Watering The Elephants

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36031722748809623362012-01-19T16:44:33.676-08:00Watering The ElephantsA random smathering of incidental wisdom, potty language and daily reveries. Welcome to my mental garden.Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.comBlogger751100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-70448576198810959062012-01-19T11:07:00.000-08:002012-01-19T11:07:47.558-08:00Good intentions.

As I sit here contemplating another blog post, I'm wondering, "Who do I do this for?" I have like 4 readers, and although I enjoy it, I find more and more over the last few months that I feel the need to censor myself, protect feelings/information, and I'm just not sure if that's the sort of blog I want to write. Anyway. It's been a tough couple of days. Conflicts and misunderstandings with

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-13907234523812982662012-01-05T20:39:00.000-08:002012-01-05T20:45:58.512-08:00Tilt/shift.

Yup: month after month, paying bills still sucks. The way I feel about this is similar to how I feel about *GIRLY TALK ALERT JUST IN CASE YOU ARE MALE AND YOUR EYES START BLEEDING AT THE SIGHT OF THINGS PARTICULARLY FEMININE* getting my period: Every month I go into the next month, hoping it'll be better. Less cramping, less hating sitting, standing, being awake or interacting with other people

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-29449782586164313552011-11-30T13:42:00.000-08:002011-11-30T13:42:41.423-08:00Fail, Part 1.

So for about three weeks now I've been chomping away at the days since I decided I would go meatless. At first I felt liberated and happy, and not at all like I was living a life as insubstantial as the taste of the proverbial days I've been eating. But then right before Thanksgiving I started to feel the dull gnaw of the meatless rage inside me. I resisted. I ate seafood instead. (Seafood,

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-18192267214683430442011-11-07T15:08:00.000-08:002011-11-07T15:08:18.141-08:00Approach of the three-oh.

Today is Josh's birthday. (Happy birthday, super babe!) In a little over three months, it will be my birthday. I'll be 29, and from every day onward, I will be using up hour after hour of my last year as a twenty-something. I don't know how much I do or don't care about living one, and only one, more year in my twenties yet. I do know, however, that the rest of the Western world seems to

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-52397725910001531142011-10-23T14:35:00.000-07:002011-10-23T14:35:26.523-07:00Getting to know you.

I know Josh pretty well at this point. Not in the way you know someone you've known for a lifetime, or even a decade -- the way I know my best friend's different kinds of laughter, or how my mother's eyes look when she's really tired. But I know him. I know how he looks at himself in the mirror before we go out, and his propensity for cleaning before he can sit down and get some studying done.

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-26359158692407129272011-10-20T15:24:00.000-07:002011-10-20T15:24:04.340-07:00Lifespam.

Sometimes, there just isn't any way to be funny when life is crappy. My life isn't that crappy, but there is definitely some crappy stuff -- and also funny stuff -- but I haven't wanted to write about it because I feel like maybe I'll marginalize myself, or get myself dooced, or, I dunno, be one of those bloggers who overshares, which is awkward. I don't write about happiness, even, because

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-2210087951516713212011-09-07T17:02:00.000-07:002011-09-07T17:02:16.972-07:00Things that have changed since I entered the Rat Race.

I was feeling a little nostalgic driving to work this morning, and, having realized that it'd been a few weeks since I'd seen or spoken to my mother, I decided to give her a ring. When she didn't answer, I realized I was missing the closeness of my family, and dialed the next logical person: my older sister Nickie. As far as sisters go, Nickie is pretty awesome. She lives in Arizona with her

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-75599679274600053402011-09-01T01:01:00.000-07:002011-09-01T01:01:15.804-07:00This writer.

On an average day, I think about writing anywhere from maybe 4 to 84 gazillion times a day. Mostly, I'm thinking about awesome blog post ideas, none of which I ever write, of course. And that's because the other 2.4% of the time I'm thinking about writing, I'm doing so in the context of the fact that part of my job description entails me sitting down to write official medical documents about

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-26690342207269799452011-07-25T21:54:00.000-07:002011-07-25T21:55:07.810-07:00Keeping score.

Two really crazy things happened to me tonight. And then there was one unquestionably cool thing that happened, which is what I'll start with: The stars were so bright driving home tonight that I could see them through my high-beams. For shiz. Granted, I was driving into my no-ambient-light-exists-here-because-it's-the-forest small town, so there was no real risk of the brilliance of the

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-80363617190647279332011-07-12T16:13:00.000-07:002011-07-12T16:13:09.706-07:00Fear and Rejection in Southern California.

