In Chicago, the Rainbo is for carousing and Rainbow is for buying inexpensive and highly flammable polyester-blend clothing. Here, Rainbow is for grocery shopping. It's one of my favorite places to buy food in the city because — as silly as this sounds — there's no meat department, and the cheese selection is choice. Plus, unlike the cashiers at Safeway, the Rainbow workers do not call me Aldona Uburtis — which must be the fake name I gave when signing up for the corporate discount-club membership years ago.
Today I made the mistake of heading to the Rainbow Grocery on a mostly empty stomach. Fueled by that vacancy, any food that seemed even mildly appealing went into the cart. Gianduja bar! Apple cider! Sparkling apple cider! Hard apple cider! Cheese! Honeycrisps! Fake buffalo wings! All of it and so much more went into the cart with very little concern for cost. Unfortunately, my cavalier attitude and lack of food selectivity means that I hauled home $180 worth of snacks — by far the most I've ever spent on groceries in one trip. Our pantry is now overflowing with impulse buys of little nutritional value. If armed robbers burst through the door and demanded a sandwich, I could only feebly shake a box of ginger-caramel sesame popcorn at them. (And a variety of apple ciders from which to choose.)
After dropping off the car, I had a peculiar walk home. I crutched past a mostly toothless homeless guy whose leathery, suntanned skin was more or less the same color as his shirt. He took a break from digging in a trash bin to say, "Oh, what happened to you, baby?" He didn't say it in a sleazy way at all; the "baby" was tender, not leering. "I broke my foot," I said. He gave me a sympathetic smile and said, "You've got to be more careful." I smiled, thanked him, went on my way.
In the next block, a gaggle of lesbians were congregating at the beginning my street. "Ladies, ladies," I drawled. "I'm flattered, but you can't all walk me home." (I didn't really say that.) Honestly, it was intimidating to approach them. I got a lot of standoffish gay gazes, just like I did when walking around Portland with Megan in July. Back then, I had thought that the girls mistakenly assumed I was Megan's special ladyfriend, and perhaps they were giving me jealous dagger-eyes because of that. (Can you blame them? Megan's a catch.) But as I excuse me-d through the gaggle of glaring gay girls today, I wondered if maybe I give off some sort of weird vibe that rubs people the wrong way. Something to think about. On that note, the post title is not meant to be some slur-ish thing. I was just listening to the Raincoats earlier.
Today I made the mistake of heading to the Rainbow Grocery on a mostly empty stomach. Fueled by that vacancy, any food that seemed even mildly appealing went into the cart. Gianduja bar! Apple cider! Sparkling apple cider! Hard apple cider! Cheese! Honeycrisps! Fake buffalo wings! All of it and so much more went into the cart with very little concern for cost. Unfortunately, my cavalier attitude and lack of food selectivity means that I hauled home $180 worth of snacks — by far the most I've ever spent on groceries in one trip. Our pantry is now overflowing with impulse buys of little nutritional value. If armed robbers burst through the door and demanded a sandwich, I could only feebly shake a box of ginger-caramel sesame popcorn at them. (And a variety of apple ciders from which to choose.)
After dropping off the car, I had a peculiar walk home. I crutched past a mostly toothless homeless guy whose leathery, suntanned skin was more or less the same color as his shirt. He took a break from digging in a trash bin to say, "Oh, what happened to you, baby?" He didn't say it in a sleazy way at all; the "baby" was tender, not leering. "I broke my foot," I said. He gave me a sympathetic smile and said, "You've got to be more careful." I smiled, thanked him, went on my way.
In the next block, a gaggle of lesbians were congregating at the beginning my street. "Ladies, ladies," I drawled. "I'm flattered, but you can't all walk me home." (I didn't really say that.) Honestly, it was intimidating to approach them. I got a lot of standoffish gay gazes, just like I did when walking around Portland with Megan in July. Back then, I had thought that the girls mistakenly assumed I was Megan's special ladyfriend, and perhaps they were giving me jealous dagger-eyes because of that. (Can you blame them? Megan's a catch.) But as I excuse me-d through the gaggle of glaring gay girls today, I wondered if maybe I give off some sort of weird vibe that rubs people the wrong way. Something to think about. On that note, the post title is not meant to be some slur-ish thing. I was just listening to the Raincoats earlier.
