove inside his coat: Not, one, not two, but EIGHT two-packs of single-shot energy drinks, and what else? You guessed it. A bottle of lube.

Facebook Defriending Flow Chart

noreply@blogger.com (Neenuh) — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 07:14:00 +0000

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.

White girl can't rap.

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 22:43:00 +0000

I recently joined a small vocal ensemble and last week was my first performance with the group. The song we performed is Mercy by Duffy and it would be accurate to describe my role in this song as one of the "yeah yeah yeah" girls, with one exception. Halfway through the song there is a vocal percussion breakdown where every member of the group except the soloist and myself repeat different vocal beats, thus denoting the breakdown. My part includes 8 bars of rapping. That's right. Rapping. Having a little experience in the karaoke Gangsta's Paradise realm, I wasn't really nervous or anything until I realized that the audience we were performing for was about 100 students from the Black Student Union at the University, and maybe a handful of others (mostly consisting of our out-of-place ultra-white group)*. So the first stanza of my ridiculously non-sensical rap goes like this:

You look at me and think we're the same kind
'Cause you don't know what I got and
I want a bit more than I'm asking for
but I just don't want to waste my time

Pretty easy right? Theoretically. But for a rowdy theater full of yelling, snapping, clapping, boisterous college kids, they were essentially silent when we got up there. The lights were blinding, the mood was one of full-on skepticism. From them, it was probably skepticism over "who the hell are these kids coming to our show to perform in a format we're not used to", and from us, it was skepticism over whether we would perform well, mess up, be accepted, etc. Most of my group was calm and ready to rock. But something came over me when it was almost time for me to rap. I locked up and I got so worried about forgetting the words that this, to my horror, is what came out of my mouth:

You look at me and think we're the same kind
'Cause you don't know what I got and
I want a bit flim flattadata dat
bada blip blop bee boop dip dap dap

I finished the stupid rap unable to look anyone in the audience in the eyes, which meant, since it was stadium seating, that I had to stare at the floor until the song was over. I would like to think I can rap...but scat-rapping is not something I hope I never have to face doing again.

*Truth be told, one of us is 1/18 Hawaiian. That counts towards diversity, right?

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

noreply@blogger.com (Neenuh) — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 21:08:00 +0000

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!

noreply@blogger.com (Neenuh) — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 03:05:00 +0000

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...)