Pirate Dog PDX

Hotel California

Listen, Portland. It's not you. It's me.

I hate to say it, but our time together has probably ended. It's been a great run, really, but I have to get back to my life now. The Mothership (California) calls.

Whether you are from the Mothership, an Eagles fan or both, you know the deal: You can check out, move to Portland, DC, New York, Boston, Dayton, or Pittsburgh (as I have), but sooner or later, the Mothership will call your wayward ass back to California. To quote the Eagles, "You can never leave."

The Mothership has some pretty manipulative tricks to get a gal back here, too. Here are my favorites:

That would be my niece Sadie right there, in her "I heart my auntie" tank top, sans pants (can you tell we're related?), proudly displaying Rico's favorite toy, "Handicap-able Tigger," which he showed his love for by only pulling off one arm. Generally, he leaves nothing but a plush carcass surrounded by disemboweled piles of fluff. Handicap-able Tigger has been maimed, but meticulously preserved. For Rico, that's love. Yes.

There's my sister Annie and nephew Cooper, Sadie's mom and brother. When I'm old and gray and needing someone to mash my bananas and turn up Lawrence Welk because I can't find the clicker, let this kid not find the blog post in which I out him as an underwear head. Do you think you know cuter kids?

You don't. Here's more of their cuteness.

Add these tempting Mothership treats: My Marin, San Francisco, Berkeley, Monterey, and Santa Cruz pals, the handsome David, sailing skills just itching for a day on the bay (Monterey or San Francisco, thanks), actual opportunities for professional advancement, plus a renewed sense of state pride hewn from eight months of tirelessly defending California to the state of Oregon, and ... how can I not come home?

Plus, as I said, the Mothership plays dirty when it comes to calling her pirate dogs back home. How can I fight against this kind of cuteness?

Or this ... Look at her!!!

Rico is absolutely gonna rip Sadie's puppy's fluffy guts out.

Viva California!

Paris

Before we walk away entirely from the ill-fated Cuban affair, I must share a highlight.

Date 1: We took a walk along the waterfront with Senor Suave. The Willamette River has a great pedestrian walk that continues along both sides with special walking paths across the many bridges.  Hot Cuban Boyfriend (HCF) is smart, funny, and hot (key boyfriend ingredients), and we were just learning that as we walked. It was a great date.

About 20 minutes into the walk, he asked me for a second date: Paris.

France, not Texas. (You may pause to seethe with envy)

We went to Texas on a different date, but the second date was Paris, France.

HCF picked me up in a stretch limo, flew us first class to Paris, where we stayed at the Hotel Du Louvre, and ate at the Tour Eiffel. That’s right. The Louvre has a hotel. F-a-a-a-n-c-y.

And, the Eiffel Tower has a restaurant. Actually, it has two restaurants, but only one is fancy. We ate there. It was his birthday, and he'd footed the bill to bring me to France, so I decided to be magnanimous an take him to the Eiffel Tower for dinner.

As a fancy French restaurant, my menu didn't come with prices. Uh-oh. And, being France, the numbers weren't all that advantageous to the dollar to begin with. It was all worth it. HCF felt pampered. But, the bill roughly matched my rent for my glamorous Portland apartment.

I'm not complaining. I'm just saying.

Anyway, Hot Cuban Boyfriend had to work during the day, so I entertained myself. Here's how:

Say hello to my little friend.

If you’re a Scarface fan, you know that very famous line. You also know that it doesn’t end well for the dude who says it, one Tony Montana, Scarface himself, and one of two fictional Cubans I can name in the world.

You just thought “Ricky Ricardo is the other one,” and thought you were so smart, didn’t you?

Si?

Well, Lucy, maybe you are, but don’t you wonder where I’m going with this? The answer to that question is the answer to the question, what happened to the Pirate Dog lo’ these many months?

Answer: Hot Cuban Boyfriend. For the purpose of this blog, we’ll call him Tony Montana because between Ricky and Tony, he’s way more Tony—sans drug dealing and unsightly facial disfigurement. In fact, he was muy delicioso. Muy.

For awhile, when talking to my friends, I mostly called him “Hot Cuban Boyfriend.” His real name has rolling “r”s, and it took me a while to say his name right.

Plus, my people--separated by miles and appreciating easy references for involved stories--are given to monikers. Among our larger-than-bloggable cast of characters, we have known a “Sharky Shark,” “Bad Tipper Girl,” “Cute Phillip,” “Dr. Boyfriend,” “Mr. Cutie Pants,” “Ugly Bob,” and "Fat Braces Grace.” (Actually, Fat Braces Grace was the business school student formerly known as "Sharky Shark," but we hadn’t seen her for a while, and she’d put on weight and got braces. She was still as compassionate as a white shark comforting a menstruating mermaid, so being mean seemed somehow forgivable.)

Anyhoo, it was a wonderful time. Sadly though, Tony Montana got laid off from his fat tech job (like everyone else, I’m afraid) and went back to Miami, as all Cubans must. There’s more, of course, but it slows the story down and is still too disappointing a tale to tell.

And … I’m back with you.

Forgive me. I’ll never stray again. Unless he’s hot. And, gosh, if he’s Cuban, you can say hello to the curb, I’m afraid.

Culture Shock

My favorite travel show host, Anthony "the alcoholic who will eat anything" Bourdain, just did a show on Viet Nam. It's a great episode. One of the best, really. He touches on the invasion, the culture today, and how communist Vietnamese tourism is on the rise.

However, there are two moments of concern. First, while eating at a Vietnamese roadside stand, Tony eats an animal that turns out to be (as translated into English by the woman cooking it) "squeezel."

Second, Bourdain visits a noodle house and we get the full monty of slurp noises. Agh. Then, we learn that slurping is not only NOT rude by Asian standards, it's considered a compliment to the chef. Double agh.

Slurping is my personal kryptonite. I hesitate to say that because there are those of you who will now slurp in front of me to see if it really pisses me off. Please don't. I hate to fight and it makes me want to rip the slurper into bloody ribbons. (Menopause? Maybe. Why risk it? Bloody ribbons are bad.)

Truly, if I was Superman and Lex Luther was just plain finished with my heroic ass, all he would need do is unleash a team of noodle house patrons (or even just one cereal commercial kid) to let loose a big old slurping session on my withering powers. It simply kills me. It so unhinges my psyche that although Asia figures prominently on my to-do list for travel (my dad lived in Beijing and Singapore and loved it), in that slurp-learning moment, I was willing to cross all Asian nations off altogether. So painful is my aversion to the slurp. Blech.

Which brings me to my own pressing case of culture shock.

Tomorrow I undertake a road trip of epic proportions. For eight weeks I'll be in the bay area. I'll be staying in Santa Cruz, Monterey, and San Francisco. My sister, friends, colleagues, and paying gig are all kept in the bay area, so there will be no boredom. No down time. Much rejoicing and merriment.

I'm from there. So where's the culture shock?

I moved from California seven months ago. Since the move, my life has been, gosh, monastic. I write. I walk my dog. I write some more.

Oh, and I go to Weight Watchers meetings. As a result, I've lost 31 pounds and produced as much prose as I'd have expected to do in a lifetime. I've gotten more jobs. I've started working out, cut the daily fret-fest over office politics (which are pea soup thick in a university, in case you didn't know), and stopped stress gorging on the piles of office muffins/bagels that surrounded me.

Since August 23, there are many days when I see only Tracey (who makes me coffee) and Rico (who is mostly only nice to me because I take him to see Tracey)-- and that's it. As of Monday, I will be soaking in it.

And, "it" includes a very different world than Portland. Besides  a community of people (most of whom I love) who actually know my name, there's a bit of a trick to street savvy in California. I wonder if I've forgotten how to wield that strangeness, without gettting it on me.

See. I'm one of the few people I know who was actually born in California. So, like black people who are allowed to say the "n" word with impunity, I feel I have special priviledge to say that the mothership (California) has some kooky characters. I know. EVERYBODY says that ("Land of the Fruits and Nuts, yadayada"), but like black people listening to white people say the "n" word, it's not the same.

BTW, the biggest California kooks are from other parts of the country. Y'all can come pick them up if you'd like. We keep them because the mothership is tolerant of entertaining weirdos. I'm just saying.

I'll let you know how it goes. Pink Umbrella Guy, here I come!

Did you have pi last week?

On Friday, March 14, my pal from Uncle Charlie's Physical and Biological Sciences division was in Portland visiting family. As a special treat, we got together for lunch on Friday. Little did I know Friday was a very, very special holiday for science geeks.

It was pi day. As most of us know, "pi" is a number that equals 3.14. So on March 14, science weirdos celebrate by eating pie. Isn't that cute?

