Plenty of Catfishing

I made a rookie mistake on one of the online dating sites. I attribute this to the fact that my brain isn't firing on all cylinders due to a shortage in dopamine and oxytocin (a condition that results from sex starvation).  If I had been up on my Italian actor trivia, I probably would not have fallen for the bait.








In my defense, I was immediately suspect when I saw these two photos. However, the guy said he was a real estate agent, so I could see needing headshots. (Okay, that doesn't explain him randomly posing in some murky water, half-naked, with his pants unzipped, with a dog that appears to be in the process of escaping him.) But, he did have several casual looking photos, so I thought I'd chance it and email him.

As I am emailing him, my 14-year-old son pops in the room and sees the above photos. "Mom! Catfish!"  To which I replied, "I know, I know. I thought that too, but look at this casual photo of him with his 20-year-old son."

"Did you google the picture?"

"What?  How can I google a picture?"

My son, sounding more and more exasperated, "That's what you do. You google the image to see if you get a hit."

Pause..."Um, how do you know so much about this?"

"I watched a video. Here, let me show you."

He then proceeded to "school" me on catfish detection.  Unfortunately, this was too late.  The guy had already responded with an email, "Oh please tell me you're open minded..." Now, in Portland-speak, that usually means the person is into polyamory.

If only.

After reading the rest of his email, I felt the needed to scrub my eyes with a Brillo pad and bleach.

The good news is: My mistake is your gain! If a photo is too good to be true, as the above, it probably is. Right click on the suspect image, select copy address or copy link. Paste this into the Google search window and then click the little camera that says "search by image."  Paste the URL into this window, search by image, and it will show you if this image gets any hits.

Needless to say, the above images pulled up the Italian actor Raoul Bova, who, as far as I know, does not deal in real estate and probably doesn't feel the need to do online dating.

Another catfish detection is to ask the person to send you a photo of them touching their ear with their pinkie finger.  Evidently, this is such a random pose that it is difficult to find an attractive actor's photo imitating this on the internet.

101 Dates: Date 2 Tinder Boobs and Contortionists

Date 2

The setting: I had already purchased tickets for a jazz and burlesque show at one of the local haunts, and I got to thinking it would be a little odd to attend a burlesque show as a single woman. I thought, "Well, hell, Tinder is supposed to be all about the spontaneity, right?"  I had a lot of guys say they wanted to go, but once I directed them to purchasing their own tickets, all communication dropped off. I suppose, being Portland guys (and consequently unemployed or struggling artists or artisans), they expected me to purchase their ticket. HA! 

Anyway, I finally got one bite. A guy that had a suspicious profile picture. It was him with the sun behind him pouring rays over his face into the camera lens. I have since found this is a popular angle for guys on dating websites. It's the equivalent of using Vaseline over the camera lens. Anyway, he was going to be late due to just coming off work (another warning sign. The show started at 9 PM. Unless he is a nurse, there is no good job that has you getting off work after 9). He finally got there somewhere between 10 and 10:30. Unfortunately, that was enough time for me to scan the crowd and see there were a couple of attractive single guys there--alone. It turned out to be the perfect setting for a date with no personality (which he happened to be). He got points for offering to buy me a drink and for being somewhat ambitious. He was climbing up the corporate ladder and was beginning a sales position at Carmax, which would enable him to give up his day job. Hmmm...I do expect someone over the age of 30 to be a little further in life than graduating to a sales position at Carmax. ONE of us needs to be able to afford those expensive dates at Portland's upscale restaurants. 

The rest of the date involved us periodically getting up from the table and straining to see the burlesque show over other's people's heads.  I will say, the show was really good. They had a great contortionist that rivaled some of the performer's I've seen at Cirque. In the hour and half before my date's appearance, I had a great time chatting with the man (a juggler that juggles at Wanderlust circus shows) and the contortionist's sister, who were sharing their table with me. 

The date ended with an awkward, "So, maybe we can see each other again?"  Me:  "Um, sure." Him: nervous giggle, "Okay. Well, okay. I guess I'll see you."  Me: "Yep."

I deleted my Tinder profile after I got home. 

