Ich bin ein großer Sonderling.

It's true. I have become this as of late... meaning I have time to actually write something. See? My kids started school last week. I had so much to accomplish in the time they would be occupied at school, that I decided to move my workout time to the early morning. It was supposed to only be for the two days included in the first week of school, but something took over; a big, feathery, early bird like creature from the lofty branches of the freak tree, sounding a bit like a crazy crow but looking strangely familiar; known to most as four-thirty A.M. Yes. In order to do what it is I need to do before everyone else is up and about, this is the time I must rise.

CAWWW!

It has been good. Mostly. Even though all of the cool people are still sleeping at this hour, and in the days of my long past childhood, the television would have been showing a test pattern at this hour.

Yeah, it's cool. Really. It is.

Because... I'll tell ya: I can't believe how much I have been able to accomplish since I have started doing this! I start off each day dancing. Since I've just gotten out of bed; doing this, I look a little like Richard Simmons on crack. And I like it. And... like I have said in the past, it really is for the best that no one sees me dance. It's true. Some people have their ironic glasses and accessories. I have my ironic activities. Still though, It is seriously the only form of exercise that does not become tedious, because I actually sort of have to think about what I'm doing. There is also music; albeit lame dance workout video music, but I live it with. Really, it's just fun.

Oh shit! Does this make me some sort of closeted dance hipster? Here is where I get ridiculously neurotic. Look away. No one should see this.

K. Yeah. I'm over it. I don't care. I dance. I dance at four-thirty in the goddamned morning to lame assed dance videos on netflix that my husband makes fun of... if I choose to do them while he is awake, and you know what? I'm writing about it now, so I must not really care who knows. Or, it's possible that I've lost my filtering ability at this point in the day. After all, I have now been awake for 17 hours.

But I have lost some weight, gone down a couple pants sizes. That's all I care about. Whatevs.

And, OK, yes. It is kind of turning me into an evening zombie. I start to desire a tasty repose right around 7 P.M. I usually completely fizzle out and want to suck my thumb by 9 if I am not already in bed by then.

Early bedtime meltdown aside, it does serve me well in other ways, too, I suppose. It is nice to have all of the preparation stuff out of the way so I can focus on my daily tasks. And right now? I have a lot of them. I am trying to actually get a business off the ground now that I have time during the day to make it work. See? I take pictures. Photographic pictures. And it is time to slap that bitch until she coughs up some scrilla. Yes. Yes it is. Big pimpin'. I do it because it's necessary. As of today, the fruits of my pimping labour have actually scored me some work, so I'll take it.

I do now have a decent-sized studio space, and it will get nicer as time wears on.

In the near future, I will also be joining a friend's team walking in AIDS Walk, Portland! I would love it if people would sponsor me, and/or join us! You don't even have to donate the smallest amount listed. There is a check box for "Other Amount", so even $5, $10, or whatever you can muster would be greatly appreciated!

So, this is what has been going on in my world as of late. I realize it has been quite a while since I have posted anything. It is amazing the amount of energy wrangling a couple monkeys and recharging a business takes! I am so looking forward to the days ahead. And I am sure the amount of time I have to devote to my friends and other parts of my life (that seem to have been neglected lately...) will change as things adjust, I'm sure.

-H

The vegan pate that kick's Toby's ass any damn day of the week.

First, let me preface this by saying that I am no vegan. In fact? Goose liver pate? Oh yes, please. That is some serious deliciousness right there. But... well? I sometimes get wistful of my vegetarian days, and remember when I used to go through a container of Toby's tofu pate a week. True, it is not a damn thing like the non-vegan version, but still, there was something about it that I used to enjoy.

I've since discovered a soy allergy, so I can't have toby's anymore. Le sigh. That was a sad day.

I will say, and I am not proud of this little fact; that I haven't experimented in the kitchen in a while, and I kind of have to ask myself why that is right now. I love doing this, and I have enough skill and experience now to know that I probably am not going to mess things up to the point that no one will want to eat whatever it is that I throw together. And if I do? I don't usually have an audience. What people don't know about me won't hurt them... or, ultimately, me. Right? Right.

