How To Kill Romance In One Easy Step

The summer I turned twenty, I experienced my first potential summer romance.

I had never in my life believed in romance, at least in the way it's peddled by pop culture.  Even though I smiled when Crocodile Dundee climbed over all of those kind, helpful New Yorkers to reunite with his love interest on a subway platform, deep inside I knew that kind of stuff was complete and total bullshit.

However, at the beginning of the summer I would turn twenty, when I met a very cute boy, we exchanged numbers and then started spending all our free time together, my ideas about romance, or at least the storybook "summer romance," began to change.  And when he did things like surprise me at work with a picnic lunch, write a song about me and sing it to me over the phone, and invite me to walk on the beach and watch the full moon rise, I began to think that perhaps rom-com, sweep-a-girl-off-her-feet type romance actually did exist in this world.  And, embarrassing as this is to admit, I felt simply elated about the possibility.

The night that particular concept went supernova in the life of Al was the very night the boy asked me to accompany him to the beach to watch the full moon rise.  Imagine it, folks:  a Cape Cod beach late at night, an enormous, gorgeous full moon shining in the sky and reflecting off the water, plucky foxes running hither and thither between the dunes and the waves - I mean seriously, it was a fucking postcard of romantic bliss.

A backdrop of romantic perfection!  What could possibly go wrong?

And then this happened.

The boy spread a blanket on the sand for us to lie on.  We stared appreciatively at the moon and stars for a bit, and then he leaned over and kissed me.  After a few moments of idyllic summer romance kissing, he pulled back, looked down at me and quietly said, "Do you know who you look like in the moonlight?"

Holy shit! thought I.  Here it is!  My uber-romantic moment!  What is he going to say?

Allowing myself to get swept away in the moment, imagining the vast array of lovely females from whom he could choose to make this the most glorious experience of my life, I gazed up into his eyes and asked, "Who?"

And then he said this:

"Al from Happy Days."

Al.  From motherfucking Happy Days.  Yes.  That is what he said.

To add some context, here's me the summer I was informed of this remarkable resemblance:

Posing with a mannequin at the leather store where I worked

And here is Al from Happy Days:

Shmerbing around his diner, as per usual

Please tell me you don't get it, either.

However, at the time the boy made that statement, I was so far gone in my romantic fantasy world that I thought I must have misheard him.  So I smiled up at him and said, "What?"

Without a hint of remorse, the boy replied confidently, "Yeah, I don't know if it's the shadows or the moonlight doing something weird with your face, but you seriously look just like Al from Happy Days right now.  It's pretty strange."

And that is the exact moment when romance disappeared from my life forever.  Poof.  Just like that.  I looked at the boy and said, "Oh.  That is strange," then stood up and began walking down the beach in the direction of my car.  I don't really remember what the boy did, as he had been instantaneously compartmentalized into the "Dead To Me" category of humans in my life.

Seventeen years of accumulated anger and sarcasm later, I pity the poor fool who would dare to ask me if I know who I look like in the moonlight.  Even if that sad sucker had planned to say something complimentary, he would be faced with a terrifying glare and the furious, rapid fire response, "I don't know, Dick Cheney?  Alfred Hitchcock?  Tom Petty?  Fuck you, too, buddy!"

Stupid illusory romance.  Hmph.

Al from Happy Days, my ass.

The FAQ Soiree

That's me in the red

One of my favorite things about getting older is the fact that, as each day passes, I give less and less of a shit what anyone thinks about me.  I find this state of mind to be tremendously liberating and fabulous.

Now that I am rapidly approaching my 37th birthday, I finally feel completely comfortable identifying as an antisocial introvert.  Several years ago I thought I was ready to begin openly self-identifying in that way, but when I tried it out with a friend of mine, she informed me that my proclamation was "a real asshole thing to say."  After receiving that feedback, I decided I should continue attempting, or at least pretending, to be a quasi-normal individual, readily able to tolerate regular fraternization with fellow members of my species.


