For those of you who don’t know, my name is Alisa Starr, and I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. They will crack you the fuck up.

For the last few months, I’ve had a lot of Big Stuff happen. I was in a relationship, which messed with my identity. Because I haven’t had a relationship in about ten years. And it ended in a fiery explosion of suckiness. And then I was heart-broken. When things were at their best with Magnum, I was freaked, completely freaked out. “It’s like I spent the last 17 years building this brick wall, and he burst in and punched a hole through it.” I complained to Arlette. “That’s not true. You’ve been taking the wall down, slowly for the last few years. It’s a little more like you got it down from 10 feet to 3 feet high, and he came and kicked those bricks over.” She countered. I harumphed. I didn’t like that I was letting someone in that close. But I couldn’t help myself. I was in love with him. And I haven’t been in love since I was a teenager.

I know this doesn't really fit the post, but I like putting pictures in. And since this post is about my inner turmoil, I thought I'd show you pretty pictures of me. Hoping my boobs would ease the suffering of having to read this. Yes, I'm wearing clown panties.

I knew he would leave me. So did he. I just hoped that before he did, we would have some good times. And I would feel like I was good at it. The boy girl thing, I mean. I just wanted a little hope. Instead, he hurt me as hard as he could and then he left. In retrospect, I should have expected that he was the kind of person who hurts others because he’s unhappy. My parents were those kinds of people. And it would have been a lot to hope for that I’d gotten over my shit enough to date outside my type. We re-enact the most painful things that happen to us over and over again, until we realize that we can’t fix it. And then, hopefully, we move on.

The fact that I was in a relationship kinda fucked with me. The fact that I was broken-hearted rocked my world. For the last four months, I’ve been trying to put back together my sense of myself.

It’s been17 years since I’ve been hurt so badly. Men don’t hurt my feelings. They piss me off. I think that the fact of my pain was worst to me than the pain itself. I just kept thinking I’d made a terrible mistake. My friends were sympathetic, but in the end, they’d shrug and say “Well, yeah, DUH. Sometimes it doesn’t work out and you get hurt.” And then they’d keep talking. But I couldn’t hear whatever came after that. Because I was stuck. Alisa Kay Starr doesn’t get hurt. When a boy pisses her off, she goes out to the bar, and finds another boy to go home with, and she keeps doing that until she can’t remember why she liked the boy who pissed her off in the first place.

But that scenario was not this. I was mopey. And I couldn’t imagine sleeping with anyone who wasn’t Magnum. And I couldn’t figure out what to do with myself to get over it. I asked a few other people about break-up procedures and got nowhere. I wanted a ritual. Something to do with myself while I was waiting for time to do the thing that time usually does. And as I floundered for something to do, I began to question my identity more. I think I was just stunned that anyone got that close. And I felt like an idiot for letting Magnum in. All of which are normal feelings, according to the regular people I know. But they weren’t normal for me. And the fact that I was hurt made me feel like I’d made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake. And the thing was, I’d waited for him. I never told him this, in fact, I haven’t told very many people this, Internets, but while I’m confiding, I might as well get it all out. I wanted to move last year. But some part of me knew that he’d be free, and we’d hook up, and so I stayed, waiting for him. That little voice in the back of my head, which tells me which cards to give which girl, and when leave for the bus (Alisa doesn’t have a watch. Alisa has intuition. God, talking about myself in the third person is kinda icky.) told me to wait for Magnum. So I did. And being with him gutted me.

This is my most popular card of all time. I don't need any intuition for this card. I just hand it to everyone.

So, naturally, I started to doubt my intuition. The thing is, I depend on my intuition a lot. Snarky Cards is based on it. I try to make as many smarty-pants decisions as I can. But a lot of selling my art isn’t based on the bottom line. Some of it is me, meeting someone, and 30 seconds later, coming up with a pile of cards that fit their life perfectly. People think I’ve read their mind. And I have. It’s my own little psychic trick.

If I don’t trust those instincts, I screw up. But more than that, I start feeling insecure, and then I really screw up. When I get insecure, that part of me that can figure out how you feel about your lover, or you father is operating without any kind of constraint. And so for no apparent reason, I start talking about how much better my relationship has gotten with my grandmother since she died. And your face crumples, and it turns out that your grandmother was the most important part of your life, and she died two days ago. No shit, that kind of stuff happens all the time when I’m not listening to my intuition. Obviously, making people angry/sad is not good for business. And stepping on other peoples feelings depresses and frustrates me. I’ve been able to pull things out of people since I was 11 years old. Being able to pull a grown-ups’ secrets out of them scared the shit out of me as a kid. It took me a long time to figure out what to do with what people tell me, and how to leave their stuff alone. So when I suck at it, it makes me feel 11 again. Overwhelmed by my lame psychic powers.

So, I felt stupid, and sad, and alone, and bad at relationships. And I thought seriously about giving up on Snarky Cards. Because if I can’t read people, I can’t sell. If I can’t sell, I might as well just go try to get a Real Job. And anyway, I am clearly no longer a slut. I don’t drink that much anymore. What’s the point of my tiny little career, anyway? And so on and so on. You get the point, the more I questioned myself, the less sense my life made.

Me and Arlette at our favorite bar in San Francisco

Which makes a lot of sense. My identity was completely changed by Magnum. It’s still changing, in a really big way. And that kind of shift is scary. I don’t think I started to be OK until Arlette came for the weekend. We were going to go out and take over Portland with our unified radness. But in the end, we had a slumber party weekend. We dyed my hair, and went to the goodwill, and Arlette made amazing food, and we talked about stuff, and watched the first season of Veronica Mars. And by the time she left, I felt a little more like myself again. We’ve been best friends for 8 years. And I think I just needed to be with someone I love, who loves me, so that I could feel like “Maybe I don’t suck at this. Maybe I don’t always make shitty decisions about love. Maybe it’s OK that I made a mistake with Magnum.”