Anyway, I had an idea in my head when I went shopping last week. I have been feeling the need to eat more fiber lately, and try to figure out how to work more veggies into my diet. I am one of those women who laughs with salad just about every day of the world.

Yep. I do it. Shut up.

But still. I felt like more fiber could be worked in somewhere. So, I picked up a couple bags of almonds, and a few extra veggies on top of what I normally buy at the market, went home and performed a little science experiment.

And guess what!? It worked! And holy nom, It's fucking awesome!

So, without further adieu, I give you: My recipe for almond pate.

Instruments of world domination:
Food processor
Cutting Board
A good knife

Ingredients:

1/2 bag Raw Almonds from Trader Joe's
1/4 Walla Walla Sweet Onion
(These are very large. If all you have are little boiler onions, use 1/2 an onion.)
1 medium carrot, cut into small pieces for food processor
1 small to medium rib of celery, cut into small pieces for food processor
1 small handful of chopped dill. (I should have measured this, but alas... I did not.)
2 tbsp lemon juice
Small amount of water for streaming
1 tbsp granulated garlic
salt to taste

Method:

Place almonds in bowl of food processor with pulverizing blade. Pulse until nuts are in small pieces, and stream in a small amount of water; maybe a little more than a tablespoon, just to get it to flow together to a semi-thick paste.

Add onion, and pulse again, until incorporated. If you need to stream a little more water in, that's fine.

Add carrot, followed by celery. Same rules apply to the water. You want it to be able to incorporate together, but not be so thin that it's like soup.

Pulse, adding garlic, salt, and lemon, until well-mixed.

Add the dill last, so it doesn't get too bruised. Bruised anything is not attractive. Bruised herbs? Far from tasty.

You can eat this right away, but it's really amazing the next day. So good on celery and carrot sticks!

-H

It is fowl, but not necessarily foul.

So I'm going to be boring and write an everyday sort of post. I don't do that often, because I'm a pretentious bitch like that. Some still refer to me as a professional pain in the ass. I kinda hate it when people write about their errand running, and trips to Target. I try to keep it interesting for the most part, but yeah... today? Sorry. You get boring Hedro.

So, chicken sausage. That stuff? It's well... shit. Don't buy it. I don't even give a shit that it was made of the purest, organic chicken. Damn. They ruined it. Unfit for dog consumption. Maybe cats would like it. But cats? Not really known for being that smart. In fact, don't they have something akin to a 7 day memory?

Anyway, this tube-shaped meat, (which I am generally a fan of,) was just wrong. And if you are one of those "vegetarians" who sometimes eats chicken? I can tell you... in this case? Get the pork. Seriously. One pork sausage in your lifetime? Probably not going to kill you. Or stick to tofurkey. If you like your soy, it is a lovely product.

Love-ly.

I was tempted by this stuff the other day at New Seasons. Normally, I'm pretty smart, and I DO stick to the pork. It was lemon chicken. Yum? Well, you'd think. I mean, when I cook a whole chicken at home, I usually do place a few lemon slices under the skin of the breast, along with some garlic and rosemary. That is quite yummeh.

This? Well... I am under the impression that ground chicken should be placed under the category: "what is, and what should never be." Especially when you place it in an impenetrable pork casing.

Heh heh... impenetrable pork.

But back to the situation at hand. See? Chicken? Kinda watery. It needs a release. Especially when you add lemon juice. Yeah, that shit needs somewhere to go. Also? It sort of got fucked up by the grinding process. When there is no grain, and no identifiable... well, anything, until you run across a piece of sinew or something? Yeah, that doesn't work out so well texturally.

Mr. Hed is sitting here reading this as I type, and alternately looking at my face. He actually just told me not to barf. See? This recount of experience is... not sitting well with me.

I'll go faster.

Mr. Hed took the sausages in question down to the backyard to grill. He brought them back up, and when I went to cut into one of them, it was like a flood of vile, horrible liquid was released. I don't even know what to think of this. It was just... nasty. I really could not tell if they were cooked, or uncooked. Flesh adjacent to burnt flesh looked raw, but was it? WTF?

