Do you ever find yourself wandering about the internets longing for more information about awesome trees? Do you spend embarrassing amounts of time searching Google Images and Flickr for unique nature photography? Well gosh do I have the blog for you!

http://ten-thousand-trees.blogspot.com/

This is also useful, although it makes no promises about identifying trees from quite a long way away.

http://www.oplin.org/tree/

She’s releasing a new album–produced by Dr. Dre so it’ll be hip hop again(!)–THIS DECEMBER, OMG. I feel I must do my small part to stir up some hullabaloo. It cannot be possible I’m the only person trying to not pee my pants with excitement. She’s a freaking kickboxing BAD. ASS. with the voice of an angel!

*cough* You should buy it when it comes out.

1) I should only ever make soups (defined as slop you eat in a bowl) and salads (defined as vegetables and stuff tossed in some kind of sauce). They are really good and the rest is bunk.

2) I think the key to me being happy and satisfied with anything in life (work, relationships, hobbies, stupid household chores, etc.) is that I need to struggle. If it is too easy I despair.

The necessity of regular, scheduled exercise, such as you might try to practice at The Gym, is the clearest evidence that the modern lifestyle is totally messed up and unsustainable. We live our lives in such a way that without concerted, health-oriented efforts, we would all become sick and die. Sure it takes several decades but still. The further removed our mode of “making a living” is from making what we need to live the more this is true. OK, I’m way over-simplifying here, which leads me to corporations, like most subjects do. It’s their fault.

Yes, all of it.

Your birthday is a day that is all about you: what you want, what you like, what will make you happy. Congrats, you were born and are still fantastically alive! That is where, for me, Issue #1 takes seed straight away: I am never as happy about being alive as I know I very well ought to be. Ding-ding-ding! That’s a helluva bummer. Happy Birthday indeed. Acknowledging that I did not die for yet another year automatically sets off a chain of introspection (*cough* critique) of the past year of death-usurping successes. Big heaps of disappointment ensue, primarily dealing with my on-going failure to be content with anything ever.

Issue #2 is a bit less heady in that I project all my woes onto others. . .and then feel shitty about it. See, on your burfday, people like to do things for you that they think will make you happy. They really try to enforce that whole “it’s your day!” crap. But lo! what if they do anything short of a first class job of interpreting and actualizing your inner dreams? Wah! Nobody understands or cares about me blubber, blubber. Also I give myself a hard time over the stupid things that I do want, which are either not possible, don’t make any sense, or contradict each other because I’m the kid who always wanted a unicorn and my parents to get back together. “Oh no, Mom, I don’t want any things, just impossible concepts, please.”

Issue #3 is the shame that fills me upon recognizing the absurdity and injustice of my self-created ethereal disaster. None of it is anything real and I’m retarded.

Issue #4 is me wanting to scrap the whole thing.

Issue #5 is me not really wanting to scrap the whole thing but not knowing how to have a good fucking birthday.

Since interactions with friends and family aren’t dependent upon my appearance this is all based on work, school, and out-and-about experiences.

Blonde

I receive plenty of sweetness, polite manners, and unwanted sexual remarks and advances. The assumption seems to be that I am younger, less experienced, more naive, and kinder than I actually am. When I put my foot down ignorance is thought to be the cause.

Light Brown

I receive considerably less remarks, questions, comments and awareness of my existence in general. I’m assumed to be less forgiving and funny, more shy and with greater direction than I am or have. When I put my foot down people are more willing to believe my reasons are good ones.

Dark Brown

I receive more requests for advice and input, name-calling, and rants about things people assume I oppose (or against things they think I support). I’m assumed to be more seriously-minded, independent, smart and mean than I actually am. When I put my foot down it’s just because I’m a bitch.

Auburn (in various shades/intensities)

I’m the brunt of fewer assumptions and suppositions and am treated the most like who I actually am, which is why sooner or later I always return to it. The bolder the red the nicer people tend to be.