And, of course, there’s Karate. Karate and I have been going home from the bar, off and on for the last year. Not seriously. Never more than once a month. But still, it’s the longest I’ve ever had any kind of sexual relationship. And Karate and I see each other at the bar at least once a week. We’re friends with the occasional benefit. In the wake of my Veronica Mars weekend, I think I was feeling stronger. Whenever I’ve been annoyed with the way things are between me and Karate, I tell him, and he thinks about it, and then he does what he can. It was late, and I’d had a lot of whiskey. “You make me feel like I’m good at this stuff.” I sniffled into my drink. He smiled. “You’re really good at this stuff.” he reassured me. From there he went on to say how I’m fucking beautiful. And how I make great art. And, in the end, he was just so nice to me.

The best thing about my relationship with Magnum is that I was so hurt afterwards, I had a hard time walking. He didn’t hit me. But he said some pretty terrible things to me before he ran away. And I think some of my identity un-hinging, was me realizing I just couldn’t be with assholes anymore. They’re my type. It’s my Daddy Issues. I’m always trying to make up with Jon. Not actually with him. Jon is an asshole. He has done and said some horrible things to me. He can’t fix a lot of the shit he’s done. No. My relationship with my actual father is over. And so I date assholes. I think when I was in my early twenties, I thought that it was love when a guy told me I was worthless. Therapy relieved me of that retarded notion. But as I got older, I think I really was trying to figure out if I could make it work with someone who treats me like shit. As practice. Hoping if I could win over an asshole, and get one to act right, I could take those asshole-taming skills back to my father, and give it one last shot. But with Magnum, I think it was just purely habit. And when it was over, and I was literally limping with heart-break, I realized, I have to give up assholes entirely. I need a lot of confidence and a good amount of peace of mind in order to do my job. And I can’t sacrifice any of that to a lover.

Which freaked me out further. I mean, I’m no longer a slut. I’m now a girl who has feelings. And those feelings can get hurt. And so, I can’t date assholes anymore. Some part of me just believed that I would never get laid again. No-one bitches about not getting laid as much as nice guys. It’s a little ironic that I was destitute, because all of a sudden I realized someone would have to be REALLY nice to me in order to get my clothes off. And I just didn’t believe that would ever happen. Maybe because I’ve never had a romantic relationship with someone who was really nice to me.

So, when Karate swept me off my feet, with his compliments, and his kindness, I happily followed him home. And sleeping with Karate again, really made me feel like it’s going to be OK. Karate is a great lover. So, I didn’t feel like I was trading anything in for the niceness of him. And it reassured me that I will have just as many nice lovers as I want.

Beauty and The Beast is still my favorite movie. I mean, she reads, she says what she thinks, she has brown hair, and she turns an asshole into a Prince. It's like Disney selling me my own story.

And, so I figured out that, yeah, all this shit is different. I’m loving differently. I’m letting people in. And that means that my ups and downs will be higher and lower. And I have to let go of this angry slutty girl I used to be. But if I were telling the truth on myself, I’d say that while I was that angry, slutty girl; I incessantly wrote poetry, and I lived for didactic feminist literature. I scrap-booked like crazy. And I was still sentimental as Hell. I really wanted a dog. And I over-identified with Disney movies. I was never adeptly described by two words. No matter how rad those words were. So maybe letting go of those two words is not the end of an identity.

So, I’ve come back to myself. I still like to give strangers advice. I still like to go to bars, no matter how much I drink when I get there. I still like to flirt with every man I meet, whether I go home with them indiscriminately or not. This last month, I’ve started to realize that I’m not ready to give up on Snarky Cards yet. And as my confidence grows back, my intuition comes with it. And I get a little better at all of it.

So, you can see why it’s been so long in between posts. I think that the last time I posted, I was in the middle of this. I wanted to wait until I saw my way out of it a

Me and my typewriter, Bob, and my tits, and my cards

little bit before I wrote about it. I’m still trying to scrape together enough money to move to Seattle in October, and so you might see me out selling at the bars. These days I tend to stick to my favorites: Gold Dust Meridian, Circa 33, North 45, 21st Ave Bar and Grill and my beloved Muu-Muu’s. So, if you want a Snarky Card, from a chick who is trying to pull her head together, stop by any of those bars on a Friday or Satuday night, and keep an eye out for my tits, which will be hanging out of whatever slutty red dress I’ve recently found at the good-will. I’ll happily show you the new shit. And with a $20 purchase, you get a free motor-boat.

Love,

Alisa

Here are some cute girls laughing at my newest selections last weekend!

Dear Internets,

For those of you who don’t know, my name is Alisa Starr. I make Snarky Cards. I sell them from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. They will crack you the fuck up. I also have them in 35 different stores, mostly in the Northwest, but I have a few satellite stores in San Francisco, Louisville, Seattle and New York. I love my stores. So, I’m making a concerted effort to give them their props from now on.

So, I’m writing to tell you that Emerald Petals has gotten a new stash of Snarky Cards! Last week on my way home from therapy (yes, Alisa’s brain has gotten a little spazztastic lately. So, I’m back on the couch). I dropped off a new batch of Snarky Cards at Emerald Petals on Mississippi.

