My Mom, Paula

Paula (Languis) Brinkman was born on October 6, 1943, in Havre de Grace, Maryland.  She died on September 15, 2021, in Vancouver, Washington, just shy of her 78th birthday.  She was there for the first breath of her children, Ed and Catherine (Brandi), and they were there for her last, holding her hands as she passed.

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Paula was born to Dominick Languis, and Catherine (O’Connor) Languis.  Her father was Italian, and her mother was Irish; it was therefore genetically impossible for Paula to be boring or mild-mannered.  She was the middle child of five Languis sisters who terrorized Havre de Grace’s Erie Street from time to time, somehow escaping the ever-watchful eyes of her grandmother Catherine Languis, and her Aunt Rose Languis, both of whom raised her after her mother's early death. 

Paula graduated from Havre de Grace High School in 1961, where she was a cheerleader and runner-up for Class Clown.  Growing up in a traditional Italian Catholic family, she was expected to forego college in favor of marriage and children.  In 1963, she married Gary Brinkman, also a Havre de Grace High School graduate, a Marine, and a maker of mostly-good trouble.  The two were quite the pair.  Despite separating after 14 years, they remained close until Gary’s death in 1992.  Neither remarried.  They loved each other until their last breaths, in the way of old friends who knew each other’s souls.  They are undoubtedly jitterbugging in the clouds now. 

Professionally, Paula was a shining example of hard work, perseverance, dedication, and smarts.  She worked her way through the ranks at Aberdeen Proving Ground, Edgewood Arsenal.  There, she was a Management Analyst, and traveled the country extensively for the Army National Guard.  In the early 1990s, she took a position as a Budget/Management Analyst for the Department of the Army, where she worked at the Pentagon, including through Operation Desert Storm.  After a few years in the private sector, she returned to federal service, where she finally retired from the Bureau of Citizenship and Immigration.  In each of these positions, she made lifelong friends, and found adventure and humor where she could. 

In 1996, Paula and her daughter packed their bags and left the east coast.  Surprising everyone, they survived an 11-day cross-country drive together in a very, very small car that seemed to only get smaller as the trip went on.  Eventually, they landed in Portland, Oregon, where Paula would spend the next 25 years.  She loved Portland and the peace it brought her.  She was particularly enamored of the Oregon Coast, where she spent many weekends.  She enjoyed showing friends and family the best of the Pacific Northwest, whenever they would visit.   

In 2009, she began her perfect retirement: gardening, reading, and sitting with her beloved dogs in the backyard of her home, watching the squirrels and birds.  She was happy and content.  During these years, she also enjoyed accidentally bumping her SUV into immovable objects, a gift she passed on to her daughter.  On occasion, when coerced sufficiently, she would take time from her retirement to bestow upon friends and family alike, her legendary chicken and dumplings, or deviled eggs.  And both before and after retirement, she would do her best to make every birthday and Christmas more special than the last.  

Paula spent the last five years of her life living with Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia.  This was particularly hard for her, as she had often asked God to please spare her brain; it was the one part of herself she was proud of.  Notwithstanding her diagnoses, she maintained her sense of self, and her sense of humor. 

Her son, Ed, her daughter, Catherine, and her son-in-law, Beto, worked hard to keep her in her own home as long as possible.  When she required advanced care, Ed kept her stocked in roses, potato chips, and phone calls.  Catherine made sure every doctor’s visit was nothing short of an adventure (including wheelchair races), and that their time together always included laughter and deep discussions about which of the Property Brothers was the most handsome.  Friends and family from all over the country regularly called and sent cards, and even though she often could not respond, it buoyed her spirits and kept her loneliness at bay.  And her wonderful caregivers at Diamond Ages Adult Family Home, Vitalie, Corina, and Sacha, kept her in good health and good humor for the last two years of her life.  She especially adored Vitalie and Corina’s toddler, who made her smile on even the darkest days.   