So I've been going through a suckling phase. Emotionally speaking, that is. I have been a whining, suckling runt the last few days, feebly searching for a warm nipple of comfort, and freaking out about mostly insignificant things, scurrying for a little sweet milk from the teet of Validation and Reassurance. Nothing makes me more annoyed at myself. Side note: an old boyfriend and I used to

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-51257158176705668652011-06-09T22:59:00.000-07:002011-06-09T22:59:04.737-07:00The "All-I'll-Ever-Need" Feeling.

When I've occasionally sat back over the last few months, taking stock of and checking in on my progress towards my New Year's Intentions, I mostly focused on my three goals for the upcoming year: 1. Face more fears.2. Be less controlling.3. Watch less TV/spend less time on the internet. I did the thing that people do when they forget they set goals for themselves to begin with. There's that

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-73228006464211938772011-04-30T01:53:00.000-07:002011-04-30T01:57:00.086-07:00For the first time.

Since I can't seem to write anything blog-appropriate (but still feel like I'm neglecting this poor thing), I'll give you music. I bring you The Script. I love this song -- and this music video -- so much. It was a hard toss between this video and one actually shot in Dublin, Ireland, by the same band, of course. Unless you've been living under a rock, you have obviously heard this Celtic/

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-16992333502709779502011-04-05T23:01:00.000-07:002011-04-05T23:01:59.481-07:00Eight legs of horror.

I haven't even lived a full day in the forest yet. I spent my first night alone here, though, truly alone, last night. (As in, no pets, no other humans, just me. I can't even remember the last time I had the luxury of only my own company like that.) The day started off awesomely, after getting my first full night's sleep in what feels like years (I call a "full night" 8 hours or more,

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-706899000674856612011-03-30T22:58:00.000-07:002011-03-30T22:58:41.194-07:00The Civil Wars.

I love when I get introduced to music that makes me just wanna lie on my couch all day with my eyes closed, just listening. This is the first song I've heard of this band's, but I can already tell we're gonna be good friends. Please enjoy this video as much as I did:

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-57085388497452949032011-03-28T21:33:00.000-07:002011-03-29T01:55:59.782-07:00"Motherhood: An Update" or "Proof I'm Not Ready to Rear Children"

I'll admit: getting a dog was kind of a panic move. Not mid-life crisis, buying-a-sports-car panic, necessarily. And it's not that I wasn't totally down for the challenge. And, as I mentioned here, I've been looking forward to being able to officially call myself a Dog Person for a long time. But I could have planned better, or maybe chosen a more appropriate time. As in, not a time when me

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-18225090404434134292011-03-19T14:20:00.000-07:002011-03-19T14:20:43.618-07:00Motherhood.

Finally, after years of pining after every dog I ever see (the way some women pine for babies), and feelings of jealousy toward dog-owners jogging unassumingly with their pups, or hikers hiking with theirs, I am a mommy to the sweetest, smartest, most precious little blob of a puppy. This is Bodhi: Bodhi is a word in the context of Buddhism which conveys knowingness, or enlightenment. Or

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-46262015276873276522011-03-16T07:34:00.000-07:002011-03-16T07:34:28.536-07:00Swoon-worthy.

I saw Schuyler Fisk at the Hotel Cafe over the weekend, where she played this song with a band called Harper Blynn. If I'm moved by the God of Music and Good Vibes, maybe I'll write a full post about this later, but for now, here's this sweet and simple music video of a song I just can't get out of my head. What Good is Love - Schuyler Fisk from Nate Sprecher on Vimeo.

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-19955956621654146552011-03-09T22:18:00.000-08:002011-03-09T22:18:38.154-08:00Ashes to ashes.

My good friend, Erica, asked me if I'd ever thought about medicating myself for my anxiety. "No," I answered. "Wait, yes. Yes. But my therapist has never suggested meds, so...." "Oh," she responded. "Must be a Kaiser thing. They want to medicate everyone." I started to wonder how my life would be different if I didn't panic over which loofa to get in Target, or how buying a nail polish

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-30826381777192815632011-03-04T00:51:00.000-08:002011-03-04T00:51:04.714-08:00Good vibrations.