I thought so. My science guy took me to lunch at Ten-01 in the Pearl District, a fancy cafe for beautiful people (like us), where we enjoyed a major manga-fest of fancy bebe hamburgers served with french fries in truffle oil and mustard aioli (if you ever can, do). We each had a glass of Oregon wine, which was a special treat because science guy and his partner own their own wine shop in Santa Cruz (recently written up in the Wall Street Journal, thank you very much), so they know what wine's supposed to taste like. When dessert time came, our perfect server gave us a fabulous list of options, but there, my pal put his foot down.

"No pie?" He asked. "No." She said, having exhausted a list that caused me to go all Homer Simpson on her impeccable apron. Instead, with the check, she brought us little chocolate candies on a perfect plate, and I ate both of our servings, since neither of the chocolates were pie. Apparently, pie on March 14 is something of a religious value for our science geeks.

Oh! And, here's a fun fact about March 14, the highest of science holidays. In addition to being "pi" day, it's also the birthday of Albert Einstein. Now, you will always remember that and never forget to send him a card again.

It was a great lunch. Afterward, we walked over to his favorite chichi chachki store, Canoe, and did a quick run through Anthropologie, where I continued my epic search for a belt I like. As I walked my pal back to his car, we passed by a woman wearing a t-shirt with pi on it. "See!" He said. It was as though a parallel universe had been unveiled for me. How sciency!

Lest you think my pals are all about the academics, I'd like to direct your attention to my science guy's homepage for his part in the AIDS Ride. He's doing an insane bike ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles with a bunch of other insane people, who really want to fight a disease that has taken so many of our friends and family in the past 30+ years. If you feel motivated, please donate on his page. If not, that's okay. Never hurts to ask.

Anyhoo.

At lunch, I realized how much I missed my UC team members. Though the politics of a large public university can be frustrating (tree sitters anyone?), my friends are smart, funny, and have quirks like obsessing about pie on March 14 and interests like saving the world and spreading good wine to the masses. In short, they are my kind of wackos. I can't wait to see everyone next week.

Remind me of that, will you?

Don't hate me because my dog is beautiful.

Dogs, as charming and life-affirming as they are, have a controversial side. Apparently, my love for Rico is pissing people off (for example, a gal who I had drinks with this week). There are those who think I would better serve humanity by spending my money on people, rather than my pets. The drinking gal's words: "I just can't stand people who love their pets more than people. I don't see where it's okay that they spend all their money on some animal's surgery when they could be giving their money to, say, foster kids."

Interesting.

Now, mind you, I come from animal-surgery spending people. My dad and mom have been known to put untold thousands of dollars into the mangled legs of pets. In 1988, Dave-the-wunderkitteh had extreme surgery and steel pins in his little paw for months. Though I don't specifically recall, I suspect there was a physical therapy/kitteh massage aspect that lucky Dave enjoyed.

BTW. Today. Dave is dead anyway. Points for the animal-hater girl. That said, he lived another 13 years after the pricey surgery ... and when I finally did have him euthanized (I mean, you know, enough is enough), he held on for about 20 minutes, when a normal cat would have just gone to sleep. Go Dave! (Points for joie-de-vie kittehs)

Also. Also. The animal hater's boyfriend owns a 50-foot yacht. Um. Wait. How is that not misspent orphan money?

My issue is this: I've worked for the nonprofit mafia for about 15 years. Animal-hater girl is absolutely right that there's not enough money in the system going to support foster kids ... or orphans, the environment, the arts, health care, or even (gasp) animal welfare ...  not to mention pro-life, pro-choice, gun control, the NRA, gay rights, conservative Christian organizations, the whole political fight-starting lot.

Government doesn't pay for it -- and frankly, probably wouldn't be super-efficient about it if they did. We, the people, make charity happen. How democratic. Isn't that what's so great about our country?

I believe, as good "citizens," we all have to choose something--and support that cause with our time, treasure,  or talent -- whatever we can comfortably give. Without a wide variety of interested donors, these varied causes (many of which are diametrically opposed) couldn't be fought.

Also. Good citizens would be better off to learn the mantra of the fabulous VA: "Reasonable people can disagree." We used that mantra when we worked together at an animal shelter, in which we all loved animals, but some of us were vegetarians, didn't wear leather, wouldn't wear make up/ take drugs that had been tested on animals--and some of us were burger eatin', leather-wearin' Mary Kay make-up wearers, spending our weekends putting hairspray in bunny eyeballs. (Okay, I didn't know any bunny eyeball people, but I knew lots of hunters.)  "Reasonable people can disagree" means that we can still fight for the cause we share, even when we don't agree on every detail.

It doesn't make me want to give my money to foster kids, but I know they're gonna love their new 50-foot yacht.

The Big Picture

I found the Oregon Women's Sailing Association at the Portland Boat Show. It was a big, MGM moment, as I wandered through the Portland Expo Center, surrounded by old guys in camo jackets and bad hats, looking at sailboats and trying not to smack brokers that would ask me if my husband and I were interested in a boat ... though I was quite clearly there alone. "Yes. If you could show my imaginary husband around, I'll just follow along and  get all giggly when we get to the galley."

It made sense that such an organization should exist. There are endless books that address the invisible sailor, women. What I only just learned, as a part of my introduction to editing the newsletter for OWSA, is that freaks like us are EVERYWHERE.

Doris Colgate founded the National Women's Sailing Association (NWSA)         in 1990, to provide opportunities         for women to learn to sail and sail and spit and go braless at sea with other women. 

And, you know, saving the planet:

In 1996, NWSA launched AdventureSail, a mentoring program for at-risk girls, was introduced         and has been a resounding success.  Life skills such as leadership, responsibility,         teamwork, environmental stewardship, respect for authority and the importance         of education are stressed to help these girls grow to successful adults.          NWSA offers scholarships to sailing, marine biology and local youth programs         as part of this rewarding program. Doris is visionary like that. Last night, my friend Oliver called and told me about his girl friend who crews for a Boston program that teaches sailing to survivors of domestic violence. Wow! And, natch, the Komen folks partner with OWSA for the "Sail for the Cure," a fundraiser for cancer research.

Who knew?

      

Skinny. Chubby. Different.

Have you ever heard the saying that within every heavy person is a healthy, skinny person wishing to get out? Maybe it's true. Maybe not so much.

Since I moved to Portland in August, I've been on a quest to de-bulk. 29 pounds and several pants sizes later, I've discovered that beneath the chubby former me lay a soft and meaty, Pillsbury skinny chick. Less bulky, but no less plush.

Sure, I walk the dog every day, and Rico is taut and lean. Yet, I still can't help but feel like a cannibal would be pleased with the marbling in a Shawna-rump roast. Here are two artist's renderings of the new me: One as I look IN clothes, as illustrated by a pretty red dress, and one as I look nekkid, 'cept for my chef's hat and jaunty scarf.

"Perhaps I need to step it up a bit," I thought as I giggled when my Pilates teacher poked her finger into my belly button.

Enter my psychic superpal VA. Last Friday, at the exact time that I decided she and I should be virtual running buddies in The Beginning Runner's Handbook: The Proven 13-Week Walk/Run Program, she also decided we should be running buddies working our way through the book. Years ago, we'd done this together ... checking in with each other that we were doing the day we said we'd be doing.

Without putting too fine a point on it, VA ended up a smoking-hot hardbody from the program. Truly. Ask Mike. As for marshmallow me, I actually could run a full 45 minutes. Moreover, my boyfriend at the time (a 3 pack a day smoker) could also run for 45 minutes straight. The book works. This week, we finished Week One. Good news: Our hearts didn't explode (an actual voiced fear in the Weight Watchers "Running 101" advice column). Ta da!

It took a while to get to Week One. I re-purchased the book last June 2007. In July 2007, I bought a running log. I packed it in a box and schlepped it here. It was marinating .... mocking me quietly in the corner, waiting for this moment to happen. Now, it's a 12-week program.

Starting tomorrow.

French Clowns Celebrate Death

Portland is a regular stop for the fine folks at Cirque du Soleil. Specifically, my 'hood is home to the big circus tent that holds Cirque. Therefore, my coffee house and esplanade are crawling with French carnies this month.

Sacre bleu!

The big blue and yellow circus tent is about half a block from my apartment, where it apparently lands every year. French circus workers and acrobats are skipping en Francais to and fro for coffee, cocktails, and not one of them is in a beret.

Which brings me to my point: Why is it you can always tell the French are French even when they aren't talking? There's something so Maurice Chevalier about their gait ... their aura ... their (oh hey!) their je ne sais quois. If you guessed it's because of their bull dogs, you're wrong. These French folks are bull dog-free ... much to Rico's bitter disappointment.

This year, the Cirque is performing Corteo, which means "cortege" in Italian, which means a solemn procession to a funeral in antiquated English. In this case, it's a musical play about a clown imagining his own funeral. As much as I don't love clowns, I have to say, French clowns make me want to throw up in my mouth. Clown funerals, frankly, I never had an opinion about, but if it's going to involve clowns miming mournful tears through harlequin makeup, I'm thinking ... no. As long as we're at it, I don't love mimes either. (Don't tell Rico. He will argue that miming an under-rated talent.)