However, apparently now I am officially old enough that I can't even bring myself to care what my friends might think, because lately I've found myself making statements (out loud, mind you, not just in my head) such as:

• No, I don't want to go to that festival/parade/gathering.  There will be far too many humans there, and I hate humans.
• No, I don't listen to talk radio.  I don't want to hear people talking.  I just want them to shut the fuck up.
• No, I don't want to go out.  I would prefer to stay home with my dogs and stare at the wall.
• Stop making sounds.  Seriously.  All of you need to stop making sounds.  Immediately.  Thank you.

Ah, yes.  It feels great.

Quite naturally, then, I am not a fan of parties.  In fact, when I hear the word "party," particularly when being invited to one, I tend to have a mild panic attack while simultaneously becoming extremely irritated ("WHY would you invite me to a party when you KNOW it's gonna give me a panic attack??").  Sure, it's a different story when the party involves some sort of activity, like dancing or roping cattle, but when the event is labeled simply as a generic "party," that's when Al's heart palpitations begin in earnest.

I would merrily attend this party, however.

Unfortunately, parties happen all the fucking time.  People love parties.  They seem to live for creating and attending these panic-attack-inducing events.  I envision them cackling evilly and sticking pins into a voodoo doll resembling me whilst engaging in their complicated party-planning endeavors.


Small talk is, in my humble opinion, one of the most tragic components of non-activity-based parties.  I find it both painful and pointless, which is a dastardly combination.  Therefore, since I understand that parties are going to continue existing despite my protestations, I have recently come up with a party concept that would eliminate small talk.  Under the conditions of my party model, those gathered would have no need to have dozens of similar, introductory conversations in a row.  In order to avoid the p-word altogether, I will call this new model The FAQ Soiree.

Where's the soiree at, yo?

Here's how it works.  You receive an invitation.  If you RSVP with a "yes," the host then sends you a short questionnaire to complete and bring along with you to the soiree.  The questionnaire could include, but is not limited to, the following inquiries:

1. What is your name?  If it is an unusual name, please provide some background information (i.e., cultural significance; hippie parents; etc.).
2. How do you know the host(s) of this gathering?
3. What do you do for work?  What do you enjoy about your work?  What sucks about it?
4. Are you from this area?  If not, what brought you here?  If so, what's kept you here?
5. What do you think about this weather we've been having lately?
6. What is your opinion about [latest political thing going on]?
7. What is your opinion about [latest random celebrity gossip]?
8. What is your opinion about [latest national or international tragedy]?
9. What did you think about [current blockbuster movie]?
10. Do you have children?  Pets?  Do you like them?

At the soiree, you will not be permitted to huddle in tight clusters with people you already know.  Instead, you are expected to wander around until you come into contact with an unfamiliar soiree-goer.  At that point, you will exchange and review one another's FAQ sheets.  That way, you'll know all the random bits of bullshit that people deem necessary to know about one another when first meeting, but without having to ask or answer the same dumb questions over and over. 


After completing this process, you and your partner have the task of thinking of something to talk about that has nothing to do with the basic information you've just read.  You may choose to talk about something on a large scale, like:  "In the race towards ultimate enlightenment or ultimate destruction, where do you believe humanity will arrive first?" or something on a small scale, like:  "What do you think is going on with that spider over there?"  Since you will already know, for example, that your new pal has three kids and likes them just fine, instead of asking whether or not he or she has kids, you could ask something more interesting such as:  "Do you think a child's first word carries any long-term significance?" or:  "Do you think your kid would make a good President?  Farmer?  Psychic?  Police officer?  Why or why not?"


I believe that the FAQ Soiree would be the perfect remedy for party blahs.  Random gatherings could go from this:

to this:

This shark is totally smiling at you

I know, very random.  But I did a Google Image search for "fascinating," and the shark picture really spoke to me.

Girls Gone Weird

Speaking of strange behavior...

