Pirate Dog PDX

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.

Bodies: Less Hating. More Celebrating.

Today, I was at my favorite coffee house, the Bean Tree, visiting my adorable coffee pals, Tracey and Chad. They own the business. Their coffee is fair-trade and delicious, but I suspect people come in there to bask in their cuteness. It's quite the glow. I love them because they bask in their customers, too.

The topic of conversation today was people who "hate us for our beauty." Chad's complaint: An older mutual acquaintance had seen him in a bar and said, "There's too many good-looking young men in here." It was a compliment, we agreed, but it made him feel uncomfortably envied.

I asked Tracey if anyone ever had anything hateful to say to her because she's cute and fit. She told me that women feel free to grab her by her waist and exclaim, "You're toooooo skinny!" She said, "It's invasive and insulting."

Which brings me to Zoe. She works for Uncle Charlie. She's been fit and chic for as long as I've known her. Long and lean, she exudes confidence. She's a brainiac, too, so if you didn't think "wow" before, now is the time. "Wow." Until I read her blog post about this VERY issue, I had no idea she'd struggled with her weight. As she says in that post, she's celebrating her body, and not hating the one she used to have.

My mom has a friend who has lost a tremendous amount of weight and looks fabulous. When asked how she did it, her friend replied, "I celebrated my body." My mom said, "She won't tell me how she did it."

Celebrating her body is exactly what she did. I suspect that pretty much did it for her. I remember when I first began to understand the power of celebrating rather than hating our bodies.

I was dating a man who thought I would look great in a pair of chaps. "Marry that man," said my mom.

"Holy crap, there is a man on this planet who thinks abundant tushie is attractive," I thought for the first time in my life. And, after some convincing, I started believing him. It changed everything about how I took care of myself. It didn't make me instantly skinny, by any means, but it changed the issue to my love of fatty food and a highly developed sense of laziness, from whether or not I deserve to be fit.

It also changed how I looked at skinny women. I didn't envy skinnier women in the same way. I thought they were differently beautiful. Nothin' wrong with them. Nothin' wrong with me.

If I ever become queen of the world (which would be awesome, thanks), I'm going to teach girls all about the issue with body hatred and how it hurts us. I think it keeps us from achieving physical health. After all, if you hate healthy/trim women, how can you seriously commit to a lifetime of celebrating being one of them?

Donde Esta the Pirate Dogs?

We're here, Pirate Dog fans. Do you see us? Over here, just behind Waldo holding up our giant toothbrush behind the British flag. (Waldo's subliminal suggestion that perhaps our colonial parents might invest in a little dental care? Perhaps.)

Actually, we're here. On the couch. Writing for money. Not writing for pleasure, in other words, right this second, we're not writing for you.

Though I've committed to the Blog 365 gods that I would post every day, I need a little time to write for moolah ... must keep Mr. Suave swimming in his solid gold bowl filled with kibble.

Therefore, to keep my lovely bloggy pals from wondering if I'll ever post again, I'd like to re-commit. At least once a week, by Sunday night, I'll have posted for the week. Sometimes more than one post ... sometimes I might post every day.

Does that work?

Upcoming episodes should be exciting: I've got an eight-week business trip to Santa Cruz coming up, infused with romantic dinners avec the Handsome David, politics with Uncle Charlie, sojourns with my adorable sister and her family, and an ass-kicking opportunity to drink wine in Pebble Beach with the fabulous and talented wine executive VA. All of our favorite characters will be there ... Little Buddy, Lynn and other EDs we love  ... Wendy the County Fair Freak ... the whole lot.

On the way home, we'll zip through Reno and visit our country cousins. Sideburns, belt buckles, and photos will abound.

So, please stay tuned. It should be fun.

xoxo, Shawanda and Rico

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.

The Funeral is in Town! Bring the Kids!

Portland is a regular stop for the fine folks at Cirque du Soleil. Specifically, my 'hood is a favorite haunt of 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 chagrin.

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.

Blog Dogs

Portland, as we may have mentioned, is mecca for dog wackos.

As such, we have a whole community of literary dogs, with their own blogs. Up until this very moment, I only knew one dog with his own blog, and he was pretty uppity about it.

Well. Meet Bella--seen here, doing research for her blog, "Bella's Boxer Shorts." Just to add insult to Rico's injured previously uppity ego, Bella has an actual job, serving as the "Director of Goodwill" at Portland Public Relations Firm, Galvin Communications. To date, Rico has yet to contribute financially to our joint operation, unless you count the cookies he's garnered from his friends at PetSmart and the dog park.

Bella's momma, Ellen sits on the OWSA Board of Directors with me. I have clearly stumbled upon the right crowd of people. More about Bella and the world she's opened up soon.

Yuppy Puppy

Rico's a nature guy. He vacillates between longing for the sea and a walk in the woods. This year, though, we're immersing ourselves in an urban environment. And, loving it. Stretching our capitalist muscles, now and again, has its advantages.

This is the "Alphabet blocks" on 23rd Avenue. We love it because Rico is allowed into most of the stores. Like this one. We just went in, but I shuttled him out when he eyed the topiary like it was a urinal. A $1,000 you-pee-on-it-you-buy-it urinal.

And, William Sonoma ... which is also pet-friendly.

It was all as yuppy as can be. Tres Paris Hilton. All too much for us to do more than window shop. But we did so, fabulously.

Then, we found the Holy Grail of pet-friendly shopping: Noah's Bagels.

A pet-friendly restaurant? Well, not so much. But look! They had a little chihuahua holding tank:

Also known as a wheelchair elevator, it was an ideal place for him to wait for our bagels. Every store needs one. Why, oh why can't we get ADA-approved chihuahua holding tanks in every store?