So That Happened

Today I am introducing a new weekly segment here on my blog, which I like to call "So That Happened." It will be all about events from the past week: my blunders, embarrassments, "good" ideas, AHA! moments, and of course the requisite awkward instances that have come to define me.

1. I got home from work this evening and my mom said, "I have exciting news!" and then tacked on an even more enthusiastic, "About ME!" as if exciting news by definition has nothing to do with her. The news was this: She sells her pottery on Orcas Island at a shop called Crow Valley Pottery. Today she spoke to one of the owners who asked if she had any more "leaf" mugs (mugs into which she presses kiwi leaves) because the last two in the shop had been bought. And guess who bought them! (If you're my Facebook friend you already know, but I like to pretend that I have a wider readership than I do, that people read this who have never met me, which is erroneous thinking but I'm going with it.) Give up? Josh Groban! My mom's response: "Tell him I have more mugs here!"

2. Best moment of the week: When walking to the bus stop this morning, I was listening to a special Listeners' Favorites recap episode of Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me! My dream came true when Peter Sagal announced that they would be replaying the "Not My Job" segment with special guest Ice-T. Thank you LORD!

3. Worst moment of the week: The bus arrived and I climbed aboard and sat down. Just as I was noting that the seats appeared to be made out of something closely resembling vinyl, the driver slammed on the brakes and I slid right off and practically onto the floor. Luckily there was only one other person on the bus at the time and he seemed to be too busy picking his nose to notice the crazy girl scrambling to right herself. Still, though. Why does this stuff only seem to happen to me? I think I absorb everyone else's awkward.

3. Toward the end of my time in Australia, I made scrambled eggs almost every night for dinner so I could use up a large portion of the produce I had left and so I wouldn't have to throw anything out when I vacated my apartment. I got scrambles down to an art, with onions and shredded potatoes, oregano and thyme, tomatoes and mushrooms. Tonight my mom had a craving for eggs, so I made a huge saucepan (you could pretty much call it a vat) of my special Australian eggs. It smelled delicious as it cooked, but the closer it came to being done, the more it looked like I had cracked someone's head open on the side of the frying pan and their brains had spilled out, all pinkish grey. When we sat down to eat, my grandma was asking what I'd put in it. "So you have onions and potatoes..." and my mom chimed in with, "Tomatoes..." Then my grandma moved a piece of something with her fork, a puzzled look on her face, and asked, "What's the green?" That would be the mushrooms. Only I could make white button mushrooms look nauseous. FML.

4. Someone was clipping their nails this morning on the bus.

I think that's enough awkwardness for one week. I don't want to drive you away.

Poetry Monday

This is a Photograph of Me
by Margaret Atwood

It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;

then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion

but if you look long enough,
eventually
you will be able to see me.)

Smells Like Negative Energy (or, "This is Your Life, Olivia")

My cat is notorious for peeing on the carpet. One corner of our dining room is labeled as the Death Zone, and it reeks of urine even though Taffy hasn't peed there in at least a year.

Her latest venture has been to urinate on the floor right next to her litter box. It might be bad aim, it might be old age (although she's really not that old), but I believe it is done out of sheer spite. Years ago we got another cat, and even though he died (as did the next cat we got), Taffy has never forgiven us.

In this household we have come to know this smell as a part of us. It's rank and officious, but we haven't quite reached the point of cat eviction. Yet. So since we're used to it, you may ask why it matters. Here's the dilemma: my grandma is coming to visit at the start of next week. We always convert our study into a guest room for her, since it doesn't require that she climb any stairs and it's one of the least-used rooms in our house. However, Taffy's litter box has been in the study for quite some time, and the carpet around it stinks. The entire house stinks. Needless to say, we can't put my grandma in the Pee Room.

Cue the events of this morning, which I fondly refer to as Women vs. Urine. It's just like the Discovery Channel's hit series Man vs. Wild, except the vast tundra of pee-soaked carpet in our study is incalculably more dangerous than any remote jungle or swampland that Bear Grylls might encounter. That, and my mom and I are unfortunately not an attractive man.