I pinched a small amount from the inside of said tubed meat, and rubbed it between my fingers. I... thought it was done. Thought. It. Was.

So, we take them over to the table, and the entire time we are eating, the only person who is not grimacing in partial horror was our daughter who I am pretty sure has no taste buds, and will therefore eat anything. Seriously. I guess it could be worse, because she could be horribly picky like some children. I'll take it, but still. She gets the leftovers tomorrow, since she actually claimed them.

Anyway, at one point, I really was worried that mine was not cooked, so I stuck it back in the oven. It cooked for a good, long time, and when I took it out, same thing. Exactly the same. So, yes. They were cooked, but just... simply disgusting.

So, word to the wise: keep that shitty chicken sausage far, far away from me.

That said, Mr. Hed and I have decided to open a DECENT chicken restaurant. The kind that does not do bad, bad, things to chicken. Because damn. They died. They should die for a good cause... like being part of something delicious, not something that is, but should never, ever be.

We debating on a name right now, but it has been narrowed down to two: "Taste of fowl", or "Fowl Taste". Oh yes. You'll see. It will be a success.

-H

Where I'm from.

A friend reminded me of this writing exercise that circulated a couple of years ago. I had meant to do it then, but got busy and kept forgetting to. I found it very enjoyable to read about where everyone else was from. Now it's my turn, so here goes:

I am from vibrating pedicure machines, from Mary Kay, Canfield's Diet Chocolate Soda, No-Salt, Sweet 'N Low, and Penney's. *I am from the very neighbourhood that Malvina Reynolds wrote about in her song: "Little Boxes". Yes. The yellow one.

I am from the place with almost no trees; where the swimming pool in the backyard was the only refuge from the ground that was so hot you could not walk barefoot outside. From sunburns that would peel like Elmer's school glue off of most of my body after too much time spent in said swimming pool. From made-up Crystal-Light ads in which I would stand on the diving board, flexing my little girl biceps, and singing: "I believe in Crystal Light, 'cause I believe in me!"

I am from the cactus pears, stolen meyer lemons, navel oranges, pomegranate bushes, and palm trees. From enormous water beetles, and June bugs that would dive bomb my perfectly shellacked hairdos, buzzing like crazy trying to escape, because they were too stupid to figure out how to on their own.

That girl who would run around screaming with buzzing hair until a kind soul helped us both out of that jam? Yeah, that was me; also known as the girl from the gawd awful wake-up time of 5:30 AM... the sole purpose? Making sure that hair was absolutely perfect!

I am from my perch atop the old Chevy Van at the Drive-in movie.

From swim parties and grilled steaks; from little restaurants I would make for the ants from the bones of whatever we'd had for dinner that night, hidden far off from where people would see them right away, so the "business" had a chance.

I am from Pomerantz, McIver; The Thomas fat ass, and the Davis flat ass. Yes. I got both. Behold: My ass! For it is both fat, and flat.

I am from the family dinners at my maternal Grandmother's modern, urban apartment that came entirely from Price Club, unwrapped and either microwaved, or baked; the scent of her Wind Song perfume, as well as the spearmint gum she always had giant boxes of in her closet.

From watching the end of certain TV programs just to see my uncle's name in the credits; from standing in line at Dodger games for giveaway items, and listening for hours to the same grandmother's stories of her worldly travels.

One day I will travel just as she did.

I am from both: "Go hang your belly on the fence!" and "Oy Vey!"

I am from a few different faiths, leading to no faith, leading to piqued interest and curiosity about many faiths, once more.

I'm from The City Of Angels; drives through Topanga and Malibu canyons that seemed to take an eternity, the roller rink, the club that beat the streets, the bike path at Venice, and never-ending music. Really. Never. The music never ended. Ever. No. Never. It did not.

I am from that ottoman I brought into the kitchen to stand on so that I could watch my Uncle Alan make spaghetti using noodles, olive oil, and allspice.

I am from the chair I would stand on in the kitchen, watching my dad make shit on a shingle, and later sit on to gag the vile stuff down, because it was... what was for dinner. From that empty cafeteria table I shared with my best friend in grade school, eating those head cheese and beef tongue sandwiches I was sent there with. I am from day old spaghetti fried in butter, topped with cheese. I am from my own creation of fat-free cheese sandwiches, microwaved with a dollop of "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!" on top.