I was in the middle of yin yoga, experiencing all kinds of self doubt, insecurities, fear... You know, all the cozy feelings that come up when you're in a room full of strangers, being still with your thoughts, breathing and contorting your body into potentially unattractive positions in the name of a peaceful mind and healthy insides. I felt the pangs of old mental habits reaching their prickly

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-51826676182133019432011-02-07T20:33:00.000-08:002011-02-07T20:33:36.200-08:00How a harmless fruit turned me into an alcoholic.

When I was a kid, my best friend, Nancy, introduced me to the most perfect thing a child who had never seen a dentist could imagine: eating whole lemons dipped in sugar. Here's what we did: cut fresh lemons from Nancy's parents' property in half (horizontally), dipped them in sugar, took big bites and repeated the process until the enamel fell off our teeth, the boogey man got us and the

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-9803716111992721692011-02-03T12:56:00.000-08:002011-02-03T12:56:28.748-08:00If John Mayer were a philosopher/Conversations with the Universe

If you guys have ever been on one of those round-about things when you're driving, you'll understand how I'm feeling. It's like death-trap city, if you look at it in a certain light. In another, more positive light, it's like you're in a Robert Frost poem, and there are all these unbeaten paths to take, all of them potentially riveting and draped in similie. Life is just really exciting. And

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-30199880562628185992011-01-22T08:55:00.000-08:002011-01-22T08:55:01.712-08:00Just a taste.

I shot this in Santiago De Compostela, Spain, where I started my backpacking trip with Almost Husband in December. The original photo was a little overexposed, so I used my new favorite toy to correct it a bit. It's not perfect, but it sure is fun.

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-38476208973247568582011-01-20T17:26:00.000-08:002011-01-20T17:26:35.651-08:00Beloved.

Part 1 Sometimes I don't really know what to think of myself as a bride-to-be. It doesn't feel like I thought it would; not better, not worse. Just different. Like when I thought I'd go to college and instantly meet a hot football player (in a fraternity) who would fall in love with me, be a singer and balance all the worlds' crises on his ball sack or something. Nix that. I still wasn't

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-6889598014555877512011-01-11T23:53:00.000-08:002011-01-11T23:53:31.345-08:00Crisis averted.

When we first got engaged, I was all things Wedding. I got and started ravenously reading Offbeat Bride, the book, because I had found Offbeat Bride, the website, and loved the shit out of it. Ariel Meadow Stallings is hilarious and she swears enough in this book to make me feel comfortable about myself as a crass bride-to-be myself. I skimmed through her book in Barnes & Noble and saw a

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-75011258676882705022011-01-08T12:50:00.000-08:002011-01-08T12:50:11.624-08:00More or less.

I'm in a bit of a stupor the last couple of days. Being home from European Adventure is sort of weird. I almost melted into my bathroom mat the morning after we got back when I momentarily struggled with the reality that there was already shampoo AND conditioner in the shower, and that I did not have to scavenge through my pack to find it. I experienced a lot of this sort of mental fatigue/

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-46763973450384191722010-12-15T22:29:00.000-08:002010-12-15T22:29:00.708-08:00Departure Eve

For me, loading up my backpacking pack four days before I'm actually due to leave for a trip is about as characteristic as, I dunno, slamming my own head in the refrigerator door. As it turns out, making that decision was the best I could have made this week as Monday followed Sunday, followed by Tuesday, and the other pesky days that insist on coming thereafter, and now, here, I can do the damn

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-50332491757790084352010-12-13T14:01:00.000-08:002010-12-13T21:15:48.364-08:00Phantom guilt.

You know how there are some very gifted individuals who have the ability to make you feel like absolute shit, no matter what you've done that is right, or fair or honest and true to the Universal Code of Honesty Among Human Beings? I feel like I'm being followed around by a demon cloaked in faux guilt who keeps jabbing me with his septor and making me think that I don't mean it when I smile at

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-63821681838223056662010-12-12T10:30:00.000-08:002010-12-12T10:30:26.374-08:00What happens when your pilot goes on strike.

It depends on the airline, apparently. Why do I know this? Because I got a call from Almost Husband early this morning as he sat stranded in the Madrid airport waiting for Iberia pilots and crew members to show up to man the flight he was supposed to have ALREADY been on. This is obviously not the fault of the pilots and/or crew. I found an article here that states the pilots are simply

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-2415064401743677592010-12-11T12:15:00.000-08:002010-12-11T12:27:39.762-08:00In preparation.