Hilary's pretty hot, right? And look at her picking out new Snarky Cards!

Emerald Petals is an eclectic mix of gardening shop and flower shop. Hilary, who owns the joint is sweet and knowledgeable. And she also looks pretty hot in her shop apron.

Sexy Succulents available at Emerald Petals!

They have a lot of cacti in right now. My Grandma was a sucker for succulents. She had two greenhouses full of them. And looking around Emerald Petals, I remember that I didn’t even realize that Grandma’s “plant room” was actually the nicest bathroom in the house. They had 7 people living in that tiny house, and she had the balls to make sure nobody used that third bathroom. Because it was for plants.

Grams love of these prickly pants confounded me as a child. First, they required dirt, which I thought was gross. And they are part of nature. Which I was pretty sure is always trying to kills us, due to some traumatic family camping trips. And she could spend hours watering them, and doing other mysterious things with them, I didn’t know about (I’m assuming there was trimming) because I wasn’t allowed to go into the greenhouses. Because I was a kid, and I could totally fuck some shit up, if left unsupervised. And the greenhouses were her sacred space. All of which I kinda resented. In case you can’t tell.

It's a pretty sweet shop to browse through, right?

So, looking around Emerald Petals, having smelled the fresh tulips, I tried to make my peace with the cacti. And I realized that all those plants required the work of love. Which is something I think I’m only grasping as an adult. Love means coming over to fix a friend’s couch, or taking her out for drinks so that she can talk about her broken heart. Love is Kay helping me take my first shower after I broke my leg. And Grams worked hard at loving those plants. Two greenhouses kept her busy. In the frame of all things dirty and sweet smelling,  I finally started to get gardening a little bit. It’s the work of love. I like to think my relationship with Grams got a little better, because I stopped by the shop. She’s dead now. So, our relationship doesn’t grow as much as it did when she was around. And I try to treasure the little movements towards understanding her better.

So, if you’re in Mississippi, and you want to get some fresh Tulips, or some beautiful cacti, or some of the newest, raddest Snarky Cards, stop by and say hi to Hilary, and get your hands a little dirty. You might not make-up with your dead Grandma, but I know you’ll feel better afterwards.

Love,

Alisa

For those of you who don’t know, my name is Alisa Starr. And I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. They will crack you the fuck up. I mostly haunt the bars of Portlandia, but I’ve been known to show up on Capital Hill, in Seattle, and I love The Mission in San Francisco.

Over the years, I’ve haunted a lot of different bars in Portland. I’ve walked into almost every single place that sells liquor in order to pay rent, or spread the good news of Snarky Cards. Muu-Muu’s is in Northwest Portland. I started selling there two years ago. And it became a staple on my route. I make a lot of money there. Almost every night in Muu-Muu’s is a $100 night.

But once I started selling there, Snarky Cards became a group project. And the kids who work there: Choia, Justin, Mark, Loren, Moira, Alonzo, Kevin and Noah, Big Voice Steve, all feel pride in my success. Because they’re part of it. They help me sell. They hype me up. They let me come in, and they like to show off my cards to anybody who’s drinking. They listen to my problems, and they tell me their shit. And we dance, and we work together, and we bitch about the same customers. And we hang out with the same regulars.

The magic of the Muu-Muu’s is that you can walk in not knowing anybody and if you sit at the bar, you make friends with your neighbors and the bartenders and you start to get that “We’re all in this together” feeling. Big parties and couples-in-love inhabit the tables, and you can see people falling for each other, or hear the uproarious laughter from across the room.

Like these two hot people, sitting at the bar, right? You could hook up with one of them next time you pull up a barstool at Muu-Muu's

And, little known fact, if you sit at the bar, there’s a pretty good chance that you’ll find someone you wanna chat up, or you’ll find that someone hot is chatting you up. Not always. Sometimes the frat boys and hoochie mama’s who drink at The Gypsy invade the bar space, but most of the time, there’s some pretty good game getting thrown down at the bar itself. And I love me some good game. It’s fun to watch the hot boys and girls who go there to drink eyeing each other and trying.

A few weeks ago, I walked in and I saw the “Snarklandia” sign and my heart jumped. It was posted up at the bar, on the back of the taps. It was a low night. I’d been telling myself that nobody really likes me. And any second now I’d get kicked out of every bar in town, because they were sick of my tits, and my schtick, and my cards. I was having the “Big Alisa Meeting” fantasy/fear. Sometimes I tell myself that after I’ve left a bar, the staff gets together and has a meeting about how they’re all sick of me.

See why the dudes who fall for me have to move to an island afterwards to recover? Part of that is my hotness. Displayed here.

It’s not based in reality. I mean, bars have gotten sick of me before. But only a few bars. And it was mostly in the beginning, before I could gage where I could/should sell, when I was just blindly trying shit. I wasn’t friends with the people who ran those places. And I didn’t want to be. The Big Alisa Meeting fantasy/fear is loosely related to the “Ex Lover Island”. Which is something I cooked up a long time ago. I’m pretty sure that all the people I’ve ever slept with or dated are all living on an island together, where they have therapy (directly related to the trauma of sexing/liking me) and they form a support group on the island for whatever damage I’ve inflicted. Also, they divide chores fairly. Once an ex of mine has sufficiently recovered from the scars I left on him, he’s allowed a day-pass into the real world. From what I gather, this island has a good wi-fi connection. Because occasionally those fuckers try to friend me on Facebook.

Alisa and Arlette! I would have thrown KT up here too, but she hates to have her image captured by the internet.