I am from that cushiony stool my dad set up for me to hang out in the studio listening to bands practice and record, and having to stay as quiet and patient as possible. From a place to stand on that stool learning to use a studio mixing board by age 3.

From the summers spent on the Northern California coast with my paternal Grandmother, drinking soda pop from old bottles that had been reused so many times they look like they had been sandblasted along the edges; singing Otis Redding songs to the cats on the balcony. From grandma's rainbow coloured circa 1974 shag carpet I would move between my toes as we watched television programs, all the while listening to her as she would yell at the screen because the Shaklee products she sold were superiour to those advertised.

I am from family reunions in Luxor, near-death experiences in Glacier National Park, and hiding my face from video cameras criminal-style, after not being able to do my hair for 3 days on a cross-country railroad trip.

I am from looking in awe at my great grandmother's 100 year old photograph that hangs on my wall, her lovely bone china teacup collection, and urn containing one pedal from every single rose my great grandfather ever gave her. He died in 1954, and the petals still smell amazing.

I am from the knowledge that comes from pain, and the best advice I have ever received: "If you ever meet a man who reminds you of your father, RUN THE OTHER WAY!"

I am from my own self-worth, and my willingness to heed that advice.

I am from lots of hard work, self-love, and personal growth.

I am a survivor.

I am Hedy.

-H

*OK, not really, but yes, they were totally all made out of ticky-tacky, and yes, the all looked just the same.

Proof that I have had too much exposure to bizarre things as of late.

Life has been pretty eventful, so I apologize for not bringing any witticisms this way for a bit. I'll get back into the swing at some point, once things slow down. But I did want to venture this way to tell you all about one of my more bizarre dreams. I don't normally share that sort of thing, because I don't think most people really care usually. It can be kind of boring subject matter. But this one had me not wanting to wake up. It was that entertaining.

I start off running down Broadway near the Schnitz, on all fours. I'm barefoot, in the street, and keeping with the flow of traffic. I can feel the asphalt under my hands and feet, but it feels surprisingly comfortable and natural. I specifically remember the way the green and red of the traffic signals played off of the varied surfaces of the asphalt rocks. It wasn't wet, but this is something that I tend to notice while crossing the street during my waking hours. There is something beautiful about that, and it was really showcased strongly in this part of the dream; almost prismatic in nature, moving and changing as I traveled over it.

I continued down Broadway until I came to Jefferson, which I followed up toward where I lived about a decade ago near Portland State University, in the Goose Hollow neighbourhood. I passed the apartment complex I once called home, and continued up a path to a much smaller, dingier place; still on all fours, still barefoot, through brambles, broken glass, rusty screws and nails, shattered bottles, caps of said bottles, gravel chunks, and unidentifiable detritus which really could have been anything. I was moving so fast, I was unable to determine exactly what some of it was. It was also darker up there, so that played a role.

I didn't want to get raped, mugged, or lopped. My objective? Unclear. But I was strangely motivated to move like I had never moved before. When I finally arrived at the appropriated complex, I noticed that it had several residences attached in a row, and it was kind of a strange setup. I had to tap in a code that I somehow knew to enter the premises, which sat behind an iron security door. Once inside; instead of a hallway, there was a long breezeway below what should have been a hallway leading to second floor units. I could see stars, since there was no roof. It wasn't exactly an atrium, not exactly a courtyard. Just a strange, seemingly unfinished corridor. They had only ever added planks to the hallways in the floors above and someone created makeshift catwalks using cheap plywood boards which did not meet the sides of the structure, leaving very large gaps on either side that one could easily fall through if not careful.

As I walked through, I felt something on my back. It landed with sort of a thud, and moved. It had claws, and before I really understood what was going on, the damn thing bit me. I grasped it, tearing it away from my body, and realized it was a rat! I threw it as far as I could. It hit the wall, sort of convulsed, then stopped moving altogether. My stomach lurched in discomfort, and I just wanted out of there, but I knew I needed to keep going.

