A Bone to Pick

I have windows in my bedroom. Like most people. I like to sleep with them open, so I can listen to crickets and cars and feel a nice breeze on my face.

Here's what I DON'T like: my (expletive)stupid-face neighbor who cuts down trees with an (expletive) CHAINSAW at (expletive) 7:30 A.M.

I was lying in bed. It was morning. I was tired.

So I was lying there, almost asleep, in my cottony sheets and down comforter. It was a lovely, lovely feeling.

AND THEN, the loudest chainsaw in the entire world started to rev in the house next to me.

At first, I was pretty sure that it would stop (because, really, what needs to be cut down when it's barely light outside yet? Tell me, I dare you). After about a minute it did, and I was allllmoost asleep...

NO, NO I WASN'T, because it started up again. And again and again and again for the next two hours, and I literally almost got out of bed, stood in the middle of my backyard, and yelled "turn off you f****** chainsaw!" at the top of my lungs.

But I didn't. It wouldn't have done any good, and I didn't want to mess with someone holding a chainsaw.

Problems with the Park

Eating in the park is a great idea in theory. Sometimes in real life, but mostly in theory. There's a park right by where I work, and about every other day at 1ish o'clock, I will sprint there as quickly as possible so as to utilize as much of my 25 minute lunch break as I can.

If I don't go to the park, the odds are quite high that I will spend lunch time playing Connect Four with small children and while sitting on a robin-egg blue, child-sized bench. It is also likely that there will be a sixteen-year old boy sitting way too close to me and breathing on my arm. Loudly and through his mouth.

Tangent: I hate bodily noises. Any noises, not just gross ones. I hate coughing. I hate sneezing. I hate, hate, HATE really audible chewing. And mouth breathing. Especially when the mouth-breather is breathing on my upper arm. Frankly, that's just creepy. End tangent.

The problem with eating at the park is that it is full of bugs and wet grass, and lots and lots of homeless men trying to make conversation (not necessarily with me. With anyone, really). The problem with the park is that my nectarine drips down my arm, and I have no napkin. The problem with the park is that there is no comfortable way to sit in the grass, eat multiple pieces of fruit sans napkin, drink a carbonated beverage, and read a book all at the same time and all within a twenty minute time frame (I need the extra five for the sprint back to work.)

Multi-tasking is not my specialty.

Christina Equals Awesome

When I was in Jr. High, we used to have to run a mile in P.E. every week. And it was a big deal. A BIG deal. So big, that it was commonly referred to as "THE MILE." In quotes and capitalized.

Once a week, I would dread it. I dreaded putting on my textured-polyester gym shorts, and my unwashed P.E. shirt, and my knock-off, Payless running shoes (which were always worn without socks, because honestly, who has time for socks?) which smelled like corn chips. I dreaded the rubbery track smell, and I dreaded being the very, very last person to finish. Which I inevitably was because I can't run. I. Can't. Run.

I wish I could. That sure sounds nice.

During the week leading up to "THE MILE" I would sometimes dream about running it. True story. I would dream that I ran it effortlessly and never ran out of breath and that the running would fly by in an instant.

This never happened in real life.

So, now I do other stuff to keep from getting fat. Like walking (this makes me sound like an old person. I know it does, but I accept that! I LIKE to WALK, okay?) and dance classes.

Dance is one of those things that I have a tiny bit of natural talent in, but not enough talent to be really good at it. I'm slightly above average. But not much. It's super fun, though, so I do it.

What I'm trying to say here is that I've discovered a fantastic dance studio, that I am telling every person I meet about because I like it so much. It's in the Industrial District right underneath the Hawthorne Bridge, and the walls are exposed brick adorned with dance-centric graffiti. They offer a burlesque class. I love it more than anything. If there was a dance that I was naturally gifted in, it would be burlesque (I'm not sure that I should be saying this. Is it acceptable to be good at this if one has no intention of being an exotic dancer? Cause I DON'T want to be that.)

My love was confirmed when I discovered that the instructors all call Christina Aguilera just "Christina." I'm not sure what that means, exactly, but I'm pretty sure it means awesome.

John Tesh is the Most Irritating Man Alive

How did John Tesh get a radio show? That's what I want to know. Because I'm pretty sure that any other person in the world could be on the radio and be about ten thousand times less annoying than he is.

Why is he so obnoxious? Is it because he constantly tells me not to eat delicious, fatty foods because they are high in trans fat and refined sugar, and that I should instead snack on baby carrots? Well guesss what, John Tesh? I ALREADY KNOW THAT. I don't need you to tell me that. If I want to eat a chocolate croissant, I'M GOING TO EAT IT. I'm not going to replace it with a high fiber vegetable. Because that totally defeats the purpose.

Or is it because he tells me that eight hours of sleep is essential to maintain a healthy lifestyle? Oh wait, I ALREADY KNOW THAT. And I already know that exercising regularly is a good idea. Completely Sedentary Life=A Bad Idea. I KNOW THAT, JOHN TESH.

And so, the question remains: how on earth did this man get a radio show and become a nationally recognized figure? How?? HOW??? Why is it that a man who gives me "intelligence for my life" gives the most obvious, idiot-proof advice ever?

I DON'T KNOW.

Oh, and he looks like a dumb-face. That's a picture of him. See what I mean?