Paula had a quick wit, and was a loyal friend.  She was not just intelligent, but smart.  She was addicted to shows about Alaska.  She was forthright and outspoken, tenacious, resilient, hard-working, and hopeful.  She was a dedicated mother to her children and her animals.  She was absolutely terrible to watch movies with… the worst.  She was stubborn, competitive, and a force of nature.  She was a NASCAR-worthy backseat driver who frequently used the imaginary brake pedal on the passenger side.  She was loving, irreverent, and sometimes hilariously inappropriate.  She was, on occasion, a risk taker - for example, reading The Exorcist while pregnant with Catherine.  She was social in her younger years, and reclusive in her later years, but loved to laugh and have fun always.  She was generous to a fault.  She loved cooking large meals for friends and family, and once hosted a Thanksgiving in Portland with over 25 guests.  She never ended a call or said goodbye without also saying “I love you” to those she did indeed love. 

But despite all of this, rest assured: she would have left any one of us for Mick Jagger in a hot second.

Paula joins so many in the next life, including her former husband, Gary Brinkman; her mother and father, Catherine and Dominick Languis; her stepmother, Susan Languis; her sister, JoAnn Languis; her aunts Rose, Tillie, Josephine, and Helen (all Languises); her uncle, Pete Languis; her in-laws, Boots and Eddie Brinkman; her cousin, Maria Languis; her animals whom she adored so much, Cosmo, Ernie, and Moonshine; and her granddog Lucy, and grandcat Oliver.  (She never had grandkids, a point she often worked into conversation with a moderately dramatic flair of dismay.) 

Left behind with forever-broken hearts are her devoted children, Ed Brinkman, Catherine (Brandi) Brinkman-Dantas, and Beto Dantas, her son-in-law whom she loved as her own; her sisters, who were as much a part of her as anyone, Brenda Languis, Shela Villardi, and Nikki Amelse; her loving cousin and honorary sister, Kathy Tarquini; and her beloved animals, Trixie and Virginia.  She also leaves behind so many friends and colleagues, including high school classmates, as well as her long-time BFFs, Caroll Keegan, Marsha Washington, and Jeanne Hawtin.  Also grieving her loss is a herd of nieces and nephews, including Nancy Putnam Sevinsky, who often visited her in Portland, and Amanda Langiu, who regularly sent messages of love from afar. 

It was Paula’s wish to be cremated, and to have some of her ashes spread at her husband’s grave in Havre de Grace, Maryland. The rest will be spread into the Pacific Ocean, at her favorite Oregon Coast town, Depoe Bay.  Both of these events will be held in Spring 2022. 

In lieu of flowers, please honor Paula’s life by doing something special for yourself.  And if you are so inclined, please consider a donation in her name to the DoveLewis Velvet Assistance Fund, which provides financial aid for emergency animal care, or to the DoveLewis Charlie Fund, which provides emergency veterinary care to abused animals. https://donate.dovelewis.org. 

***To Mom/Madre/Mamacita/Maw/Mommy/Moms/Yo, Ma!/The Mother Figure/Paula: Saying goodbye was impossible; moving forward in a future without you is unbearable.  You once said we’d get over the loss with time - but we won’t.  Not ever.  We love you forever.  And we will drive carefully, promise.

On the Dead and Dying

My dad died when I was 17. Most people know this about me. I was alone when I learned about it. I had to call my mom and tell her that her high school sweetheart was gone. I was put in a room with his body, alone. I spoke at his funeral when no one else in my family could.

Death and grief changes you on a molecular level. DNA is forever altered, it feels. I think this especially true when the loss is so foundational, and at such a young age.

A week before, I had a feeling he might die. And nearly every day since, for almost 30 years, I have been in one, long, existential crisis. I think about death almost every day. I wonder why we are here, almost every day. I imagine the ways in which I might die. I wonder what happens after. These thoughts are as much a part of my day as my list of weekend errands.

I thought I was inoculated against grief.

I was wrong.

My mom is dying. Our adventure together, for all of its ups and downs, is coming to an end. I cannot imagine never seeing her again. I don’t know what I will do without her.