So, today, firmly rooted in reality, I know that my bartender friends always seem happy to see me, but the relationships feel fragile. And I sometimes think one wrong interaction, one misstep, and their smiles will turn into looks of resignation at my presence. It’s probably just an extension of my basic insecurity. I am a bad-ass bitch. Who worries sometimes that nobody likes her. I don’t think I even knew that the Big Alisa Meeting fear was happening to me as often as it was, or how ludicrious it sounded, until I went to San Francisco, and I confessed it to Kaytea and Arlette. One of them laughed. And the other one said “That’s fucking bullshit, stop it!”. I don’t remember who did what. It doesn’t matter, because at that point they had become one seamlessly perfect best friend. And I was so grateful to let her handle all of my bullshit. After that, I got that the Big Alisa Meeting is a bullshit fantasy I’d concocted, and not a real possibility.

But this is before that. So, I was too nervous to ask right away if the SnarkLandia sign was about me. I hoped it was. But I didn’t want to say anything about on the off-chance that they’d be like “Well, actually, we had a meeting and we decided we don’t like you anymore. I don’t know who put that sign up.” I asked Moira If I could draw some boobs on the sign. And she was delighted to let me. And those three seconds of drawing calmed me down. And I let go of my fears. And I realized that whether the sign was about me or not, that bar is my home. And somehow I just… I started trusting that my friendships there are real. They love me for me. And they love me when I’m not super-on. And they love me when I’m tired. And they love me when I’m a little sad. I fell in love with the bar right then. And I included it in my idea of home.

And then Choia bought some of my Snarky Panties. Which she promptly put on her head. And I danced to the kick-ass music in the aisles, while I sold my cards to everyone in the bar. And the magic of that place infected me. And now, when I’m nervous about selling, or when I’m having a hard night, I tell myself that I’m going to end up at Muu-Muu’s. I promise myself that I can bullshit with my friends at the end of my night, and it gets me through until I can walk through that awesome door one more time.

So, if you’re wondering where I’m at, there’s a good chance I’m headed to Muu-Muu’s.Or maybe I’m already there. You should come by.

Love,

Alisa

For those of you who don’t know, my name is Alisa Starr, and I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. They say horrible things and will crack you the fuck up. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. And I have them in 35 different stores.

For the last two weeks, I’ve been working like crazy to get all of my stores my Christmas Cards. It’s been really hard, in the last six months to keep up. Handmaking enough cards to sell to my retailers as well as to sell in bars has become overwhelming. This year I’m going to have to start printing the majority of the cards I sell.

But before I can do that, I have to come up with the money for the printing. Snarky Underwear have been selling, and they have the magical Profit Margin that Snarky Cards lack. And with some of the profits from Snarky Underwear, I’ve been able to buy a Samsung Vibrant! Which will allow me to use the square! Which will allow me to accept credit cards in bars!

All of this means that I should be able to sell more underwear, and sell more cards more quickly, helping me save up for that very expensive next step in my business: Automation!

Anyway, that’s the plan. Using new technology makes me incredibly nervous. I have a little breakdown every time I have to get a new computer, or a new phone, or a new television. I know in my head that the new thing will ultimately make my life easier. However, there is some superstitious part of me that believes that my brain is almost at capacity right now. And in order to learn something new, I’ll have to erase something old. And I like all of the shit I’ve got in my head already. I don’t want to erase anything. I know that according to science we only use 10% of our brains. I mean, I know that Science says that. But Science and I are not best friends, and I don’t always believe everything that smarmy son-of-a-bitch says. I know that I lose things over time. I used to know the names of hundreds of authors, when I worked in bookstores. And I could tell you the nuances of each one’s writing. Or what kind of person likes to read each one. And now when I try to remember someone from the best seller list to make fun of them, my brain stutters, and stops.

So, I’m just saying, I lose things. And I don’t want to lose anything else. Which means I don’t want to change. And this is the little temper-tantrum I have when I have to get something new. This week was especially traumatic, because not only did I have to get the Vibrant, but I also had to replace Bob, my beloved typewriter.

Me and Bob

Bob and I have been together for almost 3 years. I love him very much. But his keys started sticking and skipping, and his case wouldn’t close, and I just couldn’t use him anymore. As I said, some of my stores are still waiting for their Christmas Cards. So, I couldn’t afford to go without a typewriter. So, I went down to Smut, and found Louie Fatass. -Pronounces Fa-tass. It was Fat Ass, but when Louie came over on Ellis Island they smooshed it together. Because the jerks at Ellis Island fuck everyone’s name up.

Smut is my go-to place for typewriters. I got Bob at Smut. Smut is a gorgeous store, just off of East Burnside and 20th Ave. Right next to Holman’s. It’s well lit, and full of not-so-old things. They have records, and typewriters, and Garbage Pail Kids. It’s kind of a wonderland of the awesome and the comforting.

They clean their typewriters carefully, and all of the typwriters they have there (for a pretty reasonable $50-$70 each) work perfectly. Most of them have cases as well. The cute girl working that night was reassuring, which was nice, because I was distraught.  I didn’t want a new typewriter. It felt like cheating. Buying a new one was a hard thing to do. And I couldn’t moon about it, and put it off, like I do with most hard things, because I needed a typwriter. Right away.

Louie

Louie’s type is different: cleaner. And his keys feel a little closer together than Bob’s. But overall, he works, and so I’m trying to catch up with all of my responsiblities with him.

And don’t worry, I’m going to fix Bob. I already emailed Blue Moon: The big typewriter-fixers in town. They said that they can fix him, for only $55. So, in the next month I’ll have Bob back, and Louie Fatass can be my back-up.  Everything worked out perfectly fine, right? Not quite.

