warning: this is totally obnoxious

You know how when one of your bestest, funnest, closest, oldest, pick up right where you left off-est friends is in town so you go out for a rager to all your old stomps...

You've got to take a selfie, it's like the law.

But you know how when you're taking a selfie

If you don't lift your finger up from the screen

it just keeps taking photos?

and you know how when you realize this, it's the funniest thing you've ever seen/heard/known?

what else is there to do then, but collapse into idiocy and hysteria?

And of course, keep your finger on the screen

(another warning: if you scroll too quickly, you'll probably get drunk)

It's like the law.

Secret weapon

A week or three ago I did one of those silly quizzes on Facebook, you know, the ones that tell you which US city you should live in, how bitchy you are, which TV character you share a party style with, which adult beverage you are most like, etc, etc. ad nauseam.

What? You've never engaged in such fool time wasting? Well good for you. You're more disciplined than I. Possibly you have a less mind numbing job too.

But anyway, this post is about one of those silly quizzes that has actually stuck with me. (Full disclosure: Portland, 44%, Jesse Pinkman (!), beer.) But this particular quiz has done more than stick with me, it's got me interrupting old patterns, questioning my ability to change my reactions, and thinking in new ways.

Seems crazy, right?

The quiz was titled "What Is You Spiritual Power?" The friend who posted the quiz on her timeline ended up with Patience. With a capital P. Although I knew full well that that particular spiritual power was not my spiritual power, I was curious to know what was.

Turns out, it's Joy. With a capital J.

I scoffed at first. Joy? Me? I'm 44% bitchy, remember? And should be partying with Jesse Pinkman. Joy?

But as the minutes, then hours went on, this idea of Joy as my spiritual power stuck with me. Joy is a sort-of super power isn't it? We can choose it at any time. It's entirely up to us. It's there for us to use, free for the taking. Why not be Joyful? It's sort-of contagious too. You can spread Joy. You can receive Joy. Why not create it, then share it, or take some from the laughing toddler, pouncing cat, or puffy white clouds that kinda look like deformed rabbits?

By the next day I caught myself saying to myself, Joy is my secret weapon. When I realized what I had done, I had to laugh. I had subconsciously tweaked my power into a weapon. Some inane social media quiz had me pondering the power of using Joy as a "secret weapon" in my life.

But could I? I am not always Joyful, that's for damn sure. I can be downright dark and stormy; mopey and weepy. But I can certainly get there, if I try. At least most days.

Why not keep Joy in my hip pocket and pull out that badass motherfucker when needed? Or better yet, only relegate it to the linty dark corners of my pocket when absolutely necessary.

Failed family Christmas photo.

The Fever

I've got World Cup Fever; I've had it from the very first games -- er, matches -- of the group phase.

(You know who else has World Cup Fever? But pretends she doesn't? Mom. But that's not important right now.)

So, The Final Four.

Brazil.

Germany.

Argentina.

Ned*.

*(I call 'em Ned.)

Best possible final? Brazil-Argentina.

Worst case scenario? Germany-Ned.

I really want an all-South American Final.

But, I know. It doesn't really matter, not to my life. But I love the pageantry and the national anthems and the insanely awesomely crazy fans and the spectacle of it all. Hey, I don't follow diving or archery or downhill skiing or ice dancing all the livelong year either, but I love them every four years, too.......

So, today and tomorrow. The Final Four.

Let the best teams win.

Especially if they're Latin.

meanwhile, in Seattle

It's all about the love

To all the Americans

Who says we need to sew a Canadian flag on to our backpacks when we travel?! (Yeah, it's pretty tiny. But you can read it here.)

Happy 4th everyone!

Extra Hot Sauce

There's only one good reason to go to Yale/New Haven Hospital.

Wait. Strike that. There are plenty of good reasons to go to Yale/New Haven Hospital. Kidney Transplants! Brain Surgery! Aortic Dissection Repair!

Okay, but if you are not having a kidney transplant or brain surgery or repairing your dissected aorta, there is only one reason to go to Yale/New Haven Hospital.

The food trucks outside the main entrance.

Here's the main entrance. 

And here are some of the food trucks.

Seriously. Mistah and I, in the past, have gotten off the Interstate just so we could visit the food trucks. We were just that hungry. And they are just that awesome.

One can choose between . . .

. . . Ethiopian . . .

 . . . Thai . . .

 . . . Latin (and really, who doesn't love Latin food?) . . .