Eulogy for Ernie

Anyone who has had the privilege of loving a Lhasa Apso knows what I mean when I say that Ernie was a special boy. He was obstinate, demanding, vocal, hilarious, loyal, protective, and cuddly. He would cut you if you dared to touch his front feet, but had absolutely no problem accepting 24/7 belly rubs - the only way to earn kisses.

He went by Ernie, Ernest, Ernesto, Ernesto Umberto Luigi Montalban, Ernie Ernie MacInnerny, Flop Flops, Panda Bear Dog, Moo Cow Dog, Mookie, “Ernie, stop barking,” “Ernie, stop eating your feet,” “Ernie, get on the grass,” and “Sweet Jesus, Ernie, can I get five minutes of peace?”

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He was very clear about what he wanted, and when. He had us trained within a matter of weeks. His commands to us went something like this:

“BARK” - “I want on the couch.”

“BARK” - “I want off the couch.”

“BARK” - “I want back on the couch.”

“BARK” - “I want on my chair.”

“BARK” - “I’m ready for bed.”

“BARK” - “Time to get up, already.”

“BARK” - “I want down for water, I don’t care if it’s 3:30 AM.”

“BARK” - “I don’t want that water, I want the other bowl.”

“BARK” - “I want very, very, very fresh water, not this only very, very fresh water..”

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He would yell at me through the bathroom door to get him whatever he wanted, at that exact moment. He had no respect for personal privacy or the benefits of occasional silence. Sometimes, when we were really beside ourselves, we gave him the finger, and then he would really double down. He took no prisoners.

He loved being outdoors more than any dog we’ve ever had. He would often take his sweet time patrolling the perimeter. When I tried to get him to come in, he would flop dramatically and defiantly into the fresh, stinky, dirty bark dust, where he would have been happy to spend an entire afternoon.

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He did a lot of flopping, in fact. When he walked, his feet flopped, like he was slapping them down. When he ran, he got even floppier, and he would often pin his ears back, in aero mode. Even at his age and with his cancer, he would get puppy crazies/zoomies on the regular. And when it was mealtime, he would buck with excitement, like a very strange, uncoordinated bronco.

He would sleep so deeply, that I could pick him up, and he’d flop his head on my shoulder, like a child. He snored like a lumber jack with a deviated septum. He often slept glued to me, and it was the best. In truth, he tended to follow me everywhere (flop flop flop flop). And if I was on the couch, he’d insist on coming to lay down next to me. It felt like such a privilege. Nap time with him was heaven.

He had the softest fur, and the sweetest, most expressive medium-brown eyes. He had breath that would melt lead paint (we weren’t able to address his teeth issues, because of his tumor). He gave the softest, most gentle kisses, though - which were a stark departure from the Cujo persona he donned when he felt the need to defend his territory. He yelled regularly at the multiple threats coming from the TV. He was the “get off my lawn” of dogs. But give him a bath, and his bad boy act dissolved into very, very dramatic, high-pitched screams.

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He enjoyed wooing all of the elderly ladies at my mom’s care home, including a 99 year old who called him “Gooby.” He was a different dog there, as if he knew they needed him. He also loved stealing socks, trying to get the other dogs to play with him, sleeping in “his” chair (a brand new McGee & Co. chair that we humans were never able to use), sleeping on (and shredding) sheepskin, and cuddling with both of us. He would also cuddle with Walter, and I can tell Walter misses him.

While the events of that day were horrible, and my guilt knows no bounds, I am so grateful that both Beto and I were able to be with him as he took his last little breaths. We held him, and hugged him, and told him how much he was loved, and what a good boy he was. As we have done with other critters we’ve lost, we gave him the list of animals and loved ones to find on the other side. Imagining them all together brings me such peace.

He was only 11. Not even 11 and 1/2. He deserved more time. We deserved more time with him. Adopting him (and his homicidal sister), from my mother, was never our plan. But, our lives and our hearts were better for it, despite the circumstance; we are so grateful to have had the time we did. We miss him desperately. The energy in the house is just not the same; it feels like a ship without a captain. We will love him forever, and I hope he felt that while he was with us, and that he knows it now.