Labels: san francisco, signs of latent homosexuality, strangers
I've never been a wedding-crazed girl, but I can't watch footage of Ellen and Portia's big day without getting all misty-eyed. It is so clear that they're in love, and so many people are happy for them. Seeing how they look at each other fills me with joy. I know it's silly because I don't know them, but they make me smile. I cannot understand why anybody would want to deny them their right to be married. It's not as though you can stop someone from loving someone else.
I don't watch Oprah very often, but today's show is a pretty big deal in the sense that it brings a lesbian couple into millions of homes. Portia and Ellen are funny, they adore each other, and they're so well-matched. In short, they're the kind of couple almost everyone would like to be.
I'm glad that Oprah had them on, because it's the kind of show that can have a large impact. I imagine that somewhere there's a closeted gay teenager who sees more evidence that he can come out and find a community that welcomes him. Somewhere else, there's a parent who might understand her gay child a little bit better. And perhaps someone who's against gay marriage might have a seed of doubt sprout. Or maybe I just liked the show because I'm an Arrested Development fangirl, I don't know. But these two nonetheless made my day. (Also, I like Portia's dress. So sue me.)
I don't watch Oprah very often, but today's show is a pretty big deal in the sense that it brings a lesbian couple into millions of homes. Portia and Ellen are funny, they adore each other, and they're so well-matched. In short, they're the kind of couple almost everyone would like to be.
I'm glad that Oprah had them on, because it's the kind of show that can have a large impact. I imagine that somewhere there's a closeted gay teenager who sees more evidence that he can come out and find a community that welcomes him. Somewhere else, there's a parent who might understand her gay child a little bit better. And perhaps someone who's against gay marriage might have a seed of doubt sprout. Or maybe I just liked the show because I'm an Arrested Development fangirl, I don't know. But these two nonetheless made my day. (Also, I like Portia's dress. So sue me.)
Labels: signs of latent homosexuality
When I was 17, I had an enormous crush on Derek. Immense. He worked at the record store, and I'd go there to purposely look for obscure records so I could talk with him more. Derek introduced me to Stan Getz and The Winter of Our Discontent and the Coen Brothers and all kinds of other good things that I still love. He never judged me for buying awful hardcore records, for which I am now thankful. Before I moved to Ann Arbor for college, I dressed up as him (yet another example of me being quite drag-king as a kid) and made my mother take a photograph. In it, I am wearing a Broken Hearts Are Blue t-shirt, dark green men's trousers, a slicked-back faux pompadour, and a smile.
Last night he informed me that I'm staying at the hotel where much of Combat Rock was written, which made my night. Then we had a quick hour today. Not enough time, of course, but it's funny how old friends always feel like home right away.
Last night he informed me that I'm staying at the hotel where much of Combat Rock was written, which made my night. Then we had a quick hour today. Not enough time, of course, but it's funny how old friends always feel like home right away.
Labels: new york, regression to adolescence, signs of latent homosexuality
I got the hair fixed, for those of you who asked. I look like Shane from the L Word now, which pleases me greatly: 
Also, since I am being egotistical anyway: The latest tv spot, which Josh says makes me sound Californian.
Also, since I am being egotistical anyway: The latest tv spot, which Josh says makes me sound Californian.
Labels: signs of latent homosexuality, weird obsession with finding perfect haircut
I can't sleep, so I decided to pull a Halloween costume together. I swear this isn't becoming a Morrissey-themed website, but I had everything in my closet. Obviously, the glasses aren't quite right-and then there's that whole "I'm not a flamboyant British man" thing—but for taking only five minutes to do this, it's entertaining enough. But few people would actually get the costume, and I'd be mistaken for a sullen, flower-loving drag king. (Which is fine but it's not the costume.)