I feel like a jerk for it. Everyone who has seen Cirque du Soleil has raved. "Oh! It's AH-mazing!" I know.

And yet, here's what the French, themselves, have to say about Corteo:

Juxtaposing the large with the small, the ridiculous with the tragic and the magic of perfection with the charm of imperfection, the show highlights the strength and fragility of the clown, as well as his wisdom and kindness, to illustrate the portion of humanity that is within each of us. The music, by turns lyrical and playful, carries Corteo through a timeless celebration in which illusion teases reality.

For $205/ticket. Tickets to the Baghdad Theater (where I saw Into the Wild with a glass of wine and a veggie burger) are only $3.

But still. It's fun to be smiled at in a foreign language. It's good to have them dans ma cite.

A Chihuahua Walks in Washington Park

This week, Rico and I went for an early morning walk through Washington Park. The city of Portland dedicated the park in 1871, shortly after they'd logged the crapola out of this hill, the entrance at the time. Felled logs from this section of woods were used to build homes for the 8,000 people living in Portland before the turn of the century.

At the time, this part of the park was a playground for area children, including John Reed. John Reed, thanks for asking, is the only American buried in the Kremlin in Moscow. As a journalist who covered World War I, Reed enjoyed a front row seat for the Communist overtaking of the Romanoff monarchy. 

Reed was a little impressed: "I suddenly realized that the devout Russian people no longer needed priests to pray them into heaven. On earth, the were building a kingdom more bright than any heaven had to offer, and for which it was a glory to die." Somebody's smitten. He turned his smit into the book, Ten Days that Shook the World, then founded the American Communist Labor Party. FYI, Americans indicted Reed for sedition in 1919. (Freedom of Speech, anyone?) He fled to Russia, where he almost immediately died of typhus, at the age of 32. Awkward for the Russians. So, they buried him in the Kremlin. Nice gesture.

Though this water fountain/wall is not Reed's, a memorial that lets short people enjoy water fountains as much as tall people seems very "Viva la proletariat." And, it's next to the moss-covered stairs that lead to his stomping grounds. FYI, the "Stearns" that Stearns Memorial Water Fountain is memorializing is Judge Loyal B. Stearns, a local resident who felt that a fountain was needed at that precise spot. Dude had money.

As we climbed the hill, Senor Suave got to engage, unfettered, in a squirrel quest.

You cannot tame the wild squirrel stallion! Don't even try.

At the top of the hill in Washington Park is the Oregon Holocaust Memorial (2004). Like so many holocaust memorials (and area water fountains), it's a wall with names of holocaust victims. What's so emotionally moving about this memorial is the long path that approaches the wall. It's littered with bronze representations of toys and belongings that the Jews and other holocaust victims would have lost on their way to the concentration camps.

A suitcase, an old doll, book, eye glasses, a broken menorah, and a teddy bear lay abandoned, littering the long walk up to the wall. I dare you not to be touched.

Walking on, we stumbled into the Portland Rose Garden. It's internationally famous as a test garden--the oldest official test garden in the United States.

The Rose Garden was established during WWI when European gardeners fought to preserve historic roses that were being lost to bombings and trench warfare. Roses bloom from May through November, so the coolest thing to see at this time of the year is the daffodils. The chihuahuas bloom year-round.

Also in bloom year-round is Portland's favorite tree, the Douglas Fir. A word about how our favorite tree got a first name like "Doug."

Though the tree was first described by Archibald Menzies, it's named for Scottish botanist David Douglas. In 1823, Douglas was sent to the Oregon territory by the Royal Horticultural Society and he was just batshit for what would someday be the state. He spent the next 20 years adventuring in the region, and discovered 50 species of trees for the Scotts.

Okay. Here's the small bummer: In 1834, Douglas went to Hawaii to gather more plant species for the Royals. Also exploring the island were wild bulls, an invasive species that developed from a gift of cattle to King Kamehameha in 1791. The locals were capturing the bulls by digging deep pits along the trails, then camouflaging the pits with big leaves. Douglas, though he'd been warned about the pits, had terrible eyesight and fell in a pit. Right behind him, fell a wild bull. Douglas was gored to death.

It's not the cheeriest story, and I like to end on a happy note. That's why I'm using this photo. That obelisk in front of the Douglas Firs was erected in 1903 to commemorate the visit of President Teddy Roosevelt who buried a time capsule there.

Somewhere.

Nobody realized that the exact location the time capsule was buried hadn't been recorded until 2003, when the president's great-grandson visited to dig up the time capsule. To give the junior Roosevelt something to do whilst he was here, the city erected a statue to Teddy Roosevelt in front of the history museum. I love that.

Shaman-a-thon '08

"There's a reason for everything." So says Wise Woman Beverly, my Shaman friend, in the tradition of the Peruvian Indians.

Years ago, I was the maid of honor at her wedding to Eddie, retired postal worker/nationally-ranked Scrabble champion/ Shaman. We love Eddie. He is diversity, celebrated in one human package.

Beverly and Eddie are a delight to be with as a couple, but since their marriage, my girl time with Beverly has been limited. Sunday, because Eddie is off in the desert at Shaman school, Beverly and I spent the day together. The plan, however, was just breakfast. Here's my wise girl at breakfast at Three Degrees (supremely matching her environment).

Beverly's plan, after feeding me, was to attend a day-long Shamanic conference in Eugene with one of her original teachers. She'd planned a private session (revving up the Shamanic batteries, etc.), followed by a three-hour class on administering rites, and ending the evening with a fire circle.

I asked to go, though trust me on this, I'm not close to anything you'd call Shamanic. She said yes.

Now, if you're expecting a story about airy-fairy butterflies and we're-all-beautiful, this ain't that essay. This day was all ritual and process... greatly appealing to my "how-do-it-do-dat?" curiosity about Beverly's work.

Seven intense hours of ritual and process. That's a lot of Shaman-ing. Alternative post titles I considered, given the length and intensity of my Shamanic experience: Shaman-and-on-and-on-and-on (too negative), Shaman-a-palooza (overdone), Shaman-iacs (again, negative), Shaman-a-rama (which I like).

My friend Oliver was there, too. Beverly, Eddie, and I met him at another class we all took together last June at Breitenbush Hot Springs. He's been working night-and-day on his Shamanic chops since I saw him last year. It had aged him, like ancient-aged him, but in a good way. He looked like Oliver and acted like Oliver. But, there was something Yoda-like about him--without the annoying speech pattern and Muppet-face.

At the end of the evening, about 30 of us participated in a ritual fire. Rattles ... chanting ... honoring the planet. The usual. (No. We were not nekkid. I know exactly who is thinking that right now.) The Eugene night was clear and bright. We each created bundles of twigs, with notes of hope for the new season woven through through their branches. We tossed twig bundles on the fire, one at a time with a prayer, then watched the smoke of our hopes for the future mingle with the gathering fog.

Beverly drove us home, and for the entire two hour drive, I was unconscious, dribbling on the passenger seat, dreaming that the smoke from my twig bundle kept its integrity like those radio waves that just go on into space forever. Oh. And, I lied. We are all beautiful. Butterflies are kick-ass in their ability to beat their wings in Brazil and cause a rainstorm in Iowa, as well as their lovely metaphorical applications. And, they're delicious on crackers. (I made that last part up.)

How was your Sunday?

Pirate Manifestation

I am big ol' rookie, bebe, beginner sailor. Know that. Someday I won't be. To help envision myself getting better, I'd like to tell you a true story of an incredible group of sailors, their ass-kicking voyage, and use photos from my sailing class to illustrate what it would have looked like if my friends and I did it. Hippies call it manifestation. Psychologists call it delusional. Tomato. Tomahto. Moving on ...

Last Thursday, the French racing yacht Modern Gypsy broke a 135-year-old world record for the fastest sail-powered trip from New York to San Francisco. The new record set this week: 43 days, 38 minutes. Somebody didn't stop for tequila in Alcapulco. (Which is why I'll never set the world record.) As we speak, the Modern Gypsy crew is resting a bit at the Corinthian Yacht Club in Tiburon.

(As I said, this photo isn't actually victorious sailors resting at the Corinthian Yacht Club. This is our class learning to deal with the wind at the Rose City Yacht Club. You can't tell, but the "mast" is mounted on a Christmas tree stand. The helmsman, in purple, has turned to look at "the wind," a.k.a. Susan in a black sweater standing behind her to port.)

Modern Gypsy, a 110-foot catamaran and her crew of 10, battled 35-foot swells and 60 mph winds when they sailed from New York to San Francisco, beating the 1854 record of 89 days and eight hours.