Rest easy, little man. I miss you.

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All these long years...

I've kept this blog active, always with the intent to get back to it.  But it has been almost 5 years.  Why is that?  When I look at the date, it becomes clear.

In October 2011, the date of my last post, I had recently been promoted to non-equity shareholder in a job that I (mostly) enjoyed, having achieved reasonable amounts of success in a field that was not always kind to women.  I was at a firm where I figured I would spend my career in private practice, working with people who had become like family in a lot of ways, for better or worse.  I was learning krav maga, which I loved.  The Man Meat and I were firmly entrenched in the home of our dreams, in a neighborhood we never thought we'd live in, back when we started our life together.  I had three wonderful dogs and an asshole cat, and apart from the stresses of everyday life, things were great.  We had just traveled to Scotland for a roadtrip through the Highlands earlier that year.  We had fun with friends, often entertained, and I found reason to laugh every single day.

I had always been tired and worn out - that's not a secret to anyone who has known me.  I knew I had issues with stress management and sleep (who doesn't?).  But nearly 20 years of daily headaches were wearing me down.  And the fatigue was getting worse.  The body pain was more than what I should be feeling from getting my ass kicked at krav maga twice a week (by large men, half my age).  I couldn't stand loud noises or chemical smells, and it was evident that my senses were on high alert.  It was all becoming a crushing burden.  And while I suspected what was going on, I didn't want to face it, because I had spent at least part of my career making light of people with this condition.  Shame on me, for that.

Fibromyalgia.

My primary care doctor confirmed it.  She put me on medication that made me vomit if I missed a dose by as little as an hour.  Then a specialist at OHSU confirmed it.  Then a doctor who only treats fibro (and who has fibro, herself) confirmed it.  I suppose there was no getting around it.  The good news is that it wasn't cancer, or MS, or even arthritis.  It wasn't fatal, and it wasn't necessarily degenerative, and with a sound approach, it would not be debilitating. The bad news is that it wasn't known what caused it, and there wasn't a magical treatment plan.  It would be a lot of trial and error.

I gradually became comfortable telling people, knowing that many of my professional peers would sneer at the diagnosis.  Some people were understanding, even if they didn't really understand what it meant.  Some people actually laughed at me... to my face.  Others just told me that it meant that no one knew what was wrong with me. 

So, along with the diagnosis came a little bit of shame.  Shame that people weren't taking my issue seriously.  Shame that I was having a hard time keeping up with all of the expectations put on me, and which I had accepted.  I had to dedicate all of my energy to work first, and life second.  Shame that the pain and the swelling and the overall bucket of shit that comes with this condition were so evident to all around me, because it was getting increasingly harder to pretend.  If you think it's hard enough being a woman who is expected to SMILE! and BE HAPPY! all the time, imagine trying to do that when you are in some level of pain, most days.

Recently, some friends have been diagnosed, or suspect the diagnosis, so I decided it was time to talk.  On their behalf and on mine.  I don't know why it affects women at a significantly higher rate than men (perhaps only women seek treatment?).  I don't know what causes it - some say it's childhood trauma, some say it's a sleep disorder, some say it's a result of physical trauma or injury, some say it's a holdover from mono, some say it's a result of toxicity caused by gut imbalance.  I suspect that all of those things can factor into it, but what I know is this - it's real, and I don't want my friends to suffer the same shame I have.