I have been in one of those stupors where, in one moment, my brain fills with a myriad of details about: things that need to be done, people called or emailed, gifts purchased, documents located, family members soothed, friends comforted.... And in the next moment it's as if my brain has emptied itself of its contents like a single mom's bank account empties itself on grocery-shopping day, and

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-83430860141085416372010-11-16T22:17:00.000-08:002010-11-16T22:17:55.348-08:00The did not for the who not.

26 Things Girls Wish Guys Knew. That is the title of a recent application pushed by none other than Facebook, who is obviously all-knowing and Oprah-esque. You may ask why Oprah is all-knowing. Good question. Tune in some other time for an answer to why my brain works like that. So, since it's so unbelievably dumb that someone would make a list of only 26 things girls wish guys knew, I

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-68436836926251264962010-11-15T19:20:00.000-08:002010-11-15T19:20:14.479-08:00A list of pending blog posts.

I actually fantasize about what I would do if I didn't have other stuff to do. Like, in the mornings as I'm stepping over five or six pairs of shoes that I have not walked across the bedroom to put in my closet as I'm trying to get ready, I fantasize about having the time to spend in my bedroom, not only picking up shoes, but clearing from my dresser the mounds of bills, baggies of travel items

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-17626461133692925512010-11-12T15:39:00.000-08:002010-11-12T15:39:00.069-08:00On picking a theme, face-eating snot & shoots.

There is a split moment of ambivalence I experience when I know I'm just on the verge of getting sick. The hair-thin line is a tinytiny voice that says, "You deserve to be sick, Morgan. No really, you deserve to be able to sit at home on your ass, eat epic amounts of Top Ramen and watch all the episodes of My Fair Wedding as your eyeballs can handle." But usually my ambivalence is won over by

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-33234283630338500972010-11-08T21:55:00.000-08:002010-11-09T11:07:21.072-08:00In pursuit of support.

When I was 19 I enlisted the help of a lovely lady therapist. I had just ended a troubled relationship with a man 8 years my senior, and to put it lightly enough for a blog: I felt like someone had scooped out everything that was good, innocent or trusting in me and flung it into the trashcan. You know, like when you have to use your hands to clean up some nasty leftover monstrosity you found

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-24354473409060922902010-10-28T13:16:00.000-07:002010-10-28T13:17:01.953-07:00The F word.

I was trying to come up with what I would now call my fiancee, formerly here referred to as "Boyfriend." I thought I had come up with something funny, or at the very least clever. I shared my thoughts with my, uhm, person, the other night. Me: So I was trying to figure out what I'd call you in my blog now that you're not Boyfriend anymore. I thought, "Fiancee"? But, no. We're both one of

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-54271344209321059942010-10-26T17:17:00.000-07:002010-10-26T17:17:47.761-07:00Off the market.

Steps to being fianceed: 1. Be very, very surprised. Actually, be surprised until about 4 seconds before you are about to be proposed to, and then proceed with knowing in your soul what is about to happen, because you know your dude/gal so well that if he/she tells you he/she has "one more thing to give you" in honor of your sesquiversary (a marker for one and a half of something), and the

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-9106755728444080452010-10-10T09:01:00.000-07:002010-10-10T09:01:07.906-07:00Total panic.

I am having one of those panicky moments where I think everything is going to explode, possibly books will come flying off the shelf and someone will forget to lock the gate to that crazy Old People's Farm across the street. Boyfriend and I spent all day (after I got home from morning yoga) on the couch watching college football. Two years ago, I didn't even think college football was a real

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-48954070654129653472010-10-04T21:05:00.000-07:002010-10-04T21:05:01.783-07:00On paying a man to rub lotion all over your naked body.

Okay, so, I am a massage snob. I am probably a snob about other things, too. Didn't go to college? I will probably judge you. Republican/love Jesus? Already, I think you think dinosaurs didn't exist and support this latest piece of shit: I started crying when our good friend Fritz (a recovering Mormon, gay and astonishing example of a man) told Boyfriend and me about this speech last

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-48941590621901796102010-09-19T19:53:00.000-07:002010-09-19T19:53:08.906-07:00Things God might find useful.