The trip is 14,500 miles, and includes a clip around Cape Horn at the tip of South America--considered by many sailors to be one of the most dangerous chunks of ocean on the planet. On Gypsy's best day, she covered 640 miles, and at one point was clipping along at 40.3 knots. To give you some idea of how fast that is, most folks sail at 8 knots or less. Sailors on big circumnavigational trips are pretty pleased with themselves to make 100 miles in 24 constantly sailing hours.

According to Gypsy's skipper, the trip was virtually problem-free, except that the head (nautical potty) broke down. Asked if he would do it again, the skipper shrugged. "I don't know. There are many other races." How French. ("I am le bored.")

We have no shrugging photos. We're perky American sailors.

At the end of the month, Modern Gypsy sets sail for Tokyo Bay. The record for that passage is 14 days, 22 hours, 40 minutes.  Zippy. BTW, here's the real crew, celebrating in Tiburon. We need matching outfits.

Raw Deal

Once upon a time, I had a roommate who was a wonderful raw foods chef. Chef Anna Masteller offered classes through Whole Foods and other venues in Monterey and Santa Cruz county, as well as potlucks that built a great raw food community and allowed us all to try our not cooking skills out with each other. Yes. We're talking hippies, since you asked. Sparkly, clear-skinned hippies.

Sometimes, Anna let me be her lovely assistant ... chopping and dicing and doing my best Carol Merrill to her creative uncooked genius. She, in turn, provided me with an entire week of raw cuisine for my first year at Burning Man. I've never eaten or felt better.

Then, I started dating cooks. I packed on pounds and though it has all been delicious, as I regain my health, I'd like to do it raw. A little more, at least. To that end, I attended meetup.com's "12 Steps to Raw Foods: How to End Your Dependency on Cooked Food." It was free. (We love meetup.com.) That's the deal part.

Raw food? I hear you. You're afraid I'm going to meet people like this:

So you know, smartie pants, this guy is Viktoras Kulvinskas, cutting-edge researcher and raw food pioneer. For 40 years he's been a raw foods authority. In the 1960s, he founded Hippocrates Health Institute. He's been featured in magazines and journals including "Vegetarian Voice," "Vegetarian Times," "Vegetarian World," "Health Street Journal," and "Alternatives."

I used to have that shirt. True.

It wouldn't be so, so bad if I met people like this.

Meow. This is Dr. Jameth Sheridan (not his stripper name, fyi) who is  a leading researcher on the effect of raw vegan foods on health and healing. He established www.RawFoodResearch.com to publish his on-going research and feature his raw medical hotness for anyone on the fence about raw foods.

I didn't meet him, so you know. Which is fine. But seriously. Look at those arms. That microphone is obviously heavier than it looks.

I looked for a photo of my friend Anna online. There's a truckload of articles about her, but no photos. Which is too bad. Her skin and eyes are also enough evidence for anyone who is considering what a raw food diet could do for them--just in case Dr. Beefcake isn't convincing enough.

Listen, NASA, About the Popcorn ...

If you've been reading along, you know I'm a big flag carrier for Uncle Charlie's research and faculty and the saving of the planet we do on a pretty much daily basis. (Go Slugs!)

We work with NASA on issues like Adaptive Optics (adjusting images from space through supah smaht lens manipulation); we mapped the human genome for the first time (making history, you're welcome); and we partner with all manner of federal, state, and private big shots on saving the environment. Again, your very survival is our pleasure.

We even work with Stanford. Yes. The BIG Stanford right over the hill, with its fat funding from fatter moguls. At Stanford, there's a big banner on new student move-in day that says, "Welcome babies, we are the machine." (No. There isn't, really.)

I love Stanford. Private funding offers a brave world of opportunity, and big Stanford brains can only add depth to the humanity-focused work, we, at Uncle Charlie's place are famous for.

According to Stanford, their economists worked with ours and discovered that popcorn is just the right price at theaters: "The findings empirically answer the age-old question of whether it’s better to charge more for a primary product or a secondary product. Putting the premium on the "frill" items, it turns out, indeed opens up the possibility for price-sensitive people to see films. That means more customers coming to theaters in general, and a nice profit from those who are willing to fork it over for the Gummy Bears."

Thank you, privately funded research.

Portland Squirrel Quest (By Rico)

As you may have heard, it's been a  long, dreary winter. I'd like to share a little secret about how I got through the worst of it. I am a squirrel fan. "Hi squirrels!"

We have a huge, and I mean HUGE squirrel television. Three screens. Here I am watching the smallest screen. I like it because this part of the squirrel habitrail is smaller. You can practically touch 'em! See:

Here, I am watching the show, "Squirrel plays a pan flute." I can't hear it, though, because we live in the city and have double paned windows to keep city sounds out. Instead, I'm wearing a headset, listening to my "Bolivian Show Tunes" cd and it works. Here's the big screen:

As you can see, there's nothing on right now, which is too bad because it's in color. We have RED squirrels and the regular grey ones, too. When squirrels are not to be found on the big screen, however, we go on epic squirrel quests. Very Indiana Jones.

"Oh, great Squirrel Goddess, tell us please, where the best squirrels are. Hey. Are you naked?"

As you can see, a squirrel worshiper who came before us brought the Squirrel Goddess a white flower offering and Cheetos. I'm eating the Cheetos.

In some cities, the squirrels come to you. The must have a Squirrel Goddess that is chock full of Cheetos.
Or maybe, cookies.

We do not live in that city. Questing on ...
 

"Dude, you are not a squirrel. What? No. I'm not a squirrel. What are you, even?"

This is the guard dog for the Portland Art Museum we talked about Sunday. He hangs out in the sculpture garden, with the "bronze" squirrels. Whatever buddy. I'll bet your squirrels can't play the pan flute.

I tried to discuss Pietro Belluschi and he has no idea who I mean. Not a blog reader, I guess. This is awkward. I'm going home.

Sometimes, the only squirrels on television are stoopid squirrels. In this weather, the only way I'm going to find a quality squirrel-worth-watching is on My Space. That's not epic, I know. But, it's raining. And, I ordered a pizza.

The Hills are Alive, With the Sound of Bloggers

The year I was born, The Sound of Music won the Academy Award for Best Picture. A movie bursting at the seams with Nazis, Mary Poppins in the lead role, and songs we're all still singing--it was iconic and big budget.

Last night, young and talented Diablo Cody won the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay for Juno. How did Cody build her writing reputation?  Blogging.

When did Cody get started?  Gosh ... last month ... last year ... last night, when I got up to get a Dove bar during a commercial break? She's barely 30 years old, for cripes sake.

She wasn't even born when The Sound of Music first appeared on television. When Cody was interviewed about how long it took her to write the screenplay, she said, "About three weeks. It's only a 90 minute movie." As you might have guessed, she's super bright. A graduate of the University of Iowa, my development writer pal Jen, who writes for UI, is probably, as we speak, writing a profile to toot the Diablo Cody horn to donors-a-plenty. I would.

Cody is my kind of pirate. Crazy. Funny. Smart. For example: "Diablo Cody" is not her birth name. She was born Brooke Busey. A former stripper, Cody also has stripper names that include "Bonbon," "Roxanne," and "Cherish."

For the record, my stripper name is "Trixie." Theoretically. I chose it years ago, just to be ready. I would have actually changed it to Sara Sasse, if I didn't think I'd get sued for it.

Though I haven't ever stripped, when my family went to Salzberg 20 years ago, I did The Sound of Music's "Sixteen going on Seventeen" dance in the actual gazebo that Liesl danced with a pre-Nazi Rolfe. Not naked, though. And, I was dancing with my mom. So, it's probably not the same thing.

Cody also worked as a phone sex operator. (Thank you god for allowing me to write thank you notes for a living.) Ultimately, Cody quit the sex industry and got married. They moved to what she refers to as "the 'burbs, where no one strips unless they're taking a bubble bath." Thus was born, her blog.

When asked how writing compares to stripping, Cody said this: "Stripping toughened my hide, but exposing myself as a writer has been a lot more brutal."  And, she doesn't rule out leaving the brutality of writing for a simpler life: "If this whole writing thing doesn't work out, I'll be getting right back on the pole."

I believe Julie Andrews said the same thing about acting. (She didn't really. But, boy, it would have tied this whole post up with a nice little bow if she had.)

Let's assume that an Academy Award means that the "whole writing thing" is working out for Cody. God bless writers. We're freaks. Today, the hills are alive with the sound of Cody.

Portland Buns o' Steel Tour

Every week, at Weight Watchers, we make a commitment to do something to get us closer to our health goals. I committed to doing one of the walks from the book, Portland Hill Walks, by Laura Foster, which the handsome David bought for me.

Unfortunate side note: Upon hearing about my commitment, my otherwise lovely Weight Watchers leader Shelley told the class, "This is a great book. I know Laura. She's from Ohio. We forgive her for not being from here." As a gypsy/pirate, I h-a-t-e "You ain't from 'round here, stranger" regionalism. It was huge in Santa Cruz, too. Except there it was, "Locals only, dude." Shut up.