Yesterday, was my upset day. I woke up and my back was covered in blisters, hot to the touch and bright red. Some idiotic woman I met at a Craft Show the day before had told me that bed-bugs are coming to Portland. So I spent the entire morning alternately trying to look at my back in the mirror, crying and trying to remember if I’d picked up anything off the street and brought it home to wear in the last few days.  I had not. And Claire had not. I looked up bed-bugs online. It didn’t itch, and so I’m happy to say that we’re bed-bug free. I did have a chemical burn on my back. One of the ice-packs I’d used the night before to calm my poor battered back had leaked . And I hadn’t noticed it. Apparently it takes a highly toxic chemical to create a re-usable ice pack. And so my back is raw and blistered. I spent the day worrying about my freakish wound, trying to make the new fucking phone work, and trying to learn how to use Louie. When I finally got to my Chiropractor, I was sure that life was not worth living.

Doesn't Cyndi look nice? Isn't it sad that I spread my misery to her?

Cyndi is a genius. She assured me that I definitely had a chemical burn, and that I would be all right in a week. She also didn’t think that my despair was cute. In fact, I think I brought her mood down a few notches. I left her office feeling physically better, but totally coginzant that my little temper-tantrum needs a time-limit. So I went home, and knitted with Claire and her friend Cocoa and we watched SVU. And somewhere in the middle of the third rape/murder trial, I figured out how to use the phone, and I realized my back would heal, and Claire said it was OK for me to just give up and go to bed early. I didn’t need her permission, but sometimes when I’m sulking, or overwhelmed, I like to have other people tell me what to do.

More Christmas Cards to come! Thanks to Louie Fatass!

So, now that I’ve had my day of sulk, I can get on with the hard things, and figure out how to make do with all of the awesome shit I had to buy myself in order to bring my business to a better place. Most of the pictures you see here are brought to you by the Vibrant! And my rent will be brought to us by Louie Fatass. And in the end, these crisis’s were not even a little bit scary. I had to borrow money to buy Bob, from Kay 3 years ago. And I was sure that not having a working typewriter meant my career was ending. This was an inconvenience that was hard on me emotionally. I think that my life has gotten a lot better over the last few years. So thanks for listening to me whine about my medium-sized crisis’s.

Love,

Alisa

I am back from San Francisco. Coming back from California is always weird for me. When I’m there, my phone rings constantly; friends, needing to know where I am and when I’m going to come hang out, giving me suggestions for where I can sell. Cute Californian boys trying to lure me into bed.

In San Francisco I’m the hot new thing. When people see my cards for the first time, they scream. And they have more money in SF than they do in Portland. So after they stop screaming, they buy more cards.

In Portland, I’m a staple, a “very Portland phenomenon” and people nod and smile and say “Nice to see you again”. They  say “I’ve always wanted to meet the person who does this.” And shrug when I ask if they wanna look at the new cards. They say “Oh, I can buy them at Tiny’s.” Or, “I see these all over!” and I have to work a little harder to dazzle them, to eek my rent out of my Snarky Cards.

I love my Portland life, but it’s very solitary. I spend about 90 hours a week making cards, or selling cards. Most of my good friends are Bad-Ass Bitches who own their own businesses. And they’re busy, trying to build their empire. So I steal a girls night here and there. So the phone is silent, and I’m old hat here, and switching between the two worlds is confusing, and a little depressing.

Pegasus Bookstore! Now carries Snarky Cards!

In conclusion: I love The City. And the City seems to love me back. It’s a nice change from the solitary life in Portlandia.

As of last week, Pegasus Books now carries Snarky Cards! It took a year, but Victory is now mine! Now that one store has succumbed to my charms, more will fall! Mooo-hahahahaha! (Is that an evil laugh? I can’t tell. I tried to sound it out, but I’m not sure if I nailed it or not.) So if you love Snarky Cards, and you need some, and you live in the Bay Area, you can go to Pegasus and get yourself some!

Divorce Season's around the corner people! Dig it! I can comfort you in time of need, and help you get laid again!

But as I get used to the sweetness of my own company again, I find myself becoming one with the Portland Art Scene once again. I’ve been going out selling at bars almost every night this week. This Saturday, I’ll be at Missisipi Pizza, getting my groove on to The Chapman Swifts. And this Sunday I’ll be at Crafty Wonderland, with my typewriter, Bob, bringing you custom Snarky Cards, and sage advice for those feeling lost in love.

The Glorious Spencer, the delightful designer of Brother West, fashion for smart people!

Ok, so First Thursday @ Radish Underground rocked! It was awesome. The booze was yummy, so were the snacks. Spencer, the featured designer, was delightful, and I got to rock out with my Dickleganger, Ammon.

We talked about 80′s television and I gave him some new TV recommendations. And then we both found out that we’ve both just started swimming!

I hate exercise, but being in the water is the closest thing to comfort I can find that isn’t drinking or having sex with strangers. I realized recently that I can’t stay a slutty alcoholic forever. It’s just not physically possible, and I need to develop additional coping mechanisms in case I get a venereal disease, or psoriasis of the liver. So the last month, I’ve made a point of going to the pool more and more often.

This isn't me at the pool, this is me at the river, but I am wearing a bathing suit, I figure you can imagine the rest.