Last week I went camping on Orcas Island.  I like camping for many reasons, one of which is that I have the opportunity to be slovenly and unhygienic, and it's totally socially acceptable...at least in my mind.  Not all women believe this, however, which I discovered when I entered the campsite bathroom on my first morning.  Here is what awaited me:


a.  The bathroom was packed with women.  PACKED.  And the women weren't there only to relieve themselves, which was why I was there.  They were there to engage in elaborate beautifying rituals involving dozens of products neatly arranged in gigantic, brightly-colored, plastic receptacles.  All of the women (except for me) had these handy crates-o'-product and were meticulously utilizing each and every substance and device found in said crate in order to maintain the same standards of beauty expected of them in their non-camping lives.


b. Two women were blow drying their hair.  This means not only that they'd taken showers (another thing I enjoy not doing while camping), but also that they'd brought blow dryers on their camping trips, because they care that much about how their hair looks...when they're camping.


c. While I was standing at the sink washing my hands, I saw something strange out of the corner of my eye.  When I looked over, I noticed that the woman next to me was having her face attacked by one of these:

Looks like some sort of speculum, but apparently it's for your face

I stared at her for awhile before it sank in that this woman was curling her eyelashes.  Curling.  Her.  Fucking.  Eyelashes.  In a campsite bathroom.


Okay.


This experience reminded me of something I saw several years ago while camping on the Colorado River.  One morning about three days into the camping trip, I was wandering down the beach on which we'd camped the previous night and noticed two of my fellow campers sitting on some large rocks by the river.  Their legs were bleeding profusely.  At first I thought they'd slipped and fallen on the rocks while trying to get out of the river.  However, upon closer inspection I noticed that their injuries were self-inflicted, because both women were shaving their legs.  Yes, indeed.  In the Colorado River.


Now even though this occurred in July and the air temperature was in the 90s, the water temperature was in the 50s or 60s, which meant that these women were shaving severely goose-fleshed skin with freezing cold razors.  The results were horrifying.

What a beautiful scene!  I think I'll remove a layer of skin to celebrate it.

However, despite the blood flow, both women continued methodically dragging their razors up strips of skin, immediately transforming their flesh from white to red with each swipe, until they'd finished the job.  They weren't crying, screaming, or even wincing.  They simply shredded their legs together with placid acceptance, as calmly as if they were doing something totally painless and normal like brushing their teeth.  I suppose, in their world, torn-up, scabby legs are preferable to stubbly ones.  And that, my friends, is a world I never hope to visit, much less inhabit.


My dearest female companions, please hear me.  The next time you go "back to nature," consider leaving the plastic beauty boxes and razor blades behind.  Give yourself permission to be purely ferocious outdoorswomen, like this:

This is how I like to imagine myself when I'm camping

And if any of your fellow campers question why your eyelashes aren't curled, your legs aren't shaved, or your hair isn't perfectly coifed, feel free to reply disdainfully, "Um...hello?  Because I'm fucking camping."  Then go take a shit in the woods and tell them all about it.

Al vs. The Grocery Store

How I feel when frequenting my local grocery establishment

I had to go grocery shopping last week.  Back in the day when I was a regular grocery shopper, this wouldn't have seemed like such a daunting task.  However, since my husband took over our grocery-related duties about a year ago, I have become blissfully out of practice.  Unfortunately he occasionally goes out of town, leaving me to fend for myself.


On the day I determined that I had officially, completely run out of food, I found myself avoiding the task of grocery shopping all day and instead frantically looking around the house thinking - should I polish the silver?  No, I don't have any silver.  Should I wash the dishes again?  No, that would be absurd.  Should I build a deck?  Finally I acknowledged the fact that I was just being grocery-avoidant and kicked myself out the door with reusable shopping bags in hand.