I was trying to come up with something clever to use for my status update on the Facebook (anyone remember when it was actually called THE Facebook?), when I came up with this: If I promise to have one less child, will God give me one more day to this weekend? Isn't that how the prayer thing works? I thought about making it a really long status update, and expounding on how, in dramatic

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-70675417050382399042010-08-21T18:49:00.000-07:002010-08-21T18:49:21.383-07:00Mad Libs For Sick F*ckers: Definitely NSFW

A few weeks ago, Boyfriend and I went down to wine country to have dinner (and wine!) at a seafood restaurant we love like one loves a retarded kitten. While we were waiting around for the post-dinner movie to start (WARNING: Don't see The Last Airbender unless you empty all your pockets of sharp objects, that way you won't be tempted to gouge your eyes out six minutes into it), we went to

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-33640772423321922912010-08-20T23:01:00.000-07:002010-08-20T23:01:34.945-07:00Sounds my stomach makes: A Translation

"LLllllrluuuuurrbbblllpppsopsi" = Hey, chick. It's me, Chipotle. Remember me? Yesterday? You gorged down on me like you were practicing how to put your fist in your mouth, except, well, I was a burrito and you just kept eating. A burrito, you sicko. I was a burrito, but then there was the chips and salsa, too, and... God you're fat. What did you have for desert, a small child? Here, I'm

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-59891946101735781592010-08-19T11:05:00.000-07:002010-08-19T11:05:18.069-07:00Mi dispacie, il mio rigazzo e un po 'lento.

One of the perks of having a brilliant, actual doctor for a boyfriend is that he gets to do cool things with his brain, which has, in the past, included a jaunt to do research with people in Spain, giving talks in Argentina and making an appearance at many the conference all over the Stati Uniti. That means "The United States." I'm brushing up on my Italian, guys, because Boyfriend has been

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-73187335492127855262010-08-10T10:48:00.000-07:002010-08-10T10:49:32.726-07:00Bills, bills, bills.

First off, I present you with a video that is so lush with awkward '90s strappy/metallic/matching outfits that I can't help but just totally love Beyonce, despite the fact that she represents femininity in a way that makes me feel all weird and creepy about myself, simply because I'm a woman. My favorite part of this video is how the members of Destiny's Child all sort of look like they're

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-27480712961126315162010-08-09T15:16:00.000-07:002010-08-09T15:16:23.544-07:00An open (love) letter to my Salsa:

My Dearest S, Our love has changed over the years, hasn't it? I think of us as two stars, orbiting around one another, wobbling in one another's gravitational pull. (And for those of you [BOYFRIEND] who are going to tell me that stars don't wobble around each other, but for some other reason that has to do with the Doppler Effect and the gravitational pull of the Earth and all that shit: Save

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-70294378561893948902010-07-27T12:50:00.000-07:002010-07-27T12:50:53.743-07:00"How yoga can kick your ass" Or "Why yoga is not a good therapist"

Yoga, Class #1: I get to my new chosen yoga studio five minutes early, because I think the world will explode if I'm actually on time (I was supposed to be there fifteen minutes early to fill out paperwork) for something, or worse yet: I will have to sit and wait in a room full of greater beings than I, who have all obviously been doing yoga for at least fourteen years and I am the plump, funny

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-22222979495277986302010-07-23T00:10:00.000-07:002010-07-23T00:31:41.130-07:00It's not the World's fault you wanted to be an artist.

What I decided I didn't want a long time ago was to be one of those people who spent some amount of time doing something awesome, and who talk about it for twelve years after like it was yesterday, continuously milking the Cool Factor of their once-cool experience. Kind of like when Angelina Jolie was still hot, back when she was in Gia, way before she started adopting one child per every square

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-78377288651349596382010-07-20T12:44:00.000-07:002010-07-20T12:44:45.585-07:00iMind

Possibility: I like complaining. Complaining makes me feel alive. Much like some people resort to rock-climbing or heroin. For example, I have all this (clean) laundry piled up in my Boyfriend’s laundry basket at the foot of our bed, and every morning as I’m searching for something to wear, I start swearing and cursing uncontrollably at the laundry out of disgust that it hasn't folded itself.

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-8400485432742721082010-07-08T21:37:00.000-07:002010-07-08T21:37:54.338-07:00You're gonna want to use both hands.

Boyfriend just said to me, "Sweetheart, can I take care of your waste?" I implore you to make up a story for what the eff he was just talking about. Winner does not get shit on.