So, to help them, and to help others understand, here's what it feels like:

There is widespread pain - some days are okay, and some days are worse.  Doing something as simple as climbing stairs can cause your muscles to burn unreasonably.  Sometimes, it's hard to walk in the morning.  Often, when I wake up, it feels like there is a layer of fire between my skin and my muscle.  I get electric pulses shooting down my arms and legs. There are points on my body that feel excruciating pain when you apply even the mildest pressure.  Chemical smells give me horrible headaches, and if it's too much, will cause my glands to swell and my throat to constrict.  Loud and repetitive noises make me batshit crazy.  My neck and traps are basically concrete blocks.  I can't do much with those muscles, which means no krav maga, no gym, no kayaking - nothing that repeatedly brings my arms at level with my shoulders, or higher.  This means no extended photography, which I have always loved.  I am constantly swollen - sometimes my hands are so swollen it's difficult to close them.  Sleeping is tough.  I can sleep eight hours and feel like I have only slept three.  An old sleep study revealed "alpha wave disruption disorder" with a "remarkable number of intrusions," which basically means my brain is as active asleep as it is awake.  Exercise is nearly impossible, apart from walking - my muscles sometimes feel like a hundred rubber bands, stretched to their limit.  My trainers have said they have helped people with fibro, but they have lied and have caused more harm than good.  Most foods make me sick and I'm fairly confident that I'm not digesting nutrients appropriately.

But there has been relief.  Regular myofascial therapy has worked wonders.  No more constant headaches!  And an epilepsy medication helps me achieve deep sleep, which allows more regeneration.    I can go weeks and months at a time, feeling decent.  But if I overdo it, get a cold, or even get stuck in a room with someone bathed in perfume, a flare is inevitably around the corner. 

So, what does life look like, five years after I last wrote in this blog?  We've downsized our home to something far more manageable.  We are cautious how we spend time, and I am particular about where I spend my energy.  We used to entertain all the time, but big parties are mostly a thing of the past.  Our social life has gotten smaller - yet more meaningful.  I don't tolerate poor treatment from anyone.  My ambition has given way to identifying what I really value in my career. I left the firm I had called home for nearly nine years.  I have adjusted my professional life to have more control over it, and am lucky to have a group of clients I adore, and who make work worthwhile.  I recognize my limits, and if I don't, my wonderfully supportive husband is there to remind me to knock it off.  (For those of you paying attention, that means no fourth dog, and no house-flipping.)  I don't know what I did to deserve to share my life with such a remarkable human being (despite the rules against fourth dogs and house-flipping).

It's not a bad life, by any stretch.  But it is a life that is different from what I expected.  So, if we share the same friends, or even if you know someone who has - or who suspects they have - fibromyalgia, be kind.  The only thing worse than feeling like shit much of the time, is feeling like shit and having no concrete answer as to why, or how to treat it.  Don't laugh at them.  Don't throw them shade, or side-eye.  Be supportive, as you would with any friend or loved one.  It's that simple. 

 

 

In Memoriam: Snailio Iglesias

Snailio Iglesias....

For almost four years, I've protected you and your family from me and my family - those who wanted to salt you, get you drunk or otherwise end your tiny little slimy lives.

For almost four years, I let you destroy my plants, poop on my entryway and make out on my front door - random drippy stuff and all.  Did you know that even 409 can't clean your trails?  All of this, despite the fact that you look like a dehydrated penis with antlers.

So, I'm sorry, Snailio Iglesias.  I'm sorry that in a moment of inattention, I smooshed your innards through your head.  The *POP* still haunts me. 

I hope you know that I tried.  And I hope that slug heaven has all the greenery, dampness and hootchie sluggettes that your little heart can handle.

Home, Sweet....

We used to live in a little town just south of Portland, a saucy little place called Milwaukie.  Land of the Milwauks.  It was mildly Twin Peaksy, without all of the kink and wonder.  Lots of political intrigue, with a side of Hatfield v. McCoy... And the offices of a renowned comic book publisher.  And the purveyor of Things from Another World.  And Foxy's, the one-stop-shopping choice of nicotine-addled video gamblers.

It was the kind of place where you could get involved.  Make a difference!  Where the old-timers recalled the glory days of Oregon's own Norman Rockwellian Mayberry, and reminisced about when the circus would come to town and then continued on about how we couldn't put a ball field there, because "that's where the youngsters go to smoke pot."

