the darnedest girl

I'm house-sitting for my old boss this weekend, keeping an eye on her dog Milo and her cats Boo and Emma (also her cute house, which doesn't have a name). Emma is a cat with a hilarious lack of boundaries. She's adorable, but if there were a kitty version of Kathy Bates in Misery, it might be this cat: I LOVE YOU. NO, REALLY. I LOVE YOU. LET ME SIT ON YOUR LAP. LET ME PURR IN YOUR EAR. SEE? LOOK HOW SHARP MY CLAWS ARE WHEN I KNEAD THEM INTO YOUR LEG! THIS IS WHAT LOVE IS.

Anyway, apparently this is family nap time: Milo's invited himself up onto the bed (I think he thinks he gets to sleep in here, but he will soon be disappointed, as he's a big dog and also a total bed-hog), and Emma's finally stopped trying to groom my hands long enough to also fall asleep. Even Boo, the recluse of the house, wandered in for a head scratch and sat on my legs for a bit. I'm very popular around here, it seems. Interspecies snuggle time! (Best part: full-face doggy kisses from Milo to Emma, which, being the kind of cat she is, she thinks is the BEST THING EVER. Perhaps this is why she keeps trying to do the same to me.)

At least I'm not lonely. Heh.

Also, my boss has a book on reiki, the Japanese practice of the laying on of hands, which also reminds me of Jack Donaghy in that one episode of 30 Rock where he sets Liz up with a lesbian. Those shoes are definitely bi-curious, right?

Hello from Oregonnnnn! Lovely Oregonnnnnnn! It has been a good few years since I've spent any time in Oregon--having spent four years crossing from one of its border states to the other, I feel like I have some claim here, plus a couple of friends--and I somehow forgot how beautiful it is. It's like the picture from some organic food label: golden fields and green-black fir trees and tangles of blackberry bushes everywhere, with the misty mountains in the background. I think that, should I ever come here permanently, I would have to become an all-natural, cruelty-free honey farmer, or cheesemonger, or angora goatherd/yarnmaker, just to match the landscape. Also: how did I forget Portland? Once I am finished being agricultural, I would love to go hang out in that city of brick and microbrewed beer and funky haircuts. I spent yesterday afternoon cavorting there with a college friend, and I'm just saying. I could do Portland.

So, I know you hear a lot from me about the culture shock of moving east, but it turns out, now that I'm here, that I seem to be assimilating with DC. I had stopped noticing the east as much, even thinking the problem was with me, that it couldn't be that different back there, that my own pop anthropology was maybe just an excuse for mocking people who are different from myself (mostly the seersucker-suit guys, but also girls in Georgetown). But yesterday, getting off the plane in Long Beach and then in Portland, my immediate, unshakeable thought was: I HAVE MOVED TO ANOTHER PLANET. Meaning: It really is that different. I'm not crazy, at least not in that way. The whole thought cycle was oddly comforting, and then I called my mother to laugh about it and get her welcome back to what is apparently my mother ship.

(Incidentally, Long Beach and the entire southern LA basin are really a thing unto themselves--not a place I would choose to live--but let me tell you that we did the stairs-onto-the-tarmac thing, and the marine layer [coastal fog, to you non-Californians] was just breaking up, so that the air was cool and the sun was coming out and the palm trees were silhouetted against the totally appalling smog. Never in my life have I been so happy to see--no, like literally see--the air. GLORIOUS.]

In any case, I am not sure how I or anybody else will be able to back to a regular office job after all of this traveling. To wit, today's official schedule: Class from 9-11. Two-hour lunch break. Class from 1-3. Four-hour break. Optional evening drop-by thing at local public library. Hike back to hotel. Knit. Watch Bones. Fall asleep in king-sized adjustable-texture bed. Repeat. My life is hard.

In other news, I got word today that 451 Press, the company that owns Cinema Hype, has gone under, effective immediately--I get my final, sad paycheck, and the CH era is done. In the words of my favorite forensic anthropologist, I don't know what that means: do I strike out on my own in an attempt to stay on the DC press list, or do I call it a good run, resign myself to paying for movies again, and devote my writing time to the other, more viable projects I have cooking? First step, I think, is to have a chat with the publicity firm that runs my press screenings--if they're willing to keep me on the list when I'm not bankrolled by anybody bigger, I may start my own pop culture blog. If not, well, that's one load off my shoulders.

And now, I really need--NEED--to find some Tillamook ice cream. COME TO ME, BROWN COW.

I am a lollygagger, you guys. ( I just caught up on Mad Men. )

And also, because it is possibly the funniest thing I have ever heard ever, you have to ignore the bad video/audio alignment and watch this:



The full essay, along with related (kind of) pieces by Sarah Vowell and Anne Lamott, is here. It's a great episode.

So, all in all, a good day.

You should all know that I CANNOT get the Dr. Horrible soundtrack out of my head.

HE RIDES ACROSS THE NATION, THE THOROUGHBRED OF SIN. HE GOT THE APPLICATION THAT YOU JUST! SENT! IN!

Over and over and over.

Ack. And yet, heh.

I love a good Monday morning joke. From, like, the world.

This morning I was driving up my street, muttering to myself about Monday and work and sleep and hate early, must kill early, when I had to stop. And wait. For a chicken to cross the road.

Ha, universe. HA.

I kind of want to curl up in bed with East of Eden right now, but I know that the second I'm anywhere even remotely warm and fluffy, I'm going to fall asleep. Conundrum.

So while I'm up, can I confess my obsession with the shower gel I just bought? It's Clean On Me, from Target's adorable Soap and Glory line--totally the poor woman's BeneFit--and I got this big bottle of it, and the pump-top is defective, but I don't even care because it smells GLORIOUS. There's actual mandarin orange peel ground up in there, and then there's this kind of white-flower thing going on in the background? And I swear I keep smelling my own shoulders just to remind myself of how good I smell, which I'm sure makes me look perfectly sane. I'm sort of afraid it was a limited-edition thing, though. What if I can't get any more? What if I can't smell like citrusy, flowery heaven for the rest of my life? It's so hard being me.

Oh, and also, under the headings of "Things I Wish I'd Thought of First" and "People I Want to Be Internet Friends With," have you guys been to the Dairi Burger? A-MAZING.

Lastly, I'd like to say that tomorrow is going to be a good day, for the following reasons: 1. I'm getting my hair cut, and managed to contact my stylist before went crazy and threatened to shave my head, AND I get to leave work early for my appointment; 2. Lost is on; 3. It's my friend's birthday, and so there will be drinks out and Indian food after (instead of Bible study, too, which I hate to list as a benefit, but Jesus doesn't mind the occasional night off, right?). All good things! This is me, ready for Thursday.

Good night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite.

OMG! captainoz's cousin "$hamrock" won The White Rapper Show on VH1! He won $100,000 and possibly a recording contract. I am the friend of the second cousin once removed of America's next great white rapper. Hee.

He is, according to captainoz, "such a good kid. I just wish he'd get rid of the grills."

Also: glaring, fantastic sunshine from, like, an hour ago? Gone. Rain. WTF?