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-78352433230972635032010-06-21T15:24:00.000-07:002010-06-21T15:26:14.574-07:00A letter to my 20-year-old self.

Dear Delicious Baby Girl, You are currently in the throwes of dating The Nicest Guy On The Planet. I know. I know you think you will marry him. But remember this in about two years: you are not an awful person. He's gonna be a douche about some pretty retarded things when you break his heart, but forgive him. He'll be hurt. And so will you, and so I offer you this advice, starting now, to

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-33248544573071138482010-06-18T19:56:00.000-07:002010-06-18T19:56:30.338-07:00Father's Day.

Flashback. I'm in third, maybe fourth grade. Miss Fallon's class. Miss Fallon was so pretty. The kind of pretty where you think at any moment this pretty person is just going to start squirting out glitter and ribbon from their nostrils. I wanted to BE Miss Fallon. Miss Fallon, please take me home. Please do my nails for me and put my hair in braids and tell me unicorns are real. I wasn't

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-45922052078166996932010-06-17T19:14:00.000-07:002010-06-17T19:14:21.065-07:00Say yes to the dress.

My whole life, I've not been totally sure how good I am at being a girl. I have moments of feeling really frilly and ruffly and full of cotton balls and fairy butts, but then there are also times I refuse to wear my red-framed glasses because I think they make me look like a man. Picture: me in overalls, hairy legs and armpits, a gap between my teeth and a mullet, and this is how I feel

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-8727582114871830732010-06-12T11:54:00.000-07:002010-06-12T11:55:06.698-07:00Bangin' on my gee-tar.

Raise your hand if you knew that the word "gee," in Ireland, is actually a reference to a woman's vagina. I figured this out one night, which, if I recall correctly, was a first date with a guy (not gee, although the distinction is not obvious) I dated when I first moved to Dublin. We were both drunk at The Temple Bar in Temple Bar, and late summer Irish hormones were raging, obviously, because

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-36929277916473434862010-06-08T21:19:00.000-07:002010-06-09T12:39:04.351-07:00May cause anal leakage.

After a gnarly sunburn gardening a couple weekends ago, I noticed the top of my right ear was kinda blistering. I'm basically the color of milk after cereal's been in it, so I figured I just got sunburned on my ear, too. But then the sunburn spread. Inside my ear canal. Then it looked like my ear had a cold sore. GROSS. Boyfriend and I hypothesized: Was it a really bad sunburn? Spider

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-49564745434703980492010-06-05T02:16:00.000-07:002010-06-05T02:16:01.893-07:00My attempt at watching a porn.

HELPFUL WARNING: POSSIBLY NSFW I tried. I really, really tried you guys, but with all the nipple sucking and weird/awkward/bouncy spray-tanned bodies, I couldn't help but fast forward in the hopes that the plot would, um, thicken? After making dinner for my dear friend Andrea tonight, I cleaned up the dinner mess (crispy oven fried cod! go me!) and programmed my own fucking coffee for

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-76349096467457918792010-05-30T12:31:00.000-07:002010-05-30T12:34:20.605-07:00How much coffee does it take to kill a Venus Flytrap?

I was at Home Depot the other day gettin' some planty things to plant in our front planter, when I saw these dudes hanging out in little terrariums next the the orchids: Octopus Plant Starfish Plant Pitcher Plant These are carnivorous plants. I was tempted to get all of them and build a meat-eating plant circus, despite the fact that I know that's very similar to child labor, which is against

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-67141721943815807652010-05-29T15:33:00.000-07:002010-05-29T15:33:11.226-07:00Dear Hag:

Far be it for me to expect much more from my puddle-deep, leather-faced, YMCA-dwelling (soon-to-be) ex-landlady. But the bitch hasn't returned my phone calls regarding a much-needed security deposit she was supposed to hand to me almost a week ago. I thought she was being all protocol on me when she said she'd mail it to me, along with my signed release of rental document, but when she was

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-67442702992999109822010-05-28T22:14:00.000-07:002010-05-28T22:15:43.411-07:00Bel canto.

Ever thought about drinking in the morning? (Put your hand down, ex-douche. It doesn't count if you think about drinking every morning.) I don't think I've ever been a skunk-breathed, hair-o-the-dog kinda girl, but there was once during my last break-up where I looked at pretty bottle of red wine on top of my refrigerator (corked up by seran wrap and a hair tie, because some people couldn't

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-73850766137684409602010-05-19T11:47:00.000-07:002010-05-19T11:47:16.507-07:00Harsh Smarsh.