Labels: halloween, morrissey, signs of latent homosexuality
Last night I dreamed this:
It was Thanksgiving, and I was at my parents' house. I was still in this limbo with Phil, who I knew was at our neighbor's house with his family. (In real life as in the dream, our neighbor is the father of my first high-school boyfriend, Ryan.) I wanted to send Phil a text message but couldn't get any service unless I did a stretchy yoga pose. I was nervous because I'd brought my girlfriend, who looked vaguely like Lindsay, to the house for Thanksgiving dinner. In the basement laundry room, I noticed that my parents had installed three black flat-panel televisions that hung upside-down from the ceilings. "We watch too much TV," I thought. Then I went upstairs to tell my family that the fake Lindsay was actually my girlfriend, and that we were at Thanksgiving dinner as a couple. My brother, who didn't look like any of my real brothers, started screaming that I was a sinner and that I was going to hell. My parents were confused. Fake Lindsay sat on my mother's lap, topless. To show his support, my father became a British drag queen; he wore a mousy brown bob and magenta rouge and sat in his recliner.
I walked outside and talked on the telephone with Marcy (who, again, in real life is Ryan's sister). "Phil is here and he keeps looking over toward your house, which is making his girlfriend upset," she said. I let out a loud and long howl, then ran through the forest to the road. I heard someone mimicking my howl from afar. I took a bus for a few miles and then hopped off near a campground where I used to swim as a child. My guitar was strapped on my back, and I walked east on a gravel road. I was hoping to run into Marcy and Phil. I found them playing soccer in the middle of the road, next to apple orchards. Marcy was on the sidelines, Rick was leaping impossibly high as the goalie, and Phil was there but wearing Ryan's face. "Everything is all right," he kept saying. "But your body isn't right," I told him. "And my father is a drag queen now." A car approached the soccer game, and then it all ended.
It was Thanksgiving, and I was at my parents' house. I was still in this limbo with Phil, who I knew was at our neighbor's house with his family. (In real life as in the dream, our neighbor is the father of my first high-school boyfriend, Ryan.) I wanted to send Phil a text message but couldn't get any service unless I did a stretchy yoga pose. I was nervous because I'd brought my girlfriend, who looked vaguely like Lindsay, to the house for Thanksgiving dinner. In the basement laundry room, I noticed that my parents had installed three black flat-panel televisions that hung upside-down from the ceilings. "We watch too much TV," I thought. Then I went upstairs to tell my family that the fake Lindsay was actually my girlfriend, and that we were at Thanksgiving dinner as a couple. My brother, who didn't look like any of my real brothers, started screaming that I was a sinner and that I was going to hell. My parents were confused. Fake Lindsay sat on my mother's lap, topless. To show his support, my father became a British drag queen; he wore a mousy brown bob and magenta rouge and sat in his recliner.
I walked outside and talked on the telephone with Marcy (who, again, in real life is Ryan's sister). "Phil is here and he keeps looking over toward your house, which is making his girlfriend upset," she said. I let out a loud and long howl, then ran through the forest to the road. I heard someone mimicking my howl from afar. I took a bus for a few miles and then hopped off near a campground where I used to swim as a child. My guitar was strapped on my back, and I walked east on a gravel road. I was hoping to run into Marcy and Phil. I found them playing soccer in the middle of the road, next to apple orchards. Marcy was on the sidelines, Rick was leaping impossibly high as the goalie, and Phil was there but wearing Ryan's face. "Everything is all right," he kept saying. "But your body isn't right," I told him. "And my father is a drag queen now." A car approached the soccer game, and then it all ended.
Labels: signs of latent homosexuality, sleep
On Friday night, I dreamed that Jennifer Love Hewitt and I were at a large media "industry party." I found her in the powder room, which was buttery yellow. And then we started getting our kissyface on. I remember thinking, "Aha. How odd. JLH's boobs are real, after all!" Latent homosexual symbolism aside, why am I fantasizing about Jennifer Love Hewitt? I can't stand her. I think she's horsey-looking. I think she's dimwitted and lacking talent. Of all the starlets for my dream-self to smooch, why is it her?
Labels: signs of latent homosexuality, sleep