Our mission for today was to try one last time to make our house smell like normal people live here. Naturally, for me and my mother that means ripping up a corner of the carpet, cutting out the turquoise padding underneath, and literally drenching the floor with odor-remover. It was this whole big thing. We ran out of the chemicals and my mom had to run to the store for more. We noticed that the tack strip along one wall was stained, so my mom pried it up with a screwdriver ("Mom, you're digging a hole in the floor!" "I don't care!"). I had to cover my nose and mouth with a towel so I wouldn't die of chemical inhalation. I sprayed liquid the color of a pina colada onto the carpet for so long that I was physically incapable of spraying anymore. We opened the front door to air out the house even though it's freezing outside, but since Taffy isn't allowed outside we had to block the doorway with my mom's green inflatable exercise ball. We propped the carpet against an empty laundry basket and started a fan to circulate the air. Now whenever I walk into the room it smells like cat pee and flowers. My mom has been saying for a few days that she wants to repaint one of the study walls because it looks grungy. I told her this would be the perfect time because the smell of paint would cover up the other offensive odors. That, or the room would reek of urine, flowers, and acrylic latex.

This is our second bottle. And it was full when we started.

The study: site of Peepocalypse 2010. Note the oscillating fan on the chair.

Our ingenious cat-keeper-inner. We're classy over here.

All the while Taffy has been upstairs sleeping. I have tried to discuss the matter with her, but I don't think any words sum it up better than my mother's: "Taffy, you have created a really negative situation in this household. Can you feel that negative energy, Taff? Can you smell it?"

The little stinker helping herself to my clean laundry.

Me: This is not our day!
Mom: We're makin' lemonade, Liv.
Me: Out of cat pee?
Mom: Yes. Out of cat pee.

------UPDATE------

It is three hours later and the smell is not gone. In fact, it appears to be worse, if that's even possible. So my mom and I just did what we should have done in the first place.


That's right. We ripped up the carpet. And, I'll have you know, I was unfairly designated the "pee-sniffer" and had to get on my hands and knees to determine if we missed eradicating any crucial sections. When I asked my mom why I had to be the one crawling around on the floor with my nose in urine, her reply was simple: "Because this is your life, Olivia. Love it." Oh I do, Mom. I really do.

Something That Has Nothing to Do with Anything

Let's talk about our day, shall we? By which I mean, of course, let me tell you about my day.

My alarm clock failed to alarm this morning. A brief word on these so called "alarm" clocks: mine is a Sony Dream Machine Dual FM/AM Radio Alarm Clock set to NPR. If there is anything alarming about this alarm clock, it is that I am twenty-two years old and waking up to Morning Edition. Freak.

Fortunately, I have a backup alarm. She is sixteen pounds and enjoys long walks snoozes on the beach couch and crying into my face at 6:30 in the morning. Her name is Taffy but she also responds to CAT, Hey You, Stop Scratching on My Carpet, and Move Over--You're Hogging the Bed. I hadn't thought I would ever use this last one on a pet, but there you go. Currently the Princess is slumbering soundly on top of my sweaty jogging clothes, having decided that she'd sufficiently covered my comforter in hair.

That last paragraph really isn't relevant to me telling you about my day, since it was not actually part of my day. I woke up without the aid of either my alarmless clock or my alarming cat, and proceeded downstairs for breakfast. I watched an episode of Weeds. Okay, two episodes. And by two, I mean three. I then went on a grocery run to Trader Joe's, arriving way later than I should have because for some reason I was incredibly distracted on the freeway and missed the exit. I blame John Mayer.

My afternoon went by fairly uneventfully. I went for a run along the slough, which for some reason almost killed me. I engaged in a losing battle against iTunes when I tried to play an episode of House and was rewarded with audio and a black screen-o-death. To remedy the situation, I restarted iTunes and searched for answers on the internet. I do this thing whenever I'm experiencing technological difficulties where I type full questions into Google and expect the results to be as specific as my questions (which of course they never are). When Google failed me, I proceeded to throw things at my computer screen. In hindsight that probably wasn't the best solution, but it made me feel better...