Purple

Old people really like it, maybe because they relate to that level of not caring about aesthetical norms. Homeless people warm up to me more quickly than usual, I think because it makes me look less straight-laced than they think I am with normally-colored hair. People in general are friendlier to the point that if I go anywhere at all someone will act palsy towards me. In all cases I think the central message purple hair sends out is “No, it’s cool, I’m not here to judge anybody!”

Pink

I am the hero of little girls everywhere! Their tiny jaws drop and giggles aplenty ensue upon sighting the glory of my pinkness. It will be a sad thing to turn my back on this new-found army of revelatory joy.

Natural

I don’t remember. . .it’s been a few years.

Re: Mother’s Day

(Quick tidbit: Mother’s Day was originally a day a bunch of mothers got together and voiced their opposition to war, appealing to people on behalf of their children who go off and die for no good reason. Some non-mothers thought that was cute so they made it a holiday, sort of a mom-centric Memorial Day with a heavier pro-peace slant)

OK, we took a day that was supposed to be about mother’s standing up and saying war is bad and isn’t that cool and we should listen to and respect our mums–a great thing to observe–and turned it into a generalized celebration that means nothing. It’s not about how strong and courageous mothers are–it celebrates how they’re the “best!” It’s not about all the things that moms have accomplished or what they contribute (besides offspring, that is)–it celebrates all the aspects of motherhood that are already overly romanticized and valued, and in my mind harmfully stereotyped.

The fact that our “celebration” actually totally ignores the desires of the ones being celebrated is what really kicks me in the tuchus. Mother’s Day exemplifies how truly unvalued mothers–and women in general–are when you zoom out beyond the family unit by warping a day they tried to use to promote awareness of the harsh realities of war into a day they’re told to shut up and get flowers shoved in their faces.

Re: Birthdays

I propose that the true tragedy of being born is that never in life will we ever be that close to anyone or anything again. Besides brief spiritual revelations, however one may come by them, everything in life is so painfully separate–and it is our fault. The price is a constant struggle for meaning, for intimacy with greatness.

I am always, always so very lonely.

My sister Kayla was here for 11 days and although I was sick off and on we still had a nice visit. Every day was a cuddlefest! We tried to make her very dark brown-with-some-black-leftover-in-it hair

blonde for summer, and the result is that now we both have anime hair. Hurray!

Heather’s birthday was last Sunday and we went to Senor Moose for a delicious Mexican brunch! I took a few pictures which now live in the Friends section of Photos. Some are before while we waited for a table and then there are a couple after we ate. I guess I got too excited about the food and company to remember to take pictures during the event. But oh well! I am so happy Heather was born! Yay!

I had a silly mishap with one of those push-style motorized scooters where I managed to run into my own leg with the durn thing and now I have a totally badass bruise! It has only gotten better–and by that I most likely mean “grosser”–with time.

Also in the Friends section there’s some pics of a trip we took to Kubota Gardens (at the beginning of the month?). So many fun times!

I had my birthday too and it was a good one for the first time in many years. There aren’t any pictures though because come on, let’s take these things one step at a time. Anyway, now I’m older I guess. The same age as my mom was when I was born, which is a little weird.

I’ve signed up with one of those Community Supported Agriculture thingamajigs where I get a box of organic produce every other week. The ultimate goal is to be good to my body, the planet and organic farmers, and a bunch of similar hippie-esque ideals. But! I also hope that having a regular supply of random stuff will force me to make stuff I wouldn’t ordinarily. I like food a lot, so I’m going to post pictures here since I can’t go around the country making all my friends and family try my tasty treats like I really want to do. I imagine most will be kind of normal concoctions, some will be more fun, but all will be things I’ve never made before. Which is why something as simple as apple pie is here. I’ve never before happened to have a big pile of apples laying around just waiting to be made into pie. Now I have apples all the dang time (although I can tell from this week’s box that summer has finally arrived and with it a welcomed absence of apples)! Because I am crazy it is safe to assume everything will be from recipes I make up, at least that’s been the case so far.