My anxiety rose dramatically the moment I was in view of the store's parking lot, which was packed.  Parking lot dynamics are pretty fascinating.  Some psychology student should write a thesis about the latent personality traits that manifest themselves when one enters a crowded parking lot situation, particularly during holiday weekends.  My latent trait is overt passivity ("The path of least resistance for me, please!"), in that I will simply drive around in endless circles rather than slowly following people who are clearly approaching their cars and then waiting stalker-like until they load their crap and drive away.  

This represents the opposite of my parking lot assertiveness level

My passivity does not end there, however.  If I am patiently waiting for someone to vacate a space and then some asshole (who clearly saw me waiting) zooms in and takes the spot, instead of engaging in a confrontation, I will simply drive away and continue the endless circling.  However, that is not because I fear righteous confrontations.  Au contraire.  Rather it is because I do not trust people, particularly in parking lots, and I refuse to be a victim of parking lot rage and have some psycho go ballistic and run me over or shoot my dog.

Ima kill your dog!!

During this particular shopping adventure, when I finally parked my car after about ten minutes of pathetically passive circling, I looked towards the entrance and noticed the predictable presence of evil clipboard people.  "Excuse me, do you have a minute?  Are you concerned about human rights?"  "Pardon me, do you care about the environment and continued access to clean air and water?"  Yes, I do.  And no, I am not going to talk to you, nor am I going to give you my personal information and credit card number right here outside the grocery store, because I have not been lobotomized.  Good grief.  


As I approached the entrance, a Greenpeace representative spotted me and said, "You look like a friendly person!"  I informed him quite emphatically that looks can be deceiving and then breezed right past him and into the store.

Thanks very much.  Yeah, it's totally going to Greenpeace.

Once inside, I approached a row of tangled, screechy metal cages on wheels and wrenched one out for myself.  I began rolling the cart aimlessly around the perimeter of the store.  Occasionally I made eye contact with someone (most often a man) who was doing the exact same thing:  wandering in circles, pushing an empty cart, and looking very lost and sad.  We would exchange looks clearly indicating that we were used to someone else taking care of this task and were completely out of our element.


I finally mustered up the nerve to walk down an aisle.  However, about five steps in, my vision shifted to this:

AAAAAHHHHHHHHH....

The over stimulation created by hundreds of redundant, brightly colored products made it impossible for me to focus.  I grabbed a couple of items at random and moved back to the safety of the store's perimeter.  At that point, it occurred to me that I should probably consult the list I'd carefully made for myself to prevent exactly this type of directionless wandering and random purchasing.  Reviewing the list was very comforting and offered me the focus and courage needed to return to an aisle with greater purpose.


In grocery store aisles, my parking lot passivity translates to shopping passivity in that I avoid aisles where lots of people, carts, or any small children are present.  This makes for quite a prolonged and ineffective shopping experience.  Small children are the worst grocery store offenders because they whine, scream, and run around without watching where they're going.  If you don't look out for them, you can totally take one of them out with your cart.  When they are not left to run around like crazed, drunken monkeys, they are frequently transported in the most gigantic structures known to man.

Watch out for these jackknifed across entire aisles, making passage impossible

Due to crowded aisle avoidance and my utter lack of knowledge regarding where things were located in the store, over the course of about an hour I walked a combined distance of approximately three miles to get about thirty items.  In the end, I got all but one item on my list.  I could've gotten the final item if I'd been willing to talk to a store employee, but I wasn't.


Finally, I walked out into the parking lot and promptly realized I had no idea where I'd parked my car.

In conclusion, grocery shopping blows.  I hate it.  I never want to do it again.


Now I would like to share something random.  I just did a Google Images search for "crowded supermarket parking lot," and this is one of the first things that came up:

This has nothing whatsoever to do with any of the words I searched.  It is also ridiculously funny.

With A Little Help From My Friends

Help is on the way!

Recently my efforts to conceive of new blog post topics were met with brain freeze.  Finally, I had to enlist the assistance of my friends and family by putting out a request for ideas.  Here are some of the responses I received:


Idea #1:  Write a topic on writing a topic


This circuitous concept reminds me of a time when I sent my dad a thank you card, and then he sent me an email thanking me for the thank you card.  I wrote back cautioning him about the dangerous road of never ending thank yous he was taking us down, and then thanking him for thanking me for the thank you card.  And of course, he soon wrote back:  "Thank you for thanking me for thanking you for the thank you."