...Unlike the Sounders game. Those of you who know me know that I am virtually incapable of swearing without laughing. I just rarely get mad enough to truly mean the awful things I say, and serious insults sound strange coming out of my mouth (I blame my lack of badassness. Badassity?) Seriously, my worst comeback is, "Oh yeah? Well you're stupid." So now that I have created for you a picture of pure, innocent little Olivia in a nun's habit scattering breadcrumbs to amputee pigeons, I would like you to imagine the complete opposite. I'm talking red-faced, wine sloshing out of my glass (yes, I actually drank wine--I'm telling you, soccer does crazy things to me), screaming at the referee and the players, ripping hair follicles from my scalp, accusing the opposing team of plotting some horrific atrocity against me and my country--and really, they have. If scoring three goals in four minutes during the last fifteen minutes of play is not a horrific atrocity, I don't know what is. I was P-I-S-S-E-D. Sounders, you broke my heart, boys. I wore my scarf, I rang my bell, I scared my cat out of the room. All for you. And this is how you repay me. Ingrates.

Free Your Glee

Yesterday evening I drove with some family friends to meet my brother Michael in Bellevue where he works. Michael and I, plus our two friends, plus his coworker, piled into the car and headed down to "Do the Puyallup" (or as my dad says, "Pu the Doyallup"). In case this is a foreign concept to you, the Puyallup (pronounced "pew-all-up") is an enormous state fair in basically the middle of nowhere. It has everything, from the requisite stomach-inverting rides and tiny barnyard animals to a "Godmobile"--the occupants of which will reveal, in just two questions, whether or not you're going to Heaven. Yeah. That happened.

We arrived at the fairgrounds around 7pm, said a quick hello to my parents who were both working--my dad does lighting for the concerts and my mom was nearing the end of her shift at the Artists in Action studio--and went immediately to the ticket line. It is imperative that I mention here that I am not a rides person. Aside from the addictive Log Ride at Bell's Amusement Park in Tulsa, Oklahoma, I have never been a rides person. I get enough of an anxiety rush walking down the street and seeing a discarded ball of black thread that bears an uncanny resemblance to a poisonous spider. I don't need to be thrown up into the air or shot down a wooden track in a tiny car with no windows or spun around until I can no longer mentally confirm the existence of my own organs to be sufficiently jolted.

So I did what I always do: take pictures. I moseyed around the fair for a couple hours while the sun set and night came on. I watched people, lamented the fact that I had missed Mutton Bustin', a hootenanny for the whole family during which small children who I would imagine do not weigh very much attempt to stay atop a galloping sheep (yes, sheep gallop). It's basically a rodeo for small people and their sheep. It's fantastic.

I know this one is totally blurry, but I had been stalking this poor sir for probably seven (which is also the speed limit in the parking garage of the building where my brother works) minutes and I needed urgent documentation. This man was strolling through the fair with who I assume was his wife, carrying this giant stuffed banana over his shoulder. For some reason he and his jacket and his banana (and don't think I don't know where your mind is going) intrigued me. I was so scared that I would forget how enthralled I was that I took out my creeper notepad and wrote--and I quote--"I can't lose Michigan Banana Man!" Actually, the exclamation point was not part of my note; I did not conclude the statement with any sort of punctuation, but the exclamation point conveys precisely my level of insistence that this stranger would not evade my memory. I think this makes me a journalist. Right? Right.

I feel that you need proof of the existence of such a...thing...so here you go, a little prezzie for you. When I passed this truck, the two people inside seemed to be engaged in quite an intellectual conversation with a couple of teenagers. This was right outside the animal barn (or whatever the heck it's called), and between the earless goats, tiny snuggling bunnies, swan/duck things that stared at me as if they could see into my soul, and the Godmobile, I got quite an eyeful.

That's pretty much all my Puyallup Fair excitement in a nutshell. If I think of anything else that needs to be said I will say it later. When I'm not watching Weeds.