There’s a lot of songs that carry the theme, ‘I’m SO over you I’m interested in dating other people.’ Most have a “HA! In your FACE!” attitude like Nancy Sinatra’s awesome refrain

When the sun goes down and the moon comes up I’m gonna go out and prowl..Oh ya! Don’t come lookin’ for your pussy cat, cause I won’t be here no how! Whoa! How does that grab you darlin’?”

while others are sweet and respectful like Melanie’s lament

When I finish my laundry and air out my head Gonna look for another long-haired man to help me make my bed You know that I’ll miss you, but, strangely I’m glad Gonna make it without you And that’s what’s so sad.”

Obviously music is reflecting real life in this case, as I’m sure you can call to mind a dozen instances in your real life, movies, books and whatever, where a caring friend has told an ex-coupled person something along the lines of, “why don’t you get back out there already?” or offered to set them up with someone they believe to be a suitable mate. This is to the point that it seems like “moving on” is actually considered the same thing as moving onto other romantic partners. Or maybe it’s just the secret to achieving that resolution. Whatever. Here is the query I wanted to get to in, admittedly, a ridiculously roundabout way: how does one tell they are sufficiently “over” an ex without the addition of a new relationship? Consider anyone you know who remained single (for at least a relatively long while) after a break-up. At what point did you, as only a secondhand observer, consider that person to have successfully dealt with whatever healing was necessary from that relationship? If the ex-partner of that person re-entered the dating world before them how would that effect your perception of who-got-the-rottener-deal?

Weird, eh? But do you know what is le crap!? Can you think of many songs about breaking up/getting over somebody/moving on that don’t at least hint or threat other/new dudes and ladies? There’s plenty along the lines of “you’re such a dick/bitch” and “wow that was messed up, thanks” but try to find one that says, “I sure am glad to be free from all our coupled crap and be reunited with the joys of being on my own.” Maybe there are like two out there, which is by no means enough to instill me with any confidence in our society’s outlook on romance. The rarity of such songs mirrors the rarity of our personal strength.

Which reminds me of another thing!

. . .

OK, that’s where I meant to link to a whole tangential rant about The Obsession with Romance, but after beginning said post I was quickly distracted and haven’t returned to the right mindset to finish. So there’s another thing to add to the To Write List.

A fun individualist vs. collectivist proverb comparison for your amusement:

Western proverb: “The squeaky wheel gets the grease.”

Eastern proverb: “The quacking duck gets shot.”

A silly midwife saying:

“Let’s make like a baby and slip on outta here!”

Intrigued that 3 words all meaning essentially “a raised area of something” rhymed so perfectly, I thought maybe “ump” was a morpheme, so I looked up the etymology for “lumps,” “humps,” and “bumps.” Yes, this was unfortunately inspired by the truly terrible song “My Humps,” but nevermind that–here you go:

lump (n.) c.1300, lumpe, perhaps from a Scandinavian source (cf. cognate Dan. lumpe, 16c.), of unknown origin. Phrase lump in (one’s) throat “feeling of tightness brought on by emotion” is from 1803. Lumps “hard knocks, a beating” is colloquial, from 1935.

hump 1681 (in hump-backed), from Du. homp “lump,” from M.L.G. hump “bump,” from P.Gmc. *khump-. Replaced, or perhaps influenced by, O.E. crump. A meaning attested from 1901 is “mound in a railway yard over which cars must be pushed,” which may be behind the fig. sense of “critical point of an undertaking” (1914). The verb meaning “to do the sex act with” is attested from 1785, but the source of this indicates it is an older word. Humpback whale is from 1725.

bump 1611, perhaps Scand., probably echoic, original sense was “hitting” then of “swelling from being hit.” Also has a long association with obs. bum “to make a booming noise,” which influenced surviving senses like bumper crop, for something full to the brim. Bumpers first recorded 1839, on railroad cars; 1926 on automobiles. To bump into “meet” is from 1880s; to bump off “kill” is 1908 in underworld slang.

So OK, no morphemes there, just the common possibly Scandinavian background. I guess all those mountains, lakes, flatlands and fjords made them really aware of ups and downs? I like to think it’s more likely that the English found the sound “ump” funnier than the Latin, German and Celtic terms for the same things and over time adopted lumps, bumps and humps for humor’s sake, but probably I’m only humoring myself with that theory!

