Sandwiches and Spooks

        In keeping with my new found affinity for The Sopranos, today I ordered "The Godfather" at my favorite sandwich place, Tubs Gourmet Subs.  It's definitely worth the trip up Lake City Way (which is hard to believe, I know.)  I felt pretty bad ass eating this amazing Italian delicacy- obvi.

Diiiiiid I mention that we are moving into a building called "The Florentine?" Ayyyyy!

        I didn't feel so bad ass last Saturday night when we stayed at our friends, Carly and Joe's, house in North Portland.  One word.  Haunted.

I wish this was the only spirit I had encountered last weekend

        Now, don't get me wrong, I've lived in a haunted apartment building before... 

The Grosvenor Arms in Denver, CO

        There were funny little things about living at the Grosvenor Arms.  The elevator would take you to the wrong floor.  I would hear funny noises- who cares?  There were rumors of ghost sightings as well, and I actually hoped to see something, but never did.

        Carly and Joe's ghost has a name.  Ruby.  Ruby is nice- playful, even.  Shortly after we got to their house, they were telling us stories about finding shades twisted open when they were certain to have been shut,  windows and screens flung open that they didn't even know could open, footsteps running upstairs when all the pets and everyone else were downstairs.  All that stuff can either be dismissed as bad memory or creaks in an old house, perhaps. 

        I was standing facing away from a heating vent when I felt a tap on my lower back.  I thought something flew out of the heating vent.  I thought their cat attacked me.  I thought something fell out of my hood (sometimes I find food in the hoods of my shirts- duh.)  I turned and there was nothing.  Was Ruby playing tag with me or am I just a freak?  Don't answer that.  Still, this is a quirky little story that is easy to dismiss, right?  Fuggeddabout it.

        Then Sunday, when we were sloth-like on our respective couches and love seats all four of us witnessed something weird.  I was about to doze off for a nap, when I heard my empty Gatorade bottle making a ruckus.

I was laying on the couch that is empty in this pic

        I opened my eyes to give Eric a bad time because I assumed he had clumsily knocked the bottle off the table (poor Eric.)  What I saw was that his feet were planted firmly on the floor- nowhere near the coffee table.  Carly and Joe were just as inculpable.  I am not kidding, you guys,  not a single [living] soul, human, animal, or otherwise was any where near the freaking empty bottle of Gatorade.

        The bottle went straight up in the air about two inches, and landed with a whack (which is when I thought it was knocked over) and spun around, still upright, on the table before it stopped moving.  We all saw this.

        Weird, inexplicable things happen sometimes.  My advice is, hope for a friendly ghost, and always bring an emergency sandwich.

"Hey, fuggeddabout it!"

        Well this is awkward.  I haven't posted anything for over two weeks.  First, let me get you up to speed.

I'm not sure which is the more awkward feature in this picture: my neck or the Honey Buckets.

        I definitely almost died [again] on my way to work on Monday.  This was after we had to deplane just seconds prior to take off, and they actually told us this, "Well, there's a light on in the cockpit, and we have tried to reboot the system three times, but it's still on.  So, unfortunately we're going to have to ask everyone to deplane."  What the-.  Okay, don't tell me that!  Just make some shit up.  At least say the light just came on, not that you've been ignoring it for the last 15 minutes before we, you know, FLY.  Ding dongs.

        Also there was turbulence- which I hate.  I panicked, of course, and started sweating, so I had to turn the little air vent on full blast.  The lady next to me was giving me the evil eye, and I wanted to say, "It's this, or I puke all over your business casual. PS - nylons are so 1996 right now."  Same thing on the way home with the turbulence.  Son of a brick!  The worst part is they didn't have beverage service because of it, so I thought I was going to die totally sober.  

I should probably just wear a helmet at all times

        Now for the real reason I haven't been blogging: Tony Soprano.  Eric and my new obsession is "The Sopranos," and naturally I have started talking like I am in the organized crime business rather than the health care business.  Luckily, I haven't started carrying a gun.  I am far too spazzy to have any kind of concealed weapon.  I would accidentally clip people all the time just because I am a freak.  I have, however, developed a North Jersey accent, started cursing in Italian, eating exorbitant amounts of pasta, and drinking out of wine glasses with gold frosted rims.