Why? Well, that I did not know.

The farther down into the building I walked, the more rats there were. I picked another off of my back, only this one spoke to me: "You don't want to throw me, little lady! I am a nice rat! See? Feel my fur. Aren't I soft?"

I tried petting it, and while it was rather soft, it too, bit me. I gave its head a twist, broke its neck, and tossed it aside.

Bastard.

I finally reached my destination. The door was slightly opened, and I could hear the song "Time" by the Chamber's Brothers playing on the stereo. This song has long creeped me out. I have never liked it; especially the long version with the screaming man solo in the middle. Yeah, not my idea of a good time, listening to that.

The apartment was pretty drab. Typical basic 1970's unit with wood cabinetry, hollow doors, nicotine-yellowed walls, stale smoke lingering in the air, and brown shag carpet, which was strangely pristine. It seemed to have retained its original luster from the time of installation, which I am sure was not any time in the recent past, despite the unfinished nature of the building.

Not far from the front door, there was a sofa covered in crushed velvet embossed flowers. As I walked farther in, I noticed a man sleeping on the sofa, wearing a pair of white boxer shorts. Someone had placed a paper towel covered in hemostats and scalpels on the coffee table just adjacent. He had a cloth over his nose and mouth, that had begun to fall off. Of course I noticed this just as the screaming started in the song.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHKKKKKKKKK!"

Soon, an acquaintance of mine walked in, and began working on the sleeping man. He said he'd used chloroform to put him to sleep, and he reassuringly told me the man could not feel a thing. He just wanted to fuck with him a little; not kill him. Did I want to watch?

No.

But for some reason I wanted to make out with this person, so make out, we did. Because it's what you do. Right?

Not long after that, I found myself traveling back down Broadway using the same means I'd used before.

+++

Really, brain? Really? I guess part of me wanted to wake up, and part of me wanted to know what happened to the man on the couch, and this weird person I hardly know who wanted to do demented things to him. I guess I will never know. Oh well.

Dreams are so strange. They can be so vivid and create such a storyline, and yet, these non-lucid thoughts are all very self-contained, only having to do with things that we have witnessed in our own lives.

The brain sure is one interesting, enigmatic motherfucker. I think it does like to have fun with our sensibilities when we are unable to reason with what is going on in there.

-H

Bill and Coo

I am often lulled to sleep by the lullaby of Birdland. I don't live at 52nd and Broadway in New York, but the pigeons here in Portlandia can be loud at times. There are lots and lots of them around here, and I suppose dealing with them is part of living in the city. We have installed roosting spikes so they can't shit all over my porch steps anymore. However, there is one spot we haven't quite gotten to yet, and I regularly have to scrape the area below.

Grody.

There has been a bit of bird drama here since we have moved in, including a crow mob summit, the occasional spat on the roof next to my bedroom window, and even birdie murder.

Oy, vey!

I have dealt with most of this, because it has been easy. It has been distant. It has not really been anything that I felt connected to since it didn't directly affect me.

The day we installed the roosting spikes was a day that I still bristle thinking about. The truss in the front area of the porch is quite high; at least 20 feet. That is just where the two eaves meet. The beam where the pigeons were roosting is even higher than that. We don't really know how high it is, because when we tried measuring it without climbing, we attempted to do so with the tape measure, and that bent and fell over around 17 feet. When the time came for Mr. Hed to climb the ladder up there, we were more focused on him not falling to his gruesome death than curious about the height of the beam. So yeah... no clue.

The process of getting him up there was not remotely easy, or un-scary. We positioned the ladder on one of the middle porch steps, and he climbed up. This had to be done with a sliding ladder. We tried using a "Little Giant" leant to us by a friend, but alas, the "Little Giant" was too short. So, I stood there, on the step above where the ladder was positioned holding onto the fucker for both of our lives, and he climbed up. I think I may have conjured some superhuman strength for this, not unlike that demonstrated by Nadine in "Twin Peaks".



It didn't take long to install the spikes, and they do work, but lord, that was a freaky experience. We were both in tears by the time that was over. Totally worth it for cleaner porch steps though.