But we lived in a small house on a busy street, populated by old men on bikes in horned viking helmets, canoe carrying sopranos and the occasional meth addict.   Many of our neighbors, though well intentioned, allowed the paint to peel off of their homes and their weeds to grow taller than my head, and considered a blue tarp a suitable garage.

So, it was time to go.  And go, we went.  Bigger.  Better.  In the land where good taste is legislated.  To a land, so says a colleague, where the sphincter count is off the Richter scale.

And so here I sit.  And after nearly four years in Stepford, I've seen the neighbors to the left twice.  The neighbors to the right still allow their dog to defecate on our yard without recrimination.  And the neighbors across the street have... wait for it...  wait... weeds taller than my head.

Meat Suit Mambo

For the better part of the last 36 years, my meat suit has served as little more than as a vehicle to transport my brain from place to place.  But then I found Krav Maga, and I must say, I am enamored.  I typically spend all day scared of going and by the end of the class, I'm ready to kick Jet Li's ass.

It's empowering.

And terrifying.

And exhausting.

I think I'm in love.

xo

For Joellen and her Children

Someone somewhere once said, "A picture is worth a thousand words."  The pictures of you and your family speak ten-fold.  They say love and loyalty, compassion and awe, gratitude and dedication, openness and warmth.  They say "this is a family that's got it right, that has its priorities in check, that will remain as one, always."


And even in your darkest hours, even in your greatest depths of agony and profound loss, when you feel like your soul has been drained from your feet, and every breath is filled with sorrow, these things don't change.  A man like Scott cannot love his family like he did - so hard and so completely that strangers can see it radiating from photos - without staying with you always.

Costco.

Costco used to be called "Price Club" when I was a kid.  Or at least, that's what it was to us, in the pre-merger state.  Back then, to get in, you had to have some special quality to your humanity. Either you worked for the government or you belonged to a certain credit union.  There was none of this "any and all yahoos allowed" business.




Once, online, Costco sold Baconnaise.



But I digress, twice.

The real reason for this post is simple.  Marital Man Meat and I went to Costco last weekend to pick up trash bags.  We joked at the time, that our last purchase of trash bags lasted a good 3-4 years.

So, imagine my horror when I discovered that we already had the jumbo pack of trash bags, stashed away in the garage.  As someone who cannot bear to throw away soap or old towels, there is some sense of overbearing obligation in having, now, two boxes of Costco bags that could very well last us until 2019.

I will be 44.

Enough said.

Chewing Cardboard's List for 2011: Rub-A-Dub-Dub, Thanks for the Grub, Yay God!

4.  The Ultimate Happy Meal

Eat some prozac, where the "pro" stands for professional and the "zac" is ex-zac-tly how you want it.  What in the HELL am I talking about?

It's not a happy pill...

No... I am talking about the Ultimate Happy Meal.

Grilled Cheese
French Fries
Strawberry Milkshake


Right coast:  get it at Vancherie's in Havre de Grace, Maryland.

Left coast:  Swing by Skyline Burger... so legitimately old school they don't even have a website.

In between:  I'm not sure, but I'm guessing you've got a little diner somewhere that can hook you up.


Chewing Cardboard's List for 2011: Go To My Happy Place.

3.  Lazy K Bar Ranch, Crazy Mountains, Montana


Now, I was all-sorts-of winding up for a long one on this bad boy, but there aren't really words that express the depth of my sixteen years' worth of love for a single place.  If you're in search of even a single, solitary zen-ish moment this year, then turn left off of Highway 191 just outside Big Timber, Montana, rumble about 12 miles on a dirt road (past rattle snakes and ranches and sometimes, lost great pyrenees puppies that you'll want to take home, but don't, because the puppy isn't yours and isn't supposed to be on the road in any event), and mosey (do you like that?  that's local, right there) on up to the Lazy K Bar Ranch.  It's somewhere near where the grey meets the green...


Let's share a moment of silence.  GoogleMaps has found the Lazy K.

No cell coverage!
No internet!
No television!
No cell coverage!  (Did I mention that?)