         I am not lying when I tell you, I actually said, "Fuggeddabout it," to a patient today.  So yeah, this blogger has been MIA, but let me assure you, I have been narrowly escaping death and saying inappropriate things a minimum of 7 times per day.   Business as usual.

How you doin'?

        

Stripper Lodge

           Eric woke up this morning, and told me about a dream he had.  It was pretty strange, and fairly entertaining, so I thought I would share the account from his perspective...

        We went on vacation to Vancouver [B.C.], and you were going to work out, so I left the hotel and drove to the beach.  I was sitting on the beach with Kittles, when all of the sudden, I couldn't find her.  I panicked and started running back to the hotel in nothing but my swim trunks.

        Well, the only weird part so far is that he brought Lola to the beach without a leash.

        I got to the hotel and I realized that I had just left the car, and my backpack with my wallet and everything in it on the beach.  I tried to ask the concierge for help but he just told me, "Sir, you really need to put a shirt and shoes on here."  

        A reasonable request...

        I pleaded with him, "You gotta help me out.  I left all my stuff on the beach, and I can't find my cat.  I just need to get into my room so I can call my wife."  "I will need to see some I.D. before I can let you into one of our rooms," the concierge insisted.  A crowd began to gather, when, suddenly, some white trash strippers happened into the lobby.

        I know what you're thinking- don't worry, this doesn't get gross-  unless you are offended by accidental wildlife homicide.

        "Ya'll should come up to our lodge," the head stripper announced, "It's not a tawdry strip club.  It's more like a lodge.  Our Stripper Lodge is family friendly."  

        Eric was still trying to convince the concierge to let him into our room...

        "You can't get into your room," the concierge announced, "I'm closing the hotel- we're all going to Stripper Lodge!"  The lobby crowd cheered, and began to pile onto a bus headed for said destination.  I told them, "I need to find my cat and my wife.  I can't go to the lodge-"

        Okay, I am quite certain he added this in for my benefit only.  Like he would really need convincing to get on a bus headed for Stripper Lodge? Come on. 

        I ended up on the bus-

        Told you.

        -and I realized that Kitty was sitting next to me.  She was there the whole time!  Then one of the strippers noticed I was only wearing my swim trunks, so she gave me a pink t- shirt that said "Stripper Lodge" across the chest.  It was really tight.

        Obvi.

        On the way to the lodge we hit two deer- the stripper driving the bus was CRAZY."  

        She would have to be.

        We arrived at our destination, and Kitty and I were hanging out when I found someone to drive us back to the beach.  All my stuff was still right where I left it!

        That's the beauty of Canada- no one steals your shit or breaks into your car.  (*Ahem* LAKEWOOD!)

Rude.

        That's when my phone started ringing, and it was you, "Where have you been?! What the French toast* is going on?! Where is Lola? I've left you like eight messages!"  "I'm sorry," I tried to explain, "I left all my stuff on the beach, and I didn't have my phone.  I'll be back to the hotel in fifteen minutes- why were you working out for so long?"


*edited for my PG-13 reader(s)

        I think this dream is amazing for so many reasons.  First of all, if there were to be a, family friendly Stripper Lodge, would it not be in Canada?  It would, and you all know it.   I really like that this dream has a complete story line including a plot, conflict, and resolution.  Mainly, though,  I love that Eric was primarily wearing nothing but swim trunks, running, panic stricken through the streets of Vancouver while looking for a facially challenged Persian cat.

I was just waiting for you on the bus- duh!

        There's just one thing that worries me.  Does this mean all I do is work out and yell?  No wonder Eric ran off with Kittles and hopped the first bus he could find to Stripper Lodge.

Failed again

        My cat is snoring.  I didn't know cats could snore.  It's incredibly cute- if you like that sort of thing.

Which I do- obvi

         I did a bunch of errands today, and in turn, ran into those people who try to strike up conversations with you about whatever their cause du jour is.  I feel like they've really gotten good at making the passerby who doesn't stop look like a total jerk.  They used to say things like, "Hi, do you have a moment?" Easy to dodge that one- "Why no, kind sir, I do not have a moment."  Now they have subtly changed their tactics; they're making it personal.  For instance, this afternoon, one of those dudes said the following to me:

        "Do you have a minute to stop corporations from buying elections?"