Anyway.

Today's walk was a 3.5 miler that took me from my own neighborhood through Goose Hollow into Portland Heights.

I started the walk at the Portland Art Museum, where Rico and I have walked many times since it's close to our apartment.

I learned today that the museum was designed in 1931 by the famous modernist architect Pietro Belluschi. Born in 1899, Belluschi was educated at Cornell University. Besides designing this building, he served on the teams that designed some of Reed College's buildings, the Multnomah County Library, and the uber-cool Meier & Frank building that houses the sacred downtown Macy's. Belluschi went on to become the Dean of Architecture at Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), so Pietro was something of a smartie pants.

As all people named Peter are. (Start your blog, sweetie.)

Next on the tour was the downtown Safeway. I found it unremarkable at first, since this is my regular market.

In fact, I was there last night when a man with no teeth told me that I could take his place in line, even though I had as many groceries as he did. When I said, "That's okay," he said, "Don't you know that Deepak Chopra says you should accept gifts?" So I thanked him and took his. While I checked out, he told me "3:10 to Yuma" is his favorite movie. I told him I saw the first one (from 1957), but not the new one with Russell Crowe. He said the old one was better. Glenn Ford was a teensy baby when he made the movie, and, in fact, it was very good.

The guidebook states that "This is not your mother's Safeway, with suburban parents carting their toddlers around. The customers are a bit more eclectic here." Indeed. Quoting Chopra and all.

Besides dispensing historic and "not-my-mother's whatever" facts, I love that this book reveals secret staircases that lead walkers from one neighborhood to the next. Here, Senor Suave revels in 158 steps of freedom.

The book also brings celebrity to countless microdots on the planet, you'd otherwise miss. This tree was planted in 1910. It is called by the book, "a giant curb-eating sequoia."

The house whose curb is being eaten used to contain Nan Wood Honeyman, who was a gal pal of Eleanor Roosevelt and in 1937, she became the first Oregon woman in the U.S. Congress.

Next on the tour is a cool house at 2030 SW Vista Avenue. Built in 1885, it's the oldest house on the street.

AND, it's for sale! For a mere $1.7 million, you, too, can own 6,000 square feet of 12-foot ceilings and fancy molding. I must have it. Shiny, shiny.

It's right around the corner from an "authentic ruin."

This is the antique brick gate house for the city's reservoir that was deemed insufficient for the city's use by 1895, when it was abandoned. Still, cool.

Not in the tourbook was this cool public sculpture.

And this private one--honoring Christmas, Easter, and Fourth of July.

It belongs to this house.

I only bring these last points up because it's the microdots on the planet that make walking in Portland worthwhile.

Like San Francisco, it has painted ladies and gorgeous cityscapes. Like Santa Cruz, it has natural beauty. (That's Mt. Adams in the distance. I gotta learn how to shoot volcanos.)

But, it's not either of those places. And, these walks reveal details about Portland's specialness that leads me to understand why Shelley is such a protective native. Still, I'm staying.

And, I'm telling everyone.

Plan B

On the off chance that HGTV doesn't see fit to set me up in my Hemingway house, I may have mentioned that a live-aboard boat is my (far more likely) plan b. Currently, the objects of my affection include a hottie Beneteau in Washington state (which I linked to, yesterday) and this 31' Hunter.

Oh hey, we don't have to rely on the broker's page, WE got to sail on it with OWSA today.

Our skipper is Sharon, the broker representing the 31' Hunter. Here we are listening intently. (You can't tell that I'm listening intently, because I'm taking the picture. I should be wearing a bib, I'm drooling so much over this boat.)

Susan and Linda are pulling in the fenders as we head out on a gorgeous, not raining day. May I just say, that on days like this, I never want to leave Portland.

That's me! More impressively, that's Mt. Hood off the port side. It's about 60 miles away, and covered with snow, so against the blue sky, I haven't been able to get a great photo. In person/mountain, though, it's beautiful. We are surrounded by snow-capped volcanos, and it's 60 degrees. Ah, Portland.

Okay. The great thing about sailing on my dream boats is that I'm learning what I don't love. This boat has a furling main. That means that the mainsail rolls up into the mast like a window shade. It makes for a purty boat line, and a  minimum amount of flaking (stacking) the sail onto the boom.

However, as this photo shows, it also means that the sail isn't attached to the boom so wind is pouring out the bottom between the sail and that metal stick across the bottom. Theorhetically, that means I'm losing power that could be pushing me to my next port of call ... bar ... shower (depending on the sail).

Also because it's a furling main, the sail can't have "battens." Those are sticks in the sail that keep the sail stiff (I said "stiff") when the wind blows against it and therefore allows the sail to be larger than the triangle line between the mast and the boom.

Because the whole Hunter sail rolls into a tube, you can't have sticks in the sails--which sucks because it means my sail is little. I hate sail envy. And, being slow.

Anyhoo, it was a great day. And I learned a lot more about sailing and the boat I may or may not love.

Another key bit of news, this bad boy would cost more than $100,000. That's not much for a house, I know. But, it's a big loan to take on when so many shiny things are tempting me this way and that.

Ah, to be anchored.

Pirate Dog Dreams

There are two kinds of people in the world. (Don'cha just love boiling down humanity to two choices? Me too.)

First, there are the "I know what I want to do until the day I die" people.  There is a sub-category of these folks that includes the people who end up doing the same thing for their whole lives because they have kids or, you know, a sense of commitment and focus. Generally, I date these people.

Then, there are the "Oh, hey, THAT's shiny over there" people. I am one of these people. Moreover, I tend to be friends with and/or related to these people.

I don't need to go into the litany of all that has been shiny for me, but today's agonizing choice includes these diametrically different career/life paths:

1. Ernest Hemingway, Sans Alcoholism/Tragic Death

I've been slogging down this very happy, surprisingly easy path for several years. Uncle Charlie is tolerant of my gypsy ways and really, explorations into uncharted territory, like online content, has yielded few unmanageable hazards. Oh sure, I'm new to the domain world. My biggest sin: Having only worked for dot orgs, the idea of having dot org in my site didn't phase me.

However, according to my writer pals, using dot org isn't necessarily the best idea unless I REALLY am saving the gay, black whales for Jesus. I comfort myself in that it's not the worse offense. The worst offenders don't consider what happens when their clever names are smooshed together in a single word url. Like these guys:

• www.speedofart.com (An agency representing artists. Stinky artists in banana hammocks.)
• www.whorepresents.com (This is a search site to help you find the agents in charge of celebrities. And, maybe a pair of thigh high boots for that special someone.)
• www.expertsexchange.com (This is meeeting site for computer programmers seeking advice from one another. Special computer programmers.)
• www.therapistfinder.com (Find a therapist. You probably need one right now.)

Ultimately, my Hemingway dream includes a great home where I can write and pull in a sustainable income beyond what I make on thank you notes and a philanthropic advice column. Sadly, writer money isn't exactly what you'd call fat, pimp cash--a.k.a. homeowner income.

That's where winning the HGTV Dream Home (pictured above, with Rico's own "Canine Cabana") comes in. If I win that, we'll arrive, poste haste, at Hemingway Central, since the home is actually in the Florida Keys. Close to my dad, his lovely wife, and potentially fabulous enough to lure my mommy down, it has lots of shiny pluses. Of course, there's the needing to win it.

Option B for my Hemingway home is a sailboat to live aboard. I've been checking out the boat porn, in between sailing lessons, trying to get there, too. Again, though, I gotta make with the moolah.

Then there's this shiny new lifepath option:

2. High Powered Save-the-Planet Executive, Sans Insanity

If you've been tuning into the Pirate Dog "live" show for the last 14 years, you know that we've already managed a series of nonprofit projects, with considerable mental anguish to show for it. Yet, like the mafia, charitable work pulls me back in. Without knowing how it all happened, I found myself on the board of OWSA. And now, the Girl Scouts of Oregon are promising a challenge that I could really enjoy. Or hate. I can't tell.

God. They'd have an actual corporate structure, rather than "entirely volunteer and at the erratic whim of 80-year-olds" structure. The mission is awesome. Plus, I love working with teams of women AND the potential to impact gobs of people. All that appeals to me. And cookies. Free Samoas for life could be really, really good ... or really bad for a chubby pirate.

In pirate dog dream world, wouldn't it be cool to make this one happen?

3. Professional Fill in the Blank

Then again, I could be a fireman/ princess/ ballerina. Or Elvis. I only thought of that last one because my other favorite "two kinds of people in the world" humanity slicer is the Elvis people vs. Beatles people (from Pulp Fiction).

I'm an Elvis person. Thank you very much.

Bummer of a Birth Sign, Hal

Last night, the full moon was in Virgo.

There's a joke about Virgos that they'll let you walk all over them, but they'll be compelled to tell you about your untied shoe as you tromp across their chest.