Okay!  Enough already!

Idea #2:  Top 10 reasons you wish you were back in Cali


There are definitely lots of things I miss about California.  If I had to limit the list to ten, I'd go with:

• my lovely friends
• the sun
• walking my dogs on the beach
• the wine
• a beautiful ocean full of barking sea lions, majestic dolphins, and adorable otters
• amazing, inexpensive produce
• watching the children I love grow up
• meandering hikes through redwoods
• not being sad upon returning from vacations because home = paradise
• the community's men not looking like dirty hoboes who just emerged from an inbreeding camp in Appalachia.  (Seriously, though, men of Portland, could you consider shaving maybe once a year?)

Idea #3:  The friends you left behind

The friend who suggested this topic most certainly deserves some blog space.  Let's call her "Happy" for the sake of pseudo-anonymity.  I initially met Happy as a coworker, and we were quickly drawn to each other based on our shared tendencies towards evil thoughts and deeds.  However, although she might disagree, I believe that Happy outdoes me in terms of her capacity for evil.  More often than not, whenever I'd walk into the office, Happy would greet me with a cheerful, "Hi, hooker!"  During the work day, if I walked past her desk, she would pepper me with friendly comments like, "Kelly stinks!" and, "Have you heard the news?  You're stupid!"  Occasionally she would simply release a deep, mournful sigh and then remark, "Kelly, I forgive you."  Seriously.  Out of fucking nowhere.


I love and miss this woman like crazy.  She is completely hilarious.  I wish she lived next door.


Idea #4:  Which laws you would like to be allowed to break...only you.

I would like to have free range to smack people upside the head whenever they deserve it.  I believe this assault/battery-related law is one that I should be able to violate as I see fit.  Of course I do realize that violence is not the answer.  I simply believe that particular truth should not apply to me when it comes to situations in which people are genuinely needing a smack upside the head.


The thing about smacking people upside the head is that it's not really violent, like punching, stabbing or shooting.  It's a little painful, but it's more shocking than anything.  The shock factor is key, I believe, because it stops people in their tracks and causes them to have to think about the set of circumstances that led to them being smacked upside the head.


I would also like to reserve the right to dole out Indian burns and utilize pantsing as needed.


Idea #5:  Your secret life as a ninja


Um...it's a secret.  Duh.  But what I can discuss is my not-so-secret life as a social work ninja.  Whereas your average ninja looks like this:

...a social work ninja looks more like this:

Social work ninjas specialize in the art of Counseling Kung Fu.  While I usually demonstrate a certain level of mastery in that particular art, this past week said mastery took a massive shit.  Here's what happened:


I met with a student who is generally very quiet, emotionless, and reserved.  He informed me that one of his family members had just been killed in a car accident.  I reacted with strong concern, asking him several times if he and his family were okay and validating the feelings of grief and shock he must be experiencing, despite the fact that he wasn't demonstrating any emotional reaction whatsoever.  He assured me that he was fine and simply wanted to know how to request a day off from school so he could attend the memorial service.


Later that same day, I ran into the student's cousin, who is a much more communicative, outgoing, and emotive individual.  He asked me how to request a day off and said, "Did you hear what happened?"  Based on my awkward experience with the previous student, and not thinking for one moment about the obvious and dramatic personality differences between the two cousins, I said, "Yeah, your cousin already told me about the memorial.  The request forms are by the first aid kit.  Fill one out at least 24 hours before the absence."  After delivering this dry, cold, bureaucratic response, I noticed that the student's head was hanging and tears were falling out of his eyes and onto the floor.  Yup.  I'm pretty awesome.  *Sigh*  Apparently my Counseling Kung Fu skills were on vacation that day.