Points deducted:  

• A deduction of 10 points for nervously giggling after every response to my questions. 
• A deduction of 30 points for having no discernible personality. Granted, this was our first date, and it wasn't the most date-friendly setting, but hey, we're watching women twirl tassels on their tits. There's got to be some conversation starters there. 
• A deduction of 10 points for greatest career achievement thus far being able to quit his day job because he just got promoted to sales position at Carmax. 
• A deduction of 20 points for being monochromatic. I kid you not. This guy had no variance in his color palette. His skin was pale, his eyes were pale, his hair, including lashes and eyebrows, were pale. It was a very Caucasian theme. 

101 Dates: Date 1: Tinder Coffee

Date 1

The setting: My usual coffee meet 'n' greet. Met him on Tinder, and refreshingly, after the second text, he suggested we meet for coffee.  He wasn't a troll. Maybe a bit of a paunch, but had hair, which is a remarkable feature for the over-40 male set. The most interesting thing about him was that he volunteered for Search and Rescue. Now, one would think there would be endless tales of bicep bulging close calls. Nope. Nadda. The most engaging stories involved finding lost hikers and trail runners that wandered too late into the day on a Gorge hike and then were resorting to carefully feeling their way back down the trail while their anxious loved one (who wisely returned to the trail head when the sun showed signs of setting) called 911. These stories also revealed that the only hiking he did was on these rescues. Not a good fit. When he was telling me how much more in shape his teammates were, I was tempted to ask, "Do you have THEIR number?" 

This coffee klatch of two ended when I said I had another "thing" to go to and needed to leave, which he then asked if it was another date. "Well, um, yeah." <smiling sheepishly> Anyway, he wanted to meet again, "Blah, blah, message me on Tinder."

Points deducted:  

• A deduction of 20 points for constantly winking at me to the point that I wanted to ask him if he had something in his eye and did he need to borrow my mirror to get it out. 
• A deduction of 20 points for touching me more often than was comfortable or recommended.  I foresaw future dates filled with me constantly pushing him off of me and telling him to get his hand out of there. 
• A deduction of 20 points for having an occupation that really couldn't be elaborated on. He sorted grain at the ports. Yeah. I got nothin'.
• A deduction of 10 points for giving up interests that would have given him a little more personality: collecting and riding vintage motorcycles. 

I'm Baaaccck. No, really. I Am This Time.

Before I launch into my latest life saga, I just have to say: Blogger has really changed since I last posted. 

So, evidently, I stepped on that space on the board of life that everyone dreads:  Return to Start. After over 4 years of separation, I am back to square one. I'm in the process of a divorce. I'm living back in The House, which we have, happily, in this frenzied housing market, sold before it was even listed, cash, no inspections. It was really a divorcing couple's dream (if there can be such a thing). What isn't a homeless divorcee's dream is the rabidly competitive buyer's market that we profited from a mere month ago. As soon as a place is listed, there are multiple offers on it.  I have resigned myself to the fact that once again I will be renting, raising my son, and single, so yeah. Back to start. Especially for a woman that is edging dangerously close to 50...I mean, 40. Yeah, 40. <cough>

Speaking of single middle-aged women, I'm back at the online dating scene. I'm hoping this will provide some excellent blogging opportunities. I'm thinking of maybe calling it "101 Dates."

I have decided to attack the dating scene with a three-pronged approach. (Yes, I have been too long without sex.) I'm on a phone app called Bumble, which is a bust. I tried Tinder first, but for a hook-up app, there sure were a lot of people that preferred endless chatting to meeting. I did end up with two dates in one night, and shortly thereafter, deleted the app. 

There wasn't much action on Bumble, which is supposed to be a woman-empowered app created by one of the co-founders of Tinder. The concept is good, I think, if it worked. You still do the usual swiping of left or right, and if you swipe right, you sit. And wait. And wait. And wait. Now, I admit initially there were a lot of good looking guys in the beginning, much better selection than Tinder. I was at least swiping right every 20 pictures, rather than my usual one for every 100. However, they still have to match you. And so you continue to wait. And wait...Oh! "You have a bumble in your hive!" so says the app when you finally get a guy to match you. You then have 24 hours to contact THEM. Yeah, there's your twist. That's the part I really like. It dodges the lame "Hey, sweetie," "Sup, babe," "Damn your fine" <sic> messages from your usual trolls. I got a few hive bumbles, and hurriedly contacted them within the 24 hours, before they disappeared from my hive, because you know, time is of the essence on these dating apps. I'll tell you it challenged my wit reserves and powers with the turn of phrase. Most of the guys had little to nothing on their profile, leaving me to riff off their user name or profile photo. Scant material to go on. Nevertheless, I prevailed and speedily sent off my missive. And waited. And waited. Now, once you have messaged them, they stay in your "hive," mocking you. Because they never message back. Yeah. Still waiting, which led me to prong number 2: 