Poetry Corner Monday

The Hammock
by Li-Young Lee

When I lay my head in my mother's lap
I think how day hides the stars,
the way I lay hidden once, waiting
inside my mother's singing to herself. And I remember
how she carried me on her back
between home and the kindergarten,
once each morning and once each afternoon.

I don't know what my mother's thinking.

When my son lays his head in my lap, I wonder:
Do his father's kisses keep his father's worries
from becoming his? I think, Dear God, and remember
there are stars we haven't heard from yet:
They have so far to arrive. Amen,
I think, and I feel almost comforted.

I've no idea what my child is thinking.

Between two unknowns, I live my life.
Between my mother's hopes, older than I am
by coming before me, and my child's wishes, older than I am
by outliving me. And what's it like?
Is it a door, and good-bye on either side?
A window, and eternity on either side?
Yes, and a little singing between two great rests.

Great Idea (an Insider's Exclusive)

Before I begin, I would like to give a shout-out to my dear friend Jessica who recently posted a story similar to this one on her blog. Jess, it may seem like I'm cheating on some blog test by stealing your topic, but I swear I had this written before I read yours. Cross my heart and hope to die.

That out of the way, here we go.

So here's a good idea for ya:

1. Buy a pair of really cute checkered flats because you only own one other pair of shoes, and the pair you do own have been worn so thin at the bottoms that you can feel gravel through them.

2. Wear said flats around the house for approximately nine minutes until you feel that you have sufficiently broken them in.

3. Land yourself an interview in Seattle on a day during which you have no access to a car, so you are thereby forced to walk to the bus stop. Wear your flats, after deciding against wearing flip flops just to the bus (because it's raining and you don't want to slip) or tennis shoes because 1) you don't want sock marks, and 2) you don't want to have to lug around a pair of tennis shoes in your bag.

4. Get lost looking for the correct building in which your interview is to take place in fifteen minutes, and feel the start of puss-filled blisters form on your heels and pinky toes. Feel the discomfort of where the flats dig in to your bones right below your big toes. Begin to regret the decision to wear flats.

5. Interview. Hobble back up Seattle's satanic hills to the bus stop and climb aboard the bus when it pulls up thirty minutes later. Fantasize about drenching your cute checkered flats with gasoline and lighting them on fire.

6. Arrive in Woodinville, take one step (the first in a series of steps that will continue until you reach your house over 1/4 mile away) off the bus and feel the skin of your right heel split apart. Look down and notice blood beginning to stain the back of your nice new khakis (which it took you nearly four hours of grueling shopping to acquire). Take another step, and notice that with each consecutive step it feels as though a tiny invisible demon is jabbing a meat cleaver into your heel.

7. Contemplate walking home barefoot, but decide that doing so would make you look like a freak, and you care way more about image than comfort.

8. Arrive home, limping. Recall the following line from Mrs. Doubtfire: "If I ever find the misogynistic bastard who invented heels, I'll kill him." Decide that even though you weren't wearing heels, flats are close enough. And you share the sentiment.

9. Clean and bandage your wounds. Throw the flats into your closet with more force than you had intended and vow to leave them there in the dark...until, of course, the next time they match your outfit.

Elementary School

On a run yesterday afternoon, I passed the elementary school near my house right as the buses were pulling out. The little baby crossing guards were wearing their little baby neon vests, and there were swarms of parents and children waiting to cross the street. I was instantly reminded of my own proud days as a patrol in 6th grade, and for the duration of my run I couldn't rid my head of its archive of vivid images of myself in elementary school. If this were a cheesy '90s television show, this would be where the character looks upward thoughtfully while the picture is distorted in waves and the dream sequence music starts to play in the background...