Ammon just started swimming too. Which is weird. He’s even started watching videos on You Tube about swimming. I guess he’s just learning all the strokes now. I was on the swim team when I was a kid, and I’ve had tons of swimming classes. They were a great opportunity for my mother to flirt with cute young boys, so she made sure to sign us up every summer. So I don’t need to geek out in front of the computer, most of my work is when I’m in the pool, trying to get up the courage to try the butterfly, or remembering how to breathe and swim at the same time, without drowning.

Gina, Ammon (my Dickleganger) and Celeste! Aren't they gorgeous?

It’s weird to have a Dickleganger. I mean, I never expected to meet someone who thinks the same way I do. I’ve spent my whole life hearing about how I’m unique, or different, or (the worst ever) spunky. I bet you Ammon never got spunky. Spunky is what you call girls who unnerve you. Or, at least that’s what it means when someone calls me spunky. It’s a nice way of saying that I scare the shit out of them. Which is OK. I’ve been scaring grown people since I was a kid. I’d accepted that it was my lot in life. The idea that there was another version of me out there never really occurred to me. I thought KT was as close to that as I would ever get. And half the time, I have no idea what she’s talking about. It’s so nice to find a person in the universe, who knows what I’m talking about all the fucking time. At least so far. I’m sure at some point, our lives will stop symmetrically lining up, and we will find things that are different, and life will go on in the universe, with that sense of alone-ness that I’ve always carried with me. But for now, it’s nice to be completely, and consistently understood, by a boy, who is my platonic friend. And that’s kind of the bonus too: I love that he and Gina are happily-ever-after-ing. It’s like, even though I’m not romantic, or involved in romance, he is. And that means that maybe there’s hope for me.

Don’t worry, the Vagina Spiders have been banished, and I’m still up to some of my old tricks, and as a tribute to my bad sexual decisions and yours, I give you: My Need for Therapy. A card to give someone you had sex with, who you never want to sleep with again. Because, you know, you figured out mid or post-coitus that you were only having sex with them because you’re crazy. I hope it comes in handy!

KT made my Chili Pepper Dress! For her. I stole it. She tried to steal it back, but I wouldn't let her.

I love KT. And it was really good to see her this week. I drank too much, and I smoked too much, and I spent more money than I meant to, but KT is my family. And getting wasted with her is therapy. For me and all the other people around us. We were sharing a cab back from The East Burn with this girl, who was bummed out because she came to see a boy in a band that had played that night. This boy apparently hasn’t responded to her ardor. She lamented in the cab.

“Ok, you got to tell him, he has two options.” KT slurred confidently. ” Either you’re going to break his knees or you’re going to fuck him. Either way, he gets lasagna.” the cab driver, and her step-father lost it. And I smiled to myself. KT is a genius. And I love it when other people notice. She fixed my life up, like Judi, but with whiskey, and weed and cigarettes and stern cooking instructions and skirt patterns.

Two nights ago I got out of bed, to have a cigarette with my room-mate, KT was sharing with me, her friend Carter was sleeping on the couch. But KT always sleeps with me. It’s been a couple of years since she’s been to Portland, though. “It’s like those big pile-ons.” she muttered when I got out of bed. “What?” I asked. “You know, those big, orange pile-on’s?” She asked. “Yeah, what about them, KT?” I was confused. “Our butts, bumping in the bed. It’s like those giant pile-ons meeting.” She explained. I laughed. “Yeah, that is a lot of ass for one bed.” Maybe you haven’t seen The Mountain (which is what I call my ass) but if you have, imagining two in one bed is almost impossible. Which is kinda what I think about me and KT. I can’t believe I’ve found someone who is so exactly like me in most ways, and so surprisingly different in others. So, this card is for KT. I hope she likes it. And I hope you do too!

I have a hard time when I do Craft Fair’s in general. I hate sitting and waiting for people to pay attention to me. I hate doing it in any aspect of my life. If I want attention, I go get it. That’s part of why I like selling in bars so much; there I have control of the selling situation. If no-one’s into me at that particular bar, then I just leave, and go to a different bar. And that’s really what gets me about being a vendor at a show, or a Festival or a Fair. I hate having no control. I hate sitting there and being at the whim of the weather, traffic, other people’s schedules.

And then there’s my co-workers. Crafters who are not crafting bitch. About everything. Their boyfriends, they’re husbands, their children, the organizers of the Fair, the stupidity of the customers, the weather, the traffic. And I can’t really blame them. Portland Craft Shows are hard. They don’t make much money, because these shows are everywhere and often. Portlanders have grown immune to our charming wares. Craft Fairs have largely become free entertainment for Portlanders, who don’t have a lot of money to start with.

The bitching sometimes gets to me. And so does what’s underneath the bitching, every one of us at these Fairs is looking for that magic bullet. The solution to our Not Successful Enough problem. We bitch because we’re looking for the solution.

“There is no magic bullet” Arlette always reminds me, when I get carried away, delighted that I’ve finally found the solution. The one thing that I know will make Snarky Cards famous forever, and usher me from the wilderness of the legally poor into the warmth of the lower-middle class. I used to get annoyed when she said that, but she’s always been right. Building a business, and a product is so fucking hard. And you have to do it like a house, one brick at a time. There’s no magic anything that gets it done better or faster than one brick at a time. But unlike a house, each business takes its own path. You never know who’s going to want your shit. And you have to follow need. So you try everything, and you keep doing what works, and a lot of lessons cost you time and money. And sometimes it’s hard to sit and listen to my peers looking for magic. Other people have co-workers, or business peers. But we mostly work in isolation. This is the only time we get to feel like we belong.