Match.com. Now the problem with match.com is you can do basically nothing but view people. Match.com teases you with telling you 121 people have viewed you, you have 37 winks, you have 20 messages, but every time you go to these options to get your ego stroked, it presents you with their subscription offerings. Up to this point, I was too cheap to lay down the cash. I would do the occasional search, but not see anyone worth subscribing for. Until now--because I have broken down and realized that the adage "Get under someone to get over someone" is probably sage advice. I'm also hoping that this will send out a great big, "Screw you!" (except the other word for screw, the one that has the "F" in it) in that sending-energy-through-the-Universe kind of way, where those waves find their way to your target and give them a great big punch in the balls. *POW*  I digress. 

So I subscribed for 3 months. Lots of views. A few interesting possibilities, but again, endless messaging back and forth. "How's your day?"  "Great how's yours?" "Great! What kind of music do you like?"  "Blah, blah music. What about you?"  "Oh, you know, blah, blah, music. Sometimes blah, blah music, if I'm in the mood." And on and on...zzzzzzzzzzzzz. Not ONE has suggested meeting in person. I've got this regular pen-pal thing going on with one guy, who, when asked if he spoke Italian (due to his username being Live the Dream, but in Italian), replied, "No. I just eat it!"  Yeah. <shaking head>

Third prong:  POF or Plenty of Fish or, as one guy messaged me called it, Plenty of Fudgecicles. A guy, I'll note, that messaged me, I replied, and I haven't heard from him since. Now, POF is what I remember from my previous online dating experiences. Lots of views. Lots of messages. Things are hopping. At least in my mailbox. Again, out of all the messages, and there have been many, ONE guy cut right to the chase and mentioned meeting in person. The rest either dropped off the face of the earth after I messaged back or I've been having this ongoing correspondence with them. Admittedly, I've only been on there for a couple of days, so I could be being a tad impatient. I don't know. Is there now some kind of online dating etiquette that says you shouldn't mention meeting in person until the 20th message or 2 weeks have gone by, whichever comes first? 

Anyway, onward and upward!

Random Thought

Huh, I was just realizing that the Zombie Apocalypse and Christ's Second Coming could be one in the same thing....

"The dead...shall rise..."  1 Thessalonians 4:16-17

Where Have You Been Miss T?

Yes.  It's been a while, and I can't promise you there will be subsequent entries to follow this one, such is the spastic nature of my creative inspiration.  My life has been in flux for the last couple of years or so.  The quick update:  I have moved into an apartment with my son.  We have been there for almost 2 years now. Of course, the logical conclusion to that statement is I am separated.  Yep.  I am one of the fallen, stumbling off the tracks of happily married bliss into the abyss of (not single, not married, but) "divorced."  Well, we're not divorced yet.  Dave will likely never be the one to file, and I haven't found a good enough reason to as of yet. It's a very long and sordid story, the details of which I may someday divulge when I just don't give a rat's hind-end anymore. (I'm thinking that will be sometime around the age of 75.  That is also the age in which I will quit submitting my body to unspeakable acts of torture in order to maintain a shape that I just naturally achieved through a largely sedentary lifestyle and a diet of eating doughnuts at the ripe old age of 22.)

Let's see, what else, oh Vaughn was diagnosed with ADHD in the last few months, which explains a whole heck of a lot, in hindsight. I KNOW, "Yeah right!  EVERYBODY's got ADHD."  I find my life has been a series of back-handed slaps to my younger, more self-righteous face.  You, up on the high horse, be warned.  It feels a lot higher going down. I was also a vocal critic of those parents who hauled their kid off to the doctor the minute (I thought) they started having difficulties in school.  I then blamed the schools for ineffective teaching of young boys (well, I STILL blame the education system for its inadequate teaching methods for those with a different learning style), and barked about how they just wanted to teach zombies.  After Vaughn's first year at his new school, the following years his behavior and grades declined.  Interestingly, the first year at the school his 3rd grade teacher asked me at a parent-teacher conference if Vaughn was on an IEP.  I puzzled over that for several days, thinking what an odd question it was to ask.  Vaughn has always, academically, done well in school, so I couldn't understand where this was coming from.