Idea #6:  Regrets and how you live a better life without them

Here I am teaching my Monday morning life skills class 

Over many years of social work, I've had this conversation several times:  


Person:  "I'll never be able to get over it.  I'm so ashamed.  I can't believe I did that.  I can never forgive myself."
Me:  "Do you think feeling that way is going to help you move forward or offer anything productive to your life?" 
Person:  "No, it makes me feel like shit."  
Me:  "Then I suggest you stop it.  In my experience, people who feel like shit tend to act like shit, so feeling that way isn't serving you or anyone else.  Shame and regret are useless.  Either learn from your mistakes, or don't, and move on."


There's some Counseling Kung Fu for ya!


Yay, I wrote something!  Many thanks to my wonderful friends and family members for providing me with these topics.  I may enlist your support again very soon, so please keep those thinking caps on.

The Strong Chick's Burden

Oy.  Life is so hard.

It was very difficult for me to write the title of this post, even in the spirit of irony, because I'm so bugged when people use the word "chick" to describe a female human being.  I'm not a baby chicken.  I'm a grown-ass woman.  But I like the way the title sounds, so I'm going with it even though it kinda makes me cringe.


It's baffling to me the way many men react when I suggest that they refrain from using the word "chick."  They act like they were doing something completely innocuous, or even benevolent, like teaching elderly people how to utilize their cell phones, and I, in some fit of feminism-induced hysteria, have accused them of something horrific, like raping baby sea otters.  But referring to women as "chicks" is not innocuous.  Language has power (duh), and when someone uses the image of a helpless, peeping, scurrying, tiny ball of fluff to describe a female person, it's not particularly empowering.


What if it were common practice to refer to a male person as some unflattering animal such as, say, a pig?  Or a donkey?  "Aw, girl, I met the hottest pig last night."  "Hey, there's some donkey on the phone for you."  

You wanna go out later?

Somehow, I don't think guys would like that very much.


What I have learned over the years is that, if you are the type of woman who bothers to suggest that people don't refer to you as a baby chicken, you are quickly labeled as A Strong Woman.  And, although I cannot imagine any other way to be, I must admit that there are challenges to being a strong woman, including:


(1) You will be compared to any and all outspoken women, including shitheads and sociopaths.
I get this a lot.  I hold my breath when I hear, "You know who you remind me of?" because the answer to that question might be someone cool, like Tina Fey or Margaret Cho, or it might be someone decidedly not cool, like Sarah Palin or Lizzie Borden.  Come on, folks.  Try a little harder.  There are plenty of strong women out there with whom I have more in common than the sole factor that we're not too scared to share our opinions.  After so many years of carefully constructing the person I have become, I find it somewhat deflating when I find myself compared to all outspoken women, including those who happen to be outspoken about, for example, their anti-feminist agendas, narcissistic obsessions with hair, nails and clothes, or concerns that Mexican immigrants will be the downfall America.


(2) A woman's likability decreases as her level of success increases.
Yes, this is a statistically proven fact.  If you are a woman and you manage, through incredible intelligence, resiliency, and determination, to overcome all of the structural, imbedded, sexist obstacles in your path and ultimately achieves greatness, your reward is that people won't like you.

Yeah.  That's totally fair and justified.

This goes for men and women, in that neither sex will like you.  Society's message is:  "Ew, you achieved success?  Blech.  That's so unappealing.  But wait - look at that successful man!  Women want to date him!  Men want to be him!  All hail the conquering hero!" 


As a matter of fact, if you are a woman and achieve success, you receive this automatically generated email:


Dear Successful Female:


You are being put on notice that you are now an unlikeable person, due to the fact that you have not assimilated yourself into an acceptable female role (e.g., victim; martyr; doormat).  While it is true that victims, martyrs, and doormats are also quite unlikeable, they are not quite as unlikeable as you.  We encourage you to begin strongly questioning your life choices. 