Ian and I went and saw Fire On The Mountain last night and hot damn it was good! It wasn’t so much a musical as it was a narrated, in-character, ho-down concert. All the actors played their instruments on the stage, and there was some clogging, and a lot of soul-felt howling, and I teared up like four times (once before they even started–just the sight of these people in their costumes holding their banjos and dulcimers and limberjacks made me SO happy). It made me miss my grandpa and want to dance with him because he’s from that whole coal mining culture in the Appalachians. My great-grandpa was shot in one of the union picket lines! HARDCORE. I seriously wish there was a soundtrack to this because I’d pick it up in the time it takes for your heart to go “lubb!” (that’s right, not even a full heartbeat!!!). We knew a bunch of the songs, too, and felt quite proud. Yay for the theatre!

Heather has been staying with us for a couple weeks while in-between apartments. It’s been pretty low key, and really she hasn’t been around much, so the most exciting houseguest goings-on have been cat related, for she has two of them.

This is Marigold. She is a voracious lover, possibly autistic, and has either cat-pica or an oral fixation.

This is Toast. His hind quarters are fully grown but his front half is still all kitten. He likes looking at things and being a brat.

This is a video of Toast chasing his tail after taking a bath. I guess he didn’t recognize it in its totally-not-fluffy state? I don’t know, but this went on for entirely too long. It’s a gigantic file so be warned! (I’m trying to figure out how to make this smaller and maybe streamable? We’ll see. . .)

Yesterday I was walking home from the bank and passed by The City Church, one of those giant (well not TOO giant, this is in Belltown), pseudo-industrial style brand of Christian worship facilities. There was some kind of function going on, as the parking lot was packed and they had placed a large sandwich board out on the sidewalk that read, “Parking for City Church goers ONLY.” That sign and that parking lot were enough to make me furrow my brow and stomp a bit more huffily, but then I saw a dude and a lady come out and cross in front of me to their car. He was generic enough not to mention anymore. She was wearing a plum colored pantsuit with a high-necked blouse underneath and high heels. They weren’t spiked or terribly tall, maybe 2″, but still the sight of those heels made me furious. You may already be aware of my obsession with heeled shoes (for which I intend to eventually write an explanation/elaboration/rant, but that day is not today), maybe not. Let me summarize by saying it’s a big issue for me, and so when I saw this lady in her Sunday best coming out of a church I already scorned I met with a new revelation/declaration: NO PERSON OF GOD WOULD WEAR HIGH HEELS. I’m sure there are some gods or goddesses out there that are all about the footwear, but the Generalized God of The Book (as in the god of Islam, Judaism and Christianity) is not. Casual practitioners can pull it off fine, of course, but you can’t be righteous AND adhere to all the pettiness of fashion and self-hatred of sexism. That ain’t how modesty rolls.

Speaking of crazy religious stuff, I have decided to observe Lent this year. Never having been involved in any kind of religious anything before, this is a huge deal for me. I’ve played the spectator many times, but that hardly counts. Since I’m not actually Christian I won’t be doing most of the things you’re supposed to do, first because I don’t know what they are and secondly because I don’t want to affiliate myself with anyone/anything. So, basically it comes down to this–I’m going to give up cookies, cake, and brownies (that’s right, my beloved, sweet baked goods) for 40 days, starting this Sunday. I know everybody else started on Ash Wednesday but blah!

You may expect updates.

I am so tired of only living at night.

. . .

The homeless women I see every day have no place of their own, no time to their selves, and so it is not uncommon for some to become totally undone once they close the shower curtain and turn on the water. For them, the shower is a place of soul-bearing honesty and comfort in a world of harsh public vulnerability. A person who seemed lucid and strong a minute before can easily dissolve into raw emotion. I hear them talk to themselves, laugh, cackle, cry and sob, one woman howls rather heatedly, another moans in what sounds like pure agony. But regardless of their state prior to showering, and the weirdness projected during, their spirit is always noticeably higher afterwards. The dirt-and-sorrows-of-the-world analogy is quite obvious, but it really is wonderful to witness.

