Today, I thought my day was made when I had to belt my jeans.  I mean, there’s nothing like finding your pants are a bit loose after you’ve been working out to that end.

After a long Sunday of work, I stopped off at Whole Foods (Even though Portlandia Bike Guy told me they were coroporate) for some coconut lotion.  On my way out, I noticed some cute round soaps.  Two dollars was totally worth the epic bath that happened when I got home.  Who knew Jasmine could be just as relaxing as a soap as it is a tea.

Hopefully I’ll find the motivation to get up and work on my painting a little before bed.  Or start looking into apartments for when my lease is up.  Exhaustion, however, is currently winning the battle.



Painting eating my soul.


But it kind of looks better now.

Self Portraits

I am supremely sick of painting myself.  Ninety percent of my artwork is depictions of me; my face, my body, my hands and my hair have all become the crux of my collection.  This is becoming a serious problem.It’s getting to the point where I’m embarassed to show new paintings to my friends because I know they’ll laugh at me.

It’s not that I’m not a narcissist (I am).  It’s  easier to capture the poses and emotions that inspire a new painting when model for my own paintings.  Every time, I begin with the intention of using my body as a template and working the image into someone else, but somewhere in the middle I get distracted by the contours and end up with a weird version of myself on the canvas.

For someone who celebrates the differences in our bodies, this is a serious problem.

Maybe I’m just getting tired of bodies in general.  I love to look at them and I’ll never get tired of stepping away from my canvas and realizing that I’ve created something resembling a living, breathing thing.  But there’s a limit.  If I could reproduce the human form exactly and master the techniques of using oil pastels, maybe things would be different.  But as it stands, I need something new in my art-life or I’ll explode.

There’s hope on the horizon.  My newest (and biggest painting yet) was very exciting to me at first.  Then after I got a lot of laughs for it, I realized it was actually the most boring thing I’d ever painted.  The pose is supposed to be dynamic and strong, but those emotions are washed away by the plasticity of everything else.

I just have to keep reminding myself that being an artist isn’t about copying what can be seen through a camera, but what we can see for ourselves.


Obligatory Snow Post

It snowed in Portland today.  I slept through most of it.

The snow actually melted already and it’s just shy of noon,  but facebook is still atwitter with urban shock.

After neatly escaping my death twice this week, both times at the hands of bad drivers running red lights, I can safely say I’m thankful I decided not to leave my house until the snow melted.   People in Portland are not only clueless when it comes to driving in the snow; they’re just downright stupid.

Now I’m settled into my seat at the World Cup Cafe at Powell’s with a nice cup of Yerba Mate.  Hopefully I’ll get some romance writing done today to add onto the whole page I cranked out yesterday.


The Foam Question

The other day,  Boyfriend and I had coffee at Public Domain (an edgy coffee shop on Broadway).  While admiring the sexy latte art on our coffees, we noticed that the barista had given both of us an intricate leaf pattern while the high-maintenance customer in front of us had gotten a simple, white, heart-like, glob.  It was, as Boyfriend remarked, as if the foam was being used to denote customer worth.

High-maintenance Lady had asked for a “no foam latte”.  In response to this request, Cashier put on a look that could have frozen iced coffee.  After collecting herself, she politely explained that while most everyone elses foam sucks, Public Domain foam actually rocks.  High-maintenance Lady bowed to the superior intellect of Cashier who bellowed “Don’t make her hate our foam” to the barista.  Heh.

Better customers get cuter lattes.  End of story.

Sore Throat

I spent the better part of the morning drinking some mate tea and writing at the Powell’s coffee shop, through the haze of my cold.  That was a productive time. I’m feeling somewhat better now, but still hazy.  Maybe you can tell.

I did a little bit of strumming on Matilda tonight.  I wish I could have done more but my throat is starting to act up.

MMMmmmmm Odwalla C Monster.  Yes, please.  Bed? YEssssss please.


I wanted so bad to write a blog post I spent the whole day thinking about.  But I thought that after work I’d get my chores done before writing.  You know, do my laundry, go to the gym, all that.

I’ve been battling a sore throat for three weeks now, and today it decides to turn into horrible, delusional illness.  I can’t think straight enough to write coherant sentences.   Or can I?

But the most frustrating thing?  I already told the Boyfriend that I had this awesome blog post planned today.  Oh well.  It will happen tomorrow when I can write it right.

… and maybe when I stop spacing out for hours at a time and forgetting to publish this piece of crap.

Practing My Singing Voice

There is a portion of my mind that is confused about why my Boyfriend isn’t here.  Realistically, I said my tearful good-byes to him at the MAX stop this morning and watched as he sped off into the distance.  And practically, I know he is flying somewhere over the Pacific ocean right now, probably beginning his descent into Honolulu.  But there is some small glimmer of hope, deep down in the depths of my impractical mind, that is wondering why he isn’t coming home to me.

After this heavenly week of each others company, it’s hard to go back to living alone.  The Boyfriend’s jackets are strewn around my apartment, making the illusion that he might return at any moment so much more prevalent.  He left them here because he said he didn’t need them in Hawaii.  But I’m pretty sure he left them here in the same way that girls leave tampons and changes of underwear at their boyfriend’s apartments.  Testing the limits.  Staking a claim.  I love it.  It’s just a concrete reminder that he’s planning on seeing me again.

I’m still in a blur.  I can’t decide if I’m completely falling apart or thoroughly overjoyed.  How do you deal with the best week of your life giving way to yet another good bye?  You keep on going, I guess.  Things don’t feel the same as they did before (do they ever?).  We are back to coping with the distance, but I  feel like two thousand miles is even less of a barrier for our future than I did before.  Nothing is making me give this up.

There is so much that I want to say about this week that isn’t ready to come out of my fingertips.  I’m exhausted after a long day of work and two days of crying.  I just want to curl up in my bed, practice a little ukulele, and hear my Lover’s voice all the way from Hawaii.  Then maybe I’ll be able to stop belting out “Death Cab For Cutie” songs and get a little sleep before I have to work early tomorrow morning.

An Extra Night

There was no post last night because the Boyfriend’s flight was cancelled and we got an extra night to spend together.  Now we’re going to breakfast.  I’ll post something substantial tonight if I can stop crying. (Such a crybaby, I know).

This Is For You

You know who you are.  I am still distracted from blogging.  I have on more day to enjoy the Boyfriend and by goodness, I’m going to . . . once I recover from this sugar high that is.   After donuts, coffee, yerba mate, lebanese food, and chai, I think I should either run a few miles or take a nap.  Probably the latter.