Sincerely,
Yer Pal, The Patriarchy


Have you ever encountered a statistical fact that made you want to take a giant chainsaw and just...oh, never mind.  I guess the key, if you're a woman, is to get wealthy enough that you can pay people to pretend they like you.


And if you become so completely fucking awesome that you actually turn into a superhero, people will only consider liking you if you dress like a prostitute.

"We are, like, so totally about to go fight crime.  Right after we have sex with all these frat boys."

(3) People come to you for advice, particularly around confrontation, comebacks, or retaliation, and then they don't utilize your amazing and hilarious suggestions.
I get this a lot from females who are in crappy relationships with jerks.  They tell me what the jerks are up to, I give them excellent ideas for things they could say or do to the jerks, they laugh their asses off, and then they don't do anything.  Such a waste of my talents.


(4)  When you do something particularly fabulous, you're informed that you're "The Man" or that you've "got balls."
Hello?  That's the opposite of a compliment.  Please try again.


Despite the aforementioned factors, I like being A Strong Woman, although I don't think I'll ever fail to wince inside when I express an opinion and someone says, "Whoa.  Why don't you tell us how you really feel?"  Dude, what the fuck else would I tell you?  If you want some falsified, watered-down, sideways version of what someone really feels, go talk to a U.S. Senator.

Looking to fill your bullshit quota?  Look no further!

I Am Stupid People

When I was 21, I moved from Massachusetts to Key West, Florida.  I had just graduated from a college that was located in a miserable, frozen wasteland where, on particularly chilly days, one could get frostbite on one's lungs just from breathing.  Despite the fact that this place was clearly not fit for human habitation, I lived there for four years, and when I was done, I immediately moved to a tropical island, informing anyone who would listen that I was swearing off winter forever and that "only stupid people live in places where there's bad weather."


As soon as I got to Key West, I made a grand showing of throwing away my windshield scraper.  Friends watched and took pictures as I chucked the scraper into a dumpster, boldly declaring that I would never again need such a revolting object in my life.

Key West was a lovely place to live.  A typical weekend day, even in January, involved walking to Dunkin Donuts for a bagel and iced coffee, strolling to the beach, swimming and tanning for hours, and then wandering to a bar to drink Coronas until sunset.  My favorite bar, which unfortunately no longer exists, was called Gato Gordo.  They had televisions mounted above the bar, and during the winter months they aired only the Weather Channel so that patrons could laugh evilly and self-righteously as they watched the crappy weather that everyone else in the country was experiencing.  I did that a lot.


After living in a variety of locales around the country, I believe that weather makes the people.  Harsh, extreme weather patterns create an angry, rigid populace.  Sunny, warm weather creates people who are so mellow and complacent that they sometimes seem cognitively impaired.  [As a friend from New York said to me when I moved to California:  "Please don't become one of those people who's like - yeah, my mom just died, but it's all good."]


In the Pacific Northwest, weather patterns create characters like this:

and this:

and folks who can't bring themselves to get out of bed in the morning.


This winter was a particularly cold one here in Oregon, and I found myself needing a windshield scraper several times during the month of December.  However, I couldn't bring myself to purchase one, given the ritualistic disposal of my last one 15 years ago and my declaration about stupid people.  Therefore, whenever I discovered a frozen car in the morning, I used my driver's license and fingernails to painstakingly clear my windshield and side mirrors.  It was pathetic.  I disclosed this embarrassing information to my mother, and, come Christmas morning, I discovered a brand new windshield scraper wrapped and placed lovingly in my stocking.  


So now I have a goddamned windshield scraper again, which means that, by my own definition, I am a stupid person.  The scraper certainly comes in handy, and I have crankily used it several times over the past few months.  However, I cannot wait until I reach another point in my life when I can throw it away with confidence.


Since I can't think of a way to end this post, I'll just end it by saying...who the fuck cares who Ashton Kutcher's new girlfriend is?  Is there a way to block Yahoo's entertainment "news"?  Because it fills me with rage.


That is all.