        Well sheesh.  That's kind of a loaded question.  The truth is, in that moment, I just wanted to get my disgusting self, along with my groceries home. I wanted to ask him if he has a minute to look for a real job because I doubt soliciting signatures for some hippie dippy organization has a 401k plan, and he is definitely old enough to need one of those to pan out for him in the near future.  That would take to much breath and time, so of course, I just said, "No thanks."  

        Aren't I just a perfect jack wagon?  "No I do not have time to stop corporations from buying elections,"  kiiiiind of makes me sound like a horrible person.  There are worse inquiries, though.  Sometimes the question is more like, "Hi do you have a minute to help kids in Africa get clean drinking water?"  Mmmmm, I would, but I really gotta get to Pilates.  Which I do not say, but give the cursory, "No thank you."  Might as well just say, "No I don't- see ya in hell!"  Except, that person who is trying to give kids clean drinking water probably isn't going to be there, so that wouldn't really make sense. *sigh*

        Once I rescued a cat (who by the way, has turned out to be a little "special needs.")  Sometimes I do other stuff that helps people, too.

        We all have our causes, and the beauty is, they are shaped by our individual life experiences.  While I do care about a corporations not controlling elections, and clean drinking water for all, I can't fix everything.  Nobody can.  I just help in the ways that I can, as much as I can during each stage of my life.  Someday, I might need a little help myself, and a bit of good karma never hurt anyone.


       

       

Happy Valentine's Day, Fools.

         I wish I could say I have never been in one of these... but that would be a lie.  Did I ride around like a fool in  a stretch Hummer last Saturday night?  Absolutely, I did.  To my credit, it was not my idea.  We were in Portland for one of Eric's friend's 40th birthday party.   Good news: the night started out at a Lebanese restaurant called Al-Amir.  Ever had a Lebanese margarita?  I never even knew they existed until Saturday night, and now I have had 2.5 in my life time.  (Why so few, right?  I had a bit of an incident on Thursday night with Sangria sneaking up and biting me in the ass on Friday morning...)

        The other good - nay, excellent- piece of news about this whole gathering was the restaurant had a BELLY DANCER, which I know about.

Don't be confused by our similar body types- I'm the one on the right

        After dinner it was back to the Hummer, with our driver, Wayde.  I wasn't nearly drunk enough to ignore the nagging thought, "I bet there are a lot of dried liquids of unknown origin crusted on to these pleather seats."  And I didn't bring any Purell (rookie mistake.)  Ratsicles.

        The final destination (for most of the group) was a horrible place called Dixie's.  It wasn't so much the $10 cover that I hated.  It wasn't even the electric blue glowing bar ware the drinks were served in that made it suck.  It was more along the lines of the average age of the crowd being 23 years old that made me wish I was never born.  Well, that, combined with the fact that those kids looked about 17 years old, only confirmed the recurring greatest "going out" fear I have.  Last time I went to the Red Door here in Seattle, my friend Carly looked at our group, and then scanned the rest of the room.  "We're like the frickin' Golden Girls in here, Nik." 

       

Would the Golden Girls do this?

      There, I said it.  I'm afraid of being perceived as Betty White when I go to the bar.

This is what the kids at Dixie's saw when we stepped out of the limo

        Now, I like watching girls with daddy issues dance on the bar as much as the next guy, but when it started sounding like something I should try, I knew I had to get out of there.

        As many of you probably already guessed, I made Eric take me to get food.  And siiiiince we were hanging with old people who haven't been out in Portland at 1 am for approximately fifteen years, no one had any idea where to get food at that hour.  This was perfect because I already knew what I wanted.  Spicy mac and cheese from my favorite- Le Bistro Montage - obvi.

         If there is one thing to be learned from a birthday night on the town which included, but was not limited to being carted around in a stretch Hummer with a bunch of old frat guys to bars in which the clientele looked suspiciously like the cast of Jersey Shore, it is this:

        I win.*

Suck it, Jersey Shore.

        *I win for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is avoiding going out to bars for "fun" to try and meet a man- that would be way too exhausting.  Smarter not harder, people.