After we separated, I got him into counseling just to head off any possible upcoming behavioral issues surrounding the divorce. After about a month and the counselor forgetting Vaughn's name in one of the final sessions and having really no comment on Vaughn's state of mind, I decided I would wait until a problem arose, which it did in 4th grade. Off to a different counselor, who suggested we entertain the possibility that Vaughn had Asberger's. After a few months with him throwing out formulaic responses that I had already read in dozens of books, we moved on to yet another counselor. This one, after a few sessions, asked if Vaughn had ever been diagnosed with ADHD. Now, this is something that had occurred to me back when he was much younger, before he started school, but since there were certain things he seemed to have no problem focusing on (things that interested him), he didn't have any learning difficulties, he wasn't bouncing off the walls, I ruled it out, thinking he simply danced to the beat of his own drum and was a complex child. After reading several books on ADHD, it all fell into place. I was still reluctant to put him on medication.  We had him tested by a person that specialized in ADHD testing and confirmed what the counselor had thought (and what his teachers had been hinting at, but to their credit, never outright stated what they obviously suspected).  We met with a prescriber that specializes in ADHD, who explained things in such a way that it convinced me medication was the way to go.  I have still vacillated on the medication issue, but after having the prescriber tell me that I would see a big difference in Vaughn's handwriting after being on the medication for a while, and then witnessing it for myself, it pretty well convinced me this really was, largely, a brain chemistry issue.  His handwriting has always been atrocious, virtually illegible (well, MOSTLY illegible), with us constantly on him about doing better (the anthem of the ADHD child:  You're just not trying hard enough).  Then I recently saw a few samples of his writing that came home from school and I was blown away.  Absolutely fantastic handwriting.  It was like night and day.  I couldn't believe it.  One chemical exchange in the brain and "click" the gears start churning smoothly.  A good many of the problems we had with him from a behavioral standpoint have also resolved themselves. Vaughn is a fairly introverted child, but his dad and I used to joke about how he was completely incapable of being quiet, not making a single sound, for even 5 minutes.  We would challenge him to be quiet, no sounds, for 5 minutes (seeking a relief from the constant playing of the Vaughn soundtrack).  Inevitably, after about a minute, some noise would come out of him, with him being completely oblivious to the fact that he had made a sound. Now, when he's on medication, you can have pleasant conversations with him and long stretches of peaceful silence.  I had started becoming so accustomed to this new state of affairs,  I had forgotten just how draining the incessant babbling could be until he was off medication one day and there wasn't a single second that wasn't occupied with some kind of sound.

Anyway, yet another reason for my empty blog is that my main subject was Vaughn, who STILL provides endless opportunities for exploitative writing. Unfortunately, he has come to the age in which he doesn't want others to know I have any association with him, much less WRITING about him.   He is always certain to head me off at the park (we live right across the street from a park) when I'm coming to get him, lest people suspect I'm his mother, and by association, subject him to unspeakable humiliation.

In conclusion (I know, this is longer than my usual posting, but hey, cut me some slack, it's been over a year. Just take an extra 5 minutes on that "work break"),  I am now resigned to writing about MY life, which is far less interesting without the Vaughn component, so maybe you will be seeing many more entries about Walmart and Winco customers, who, thankfully, provide an endless supply of writing material.

The People of Winco

So nothing terribly interesting to report today. Dental appointment, filling, errands, bleh. I made the mistake of not trusting my instincts at Winco. Since it's bag-it-yourself, I usually look for a line where it looks like the people in front of me don't have too much, which means by the time it comes for me to bag my stuff they have left and moved on, freeing me up to bag my stuff and get out of there before the next person's purchases start bumping up behind mine.

There were only two people in line ahead of me. I had spotted them earlier in the store and assumed they were a couple. The man obviously had at least a physical disability going on, and quite likely a mental one. The woman appeared to be just a touch brighter in the bulb department. My instincts told me that, although it appeared they had maybe 10-15 items, this was going to be one of those things where I was probably going to be standing around for a while, but I figured, "Hey, there are two of them. Combined they make one whole functioning person, so..." WRONG.