I didn’t do all this myself. I had an Army of Rad Chicks helping me. Arlette opened my etsy store. Kaytea bought this website and pays for it every month. Kay gave me the advice to keep going when I wanted to give up. Ilana designed the website and installed word press. Betsy let me borrow her scanner. Devlyn scans my Snarky Cards in when Betsy’s busy. Arlette lets me bitch at her when things go wonky.

I also work 90 hours a week. It’s 40 hours a week making cards, and 40 hours a week trying to sell the cards I made, and about 10 hours a week going to all of my stores and re-upping their supply, collecting money, etc. So I would like to find a magic bullet as much as anybody else. But with 2 years of 60-90 hour weeks behind me, I get that it’s not coming.

This show has been different, in that while I still feel a loss of control, and I’ve heard a lot of kvetching, it’s been a long-term thing. Usually it’s four to eight hours of you trying desperately to figure out if you’re doing something wrong, or if no-one is buying anything at the whole Craft Fair, and you’re just feeling that, same as anyone else.

At the Rose Festival, I’ve worked four 12 hour days at the same place for the last two weeks. And my fellow vendors are starting to feel like co-workers, which is an odd feeling for me. I haven’t had co-workers or a boss in two years. It’s weird to wake up and go to the same place, and work there regularly over and over again. It’s also kind of nice. I think that The Rose Festival is giving me a sense of community I wouldn’t have found otherwise.

And more than that, Jackie and Merritt, who run this show, and a First Thursday show have been amazing. More than any other organizers of any show I’ve been a part of, they have done their best to pay attention to the bottom line. They work hard every day to figure out how we can maximize traffic. And they want us to be comfortable too. They made a curtained off area in the corner, where we weary vendors can take naps. They brought sunscreen and water, and they periodically check in to make sure that we’re all OK. It helps that they’re vendors too, so they want this show to make them some money as much as we do.

Doesn't the Cosmopolitan Soap look good?

Jackie makes luxurious soaps, out of Vegan ingrediants; a lot of which are from essential oils, and therefore really good for your skin. Like, this Cosmopolitan soap has lime oil which acts as an antiseptic, antiviral, and is restorative. Also: I had no idea that Cranberry Seeds make a good exfoliant. Jackie is one of those totally hot, short, tattooed chicks who is very small and whom you swear will kick your ass quickly if you do something she doesn’t like. I think I would be scared of her if she hadn’t already been so kind to me.

Merrit makes Kick-Ass Koozies, which she can sew words next to. I got a Strawberry Shortcake Koozy and I made Merritt sew “I love Vagina!” next to Strawberry’s cute little face (because you know that girl was a total muff-diver). And I got a Unicorn Koozy that I made Merritt sew “I Love Drugs!” onto. Because everyone knows that Unicorns are drug addicts. But no-one ever talks about it. She can make PG Koozies too, you can ask for whatever you like. I just, you know, have a really dirty mind. Merritt is one of those really good-hearted people you never want to disappoint. She and Jackie are a perfect balance of each other. You hope to live up to Merritt’s expecations, and if you don’t, Jackie will make sure you’re sorry.

Aren't his pictures dreamy?

Also, my friend Christopher Bibby is at the show. St. Christopher paints crooked bridges in bright colors. They’re beautiful, and he’s smart and funny. We know each other the way all artists know each other in this town, I saw him at Last Thursday last year. It’s been really fun hanging out with him. He told me that my shit reminds him of SARK. Which is rad. Because I met SARK ten years ago, and it was a transformative experience. SARK hand-writes self-help books. It looks like she hand-writes them with markers. They’re messy, and full of ordinary stories about people being afraid, and doing hard stuff anyway, and giving themselves a break.

Her book, Succulent Wild Woman became my bible. I carried it around in my purse from the time I was 19 to the time I was 24. I used to call her voice mail and leave her messages when life got really hard. And 2 years ago, when I realized all I really wanted to do with my life was make myself a writer, I looked at my collection of her books, and I realized that if she can do it, I can too.

So when St. Christopher said that I reminded him of her, I heard myself breathe really deep. Because I felt understood. I don’t think I’ve ever really hung out with a bunch of artists before. And while I haven’t sold very many Snarky Cards at The Rose Festival, this sense of community is worth the sunburns and the bitching and the hoarse voice. So, if you aren’t doing anything tomorrow, come and see me and my new friends at The Portland Rose Festival. We’re having a pretty terrific time.

Matt, The Delectible

It didn’t last long though, when I got inside, I saw Matt, the most delectible of all of the Kelly’s Bartenders (as you can see!). “I got one of your cards!” He exclaimed, which in and of iteself is odd, because I bribe bartenders with my cards. Everytime I go into a bar and sell my Snarky Cards, every bartender gets a card. It keeps things friendly, as bribing generally does. So, if you’re a bartender, you’ll never have to pay for your Snarky Card Habit. And you’ll probably supply all of your friends with their Snarky Cards.

The Bike Murder Card: It Can Save Friendship!

“What happened?” I was atwitter. He grinned. “I loaned my friend, my bike. He just went around the block, but somehow he ended up getting a flat tire…?” He looked confused. And seriously, how does someone get a flat going around the block anyway?

“The next day he came back and gave me the ‘I’m sorry I murdered your bike’ card!” Matt was stoked. I grinned. “I’m so glad that you got one of my cards back! That’s awesome!” I left Kelly’s feeling triumphant and wanted.

My first Mother's Day Card!