     

     
     

A Banana Omen

        I got out of my friend's car for our after work run around Lake Union, and nearly killed myself by slipping on a banana peel.  Seriously?  I thought that only happened in cartoons.

O'Doyle, I gotta feeling your whole family's going down

        It looked like a full moon tonight, so I started thinking this was a really bad banana omen.  (The true full moon is tomorrow night- I checked the lunar calendar- consider yourselves warned.)  I will admit, it was a strange run, nonetheless.  Normally, I am the one wheezing along, ready to shank anyone lurking in the foliage (I take no exception to killer rats.) Yet, my running buddy trots along oblivious, and light as a feather.  Tonight, I felt pretty good, and did not notice the two "hicks" who looked at us "weird."  It was probably the one run in an eon that said running buddy was
     
        a) not completely and utterly kicking my ass all the way around the lake, and
        b) noticing more killers than Yours Truly.

        Come on, we all know I am an expert at spotting a secret killer.

        We had planned to walk the second half of the lake, but since Katie's radar went up when she saw those fools, and I left my best shank at home, we had to haul balls for another two miles just to be safe.  I would be lying if I told you we weren't looking over our shoulders a little bit after that...literally.  No joke- we looked ridiculous.  Then Katie started telling me some legit scary stories about solo runs at night.  I would never run by myself at night because I have always been a huge freak.  Now, I also turn other people into equally huge freaks by propagating my Sherlock Holmes - like paranoia.

genius

        I had a friend point something out to me over the weekend,  "If you look around a room, and have to wonder who the freak is... you're the freak."  It's weird, I kept looking over my shoulder on this run, wondering where those killer freaks were, but I couldn't see any one behind me.

       

Who is this freak?

  

Don't pressure us, Anxiety.

         I have to tell you something.  I know there hasn't been a post for two weeks, and this is kind of over due.  I was no fun last Monday, so I didn't really think posting would be a good idea.  I thought it would be better to wait for inspiration.  So, yeah... I flew to work again today.  I'm pretty sure I almost died.

This was my most "dead" picture

        First of all, I had to get up at 0530 this morning, so I was almost technically dead when I walked out to my town car.  (That's right- town car, jokers.)  Second of all, when you fly in a tiny plane, there is almost always turbulence, and that makes me feel like I am about to be dead.  (See above picture.)  

        So, yeah... remember that time I thought I was cool because I flew to work?  I'm over it.  I have it on good authority that there is a legit prescription for flying that keeps one from becoming a born again Christian every time the plane hits a weird air pocket.  I even have a friend who has the perfect calculation for her "happy pill : glass of wine" ratio.  Still, we all know it's not cool to pop a Xanax before work, and when we hit turbulence this morning,  I was stone cold sober.  My stomach did that roller coaster drop thing, and I knew it was the end.  At that moment, my iPod blasted an Angels and Airwaves song, "Don't pressure us, Anxiety-  I'm a passenger.  So dangerous, Anxiety- just a passenger."  I felt like I was about to be a made for TV movie on Lifetime with a way skinnier person playing me.

Belly up

        I don't think I saw my life flash before my eyes, but I had two strong thoughts racing through the old noodle.  Dear God, I'm sorry for everything!  and I didn't kiss Eric before I left this morning.  (Truth  be told, I spent the 0400 -0500 hour kicking and punching poor Eric in his sleep because he was snoring me awake! Oops.) With the wind tossing our toy plane around like a rag doll, it took all of my will power not to give the grandpa next to me a death clutch around the ulna and radius region. (Don't be gross! They're arm bones, you pervs.) 

Right?

        I wasn't worried about God so much, as I was that I hadn't kissed Eric.  You can call me sacrilegious.  Call me a heathen.  But guess what, if God is out there, I am certain he or she would hear me.  And if he or she is a God worth believing in, then I know I would have found love and forgiveness should this have been my last morning on Earth.  Call me lame.  Call me a drama queen, but I would never be able to kiss Eric again if that freakin' plane crashed.  Can't live with that one.

       Hey fools, don't forget to kiss your favorite person(s) before you go to sleep tonight and before you leave the house tomorrow morning.   Obvi.

My two faves