First off, the guy went first and appeared to be paying for his part of the groceries, whatever part that was. I couldn't even see how many items (just one lonely cucumber, rolling around bagless in the cart), so there couldn't have been many. I, on the other hand, had a cartload (catching up on several weeks of doing no grocery shopping). I watched as he slowly paid in cash, in ones (?), and went over to his seemingly minuscule purchase and proceeded to bag it, while the woman paid for her 15 items, bagged them and left as the checker was ringing up my 150 items. Unfortunately, the checker also made the mistake of thinking that the man was going to be done with his bagging before the woman that made her purchase after him. WRONG. I watched as my items, one by one, chugged down the conveyor belt on his side of the bagging area as the man would put an item in his bag, screw up his face, tongue clenched between his teeth, shake his head, and decide that just wasn't the place for the cucumber, taking it out, taking a few more items out, and then proceeding to bag again with the methodicalness of one attempting to disarm a nuclear weapon. I would watch this, standing their helplessly, as I periodically looked longingly at the bagging area of the woman, abandoned long ago, its conveyor belt sitting empty in front of me, taunting me. He was JUST leaving as I paid for my items.

In hindsight, I suppose I could have offered to help him with his 5 items, but somehow I think that might have ended up with me being bludgeoned to death by a cucumber.

The PMAs

Went to The Portland Music Awards show tonight. That was interesting, though in some ways typically Portland weird in an atypical Portland way. It seemed that the audience was, oddly, disproportionately country music fans. Either that, or as the announcer said, that particular demographic were a rowdy bunch. It also had the odd phenomenon of really attractive (well, that is subjective, but I suppose in music terms they were attractive), young looking women from the back, but then being unpleasantly shocked when they turned around and revealed heavily made-up middle-aged faces. Either that or they were 25-year-olds who had lived a hard life, which is also possible. (A friend told me that listening to Randy Travis for 2.5 minutes takes 6 weeks off of your life. "Yeah, I'm 25, but that's 45 in country years.") I was kept entertained before the program started, while I sat their waiting for Dave to bring back refreshments, by a row of about 6 women who plopped themselves in front of me and proceeded to busily iPhoto each other. The only thing I could really discern in the dim lighting was their clothing (which was tight, low-cut, and short), carefully coiffed hair, and incessant, excited chittering, all of which led me to conclude they were a bunch of 20-year-olds. I felt distinctly underdressed (turtleneck, jeans, and sweater coat because it was freaking cold, man!) and under-made-up. ("Need more eyeliner! STAT!") When my wasband (a phrase someone had used in my divorce support group. Ex still feels weird to say, so I'm trying stuff out), Dave, sat down, I asked him if I was that obnoxious when I was 20, at which point one of them turned around, and he whispered, "Huh, must me the mother." Later, they all got up, "Uh, no...It appears they are all 'the mother.'"

Anyway, the first 3 acts were really good. I had gone there with pretty low expectations because, beyond the jazz scene, I am pretty much ignorant as to the live music in town and just assume all of it is crap. The opener was the Gay Men's Choir, which, predictably, did a Queen medley, and then opened the ceremonies with a variation on the Muppet Theme. I've never heard them before, but it was quite entertaining. Reminded me a lot of the type of music you find on the show Glee. The next group was http://www.myspace.com/crownpointmusic. They were rocking and worth going out to see in the future. Good stage presence and energy. The second group they threw in to fill some time, supposedly, http://www.reverbnation.com/dpdelaneyandparis. They were hilarious! You really miss some of it when you don't see the performance. They performed Stop Staring at My Tits, (which I got a kick out of the line about the turtleneck being there to "serve and protect"). The little blond chick was instrumentless, so she did all the miming, which was spot on. They also did I Want To Have Penis, which again, the blond chick's pantomiming brought it home. Damn. I can't find any video of them. I'm kicking myself for not videoing it. They allowed videoing and photos. Ah, well.