The setting: me pulling into my Welcome To This Parking Structure Only If You Work Here And Have The Gate Code parking lot like a happy girl with her own parking structure, only to get out of my car and see a man I don't recognize circling the lot. Man heads back toward the entry gate, which will only yield frustrating results for him. It is at this point I realize he must have snuck in behind

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-91828477308863664522010-05-13T22:56:00.000-07:002010-05-13T23:35:03.839-07:00Confessions of a pack rat.

It occurred to me that I might be turning into one of those women who sits her in house (alone) someday with nothing but newspapers, cats (obviously), and those Big Stick popsicle sticks with the jokes on them because I have saved ALL OF THEM and now no one but my cats will tolerate me and my pack-rat-edness, and that's only because I feed them, and even still: they get it elsewhere. I have no

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-58049160277284561012010-05-07T14:09:00.000-07:002010-05-07T14:10:14.737-07:00In regards to your big brass balls.

Gentlemen of the Inland "Empire": I appreciate the advertisement. Now I won't be surprised when your balls are actually the size of soy beans. Love, Morgan

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-51825565538914702212010-05-06T11:48:00.000-07:002010-05-06T11:48:18.216-07:00Leon found the bathtub.

I was checking some necessary email regarding a pretty headboard I'd like to attach to the man bed Boyfriend is bringing into our houseiness, when I looked over and saw my parakeet sitting in the bathtub I put out for him this morning, in the hopes that he would, as parakeets are supposed to do, bathe himself. Leon wouldn't hold his adorable mid-bath pose for me, but I got this awesome action

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-23551151463508059112010-05-06T00:33:00.000-07:002010-05-06T11:41:37.905-07:00You don't live here.

A totally awesome tale about slowing evolving into an old bitch. Proof this is happening number one: This is the 6th night in a row I have had hot echinacea tea before bed. My mom used to do this (and she will now think I am publicly calling her an "old bitch"). I have memories of hearing "echinacea" and "goldenseal" and "ginkg biloba" and thinking, What the fuck is that woman putting in her

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-35276873522973378402010-04-29T14:55:00.000-07:002010-04-29T18:26:43.104-07:00A funny thing happened to me on my way from the Ducks game.

I'll tell you what's awesome about being sick: FUCKING NOTHING. Even the fact that Boyfriend dotes all over me and brings me shit and tells me to "just sit there and be cozy" isn't a justifiable awesome side to being sick, because he does that anyway. (Note to Boyfriend: Please do not stop doting all over me.) But, back at work today after taking a half day yesterday, I was dragging my sick

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-1333465050934671412010-04-26T15:22:00.000-07:002010-04-26T15:22:44.926-07:00Moving in.

Can I just say: as a person, I absolutely hate Russel Crowe. As a new Robin Hood, though? BRING IT ON. But this blog isn't about that; the only thing that truly matters about Russel Crowe is that he is topless at least thrice in his new movie. Let's move on... to moving in. There comes a time in every young girl's life when she envisions playing house with a hunky man (or woman) someday.

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-59469152035925179272010-04-21T16:28:00.000-07:002010-04-21T16:28:57.627-07:00The Dahmer Bird.

Yesterday I sat chatting with some co-workers about things. We have a special talent for sitting in our communal office half-assedly doing paperwork and discussing the importance of the temperature of coffee and other such pressing matters. Yesterday we yonked on about: where to get Home Depot's rejected paint supplies, the mythical location of the ReStore, couches at Palm Springs thrift stores

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-75141236110908553232010-04-05T23:35:00.000-07:002010-04-06T09:52:54.105-07:00I'm with the skater boy.

In short, my legs feel like I spent a solid 48 hours running from the Gendarmerie. But actually, I spent the weekend backpacking in Death Valley. But Death Valley and all its toiles will have to be a blog for another time. Tonight I'd like to talk about photography. I know none of you care about the progression of my photographic interest, so I'll save it for my mom. But you heard it here

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-72971613267241455992010-03-16T21:41:00.000-07:002010-03-16T21:44:57.594-07:00For the birds.