In elementary school (not the one I ran past), I was the dork who sat in the first seat of the bus, behind the driver, hugging my backpack to my stomach. I was quiet. I faced forward. I always waited for her signal to cross the street. During the holiday season when my mom would bake multitudinous loaves of cranberry and zucchini bread to hand out to neighbors and the mailwoman and garbageman, I delivered one to my bus driver with a sheepish smile. (Practically everything I did in elementary school was sheepish.) We knew each other by name. She knew where I lived and would sometimes drop me off right at the end of my driveway rather than down the street where the bus stop was, thereby making all the other kids walk. I considered it a small victory and celebrated quietly.

At Kokanee Elementary, I was friends with my principal. We had this thing where we would try to beat the other person to say, "My bus driver loves you." I'm sure it made sense back then, but right now I haven't the faintest idea how such a game came about. Whatever the reason, little Olivia found it endlessly entertaining. All I can think now is, God I was obnoxious.

I would spend recesses with my best friend Juliet rustling through the bushes looking for tiny colorful plastic balls--well, they were more like closed cylinders the size of a couple seed beads-- which we referred to as "Indian Beads." We made daisy chains and started a cartwheel club, of which we were the only two members. During track season, we borrowed a baton from our P.E. teacher and practiced relay hand-offs on the field. Juliet was the 3rd leg and I was the anchor. We were damn good. Sometimes we sat against the chain link fence outside our 4th grade classroom, where there were several 50-yard dash lanes painted onto the blacktop. Our teacher drove a battered white pickup which he often drove down to the classroom from the teachers' parking lot. For some reason, and again Elementary School Humor is clearly lost on Early-Twenties Me, Juliet and I got a kick out of standing at the end of the 5o-yard dash with our planted apart and our arms outstretched over our heads and begging our teacher to hit us with his car. I suspect we had even less intention of getting hit as Mr. W. did of hitting us, because every time he would get within ten feet of where we stood we would disperse, screaming.

One year for our school musical (Disney themed), I was Dumbo and Captain Hook. Dumbo because evidently my music teacher thought the part would suit me (should that have flattered me? "Here Olivia, you're just the person to wear this nice elephant suit!"), and Captain Hook because I had long, dark, curly hair and was the only person cast in the dance who was mature enough to handle a foot-long fake sword. Coincidentally I was the only girl. Go figure. That was the same musical in which I sang "Colors of the Wind" from Pocahontas while dressed in a black leotard (the first and last time I will ever wear a leotard) with a tri-colored skirt made from strips of sheer fabric. It was pimpin', let me tell you, and I stood proudly with my microphone despite the fact that my music teacher gave my first choice song, "Just Around the Riverbend," to a prettier girl with an even prettier voice who didn't even show up to audition. I seriously had to call this girl in front of my teacher and asked which song she wanted. I will never ever forget that.

I remember lots of jump roping, lots of double-unders and running laps around the gym to No Doubt's "Don't Speak." (Ah, the '90s.) I remember intense tetherball tournaments, and how one day during recess one kid (whose name and face I can recall perfectly but who shall, for the sake of privacy, remain anonymous) got whipped in the forehead with a kamikaze chain that had ripped itself off the pole. I remember being insanely jealous of the kids in the AV Club. I remember my friend braiding my hair while we sat in the foyer with our class and the other classes in the pod, listening to a teacher read to us from Where the Red Fern Grows. I remember the Shakespeare plays that our librarian used to direct, and how the only fight Juliet and I ever got in was over who would play Dromeo of Ephesus in The Comedy of Errors. (I got the part while Juliet played my twin, Dromeo of Syracuse. It suited us because back then we basically were twins. Fraternal, though, because the only physical trait we shared was curly hair.) I remember sitting in the cafeteria one day at lunch when a teacher told us to "eat the good stuff first." If her intention was to have us eat the healthy stuff, she should have been more specific. As it was, that statement signaled the start of a long and glorious tradition among my friends of beginning our meals with our desserts.

That's all for now. Go Kodiaks.
(Yes, our mascot is a predator of our school's namesake. 'Cause we're just that cool. And yes, I still consider myself a student.)