After that, it kind of deteriorated. I was hoping to see a jazz performance, but alas no. However, there was no country performance, so I guess it was worth the sacrifice. Most of what followed after that would put you to sleep (folkish). There was one act that before they were done performing, people were clapping, like those odd places at the symphony when there is a pause or a seeming conclusion, and the audience mistakes it for the end of the movement and starts applauding. However, in this case, I think it was more like, "Yeah. Okay. Good. We get the idea. End it there. Yes. Thank you very much. We've had enough now." I think they should look into marketing their music for insomniacs.

Oh, but we're not done yet! My absolute favorite was Reva Devito http://www.revadevito.com/#!listen. She performed Boogie, which was HOT. Very nouveau disco and great stage presence. She sounds better live, largely due to her tight band. The sample on her website seems to really lack energy. It's weird. It's like it's kind of disjointed and lacks groove. Anyway, going to definitely hunt down future performances of hers. It was very contagious, which, I have to agree with the announcer when he wondered how people could have sat in their seats through that whole song. This was a weird audience. The bulk of them hovered in the back where the bar was. They never got around to dancing until freakishly tall Miss Oregon (6'3" plus wearing 3-inch heels plus another 2-3 inches of crown) started dancing on the performance of Roger Fisher http://www.rogerfisher.com/, who also happened to be one of the presenters earlier. Man, talk about a cliche. He was so lecherous with his female co-presenter it was making ME uncomfortable FOR her. Did not know the meaning of personal space. He actually said in one of his vocal "riffs" when he was performing, "Baby, my heart is in you, my soul is in you...mmmmmm...When we make love." Well, among other less poetic things being "in you." *groan*  I lost count of how many times I said to Dave, "I soooo want to slap him." It quickly plummeted into bad '80s rock after that. One of the performers didn't make it, so they improvised with their "all stars," which consisted of 1 drummer, 1 bass player, and a fuckload of electric guitarists (Roger Fisher and Tommy Tutone being among them). The one rule of power rock music is there is no such thing as too many guitarists. Lord. We left in the middle of it. It was also at that point people were finally drunk enough and the music was loud enough that they felt uninhibited enough to dance. It was like watching a bad 80s Night of the Heavily Madeup, Forever-21 clad Living Dead movie. Brrrrrr...

I'm totally going again next year.

Testing, testing...

*tap, tap, tap* Is this thing on?

So after a very long hiatus (and several rough draft journal entries that have been digitally scratched in byte sized files, to be added here when I’m ready to publish my book), I have decided to begin the New Year with making a commitment to becoming a little more disciplined in my writing. (Yeah, yeah, and that wasn’t even an OFFICIAL NY resolution!) Well, I’m also inspired by my fairly recently acquired Mac Pro. This is my virginal voyage into non-PC waters and I have to say: I LOVE IT! Where have you been all my life? Well, other than financially out of my reach. Seriously. Once you go Mac, you never go back. I look at my PC laptop in distain, begrudgingly pulling it out on the few occasions I need to use an old PC program. I love Mac so much, I want to have its babies. No, really. I know I said I would never have another child, but considering the cost of Mac offspring, if a little Mac intercourse results in baby Apples, I’m all for it. Unfortunately, computers don’t grow that way…yet. Note: This will not stop me from trying.

So welcome me back, my readership of one (me), and I look forward to writing to you tomorrow…or at least the day after that. ABSOLUTELY the day after that. (The elimination of procrastination was on my NY resolution list, so maybe this unexpected new goal will be manageable.)

Equines, Pats and Whippets

I think Portland poop scoop laws should extend to horses.

In my quest to navigate my new neighborhood, I struck out on yet a new route in my commute to the house for the "van exchange." This time I decided to be adventurous and follow out the road that runs parallel to my apartment. As it turns out, this is the perfect route. There is only one little hairy intersection/jog that is a bit life-threatening, especially if you have a big semi-truck turning left and half of its trailer is encroaching on the right-side bike lane (true story. I STILL have all my limbs). Anyway, after you get past having to become a cyped (a hybrid between a cyclist and a pedestrian. I think I startled the pedestrian as I swerved into the crosswalk to avoid getting flattened by the semi's tires) in that little bit, it's fairly low traffic until you get to the Springwater Corridor, which has always been my favorite bike trail in the Portland area.