Same-sex relationships seem to be much more common among homeless females than they are within the housed populace. I don’t think being gay makes one more likely to be homeless and I don’t think old fashioned homosexuality is any higher than in mainstream society, but maybe homelessness prevents attraction to men? Consider the causes of homelessness and it makes a lot of sense. The mentally ill/disabled, the physically ill/disabled, and addicts–and most homeless women fall into at least one of those categories–are more susceptible than their able-bodied, wholly-minded contemporaries to abuse, in all its ugly forms. I haven’t conducted a survey or anything, but it’s pretty clear these women have negative histories with men, and I’m sure that helps make their sister-friends look pretty damn attractive. We have our needs, after all!

By “needs” I mean emotional and romantic intimacy and committed companionship. Pervs.

(A Rant By the Cough-Addled Moi, 14 Hours Into My Workday)

For the sake of laziness (not simplicity which has far too many practicalities to its credit because simple and practical are not the same damn thing) I’m going to adopt some terminology to keep my two jobs straight. I will from now on refer to my front desk job as “working Upstairs” and to the homeless women’s center as “working Downstairs”.

OK, so this morning I was Downstairs and feeling very tired, sick, and just generally lackadaisical. So instead of socializing or rearranging inventory between stuff-to-do times I read from one of our many Binders of Interesting Stuff (one is all about common health issues in the shelter environment, one is a comprehensive, although out-of-date, compilation of every social service you can imagine in the Puget Sound area–you get the idea). Unlike the others its content wasn’t informative, but intended only to keep us poor “Servers” from getting too disheartened. It was full of probably a few years worth of those Weekly Reflections I wrote about before.

Anyways, the disturbing thing that I learned and wanted for whatever reason to declare on this here interweb is that, apparently, “God”–as a word, as it is practiced–doesn’t mean anything to me. I read the quotes, poems and stories at a fairly stable rate and with a fairly stable level of interest in understanding what I was reading, and then whenever I saw the word “God” or “Lord” I quickened my pace or skipped over that section entirely. It’s like when you’re reading a story that really has your attention and you come across a long foreign name, or maybe some French or Latin phrase that supposedly all haughty intellectuals are supposed to know, but you don’t, or any group of words that to you just looks like a string of irrelevant letters. If it’s French or Latin maybe you’ll search for a root you recognize, but if it’s a name in something that looks like a click language and you can’t fathom how to pronounce it you probably skip right over it. (Example: when I was reading Anna Karenina there were so many goddamn characters and all of them had Russian names, a language I know diddly about, that when I read names I basically scanned it for a series of letters and that’s what I knew the characters by. Prince Stepan Arkadyevitch Oblonsky? That was Stiva Arkd-Obsky, and so on). It’s as simple as tihs tnhig ebevyrdoy kowns auobt tkhnas to teh ietrnnet. We don’t really read, generally. We scan for things we recognize; we search for what we already understand to gain a larger/deeper understanding.

Well, I don’t understand the word “God”:
PROBLEM PROBLEM PROBLEM.

It has too many conflicting meanings, too wide a range of perceptions, for it to mean anything at all. I read it and I see an abyss of generalizations. I try to find meaning in the context, like I would with any word I don’t understand, and all I see is the author’s laziness. They assume I know what they mean by “god’s will,” “god’s love,” they think I know who their audience is when they lament, “Lord, grant me ___” and “thank you, Lord.” I guess my gauge is this: if you erase each sentence that contains “Lord” and “God” is there any weight left to the work? Absolutely sometimes, but in my experience the answer is more often, “No, not a lot.” And that’s lazy and irritating and utterly unmoving. My newly discovered problem that maybe I shouldn’t allow to be a problem is that I feel even more ridiculously isolated from the world’s gigantic population of Folk Who Believe In “God.” I want to understand SO BADLY, but we seem to be stupidly unable to communicate because of a lame vocab discrepancy.

This is one of many reasons why I like old-timey gospel music. I can tell what they mean because the music more than makes up for language’s ambiguity.