Poetry Corner Mondays

To make your Mondays just a little more enjoyable (especially now that Lie to Me is going on hiatus until mid-November), I have created what I am referring to as Olivia's Poetry Corner Mondays. Every week I will be sharing one of my favorite poems from one of my favorite poets. For those of you rolling your eyes in an exaggerated manner, I know who you are. And I'm not pleased.

I am implementing this new idea just in time for the House premiere next Monday (at 8pm on FOX!) with the hopes that the day everyone loves to hate will become cause for celebration. As if we even needed House.

So here it is, my poem for this week:

The River Styx, Ohio
-by Mary Oliver-

We drove through October, Grandmother pointing at cows;
Mother, bifocaled, squinting at maps for a crossroad.
We came instead to the River Styx, Ohio.

Dead leaves fell ruffling like an ugly lace
Down the brown hillsides, past some empty buildings.
We left the car and wandered through a field,
Three ladies pausing in indifferent space.

Some cows drank from a creek, and lurched away.
Whoever named the place learned the hard lesson,
I'd guess, without much fanfare or delay.
Farms to both sides shook, bankrupt, in the wind.

We hope for magic; mystery endures.
We look for freedom, but the measure's set.
There was a graveyard, but we saw no people.
We went back to the car.

Dim with arthritis, time, the muddied seasons,
Grandmother poised in the back seat again,
Counting the cows. My mother's tightening fingers
Scratched at the roads that would take us home. On the wheel
I tensed my knuckles, felt the first stab of pain.

Self-Portrait #2

This was my Melbourne life. Not all of it, and certainly not all of the best parts, but definitely none of the parts I want to lose. These are me.

Google Scribe: Shoot Me Now

I am an avid supporter of all things NPR. Several weeks ago I stumbled upon the Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me! blog which is, in my opinion, the Internet's single greatest offering. Wait Wait's latest post, the link to which is here, details the ridiculousness of Google Scribe. In case you are unenlightened about this phenomenon, Google Scribe is a service that offers words and phrases to you as you type. Maybe it's just me, but that doesn't even sound useful.

Inspired by Wait Wait's Ian Chillag, I spent more time than I care to admit playing with Google Scribe by entering common quotes (including offerings by Shakespeare, Dickens, Frost, and Dickinson) just to see what would happen. Needless to say, I am quite pleased with the results. (Note: I have italicized the original quotes for those who may be unfamiliar with them. I have also taken the liberty of bolding my favorites.)

"Out, damned spotted at the airport and then take them to their owners."

"Et tu, Brute Force Programs, Mail Bombers and Spam Scripts."

"Frailty, thy name is woman owned and operated by the Association for Computing Machinery and Intelligence Services Act of Ontario."

"How all occasions do inform against meningococcal disease in the United States and Canada."

"Alas, poor Yorick, I knew I was going to be able to see this on the map."

"A dagger of the mind, a false creation of any new or existing listing on eBay Stores."

"Do not go gentle into that good night's sleep and are not endorsed by or affiliated with Google in any way."

"You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'ma keep it real."

"Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me and my family and friends."

"Houston, we have also included another software solution that includes healthcare compliance software and effective risk management solutions."

I don't think I could be more excited by a Google invention. I think what I am appalled by love most about this whole concept is the bastardization of classic lines by technological and gangster colloquialisms. I mean, since when is "I'ma" an appropriate contraction of "I'm going to"? You're on crack, Google Scribe. What a powerful tool to add to our list of things that make no sense at all.

Addendum: It has come to my attention that no one may understand this post. Lest I confuse my readership any more than is absolutely necessary, allow me to explain by using this simple four-step process:

1. Go to Google Scribe.

2. Type in a word or phrase.

3. Hit "Tab" to select the word they suggest. The more times you hit it, the more words they'll insert.

4. Laugh.

My Child Will Be the BoM

Remember my obsession with the Australian television series McLeod's Daughters? And remember how irate I was that the main character, Claire, was killed off at the end of the third season? Yes. Well. I'm still pissed. But I bring this up because at the beginning of the season she gave birth to a girl whom she affectionately referred to as "BoM" (Baby of McLeod). It thrills me that not only I am also a BoM (Baby of Margoshes), but I will also have a BoM. To ensure that this remains the case even if my offspring voices a strong desire to take my husband's last name, I have compiled a list of men I could marry who all have last names beginning with the letter M. As the end of the list will indicate, I'm not picky:

Tracy Marrow - A.K.A. ICE-T, BABY!!!!!!!! WE ARE SOULMATES!