As I'm cycling along Springwater, I start having to dodge foot-high piles of crap left on the multi-purpose path by the horses that have passed by previously, MANY of them. For a good segment of the path, it was smelling like a cow pasture...er...horse pasture. Cow/horse. Poop smells pretty much the same, only horses' waste may smell a little grassier. It started me to thinking about what that would look like if people had to scoop up after their horses, big packs on either side of the saddle with hot steaming horse excrement. That would probably curtail horse rides on city trails pretty fast.

I also observed that the closer I get to Portland the more "Pat" moments I have, those moments where you encounter someone and it takes you a really long time to figure out if they're male or female, EVEN when they are wearing a tank top AND I was wearing my contacts! There was one where there was a good 2 minutes or so where I was going back and forth, "male...no female...no male...no DEFINITELY female...wait...no male...no..." I'm STILL not sure, really.

Another amusing sight was there must have been some kind of organized bike ride going on or something because just a few miles into the path I passed under a great big banner with the words "Rest Stop" emblazoned on it. There was a big tent and tables of refreshments and brightly hued whippets EVERYWHERE in various stages of repose. Have you ever seen a whippet (I have blatantly stolen this term from a friend who used this term to describe the rabid Portland cyclist) at rest? It is truly a rare moment, and a little startling, all that spandex and neon, motionless and not streaking by in a rude blur.

Anyway, I think this is going to be my go-to route for commuting to Northeast. It's the least unnerving and quite enjoyable (also probably has the higher likelihood of a longer life expectancy--mine) and I think I actually made it in better time than I have in my previously more direct routes. Listen to me..."made it in better time." Pardon me, my whippet is showing.

The X-Files: Day 1

Wow, long time no blog. This is a bit of a departure from my typical blog topics (parenting, wifery, sardonic observations...okay, maybe not the sardonic observations), but I thought it might help me get back on that blog horse again and help ease the pain of what I anticipate to be a bit of an ego deflating experience.

I titled this X-Files because that's what I keep misnaming my upcoming adventure into pop culture (and because I suspect this experiment is going to have applicants with more than a passing resemblance to some of the creatures on that show).

You may or may not be familiar with a show that up to this point has been only in the UK called the X-Factor. It is the carefully nurtured brain child of Simon Cowell. As I understand it (having only seen clips of it on Youtube), it is similar to American Idol, except that there is no limitation on age (that's where I come in) and the acts can vary (I believe). Wiki http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_X_Factor_(U.S.) has a good description of the process. You will note that they are already setting attendance records at their auditions, with New Jersey seeing 20,000 hopefuls. Yeah. I pretty much anticipate I have about a snowball's chance in hell. This is a process that is 99% sheer luck and 1% talent.

When I heard about this coming to the US last year, I decided, "What the heck? Nothing ventured, nothing gained," except I will be venturing my time and gas money to drag myself up to Seattle where the audition is to be held. Tomorrow, Tuesday, is registration day, and I am told to show up as early as 6 a.m. with two pieces of ID (one photo, I guess to prove I'm not under the age of 12, which is the only age limitation), signed wavers, banners (yeah, so I can be one of those idiots that you see in the background as the camera does a crowd sweep of the masses), along with various other items they have helpfully suggested to bring (hats and sunglasses being among them. Obviously, an LA person wrote up this list. Rain slickers and umbrellas were naively absent from the list). Today, I'm driving up to stay with a friend in Seattle, so I can show up bleary-eyed tomorrow morning at sunrise and huddle in a sea of faceless humans for an untold period of time so I can begin my walk/wait of shame. I plan to blog as time permits (and I suspect there is going to be A LOT of that) because, if nothing else, I just might (Oh, please. Who am I kidding? I will MOST CERTAINLY) glean some all too precious blog fodder from this experience.

A Picture A Day Project: Day 1

I was inspired by another mommy blog (and no, I am not going to link it here. What? And redirect my ONE reader to some other blog? I think not) to start this project. Although she's not a professional photographer, her photos are awesome. (Okay, I may need to link it at some point here in my blog.) This project that she came up with for herself is ideal for me, given my perfectionist tendencies. I usually wait until I'm "inspired," which ends up resulting in Vaughn having big gaps in his photo album. "Vaughn, here you are at 2 years old, and then, here you are at 4. Yeah, the 3-year mark just didn't do anything for me." As she put it herself, the project forces her to think outside the box and challenges here creativity. We'll see how long I can maintain it.