Ugh! I want to run away to somewhere warm and sunny where everyone eats fruit every day and there is no violence or hatred because we all love each other and sing together and fuck and the essence of life and wisdom fills the air like a honey-scented smog of fulfillment.

Er. . .that’s all for now.

I don’t find the concept of voting or my ability to vote exciting or comforting. Rather, voting only makes me angry.

I shouldn’t have to slosh through the rain to fill in a bubble that says we shouldn’t give huge pay outs TO property owners who want to break the law. I shouldn’t have to request that we NOT take away millions of dollars from education and give it to our wealthiest citizens. I don’t see why I have to OK every hmm and haw about paying for infrastructure repair, maintenance, and transportation expansion because it ISN’T FUCKING OPTIONAL. And lastly, how is allowing adult entertainers to make money a public issue? I DON’T CARE.

But I also don’t trust everyone else to not be retarded, so I vote anyways.

Funny but similarly cynical side note: the page with Ian’s name on it (and however many other voters whose last names come before Albert) was lost, so he had to fill out a provisional ballot. So ha ha! to Ian for being too much of a hippie for The Man to want him to vote.

If Ian and I were not already married, and if we chose to do the whole “first dance” bidness rather than a “first bounce” at our wedding, I think I would want to dance to “Papa Was A Rodeo” by The Magnetic Fields. It just may be the most romantic song I’ve ever heard, regardless of containing such lyrics as “Never stuck around long enough for a one night stand” and “I see that kiss-me pucker forming but maybe you should plug it with a beer.” It’s so perfectly imperfect and unassuming.

Bonus Stephen Merrit Tangent: the new Gothic Archies album is out. I suggest you at least listen to “Scream And Run Away!”

Hat to the back. . .gotta kick my pants down real loooow

Yup, that is where I’m going to spend my day tomorrow morning/today! I hope to have many churros, corn dogs, and greasy chow meins, regardless of the nay-saying I’ve received regarding that last desire! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been to a fair? FIVE YEARS. That is exactly how much time it takes to equal “too darn long.” I am so excited for the remedy that I cannot sleep!

I’m currently working on what I guess should be called a poetic autobiography, but that sounds terribly pompous and isn’t at all descriptive of its point. Each story or sentiment either occurred or is best represented by the number of years indicated in its title. As yet I have only a few.

A quick qualifier: Family and friends are generally exempt from the following complaints.

A compliment is a judgment, although a positive, appreciative one. When someone compliments me, particularly someone whose sexuality orients them towards me, I feel their eyes all over me. I feel their thoughts and their assumption of power over me, over how I feel about myself. By complimenting me they show me their preconceived notions that I should care what they think and that I will take their words as encouragement, but in reality they make me less likely to continue whatever warranted the compliment in the first place.

Because I have a vagina, and do not go out of my way to make that fact questioned, my value to strangers is primarily aesthetic: le duh. But it is irritating and enraging, as guys I pass on the street don’t stop me to express their appreciation of who I am or what I do, because they clearly can’t know anything about me that they cannot see. What makes them feel entitled to violate my space and consume my time?

A more paranoid but gender neutral issue I have with compliments is when the giver is a person who I perceive takes themselves too seriously. Because they give off the air of somebody who thinks they have everything figured out, I take their praise of doing something right as a backhanded way of telling me that I do everything else wrong, or at least sub-par. I know that this is really stupid, but mostly I just don’t like cocky people.

Good night!

This makes me so drunk with anger that I can’t think straight.

I don’t generally participate in the video game brand wars, but this seals Playstation’s loss in my mind.

Kitty cats are so badass!

Why is there so much importance placed on “being” a woman and what does that mean practically instead of conceptually? Not according to society or even my own gender identity, but what my actual—whatever that means—womanhood means to me.

I think it is only my body.

Comparing my physical trappings to my most familiar male encasement, although there seems to be many differences, I see only two that hold different meanings. Mine is well-suited for child-bearing and his is slightly better-suited for manually killing things. But we have no desire to have children yet, the grocery store provides us with all our food and we aren’t soldiers, so I guess functionally I don’t have womanhood and Ian doesn’t have any manhood.

Huh.