That said, please don't drive past my house right now expecting to see anything resembling a good sense of decorum. The porch needs another good cleaning. I will get to it this weekend. Yes, I will.

But to the story at hand: A-hem!

One morning a little over two weeks ago, I started a frittata in the oven. I had run my ass off the day before, and my back, as well as my legs were pretty stiff. I didn't feel like crouching down, and digging through a low cupboard for my usual single-serve, square baking dish. Instead, I grabbed a pan from the pot rack, and added the frittata to that. I placed it in the oven, set the timer, and went to the living room to hang out in my my favourite wing chair, drink my morning coffee and read for a little while.

I heard something. This something sounded close, and distressing. Then, I saw something. The board in front of our fireplace moved, and scared the living shit out of me; almost literally. I knew what was behind there, and truth be told, I am pretty freaked out by birds.

Yes. Birds. They freak me the fuck out.

I don't... usually think the birds are after me or anything, but I don't enjoy close contact with them. From a distance, they are cute, sure. But just wait until one decides to make your life hell! My dad had one, and good god, that bird was beyond psycho bitch. She would lure me in with her cuteness, then when I would stick my hand into her cage for her to climb off of her perch, she would bite. And hard! I am pretty sure she developed a taste for my particular blood early on.

She tricked me once by taking a liking to my mother. I thought for sure then, that she would come around and be nice.

Wrong.

I have a scar on the webbing of my right hand, between my middle, and ring finger from the time I was fooled. No more. No more, birds. Sorry, but y'all are unpredictable freaks.

So, you could imagine my distress when I heard that there was at least one in my damn fireplace. I was so scared, because city pigeons are worse than domesticated birds! They are like rats with wings! They are dirty! They carry disease! I did not want to have to remove it, but a friend told me I should before the thing hurt itself. But... what about Me? What about my baby!? She was upstairs playing in her room, but that was beside the point! What if the bird went insane, flew up there, and pecked her eyes out?

Shit.

Fuck.

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

I steeled myself, digging the depths of my soul the confidence to open the makeshift door. All the while thinking about the thing freaking out, going after my eyes, rendering my 4 year old motherless, most of the day ahead of her alone. She'd sit there, crying, terrified, with my corpse on the floor; face half eaten by said motherfukcing pigeon, which would of course, be flying around, shitting all over her, and the living room at that point.

FUCK!

But, I did it. I put on my heavy-duty gardening gloves, got the broom, and I opened the door. The damn bird was petrified; standing toward the back corner of the fireplace. I was not very impressed by this, since I guess I was expecting more drama. But no. I had to actually use the broom to coax it out. It wasn't easy but it finally hopped out, then sort of hopped to the door, and out.

I closed the door, and thought that was the end of it.

A minute or two after securing the fireplace door, and sweeping the resulting detritus from that ordeal, the timer went off for my frittata.

Ring-a-ding-ding! It's a classy timer.

I went into the kitchen, replaced the gardening glove with my silicone oven mitt, and pulled a beautiful work of art from the oven. Ahh, breakfast.

I waltzed over to the cupboard, calling MicroSqueak from the depths of the toy closet. I pulled out a couple plates and took them back over to the stove area. At this point, I forgot that I had baked this creation, rather than cooked it on the stove, apparently. I went to release the dish from its hold, and forgetting to put the silicone mitt back on, I grabbed the handle of the pan I'd used, and ended up screaming in pain, in a heap on the kitchen floor.

Oops!

My right hand sustained a blister that went all the way from mid-palm to the tips of my ring and pinkie fingers.

Fabulous.

About 2 hours later, I heard yet another motherfucking pigeon in my fireplace. I wish I'd realized sooner that there were two in there.

What the hell pigeons!? My fireplace is not your speakeasy! Get out!

Well, this one would just have to wait for Mr. Hed to arrive home so that he could release her. I was not going to attempt to remove that stupid door again with an injured hand.

He did, and again it took some coaxing, but the crisis was averted. No more birds. At least for now.

-H

Overheard... over my shoulder...