 . . . Chinese . . .

 . . . Mediterranean . . .

Random Pretty Girl

 . . . Bengali. Bengali! . . .

 . . . Vietnamese . . .

Mad Vietnamese man because we took his photo without buying his food. Next time, dude.

. . . and Italian. (Sold by non-English-or-Italian-speaking guys. Utterly perfect.)

Me, though? When I'm in town for a kidney transplant, or brain surgery, or an aortic dissection repair, I have eyeballs for one food truck and one food truck only.

Mamoun's, baby.

Best Lebanese food in town.

I'm not exactly recommending aortic dissection surgery, but if you are faced with it, and find yourself at Yale/New Haven Hospital? The felafel pita is aweome. Get extra hot sauce.

way back wednesday: sisters and sistahs

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 2008

Sisters and Sistahs

My girl has a brother, a relationship I’ve never known.
.Me? I’ve got sisters, and a boatload of 'em to boot.
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The six of us were born over eight years. Mnnnn hmmmm. Mom andDad kept trying and trying and trying and trying and trying until they got a good one. Then they sat back and saw that it was good. Or they sat back and said “holy shit, what have we done?!” 
.We sisters live all over the country, from Manhatten to Chicago to New London to Asheville to San Diego to Des Plains. But we are in constant contact, we probably average about 10 e-mails per day, sometimes shockingly more. We write about our daily lives, news, politics, sports, plans, ups, and downs.
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When we do get together, it is good.
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Sure, there is drama – they can’t all be perfect like me. But we all really like each other and everyone is hilarious and smart and articulate and it’s just a good bunch of women to surround yourself with.
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We sisters are always really sad and distant when we get together

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hey wait a minute, I'm not even in this one! enough of this trying to represent everyone. I just need more photo ops with Ann and Julie and Jane. Or I need to quit my job and blog full time so I can spend my days searching for and scanning photos that equally represent my peeps. Who's hiring for that? I'm totally in.. 

I wish I had a sister who lived close enough to grab dinner with, or dump my kids with, or sit on the beach with. But the absence probably makes my heart grow fonder, because I am very very fond. Oh, I’m fond.

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Thankfully, though I don’t always have my sisters with me, I do have my sistahs with me.
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I go waaaay back with my sistahs Beth and Aline. It was so great to rekindle the fun last weekend

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I like my sistah Beth so much I sometimes sleep with her
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Is this photo less scary when it's teeny?.

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I like my sistah Aline so much I sometimes dress up in Captain Morgan swag and strike poses at the racetrack with her
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nice dribble.

My baypark sistahs are fun, we all met when our kids were in Kindergarten together and we would get together for totally innocent playdates. Then we realized that we have more in common than children, like a penchant for Denny's at 2am.
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Here are my foxy sistahs Missy and Mary (hi Missy! hi Mary!)
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Here's my sistah Autumn Sunshine, we're being very grown up and normal (and foxy) here
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Here, this is more like it
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why am I even allowed out of the house? see how some sistahs know how to make a silly face and still look cute, while I go for aerosmith tongue and the crazy eyes.

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My girl doesn't have any sisters, and (God willing), she never will. But she's got sistahs aplenty.

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But I don't know, maybe there's something to be said for having a brother

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Don't even get me started on my brothahs. That's a whole other post.

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Do you have sisters? brothers? sistahs? brothahs? I love your stories almost as much as I love pasting my goofy-ass face all over the place. Tell.

Blow me away!

Aline is coming, Aline is coming, Aline is coming!!

I'm so excited, I know Jacquie is too. I'm extra excited because she is staying at my house! In preparation for her and her daughter's arrival, I had some serious cleaning to do.

I try to keep the house presentable, but I don't "deep clean" very often. The last time I cleaned thoroughly was when Dorothea and her people were coming to visit back in October.

So, suffice it to say, I spent some time at home this weekend digging in.

The girls rooms were the worst. So much dust and crap and nonsense to wade through.

I found all sorts of crazy shit.

But I almost fainted when I found this in my soon-to-be-10-year-old's closet.

Holy mother of god, serioulsy?

I mean, I KNEW it wasn't cocaine. I knew it, right?

Of course I knew.

But my first reaction was to sniff, then dip my finger in and taste.

Oh, thank the 8 lb baby Jesus, it is NOT cocaine.

What the hell is it? I have no idea. Nor do I care.

The point is, it's not cocaine.

And her room is clean.