Full moons, from a hippie-dippie/astrological perspective, are emotional intensifiers--especially if they're in your sign. If you're a Virgo--considered perfectionistic, critical, analytical, organized, discriminating, scientific, empirical, and calculating--the full moon is a punishing moment of "the problem with you."  (For the record, Virgo is also the healer, the doctor, the nurse, the teacher, the therapist, the worker, the researcher, the scientist, and the engineer--lest you think we're total downers.)

In hippie terms, this Virgo full moon is considered a time of healing and service. You are welcome, everyone.

Though I don't subscribe to all information astrological, I have to say, when I waited tables, the weirdest stuff always happened on full moon nights. Of course, when I waited tables, the restaurant where I worked, called "The Inn of the Seventh Ray," had a lead waiter who would proclaim that the restaurant had just been cursed by "harbingers of doom" (crows) on nights he predicted would be bad. He was always right. Spooky. But, in retrospect, it made for an interesting pre-shift meeting.

Anyway. Aside from being intense for those of us born in Virgo, this particular full moon is a good thing. Apparently, this is the ideal full moon to start a weight loss program (or step back from a week of restaurant indulgences). Virgo rules a desire for purity and cleanliness. (sparkle) The Full Moon in Virgo reflects a tremendous desire to throw off unhealthy habits that create sickness and sadness in our lives. This Virgo Full Moon also gives us all an opportunity to make friends with our inner critic; that slave driver who can be either a helpmate or a hindrance. This is the Full Moon to tame the perfectionist living inside your head. You know… the one that says, “Nothing I do is good enough."

Which, as I catch up with my backlog of posts, this one is. Good enough, that is. So there.

BTW, the lovely Linda, Uncle Charlie's most talented Virgo, gave me this refrigerator magnet-version of the Broad in the Moon. We love her.

"Red Sky at Night, Sailor's Delight."

Here's the red sky from tonight's first lunar eclipse of 2008. Word on the street is that it's the last total lunar eclipse of the decade. With luck, it's not the last clear night of the decade in Portland. Please, no.

The moon looked like this (though I didn't take this photo, for the record). It's from a NASA site. This is what it looked like at 7 p.m. when I was walking Rico.

For my pirate pals, it's worth noting that this isn't the kind of red sky at night that predicts a nice day tomorrow. In order to understand why the pirate term, “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in morning, sailor’s warning” means something, we'll need to pirate talk about weather.

First, the basics. Sun: Sets in the west. Rises in the east. Weather moves from west to east, blown by  the westerly trade winds. This includes storm systems. Good. Now that the short bus kids are with us, we'll move on.

The colors we see in the sky are due to sunlight being split into spectral colors as they pass through the atmosphere and bounce off sky schmutz. At the earliest and latest parts of the day, when the sun is lowest, it transmits light through the thickest part of the atmosphere.

Red sky at night, sailors delight.
A red sky suggests an atmosphere packed to the gills with schmutz. We see the red because the longest spectral color is the only color capable of breaking through the buckets of space schmutz. Shorter wavelengths are totally screwed. Ain''t no way they can make it through all that thick stuff. It's such a high concentration of schmutz when high pressure is present. High pressure usually brings great weather. Ta da!

Red sky in morning, sailor’s warning.
If the morning sky is a deep fiery red, it means a high water content in the atmosphere. So, rain might be on its way. Less ta da. But, still. It's cool, huh?

Birth of The Gorgonzola Ice Cream Diet

In the 11th century, England's King William, a.k.a. William the Conquerer, went on the first weight-loss plan in recorded history.

His diet: "All alcohol and absolutely no food." There's no historic footnote as to exactly how long King William stayed on his "diet plan," but William is well known for establishing harsh laws to curb "the problem with you." Since he was also known as William the Bastard (true), you have to assume the diet had its negative side effects.

Weight Watchers has yet to embrace this particular weight loss formula, though the plan does include an "eat whatever I want (in moderation)" clause.

So. I. Did. During David's visit to Portland, we ate in a different amazing restaurant every day. To balance my points and truly enjoy my  meals, I mostly ate pickles during the day. For the uninitated, pickles are free in the Weight Watchers universe. Of course, there's enough sodium to turn the most swan-like ankle into a cankle--and I spent the week in Cankle-City, where the dinners were totally worth it.

If you're a food weirdo, you'll be impressed to learn that the first restaurant we enjoyed had a photo of Anthony Bourdain framed above our table. David calls him "the alcoholic who will eat anything," which distinguishes him from "the fat guy who will eat anything" (pictured here), but I am a slobbering fan. Bourdain is my personal Jack Wagner.

Without the hookers.

I think.

Tonight, David's last night in town, we ate at a restaurant that offered red wine poached pears with polenta biscotti and gorgonzola ice cream for dessert. I didn't order that, because the pineapple tart cake with rum ice cream with root beer reduction was calling to me, but our waiter brought us a little sample plate, and holy crap. Gorgonzola ice cream is much better than you think.

Oh, and for my Santa Cruz pals, if you want a little taste of what was, in fact, the best meal I've ever had in a restaurant EVER, this restaurant serves weed. I'm just saying. William might have been onto something, even if margaritas are loaded with calories. I wonder if William had made an alternative diet choice, his contemporaries would have chucked "Conquerer" and "Bastard" in favor of "William the Dude-Who-Totally-LOVES-Cheese-Ice-Cream." It's hard to imagine he'd have been skinnier. But, his reign would have been alot more fun.

Tom Cruise IS "Born on the Fourth of July"

That's only funny if you remember the movie. Actually, this is my friend Moose, who along with his lovely sister Flower,

rules the roost at Ken and Lesley's house. We had dinner with them tonight. I can hardly stand how cute they are. (All four of them, really.)

So, I brought my camera.

And, I suspect, it is going to keep us from getting invited back.

The story of Moose, how he got that way, and how Flower and the family have made adjustments to keep up with this super-dude is a great one, but it's not mine to tell. Lesley will do that, and you can bet your adorable diapered doxie we'll link to that story as soon as she does.

Meanwhile, my fancy camera (thanks mom) takes video. Did I mention that Flower and Moose race?

Sailing with the Mafia

Today, we went out for "lab." OWSA, the Oregon Women's Sailing Association, includes on-water time for each student enrolled in their beginning sailing course. This was my first week on the boat, and lucky me, my skipper, Julianne, was taking her new boat out on the water for the second time. I think she was almost as excited as we newbies were to get out.

You can't tell from the photo, but she was jumping up and down, Rico-style, because she was so happy to be out on her new baby. Captain Adorable.

There was next to no wind, but we took turns at the helm, anyway.

And I learned the meaning of a luffing sail. It's this. And it's not good. (But, it's pretty.)

Thus ended a busy week with the fine folks at OWSA. David earned serious great guy points earlier this week by joining me for the OWSA monthly meeting. I could have missed it, except that the guest speakers were talking about their experiences bareboating in Greece and the British Virgin Islands. Except for a four-year-old boy, David was the only dude. Serious awesome points.

So wowed am I by the whole OWSA scene, I'm now editing their newsletter. This, sigh, makes me a board member. Nonprofit mafia, why can't I quit you?

"Sailing Women" Interpretive Dance

The Sailing class Superhero known as In-Class Photographer Woman, Heather Heaton took this photo of us last week in our sailing class, when we broke up into teams and became parts of the boat.

If you'll recall, my role was "shrouds," and bossy boss that I am, I'm holding the boat diagram and directing the forestay (cream sweater), bow (cream vest), backstay (red shirt), transom (aft gal in black), boom (slumpy gal in brown), and my personal favorite, (though I haven't yet draped over her in a shroud-like way) our purple sweater girl, a.k.a. the mast, spreaders, and you can't see her foot, but she's the keel, too.

Not to brag, but the lovely Heather had titled this photo, "Creating Sailboat BEST," so, well, do know that we're gifted sailors already.

100

When old folks reach the century mark, Willard Scott and Smuckers make a big, fat fuss.

On the wall, 100 bottles of beer makes for a long freaking song, and the beginning of a road trip (that will never, ever end) with teenagers.

100 is almost enough Dalmatians to make a movie about. (Three movies, in fact.)

100 is significant like that.

I only mention the weightiness of 100 because yesterday's post was my 100th on the Pirate Dog PDX blog, and I'm feeling landmarky. In that time, I've acquired piratedogs.org and regularly receive over 100 visits a day. It's hardly fame, and it's clearly not fortune, but it's closer to fame and fortune than I was 100 posts ago when I had only written other people's stories. From philanthropic tax advice to motivating prose about global warming, women's health, preserving history, educating the masses, and pet adoption-- prior to my 100 posts, I'd written reams that have nothing to do with what Rico and I think about the world.

And, we've got some opinions. Particularly Rico. As you know, he has feelings about puppies, the French, and though we disagree on this point, musical theater. "Blech," says my otherwise super-gay dog.

