Phooey on Moby Dick

Visualize this: a log chipper and my copy of Moby Dick. In she goes. Halleluiah, I've given it up. No more rereading paragraphs that put me to sleep. No more fretting over my lack of enthusiasm. I officially will not, ever, in my lifetime, or within the span of eternity, finish Moby Dick.

Right now, it's sitting at the bottom of a stack of much better books (including Julian Barnes' Pulse, a collection of stories). It languishes alongside several others that I've read or am excited to read. I even added to that stack several self-help titles (which I hardly ever read *yawn*), and they were more exciting than Moby Dick.

I wasn't expecting excitement. I wasn't expecting it to be a page-turner. Heck, I didn't know what to expect, but whatever it didn't deliver, it didn't deliver. I understand everyone has an opinion. Share it if you want. I may go to literary hell for publicly pronouncing my blase attitude about Melville's classic work. It just didn't speak to me. It was self-torture to continue. I give myself permission not to go forth. Ah, that feels better.

#Portlandbloggers, A Fashionable Set

My toes ache looking at these.

Shoe sample. Tights are important.

Sensible shoes? Oh please. When Portland Bloggers go out on a Saturday night, comfort is not in the cards. This group of gals is probably one of the better dressed crowds in the city. I can make that declaration because, frankly, walk the streets and you'll see the fashion in Portland is un-fashion. On purpose. Women make a calculated effort here not to look pretentious while pairing together layers, vintage accessories, outrageous fabrics and knits for a hint-of-hip look. Tweed? Got it. Tank in January? Slap on a scarf. Patterns on posies? Perfect. The outfits are so counter-intuitive, they work.

Olga, ever the blogging documentarian.

But Portland Bloggers dress better, with a definitive nod to NY coupled with an Oregon sensibility.

This has nothing to do with my regular topic, writing, you might argue. But I went to the Portland Blogger Meet-Up party Saturday night and had fun hanging with about 25 other women bloggers, despite feeling my age. I was probably the matron of the group, but hey, I got out my hippest shoes and babydoll dress and drank a really sweet cocktail, thanks to Jenni Bost, a Portland blogger who masterminded every detail.

She made us blog-gals feel special, complete with complimentary gifts, my first for writing this blog! I won a gift certificate to Nuvrei, a patisserie and cafe, and went home with beauty and home products from Blue Strawberry Scents, Radiant Cosmetics and meme & saysay. I guess that means I'm officially a lapdog for commerce. Soon, a personal assistant will be serving me latte. Now, if I could just get someone to buy my books.

Enjoy perusing the other ladies' blogs while I get back to the novels.
A Well-Crafted Party
Samantha Rosen
Garden of Edlen
Mandi Makes
The Confessions of a Product Junkie
Teenie Tiny Blog
Charmed in PDX
Vintage Glamorous
The Paper Mama
The Whim Wham Life
Adventures in Dressmaking
Grace and Stella
Vintage Pretty Pearl
One Stylish Day at a Time
Justine Elizabeth
Peony Sweet
Cosmopolitan Gem
The Portland Pretty
It's the Simple Moments that Stick

Even Poets Suffer Typos

Darn the needles, crack the peanuts,
I blame my lot on screwy syntax,
scary prospects for the untested,
a faux-et whom no one's invested.

So I can't spell or use a colon,
semi- awful full of run-ons.
Find a hat trick in my spell check.
Erase the offense with a quick click.

Lick a stamp and send it somewhere
where the editors laugh and slumber
atop piles of other verses
drooling o'er the novice's curses:

Did I send it with a typo!?
Damn the jitters and the pinot.

A complete joker, need a smoke now.
I don't smoke, just hand me choco-
covered raisins, nuts and pretzels
until I climb out of this hell hole.

An Afternoon Scene

A sleeping dog and reading children,
the quiet hum of a heater.
The clock ticks.
My eyes ache and blink from the story underneath.
The four corners of the room fill with shadow.
And I am its chronicler.