Pat Monahan - The lead singer of Train. I recall telling my friends during our freshman year of college that I was going to "numchuck" Pat's wife. This is true, except now I'm going to nunchuck her.



Christopher Meloni - This would be the world's most perfect union, since on Law & Order: SVU he plays Elliot Stabler opposite Olivia Benson (and, in case you didn't know, my name is Olivia) and the sexual tension between them is so thick you could cut it with a piece of dental floss.




James McAvoy - I really have nothing to say about him except "Yes please."







Dermot Mulroney - See above







John Munch - I don't care if he's a fictional character. He's real to me.








Yo-Yo Ma - I must point out that with his last name, my child would be "BoMa." Which is awesome.




Barry Manilow - My BoM would for sure be a Fanilow. I'd sing "Mandy" while it was still in utero.






Cheech Marin - I'm just really excited that now I know his last name.







Sheen, Martin - Can I just say that I love what punctuation does for our language? One comma can turn a first name into a last. Like magic. And indeed Sheen, Martin is magic. Added bonus: PoTUS would by my husband and BoM would be my child.




John McCain - This one's just for shock value. But really, "BoMcCain"? It sounds like an off-brand anesthetic.






Meat Loaf - So his name is actually Michael Lee Aday (born Marvin), but when I was Googling celebrities with M last names (and yes, I'm just that cool), he was on the list. I think we would call our child "Baby Loaf." This is especially amusing for me considering that whenever I play 20 Questions with my best friend, we always begin with one of two questions: 1) "Is it bigger than a baby?" or 2) "Is it bigger than a bread box?" My child would a baby and a [bread] loaf.

Self-Portrait

I've decided that every once in a while I'm going to compile a collage of images that I think express how I feel about who I am. I will title these, appropriately, "self-portraits." Consider them the puzzles of my psyche.

Because I have been wanting to learn Polish for years, I will call this one "Jeden," which is "one" in Polish. I have no idea how to pronounce that.

4 Reasons Why I Should Not Be Allowed on the Bike Trail

1. When passing fellow bikers (or runners, or walkers, or renegade strollers left to plummet down the hill on their own), it is expected that you announce yourself by either ringing your bell or calling out, "On your left!" Because it has been two years since I've taken my bike out on the trail and had to abide by such regulations, I was completely anxiety-ridden whenever I approached another person. The closer I came, the more stressful--and difficult--it became for me to remember the magic phrase. On multiple occasions I ran through various utterances, searching for the proper one. "Orcas Island Pottery!" and "Good morning, Crow Valley Pottery!" were among my most frequent failings. I even once--and I'm not proud of this--almost announced, "Buddy the Elf, what's your favorite color?" Fail.

2. My chains desperately need to be oiled. I could hear them squeaking even with my iPod turned up to ear-splitting decibels. I'm fairly certain that the people I passed knew I was going to pass them even before I did.

3. Despite my best attempts to maintain a steady pace on the trail, I am as incapable of regulating my speed as I am of striking a match. For those who aren't aware, I am arguably the worst match-striker in the history of matches. This clearly does not have any direct bearing on the bike-riding scenario, but I feel that in some way the same deficient motor skills that prevent me from starting fires the Normal People way are also to blame for my inability to settle on a single biking speed. I dare you to dispute that airtight logic. (Also, my exercise clothing doesn't make me very aerodynamic.)

4. Though most of the rougher parts of the path are marked with bright orange spray paint that can probably be seen from another galaxy, I possess the remarkable gift of hitting every single pothole and piece of crumbling pavement. And puddles. All of them. Witnessing this, you'd think I never learned to steer a bicycle.