As we head into our second hundred posts, I'd like to start a "best of" page to highlight the best posts. I know there are days I've phoned it in. But, I find that the days I think are yawneroos aren't necessarily the same ones you don't love. I never, ever would have guessed that my Lawrence Welk post would have been so popular, but it would appear that there are quite a few lurky Welkies out there.

Bottom line, I'd like to provide one-stop-shopping for those folks who might like to see my shiniest writing samples, without the less brilliant moments. ("All killer. No filler." As my friend Tim likes to say.) Any favorite posts you'd recommend? Feel free to comment on this post or email me your thoughts.

After that, I'd like to give Pirate Dogs some "meat." (It's Shark Week on Discovery Channel. I'm feeling predatory.) Mom, Bonnie, Patty, LB, VA, and some of my Blog 365 pals have pirate dogs, as well. Maybe I'll use the site to provide pirate dog highlights from across the country: Pirate dog profiles and interviews by Rico would keep him out of trouble.

Maybe Pirate Dogs could showcase dog-friendly travel. That would allow me to travel even more with my dog, and I suspect, write it off on my taxes --ooh, and, pitch shamelessly for doggie travel schwag. Rico and I are going to spend a month in Santa Fe in the Fall. Starting with Portland and Santa Fe, the Pirate Dogs site could feature cool dog-travel books, accoutrement, hotels, parks, restaurants, events, health concerns when traveling internationally with your dog, and other cool sites we love. There are dog sites a-plenty out there, but I have yet to find one that's an actual "community." I'd like to provide that.

Finally, gawd, I hate to say it, but since Pirate Dogs is a "dot org," we could probably save a gay black pirate dog for Jesus (or two) with the site. Animal welfare is like the charitable mafia; you can check out of nonprofit work, but you can never leave. Or is animal welfare the charitable Hotel California? Either way, it would be a painless way to stay connected with animal welfare without having to smell like "Chill Room" EVER again.

If I do choose to use the site to support animal charities, I'll likely just link to my favorite animal nonprofits, with no opinion forum. I don't wanna get into whether Ellen DeGeneres is a mutt-saving saint or a spoiled celebrity who considers herself above the rules and used her considerable media time to ruin a group of volunteers doing their flawed best ... so, don't get me started, please. Animal wackos always want to talk about why they're right. Including me. Let's not.

I'm stalker bait as it is.

So, here we are, now at 101. Bonnie and Herb are patting my bloggy head over this baby landmark, with their gazillions of posts and years of experience behind them.  There's much more to come. We've got to get our blog on every day this year.

Keep your ideas a-comin'.

Color+Light='MILF' Flattering? Horrifying? Both? Don't the Germans have a word for that?

With a wardrobe that would make a UPS guy say, "Enough with the neutrals," plus brown hair and blah earth-tone makeup, I was ripe for a fashion intervention. A brown-ectomy. My dad was kind enough to provide this photo, illustrating the problem. (Did you know I used to be short, in addition to being heavy?)

Frankly, the long Portland winter hasn't helped. I was plodding along, head down, until Groundhog Day. When Punxsutawney Phil doomed us to six more weeks of winter, I thought, uncharitably, "They should fricassee that fat squirrel." Winter must die, no matter what the groundhog thinks.

Thus, I spent most of the rest of the week pining for sunshine. Which the universe generously granted on Saturday ...

If memory serves, this is what is known as "blue" sky. The glare is from what we Californians call "sunshine."

FYI, that's my apartment building, right above the boat in the middle (with the pointy terra cotta roofline). It's a great neighborhood, when the sun is out.

The sunshine even perked Rico up.

(Or maybe it was the geese. "Hi geese!") Either way, Rico and I went for an epic three-hour walk to bask in the fine day we'd finally been granted. Hello, outdoors! It's us!

And, of course, the universe had plenty to say on our tour:

Right. We'll get to back to my "wear no evil" quest in a minute. Remember, the point of the weekend was to take me out of my UPS-inspired fashion rut and into clothing-of-color, blond highlights and a Bobbi Brown color-i-fied makeover. Ahhhh, three hours is a long walk in the sun. Bask, bask. Copywriters (and probably groundhogs) could see their shadows downtown on Saturday ...

The sun even made the downtown sea lions sparkle. As a boaty girl, I hate to say anything sparkly about those rotten bastards (even the bronze ones). Sigh. Dry sidewalks and sun render me charitable towards sea lions ... and, now that I think of it, groundhogs.

The time flew. I had to run Rico home so that I could get to my color makeover. And, here it is:

To get the blond highlights and makeup in one photo, I have to do my best Clockwork Orange pose. Even so, you still can't see that I have big, chunky Cruella-de-Ville streaks of bu-londy blond blond.

Here is my best "Muppet doing the Clockwork Orange pose."

Screw you. It worked. On my walk home from my makeover, a carload of 18-year-old dudes yelled out their window that I was a MILF. I have decided to be flattered, particularly since I haven't had 18 year olds shouting out of their cars since I was 18. So. Yes. Flattered. I still look like a soccer mom, but as I've said, I believe that's terminal. Besides, that's what the "M" in MILF is for.

David said that since I am unmarried, and have no children of my own, I'm actually a "SILF." "Spinster-ILF," which makes the soccer-mom-face especially unjust. Lucky for David, it's sunny and I'm granting amnesty to sea lions, groundhogs, and boys who call me "spinster." As long as I can maintain the "-ILF," regardless of the first initial, I'm doing okay. Beats delivering packages in brown socks and shorts.

"What the Hell?" (By Rico)

Who taught this stoopid cat how to spell stoopid? That is my trademark, dammit.
more funny pictures

Second, how big did they build that cat? My brother dog looks dwarfed by all the hulking kitty real estate.

Ahoy, the hippie pirate!

Every year, nearly 100,000 commercial ships, worldwide, suck up approximately 280 million tons of oil. These vessels produce as much nitric oxide as the entire land-bound United States.

That's not good ... especially given that, as a nation, we're doing a crap job of controlling our pollutants.

Fortunately, there's a greener pirate preparing to take sail.

SkySails is fitting huge commercial vessels with kites. Big-ass kites. Flying 160 square meters of fabric, the kite-fitted ships cut fuel costs by an average of 35 percent.  Depending upon wind conditions, of course. Like smaller kites, the SkySail is flown by ropes (which we probably call lines, 'cause we're boaty like that). Without a mast to contend with, not only is more deck space avaliable for cargo, the sail is not restricted to low-level winds close to the ocean's surface.

According to SkySails, wind speed at 100 meters above the ocean's surface can be up to 20 percent higher than wind at 10 meters. The sail is controlled by special computers that sense the wind speed and adjusts the kite's height and position, directing it in large swooping figure eights. With whip-like momentum it generates approximately 6,800 extra horse power. Seahorse-power, that is.

Ahoy, my hippie bretheren! Trading hard-tack for granola, and not a moment too soon.

UPS, I Wish I Knew How to Quit You!

In the last six months, I've made some changes. I'm eating better, exercising(ish), taking classes in subjects I've always wanted to study, and training Rico to volunteer.

Extreme Makeover: Chubby Pirate Edition.

My biggest challenge? Giving up my personal fashion binky: my brown on brown on brown UPS-y wardrobe. Clothes, make-up, hair, everything--I possess a shit-ton of brown. Sorry. "Shit-ton of Brown" was going to be the title of this post. Viva la compromise.

My monochromatic logic: "A big girl doesn't need big color. Brown all around."

What happened to change my mind?

1. I'm a less big girl now.
2. Holy crap, have you been to Portland in February? It has been raining since ...  what feels like ... the day I was born. Muted grays and browns have begun to grate on my spiritual core. Is it nuclear winter where you live, too?
   
3. Because it's too dreary to spend time outside, I've been watching more television, specifically, "What Not to Wear." After which, I'm a little paranoid that if I don't help myself with my brownly brown issues, someone will take "secret footage" of my fashion sins, and bring all of my loved ones together for a fashion intervention. If you do, by the way, I'll cry.

Overcoming the UPS Delivery Gal look has been a gradual process. Except for the expense, however, the clothing has been the easiest part. Newly skinny me luvs to shop. Blues, reds, purples ... and pointy shoes for everyone! (WNTW will tell you that pointy shoes make women look skinnier. It's a complicated, spooky, quantum physics thing, but darned if it ain't so.)

Hair: Tonight, I'm getting bits of my hair highlighted. No, I'm not going for the full monty. I mostly like my hair color, as brown as it is. Plus, the skunk line of a dye-job that's growing out makes me want to take "secret footage" of my own. Highlights will just render my current hair less UPS-esque.

My toughest issue is my makeup. I own UPS-brown eyeshadow and mascara, and have been putting it in the same place for 30 years. I couldn't tell you, really, what else to do with my face. I don't feel super-feminine about that admission, but hey. It's true. "Snort. Scratch. Spit." (if I many borrow a favorite quote from blogging genius Pioneer Woman.)