I looked at a neat little mountain home to rent a couple weeks ago because I am tired of living above smokers and sharing a bathroom with a small nation of people. I thought it was love at first sight when the woman who owns the home greeted me with a dog named Pita. Pita, you guys. The love affair quickly ended, however, because the whole lower half of the house was being renovated AND the

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-45697377307393700792010-03-13T00:55:00.000-08:002010-03-13T01:11:58.209-08:00My life as an Alanis Morissette song.

Unfair Fact About Life Number One: There was a moment in college when I realized that when random people asked me, "How are you?" what they really meant was, "I realize we know each other, society deems it polite to inquire after your well-being, and so I will comply. However, I'm really only asking because I feel socially obligated and/or so I can talk about myself." Unfair Fact About Life

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-70464967126753783352010-03-04T23:36:00.000-08:002010-03-04T23:36:30.856-08:00The Docks

So I'm really not feeling this photo I've been printing in photography tonight, right? This whole photography-as-interpretation thing where I took a mirror outside, along with some chess pieces (thank you, Boyfriend, for lending me your landlord's chess set) and a cheap wine glass and just starting shooting the shit out of them. So I come out to show my professor, whom I have a total chick

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-42111808156221461102010-03-01T20:58:00.000-08:002010-03-01T20:58:47.281-08:00Stuck in a rut.

I really hate it when people complain. Maybe it's because my mother complained my whole life: about powdered donuts, Oprah, the size of her ass. I remember once her asking -- no, TELLING -- me to get up and turn off/on a lamp or something, and I remember asking her innocently why she couldn't just do it herself. (If my memory serves me, she was actually closer to the lamp, but it was I who was

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-58241411156495616972010-02-03T20:17:00.000-08:002010-02-03T20:24:06.523-08:00To Sue-Anne, who works at Vons.

Boyfriend always says, after someone compliments me on the color of my hair, "A lot of people tell you that, sweetheart." It's cute that he calls me "sweetheart" and it's even cuter that he notices how many times chicks in Target stop me to tell me my hair color is pretty. He gets all, Good job! on me, like I have succeeded as a woman because other women actually compliment me on something. I

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-51446964791847194072010-01-13T00:10:00.000-08:002010-01-13T00:10:36.051-08:00Ode to my oatmeal.

I realized after taking my (now) eleven-year-old nephew golfing for his birthday this weekend that I still had some cash to spend wisely, on things I actually need. Usually this list includes on-sale crap from Target or basically anywhere else, just because it's on sale. I like thrift stores for this reason, although I know better, and actually: thrift stores entice me to spend more, although I

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-22787570382182850982009-11-17T20:36:00.000-08:002009-11-17T20:43:21.387-08:00Getting the Love (Your Vagina) Wants

It's true that I don't worry about colon cancer. I don't worry about peeing every six minutes someday (as depicted on "The Family Guy") and all the other awful, awful stuff I'm sure goes along with this gender-preferred disease. Therefore, I don't worry about my doctor someday sticking his finger up my sphincter or telling me to turn my head and cough, or whatever else doctors put men through

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-42304870516563350902009-10-19T19:52:00.000-07:002009-10-19T19:52:35.600-07:00Floaters & Homeless Dudes

I don't have much time. I have avoided studying at all costs, and Dr. Boyfriend is teaching his Really Hard Class. (This is about as much as I understand from this complicated graduate-level analysis class he professors.) I am sitting at his computer, waiting for him to return, staring at incredibly large font. He has a big Mac monitor. This is the closest I will ever be to penis envy. I

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-13407244675091750402009-09-28T22:28:00.000-07:002009-09-29T11:28:02.562-07:00Canon In Four

VOICE I: The Inappropriate Inviter Dear Sir, From the very beginning, you were excellent blog material. Not only because it was the first time I was ever hit on in a grocery store, but for the fact that the first thing out of your mouth had to do with my butt crack. I laughed politely and tried to look interested in soap (since that's the aisle in which you accosted me), but it was

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603172274880962336.post-79837652010407619842009-09-18T00:57:00.000-07:002009-09-18T09:03:22.021-07:00The Evergreens of Community College

Well, I've got a pile of crap on my bed (most efficient storage system ever) and I spent the better part of the afternoon panicking over the crappy California DMV online situation. Ever tried that thing? Don't. Not unless you are proactive and actually notify them if/when you move so you can pay your expired-to-the-point-of-embarrassment registration. I mean, do people actually do that?

Mor to the ganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16190398887775984045noreply@blogger.com1