Life's Great Secret

I am a dog-sitter. Here's what that entails: Every morning, I wake up bright and early and drive my mom to school so that I can have the car. Then I drive the longest way possible to the Eastside, because I refuse to drive on the freeway. Once there, I sit with the dog.

It is quite possible the best and easiest temporary job in the world. I literally, in every sense of the word, dog sit. The dog and I spend most of our day sitting on the ridiculously comfortable bed-couch combo and watching "True Blood," which is very, very addictive. Actually, I sit while he sleeps on my feet in fetal position (Feet-al position! Hahaha! Get it? Sorry. Unintentional pun.)

He is the perfect dog because he spends his time sleeping, lolloping around the yard, not barking, not being smelly (most of the time), and being pretty adorable in general. Really, the only kind of dog that I could spend long periods of time with. He doesn't do anything. It is great.

Or, when it is not raining, I put him on his leash, and together we explore and make new friends. This has lead me to discover one of life's great truths: Everyone wants to pet puppies. Even if they don't actually do it, they still want to. Which is why Judah (that's the puppy) and I make new friends. I merely have to take him somewhere and then sit down with him and people will flock to us! Because he is cute. And sometimes tries to climb in to my lap. Or puts his head on my knee. And basically is the most pet-able thing anywhere.

I think that a good idea would be for somebody to start a puppy dating service. They could have a whole bunch of really nice, non-smelly dogs, that single people could take on walks so as to meet people of the opposite sex. Because if you're walking a puppy, SOMEONE is going to pet it. And the odds are, eventually, that someone is going to be single and of the opposite sex. I think this is a good idea.

Or even not a dating service. Just a meeting-people service. Yeah, that would definitely work too.

Fantasy Christmas List

Let's pretend that something magical has happened. Instead of Christmas falling on December 25th, it is now on June 1. Which would make today... Christmas! Woohoo! Christmas Magic! Let's also pretend that instead of Santa bringing elf-made toys to small children, he brings happy circumstances and exciting happenings to adults (or, kind-of-adults). Alright. That's now the case.

This means that it is time for a Christmas list! Actually, way past time, since today is, technically, already Christmas. But Santa is jolly and loveable and not-picky about punctuality, so he won't mind that my list is late.

Christmas List (in no particular order)

-Better Weather
This weather is pretty bad. Seriously, pretty bad. I don't know what else to say about it. So my Christmas wish is that it will start being beautiful and sunny, so that I will have motivation to do something productive and energizing as a direct result of the weather.

-Hang-Outable, Home-from school, not-busy Friends
Come on Public Schools! Be done! You can do it! Because although I love my parents, and I think that they are great, and we have fun times, I can only spend so much time with them before I feel like screaming and throwing pillows and kicking things. This is not their fault.

-Attention
Okay, okay. Male Attention. Yes, I said it. Specifically... actually, no. Never mind.

-Intelligent Outlet
I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that my IQ has dropped 20 points in the past two weeks. "Sex and the City" will do that to you. I'm trying to counter it by watching Academy Award nominated films, but I don't think it's working... So, dear Santa, please bring me someone intelligent who wants to discuss Kant. Or anyone, really. It doesn't have to be Kant. I'm not picky.

-Exciting Thing
This is a broad wish. This exciting thing could be anything! Maybe like a hot air balloon ride. Or a chance meeting with Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Or, ANTHING that could possibly be interesting, unusual, or out of the norm. Because if something interesting doesn't happen (soon), I'm going to go insane. Yep, I am . Not an exaggeration.

Observed

At Downtown Stumptown:
It's Rose Festival time. There are people walking by. Specifically, there are little black girls holding giant, purple inflatable hammers, and babies, and lots and lots of couples. Most of the couples are holding pink Voodoo Donut boxes.

Two such couples are seated outside of Stumptown, one set in front of each window. Each at a black metal table with a "Please, No Smoking" plaque. Each with a donut box.

One couple is Asian. They have four donuts in their donut box: two bacon maple bars, a Blood-Filled Voodoo, and something with Cocoa Puffs and peanut butter on it.

The man takes a picture of the woman, as she smiles and holds up the pink box. The woman takes a picture of the man, as she smiles and holds up the pink box. They take out a bacon maple bar. Just one, not two. The man takes a picture of the women biting into it. The woman takes a picture of the man biting into it. Back and forth, back and forth.

They share the same donut, one bite each. Pictures, pictures, pictures.

One donut down.

Out comes the Blood-Filled Voodoo. Man holds it: picture. Woman holds it: picture. One of its arms is dangling off. That is the first part eaten.

Before they have a chance to keep eating the donut man, Couple #2 (Not Asian) comes over. A conversation is held, most likely along the lines of, "Matching donuts!"

Couple #2 (Not Asian) sure likes to talk. If he were an animal, he would be a greyhound. She would be a rabbit.

The Donut Man (now down one arm) rests on the pink box.

Couple #2 (Not Asian) talks and talks and talks.

The picture takers nod politely. They smile. They nod. All that they really want to do is eat their donut, before his orange-frosting eyes begin to melt into his chocolate-frosting body.

Finally, FINALLY, Couple #2 (Not Asian) leaves with backwards smiles.

The picture takers look at each other. The woman picks up the donut; the man picks up the camera. Bite: picture. Etc, etc.. etc.