I called former very important cosmetics executive VA about my face problem, who gave me this advice on where not to go to a makeup counter for my makeover ...

I should not go to M*A*C Cosmetics, who would give me the "I wanna be a drag queen" look.

Nor the House of Dior, who would give me the "Euro-Clown" look.

Not even Clinique works for me now. They would give me the look I already have, which is  the "What makeup?" style. This particular Clinique model (below) is also oddly reminiscent of the "insane ex-wife" look. Those of you who know who I mean are thinking, "Yowza, her 'I would sacrifice my own children to ruin his life' smile and split ends ARE spot on."

Instead, VA recommended that I visit the fine folks of Bobbi Brown cosmetics. I was dubious. I watched the trainwreck that was the Whitney Houston/Bobby Brown reality show, "Being Bobby Brown;" I do NOT want that man doing my make-up. Fortunately, this is makeup guru Bobbi Brown and what she can do with brown is beautiful ... except that I am not THIS brown ... nor this perfect, but still, wow.

My Bobbi Brown has a makeup counter at Sax Fifth Avenue right up the street from my apartment. Swanky. She's performing her brown-ectomy on my tomorrow at 2 p.m.

Sorry UPS. Portland NEEDS color. Stat.

The Bitter End (of a Good Sandwich and More)

I had two Weight Watchers grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner last night with a salad. In Weight Watcher-world, instead of eating 26 cumulative sandwich points (a la Tuesday), I ate 4 teensy points. Voila la difference between "food" and "Weight Watchers food."

Did they taste exactly the same? They did not.

Tuesday's yacht club sammies took me back decades, to my gramma's kitchen table when grilled cheese sandwiches were served on sourdough bread with cream cheese and avocados. Hey, we lived in California, where avocados are the LAW, dammit.

While last night's grilled cheese sandwiches are less delectable than Tuesday's version, I am enjoying my boat-lore at this moment just as much as I did at Tuesday's sailing class. Knot Woman taught us two knots, and we'll learn two more every week. This week, we learned the figure 8 and stopper knots. I'm practicing them right now.

By the way, this is a photo of me (as I look in my head right now) stalwartly securing my lines on my sturdy sloop at sea. (Lots of women have an inner grizzled, Greek fisherman. Shut up.)

Anyway. What do delicious childhood-cheesy sandwiches and knot-tying having in common? Bitter ends. In sailing, the "bitter end" is the term for the inboard end of an anchor line that's attached to the "bitts," which are the posts sticking up through a ship's deck.  And, since we're up-n-headin' that way, a sailboat's bitt is so named for the old Norse word biti, which means "cross beam," which would have been a good place to tie your anchor line. Nautical usage has somewhat expanded the original definition in that today the end of any line, secured to bitts or not, is called a bitter end.

So, the origin of the expression "bitter end" has nothing to do with the last stroke of long-lasting misfortune nor low-calorie sandwiches. It's about sailing. It took us kind of a long time to get here, didn't it?  Well. I've run on heavier fuel.

Cheese Sandwiches=Sailing Hazard

Tonight, I started the all-women's sailing course I signed up for at the Portland Boat Show.We gals filled the room. With almost 40 of us, all anxious to be better sailors, all for great reasons, we were an enthusiastic group. The  class has eight different instructors, each with a different superhero power. Among the Super Friends, we were collectively schooled by Nomenclature Woman, Knot Woman, Sail-on-Saturday Woman, Registrar Woman, just to name a few.

Pictured with the boat on her head is Nomenclature Woman. She's petitely adorable and a total bad-ass. Can Batman say that? Nope. Superman? Hell no. Save us, Nomenclature Woman!

We did physical stuff, too. Of course, I couldn't take photos when I was participating in team projects like acting as named parts of a boat. Fortunately, the superhero known as In-Class Photographer Woman will send me photos soon. For the record, I played shrouds, and thusly draped myself, suspension wire-like, across the gal who played the mast, with arms-as-spreaders, and a pointed toe for a keel. Nine of us, in all, were 17 different boat parts ... so, wow, understand that Mast/Spreaders/Keel Woman carried the group.

Since I don't yet have boat-part theater photos to share, I'll offer another lesson learned in sailing school: Grilled cheese sandwiches are a problem.

Being a women's class, one of the superheroes is Feed-the-Masses Woman. She made grilled cheese sandwiches that were, gosh, blissful third-grade memories-perfect and delicious. I had two, thank you. When I came home to dutifully write down what I'd eaten in my Weight Watchers log, I learned that two perfecly grilled cheese sandwiches exceeds my total food allotment for the day, and then some. (26 points, if you care to know) Since grilled cheese sandwiches were not the ONLY thing I ate today, I am pretty much done eating until Friday.

Week One of Sailing Class: I'm a wiser sailor already. Plus, I've got better ballast.

Morrison & Foerster, welcome!

Yesterday, I had a bushel of visits from eHarmony and their LLC friends. For your pleasure, I've uploaded eHarmony's most "interested" visiting IP address, but there were others. Welcome corporate entities!

First of all, ya gotta love a law firm that owns "mofo.com" as their web address. Yes. You do. Morrison & Foerster, LLC, if I ever have a corporate identity to protect, I'm yours, baby.

Second, it's chilling (yet entertaining) that my silly little post about my less-than-satisfying eHarmony experience hath garnered the attention of eHarmony and their law firm.

I considered removing the post. I've been funnier, frankly. And, I'm not looking for trouble. But, since I've committed to posting every day in 2008, I'd have to replace the offensive post with something else. Screw that. I scrape the tuna can to feed this hungry blogbeast as it is.

Plus, I can't resist learning what could have been worth their attention. What's the problem, Mo-Fo?

Sigh. I'm sticking to writing about my gay dog,  my uber-talented friends, my fabulous family ... and ... Doritos. I love Doritos. I would like a visit from Doritos and their lawyers.

Dali Mama

Today is my mom's birthday. I had been thinking that I'd like to post something about her so that you could know how great she is, too. Accolades make a great gift (hey, I gave her stuff too!).

It's just too big a job. If I were to write her profile, I'd tell you that she's a great writer and editor and an EMT who has pulled accident victims from cars in frozen rivers and held babies who died in her arms. Then, for a lark, she became a bartender a few years ago. She has fans for her work there, too. I could tell you all that, but I'd forget to mention that she also does research for the Judge Judy Show, and then, just to keep me honest, she'd turn around and learn the Texas two-step ... which I suspect she can already do. It's hard to keep up.

My mom is a world traveler who has always included us in her adventures. I could tell you that she took me to Europe, my sister to Japan, and we both accompanied her to Mexico, but I'd forget some of the details of her cruise ship job she took so she could see the whole world, and studied for a semester in England when she was in her 40s. Oh, and she was visiting friends in Croatia when they went to war, pish-poshing our requests that she come home, please.

I could tell you that she loves her family and is always, always there for me, but that wouldn't do justice to how much she loves her friends, her boyfriend, her pets, and people I don't even know ... but who rely on her for emotional support just as much as I do.

I could tell you that she is beautiful. Before I was born, my mom competed in beauty contests. To diminish her participation, she used to tell me that she won "Miss Congeniality," which she tried to explain was the consolation prize for the less pretty girls. Um. No. Pretty and nice, in one package, is just worth rewarding.

Today, she still stops traffic. And, in a world of divorces that end in ugly decades-long venomous battles (y'all know who you are), my mom has remained supportive of her ex-husband, my dad, never having said a negative word to me about him. Ever.

She is that positive. The Dali Mama.

My mom doesn't have time for that kind of ugliness. As ANOTHER Dolly says, my mommy gets to livin'.

A Dog More Gay

Just when I was all about accepting Rico and his gayness, in swished Sparkles. He's here. He's queer. And, I'm getting used to it. Go Sparkles!

Last week, the fine folks at Portland Mercury asserted that there are a gaggle of gay dogs in Portland. According to our local paper, we're something of a mecca for limp-pawed pets.

Who knew?!? We SO need a parade. Rico loves a parade. Naturally.

Soon, if the Merc has anything to say about it, they'll have one. But first, my dog took the "How gay is your dog?" quiz. And we learned that Rico, by quiz standards, is not gay. Hm. But ... the outfits?

Okay. Thank god. There's a second gay pet test--about clothing. (Not everybody tests well, you know, but that doesn't make them not gay--wait, sorry, my "No Child/Gay Dog Left Behind" rant is for another post)

In outfit world, Rico's totally gay. We own, collectively, a biker hat, a handsome trench, a kicky little snow coat, a pirate outfit, and a reindeer costume. Actually, he has, count them, three reindeer costumes. It's surprising how often a tiny dog needs to dress like a reindeer.

I knew I was right to move him to Portland, where Rico can be all he can be. Now. Where can I find chihuahua-size chaps?