There's nothing quite as lovely as narrowing down your laundry list of stress and worries to one simple concern:  avoiding cow patties.  The air is cleaner, the sleep is deeper, the priorities are right-er.  Check out my homies at www.lazykbar.net.

This here is that dirt road I told you about.

And deep in that canyon sits the Lazy K.

Although you'll be up early for breakfast, you'll at least get your clouds made-to-order.

Yeah, I got nothin' for this one.  Just enjoy it, already.

Quality time with a grumpy calf is included in the price.
Seriously.  In what world does this happen?  It's as if Mordor never existed.



Chewing Cardboard's TaskMaster List for 2011: Because Being Old is Cool

2.  Watch Lake Placid.  Then Watch It Again.  Then Laugh Until You Pee Your Britches.




Lake Placid is one of the singularly most hilarious movies you've never seen, but much like a good bratwurst, it's better the second time.  ... Finest one-liners in cinematic history, and Betty White - before the Betty White Renaissance - chock full of F-Bombs.

I mean, who doesn't like some profanity-laden Grey Panthers?

This movie will Turn. That. Frown. Upside. Down.

Chewing Cardboard's TaskMaster List for 2011: Because Humans Cannot Live on Cheez-Its, Alone

1.  GREG LASWELL:  The Guy You Need to Listen to, to Stave Off Homicidal Urges while Stuck behind Subaru Station Wagons in Downtown Portland



It might be true that I could be his biggest fan...

AND it might also be true that my good friend Jason was so kind, so generous - so completely hell-bent on ripping away every shred of dignity and self-worth I've managed to hold on to since the ill-fated day of my birth in the Year of Our Lord 1974 - as to introduce me as such...

AND it might be that that introduction was followed by a ridiculously uncomfortable 45 seconds standing in line with Laswell to use the loo... him, and me, and no one else...



And it MIGHT be that following that moment at the toilet, he could possibly be considering a restraining order (I was drunk, I had to pee... I was tongue-tied... it was not my finest moment)...

BUT... you gotta give this guy some love.  He is amazing live and incredibly friendly to the peeps at his shows.  I mean, he just hangs out in the crowd.  Who does that?

You've heard his stuff all over television - you just don't know it's him.  And now you do.  So, no excuses.


Greg Laswell at Mississippi Studios in Portland, Oregon, avoiding eye contact with the socially deficient bathroom girl and pondering whether to donate his earnings to the installation of a private toilet just for the talent.






'

2010: The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

 

 

 


The Good

A new cousin with a beautiful family
Archie's survival, despite eating everything equal to or larger than the size of his head
Two - count 'em - TWO Greg Laswell shows (and related benders)
No swine flu this year!
Telling jackass buyers of our beloved home to shove eet
Finding awesome renters to move into said beloved home
Spending quality time in Portland with old and new friends
Lazy K Bar Ranch, Montana
Garage. Organization. Nirvana.

The Bad

Bono's back surgery = No U2 Seattle
Rear-ending some chick while watching a dog hang out of a second story window
6 trips to Klamath Falls
Rental car paint = horse food
434 square feet of wool rugs destroyed by one cat with a skewed sense of appropriate elimination

The Ugly

Two root canals, one day
Various and sundry medical procedures involving the Last Frontier
Operation Eradication: Yellow Hallway Paint, and the 26 foot ladder from hell
Operation Eradication:  Old Crappy Bathroom, and the rotted out floor




 

 

 

 

Going Up?



When elevator etiquette is completely lost, our civilization will truly be beyond repair.  Period.  There are a few simple rules:


1.  Ladies first...


2.  ...Unless the lady looks like she will be pissed by a showing of chivalry, AND you are brave enough to not worry about looking like a monumental jerk... in which case, ladies second.


3.  As between ladies, the first to arrive goes in first and leaves first.  Concurrent arrival of ladies = oldest in first and out first.  Concurrent arrival of ladies of the same age = anyone's guess.