Afterwards, I made my rounds, and met Bret, another cute boy who was excited about meeting me. “Ohmygod! I love your cards!” He squealed like a pre-teen at a Jonas Brothers Show. “A while ago, I went to get my knives sharpened at Hawthorne Cutlery and there were these cards at the counter. The first one I saw was Fuck you and your fucking feelings! It was so perfect!” I tried for a demure smile. “I’m so glad you like them!” His eyes lit up. “It was perfect! I put it up on my fridge. I’d just broken up with my ex-girlfriend, and it made me totally chill about the break-up!”

Hawthorne Cutlery: Bringing you sharp things!

Other people have told me Hawthorne Cutlery stories. It’s a knife and sword shop, so in and of itself, it makes an impression. But it’s also weird that they carry my cards. They don’t fit in with the rest of the store, so they make an impression. The owner, Dave, has a sick sense of humor too (or that’s what he always tells me, anyway. I don’t think my sense of humor is sick, but he seems to like saying that a lot)  and makes his own (dirty) cards and t-shirts on the side. He’s a fun guy to talk to. He always has a crazy story in his pocket.

So, tonight I heard stories about how relevant I am. And it made me feel good. It was just the little uplift I needed after those shitty voicemails that boy I used to date left on my machine yesterday. Thanks, universe, for giving me gorgeous boys, and making them say nice things to me.

Everyone always says to me: You must do so well with your Snarky Cards on Valentines Day!” and I always just give them a blank look. Valentines Day hasn’t really ever meant that much to me.

See? Wouldn't you rather get this from a friend than something lame from a lover?

When I was in high school whether I had one boyfriend or three, I noticed that the cards I got from my friends were the ones that meant the most to me. And then I went to Ireland, when I was 20. They don’t celebrate Valentines Day in Ireland, and somehow, not having to deal with this bullshit Holiday over there reset my internal recognizing mechanism, and since then the whole Hubuloo leaves me feeling a little confused.

Adam Corolla said “You can’t get an A on Valentines Day, it’s a Pass or Fail grade.” And he’s right. Valentines Day just re-iterates what you already know. Single people feel more lonely and Couples feel more loving. Whatever your love-sitch, the day intensifies it. I hate situations that do not allow for change. So last year, I just hung out at home and waited for it to be over. To finish a long tirade, I don’t really make Valentines Day Cards, because most of my cards are kinda mean. There are lots of Valentines Day Cards for people out there who like each other, I don’t really make those kinds of cards, and I don’t really want to. And for the people who want to dump each other, or rub salt on each other’s wounds on V-Day, well, I have those available, and they’ll just have to scribble “Happy Valentines Day!” underneath I Wish You Were Cooler, or It’s Not You, It’s Me.

My shrink says that I’m depressed and I need to leave the house more. My broken leg left my isolated in my house for 3 months, and it’s been hard to force myself outside, now that I can walk, so my bar-escapades have been few and far between lately. So, this week I made an extraordinary effort to go out, and Saturday night was no different.

This card is for all the people who felt like Valentines Day was designed to rub salt in their wounds. And for those poor fuckers whose Valentines Day ended with a break-up. You're better off without that retard/idiot/drunk/psycho. I promise.

Except that it was. I had a good time, but it seemed like everyone else was falling apart a little bit. I went to The Triple Nickel, where I saw my friend A, who is freaking out about his job-sitch. I tried to talk him out of the fetal position he was trying to crawl into, and then I gave up, and went to The Aalto, where I ran into one of my favorite bartenders. I never see J out drinking. And I was happy to see him. Hugging ensued. “Where’s your girlfriend?” I asked. His face turned from Happy Drunk, to Miserable Crying Man in a matter of seconds. “She dumped me.” He said plaintively. “Oh, I’m sorry!” I said, thinking “Shit, this Valentines Day seems to be about men falling apart in my arms.”. He went on to explain that he still loved her. And he had been such a good boyfriend! J is one of the nicest guys ever to get me drunk. I have the utmost faith that he gives good orgasm and makes an effort to impress The Parents. “Well, it’s clear that’s she’s probably retarded.” I said soothingly. “Maybe she has Downs Syndrome?” This led to us saying “I don’t wanna go out with you anymore!” in retarded voices to each other, while hitting ourselves for five minutes. He seemed releived, that I’d finally found a reason for his predicament. I went into The Aalto, and peddled my wares, but everyone, by then, was too drunk, and the music was too loud for me to really get anywhere with it.

I saw J chatting up a cute girl as I was getting my coat. I hugged him good-bye, and he left some sloppy kisses on my neck, that I felt in my down there, and I thought “Leave, Alisa, before you become a bad sexual decision that means you can’t go back to his bar.” I skee-daddled, hoping that I hadn’t ruined his chances with said cute girl with my slutty-hugging.

For all youse guys who are worried about your life post-layoff I give you The Economy Cards!

I went back to the Triple Nickel, and sat next to A, and we closed down the bar. Afterwards, I walked A home, and we sat in his living room, talking about books, and feeling scared and kindness and the reason we have these crazy tattoos. Around 4am, he called me my cab, and I went home. I was so excited, I chatted away about my night to my room-mate, Libby. Who nodded and smiled and generally wished I would shut-the-fuck-up.

I do hate Valentinees Day. But Saturday night, I got to pull a few of my friends out of the depths of despair. And I feel like maybe this is a part of selling Snarky Cards that I really, really missed. Making other people feel better about the parts of their lives that they can’t control.

I didn’t make that much money. But I got to take care of some people I care about, and I got to remember that my job isn’t just about selling my art, it’s using my ability to pull people’s secrets out of them, so that I can help them feel better. Because I’ve had 12 years worth of therapy, and it seems like a waste not to teach other people all the lessons it took me so long to learn.