There are times when I am out and about, and I have the hardest time controlling my desire to just laugh at certain people, and their wacked-out conversations. I really want to turn around and ask them: "Are you really saying these words? Really?"

Last night was quite a doozy. I decided to grocery shop sans kids for a change, because I spend a lot less money when I can do that. It's true. I'm not buying extra snacks, drinks, dollies, and whatever else they bring to the cart with their sad eyes they know I'm a total softie for. It just works out better. But that is also the time when I am more likely to run into some goony-assed people.

Living in the Reed neighbourhood, I do see a lot of college kids; some drunk, some high, some... just being Reedies, which could be nothing, or a combination of many things. As I stood at the checkout counter of the grocery, I caught part of the conversation that was going on in the line adjacent to mine. They talked of the weather, and how it sure is cold for this time of year, still, and how could global warming be happening when it seems so cold?

Personally, I think we forget this every year. There have been many years in the past where it has remained cold into June. We are in the northern states, and it happens. Sometimes it floods. It is something that has happened throughout history. In fact, there are markers from the flood of 1894 all over downtown Portland, and they go up pretty damn high.

Also, isn't this a La Nina year? That damn Nina. It should go back to La La Land.

I am not attempting to debunk global warming, or even suggest that it is mythical. I do think it is a real thing that we ought to take more seriously than we do. But I also don't think the sky is falling, or that the world will end in the next day or two. Call me a lazy sunbather, but I just don't believe we are in imminent danger. Sure, changes need to be made, and we all need to work a little harder to live more sustainably, and I feel like I do my share of that. I don't buy a lot of new stuff all the time, 'cause Sting had it right when he said: "When the world is running down, you make the best of what's still around." I have plenty old things in my life. Some are things I nurse and baby so I don't have to replace them. Other things are useful heirlooms our families have been generous with. I don't see the point in replacing every little thing that shows a little wear.

My plates don't match. Most are chipped, and sad. And while I do have some things that are nice, my preferred glass to drink from is an old Adam's peanut butter jar. It's huge, and I can get a lot of water down the hatch that way. Doesn't mean I don't like my fancier stuff, but I have to think of the everyday, and the required durability that brings on, having two little kids. It is an added bonus that this means I recycle, reduce, re-purpose, and reuse like mad.

That said, when I heard the actual conversation going on next to me, I channeled Sheila Broflovski from "South Park", and found myself saying inside of my head: 'Wha-wha-what??'

It went a little something like this:

Girl Behind Me: "So, I don't really get how this weather pattern that's happening now could be part of global warming. Why would it still be so cold? I think this weather thing is just something that is happening, and it ripples, and affects the whole world, to let us know we are all connected." I swear at this point, I think she may have twirled around and said "Tra la la," touching one toe with the opposite hand at the end of the twirl.

Oh lord.

I... well? I wanted to put a fucking bird on her right then and there.

Checkout Guy: "Well, I don't think global warming works like that. I have seen studies where they cite changes in weather patterns. We are going to see more extended springs, and milder winters as a result. Perhaps more Indian summers like the one we had last year. We need to take action NOW, as in RIGHT NOW, or we are going to pollute ourselves off the planet altogether."

Thank you, checkout guy. Can you see my irises through the back of my head? Let me move my hair out of the way.

Girl Behind Me, in kind of a wilty, lilting voice, making her sound like she is barely cognitive, and somewhat cowed at this point; as if looking into the sun for the first time, or speaking to someone with a brain... for the first time: "Oh... yeah, that totally makes sense."

Wow. Uh yeah. All connected are we. We are one, and we twirl, and we laugh, and we eat our sugar cubes... together, over the ocean, over the sea, holding hands, planking, covered in, and gliding with birds, as we should... through the day, through the night, then the day again... until we reach the sun... only we don't burn. We gaze, admire, stroke, dance, lock arms, and hug this beautiful, beautiful star. After all, we probably should, before it ends up killing us all like a big, hot, microwave oven.

Oh my. I think I will always prefer science. And perspective.

Connectedness, world peace, and sustainability are all fabulous concepts, and I do enjoy them, along with the occasional experience when everything lines up to make it so. But common sense and proper context will always win.

-H