so it goes

In the weeks since I last posted:

Leslie taught me to sew, and I sewed not one, not two, but SEVEN pillowcases. It was Neat. (Yes, I do own seven pillows. And Yes, I use them all. At once.)

I have fully established my status as capable odd-job handler. There was a week or two there where I went to the hardware store EVERY SINGLE DAY. I bought a wireless drill and proceeded to use the SHIT out of it. Hooks were installed, curtain rods were put up, furniture was assembled. I wired a vintage phone, armed with nothing but a pair of scissors, a tiny screwdriver, and my catlike instincts. I stenciled an entire paragraph from Confederacy of Dunces onto the wall of my bedroom using a laser level, a LOT of blue tape, and two cans of white spray paint. I ran speakerwire all along the molding of the purple room (yes, we have a purple room), and then I taped that shit down with colored tape to make it essentially invisible. I cannot even begin to estimate the number of nails I have hammered or frames I have hung. I painted countless walls (most of them with my roommates) and one goddamn ceiling (alone). Speaking of which, because we have such ridiculously high ceilings, many of these home improvement activities entailed my spending hours, and I really mean HOURS, atop The Big Ladder. (Can I just point out here how pleasing I find it that I have somehow gotten to a point in my life where I own multiple ladders and must therefore refer to one as “The Big One”? Because I really do.) I now have complete faith in my balancing/perching abilities and feel capable of almost anything home-related. Bring it ON.

We had an honest-to-goodness housewarming party, with real live guests, lots of pizza, good music, much hobnobbing, several inappropriate come-ons, a modicum of zaniness, and even… wait for it… A Keg Stand. Courtesy of BT. It went very well, all in all, the only real downside being my realization that I am basically an old woman. Starting around one, one thirty, I kept thinking, Man, this sure is nice, but I kinda wish everyone would go home so I could clean up a little and go to bed. WHO AM I? WHOSE THOUGHTS ARE THESE?

Marina came for a visit. Her flight from London to San Francisco was dramatically delayed — they began to lose fuel and had to turn around for an emergency landing in Ireland — crash positions were assumed, etc. etc., and she ended up sharing a hotel room for the night with a SF-based American heavy metal band. Because she is made of sugar and spice and ludicrous mishaps. She made it, safely, to SF, and then a week later here, to Portland, where we met her with an armful of yellow roses and proceeded to do many, many things. Snow was driven through, concerts were attended, carpenters were picked up, wineries were visited, and the Pacific Ocean was not only seen but walked along, despite the fact that it was FUCKING freezing. We were almost killed (read: shat on) by a flock of fifty seagulls (each the size of a smallish terrier) in an incident now known as “SEAGULL ATTACK 2008: It’s The Bread, The Bread, In The Name Of God, Put The Fucking Bread Back In The Car.” It was good to see her.

I kept forgetting to wear socks. I don’t know what this is about, but it needs to stop. It makes my feet feel less-than-fresh.

The Stumptown Comics Fest came and went. The book we frantically put together at the last minute sold almost not at all, but we didn’t even have a proper table this time around, so this was to be expected. In happier news, while making the rounds as a part of the crowd, I fell in love. Granted, it is a theoretical love, directed at someone who knows me as faceless/nameless fan #289, but it is love nonetheless. Or, perhaps more accurately, attraction. Which is, you know, still a step in the right direction, I think, considering that the last human towards whom I felt even this glimmer is a man I have not seen since, oh, 2005. (Brilliant comedians I know only through the medium of DVD are not included in this list.) Besides, when all is said and done, my most meaningful, formative relationships to date have all been completely unilateral (read: imaginary). The actual relationships, the ones that the partner in question actually knew about and participated in — they just sort of happened, and inevitably ended up being more irritating than anything else. These menfolk, they tend to insist on being who they are rather than who you imagine them to be — which is, you know. Inconsiderate. Anyway, this one, this latest one, I’m not even sure what city he lives in, let alone what he’s actually like, so we’re off to a swimmingly good start. I’ve decided we’re going to get married and have strange but humorous children together. I’ll keep everyone posted on how this goes.

I got bit by a dog. For real.

I got a haircut, largely out of solidarity, while accompanying a friend going through a bad breakup. The very tiny woman who cut it was a bit of a chatterbox, so I got to flex my small-talk muscles for the first time in a while. The conclusion? They need some work. My awkward-pause tendons, on the other hand, are ready for olympic-level competition.

It is late now, so that is all. More soon.