4.  Sticketh not thy hand between closing elevator doors so that you don't have to wait for the next car.   Otherwise, you've told the rest of us in the car - the rest of us who had to wait in the first instance and then had to wait again for your arrival - that it's more important for us to wait another 15 seconds than it was for you to just wait your turn.  In other words, you're a jerk, and I will spend the entire ride daydreaming about your phalanges getting caught in the closing doors.


5.  If you're in a crowded elevator and talking on the phone, don't be surprised to have said phone jammed up your backside.  Chances are, it will have fewer bars there.  Can you hear me now?


6.  As people disembark from the elevator car, spread out so that the space between the remaining folks is relatively equal.  Do it as a matter of course.  Don't wait for someone else to do it.  Don't make someone else do it, just because you want to plant your flag in the one square foot of elevator space you've claimed.


7.  Don't whistle.  Don't hum.  Don't sing.  And for god's sake, don't blow your nose.  If it can't wait until you get out of the elevator, chances are you shouldn't be there in the first instance.


8.  If I'm running toward the elevator, at least make the show of trying to hold the door open.  If you're in there, jamming your finger on the button to close the door, I'll know about it.  And I'll remember it.  And some day, perhaps in a galaxy far, far away, I'll exact my revenge.



Progeny Overload

There are a lot of reasons why The Husband Figure and I should not - and will not - breed.  Among those are this fact:  Any child of ours would be Irish/Italian/English/Czech/Dutch/German/Native Brazilian/Portuguese.  It would be as if The Almighty stuck the world in a blender with a shot of jagermeister and dumped the remains into a mug stolen from IHOP.

Unsuccessful creative endeavor

So, I've been a little stymied in blog land - busy editing photographs and working working working... I decide to google "blog prompts" to help me think of something to write about.  Yeah, uh, not so much.

1.  Can you live without electricity for a month?  Um, no.  End of blog post.

2.  Things that make me fearful:  Um... we don't have the time.  End of blog post.

3.  Have you ever made somebody cry?  What happened?  I once made a grown man cry at a table with six other grown men watching.  And I got paid for it.  And it was horrible.  But I also kind of enjoyed it.  End of blog post.

4.  What are your goals for the coming year?  Avoid death, dismemberment and disease.  End of blog post.

5.  What would you do if you knew you wouldn't fail?  Skydive.  Swim with Great Whites.  Anything else that is likely to otherwise lead to an untimely demise.  End of blog post.

6.  Why do you feel like you do right now?  I feel existential because of these stupid blog post prompts.  End of blog post.

7.  A trip to the art museum makes me feel... like if I had enough beer and enough orange paint, I could be an artist too.  End of blog post.

8.  Lost?  How come?  Because I got hooked on that bastard show in the second season, and it wouldn't let me go until it was over.

Good God

If I eat any more junk food, I'm going to need kidney dialysis just to clean the chocolate out of my blood.

*gack*

The Grass is ALWAYS Greener

When I was 9, I wanted to be 10, because I would enter the realm of double digits.

When I was 10, I wanted to be 13, because... who doesn't want to be a teenager, right?

When I was 13, I wanted to be 15, because it was 75% of the way to 20 and old enough to be taken seriously.

When I was 15, I wanted to be 16, because I could drive.

When I was 16, I wanted to be 18, because I could go to college.

And when I was 18, I wanted to be 21, because I could drink... legally.

When I was 21, I wanted to be 22, to be out of college and on with life.

When I was 22, I wanted to be 23, so that I could be in law school, once and for all.

At 23, I wanted to be 25, so that I could be finished with law school and actually make a living.

And at 25, I wanted to be older, just because I wanted to know what I was doing.

At 29, I wanted to wait until 30 to get married.

And now, at 36, I'd rather be 13.

A day in numbers

20 ceiling tiles
2 fluorescent lights
1 speaker outlet
1 fan
1 overhead Belmont light
6 x-rays
20 fingers
2 creepy extenda-glasses
6 hours
4000 dollars

2 root canals