Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
With All My Love
To all my friends who have answered my whiny phonecalls
My emails about how hard this is,
My blog posts about how much I have wanted to throw in the towel:
Thank You.
You have no idea how inspirational you have been to me.
Your encouragement means the world to me. And not just the hang-in-there-tiger stuff, either. The Fuck-it-just-go-get-a-latte-and-stop-beating-yourself-up-about-it kind has been a soothing balm as well. It is amazing how many iterations of defeat and triumph this novel has dragged me through. I feel like I actually understand much better the creative process. I understand that I should have been ignoring the dishes a long, long time ago, and giving in to the need to scribble notes to myself in the middle of the night. I understand that this is a full time vocation, that I can't really ignore everything that needs writing down anymore. This is the most difficult thing I have ever done creatively and also the most rewarding. I feel alive and I feel capable and that's how I know I've come home.
So, thank you all so very much. I had no idea what comfort you would be to me. Or that you would cheer me across the finish line when all I wanted to do was sit out the last lap.
We're rounding the bend, coming into the final stretch.
My emails about how hard this is,
My blog posts about how much I have wanted to throw in the towel:
Thank You.
You have no idea how inspirational you have been to me.
Your encouragement means the world to me. And not just the hang-in-there-tiger stuff, either. The Fuck-it-just-go-get-a-latte-and-stop-beating-yourself-up-about-it kind has been a soothing balm as well. It is amazing how many iterations of defeat and triumph this novel has dragged me through. I feel like I actually understand much better the creative process. I understand that I should have been ignoring the dishes a long, long time ago, and giving in to the need to scribble notes to myself in the middle of the night. I understand that this is a full time vocation, that I can't really ignore everything that needs writing down anymore. This is the most difficult thing I have ever done creatively and also the most rewarding. I feel alive and I feel capable and that's how I know I've come home.
So, thank you all so very much. I had no idea what comfort you would be to me. Or that you would cheer me across the finish line when all I wanted to do was sit out the last lap.
We're rounding the bend, coming into the final stretch.
A Month of Coincidences
This is a story about Facebook, my siblings, college, and a bar in Seattle.
I'm researching my family tree last week and I come across this last name that I recognize. I've never noticed this name on my family tree before. The last name on this family tree is also the last name of a family of kids that my siblings and I went to grammar school with. They share the same birth order as my family. While I was in one grade with Joanna, the oldest sister, my oldest brother was in class with the older brother, Mark, and my sister was in class with the youngest brother, Andrew.
And two days after I review this family tree, this family tree that I haven't looked at in years, Joanna, whose last name happens to appear on my family tree, contacts me via Facebook. I haven't talked to her in nearly fifteen years.
She says she's coming to Seattle. Her brother Mark lives here. Her other brother Andrew is coming from Colorado. They're all going to be here all at once for the holidays. This family whose last name appears in my family tree. The last name I just noticed for the first time last week. This family that I haven't seen in fifteen years.
Joanna writes me suggest we go see some live music at the Seamonster Lounge, have we heard of it? And I write back.... um... yeah. We know the Seamonster Lounge. We spent every Friday night from 2003 to 2004 at the place. We know the DJ. We know the owner. They're both great guys. Andrew, the owner, just gave up ownership of the place about a year ago but, magically, he's back. So, yes, yes we will join you, family that I haven't seen in fifteen years, at our old favorite bar in Seattle, that we just found out is now back under the ownership of our friend Andrew.
Beforehand, we meet up for dinner at our favorite sushi restaurant, and we ask Joanna how she happened to pick the Seamonster for our entertainment tonight. Oh, well, it's all Mark, she says. He knows a guy who will be playing in the band. Oh, really, we ask? And how do you know him? Oh, Mark says, he used to live on my floor in college. You know how that goes. You just get to be good friends with people that live on your floor. Right. Right, we say, and we nod our heads. And what's your friend's name? Ari Zucker, he says.
And here CLH and I exchange googly-eyed glances. YOU know Ari Zucker? WE know Ari Zucker. And how do we know Ari Zucker? Well, we know Ari Zucker because of our friend Shoshi. Shoshi went to high school with Ari. Shoshi is from Seattle. She knew Ari before he went to college on the east coast with Mark. And the reason we know Shoshi is because of Becca. And I know Becca because I went to college with her in Massachusetts. Becca is from the Seattle area. But she went to school in Massachusetts, like me. And I went to high school with CLH. In New Jersey. And CLH and I started dating after I left the college where both Becca and I went to school. Becca eventually met CLH and Becca convinced us both that Seattle would be good for us, so we moved out here together ten years ago. And we met Shoshi. Who is Becca's friend. And we started frequenting the Sea Monster. Where Ari played quite a bit. Ari who knows Shoshi who knows Becca who knows me who knows Joanna whose brother used to live on the same floor as him.
Small fucking world.
Crazy.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Forecast: Wind, Rain, and Chance of Mood Swings
It's grey and cold outside and I am indoors, in a sweater and a hat. I am questioning the reason I am here, in a sweater and a hat, indoors. I am trying to trace my steps back to the point where I decided that, despite my love affair with the sun, I agreed to live in a city that doesn't get much sun. I am trying to understand what keeps me here, doing the same thing, over and over again. Why, most of my days, I feel like I am running in place. And I feel like my days are wasted. And why that feeling is worsened whenever I see pictures of my friends with their kids. I think: all this time I have been working (and for what, again?) and I could have been doing other things... like raising a child or two, or traveling, or sailing around the world. Or writing books, or getting degrees. Or meeting people from all over the world.
What happened to that sense of wonder I used to have? Where is my sense of adventure and why haven't I overcome my fear of not having enough? Why do I hold myself back? Why is the decision to leap so intensely exhilarating, but so threatening and scary at the same time? This kind of stuff plagues me. I lie in bed at night and ask the question: what am I supposed to be doing with my life? And always the answer comes back: not this.
What happened to that sense of wonder I used to have? Where is my sense of adventure and why haven't I overcome my fear of not having enough? Why do I hold myself back? Why is the decision to leap so intensely exhilarating, but so threatening and scary at the same time? This kind of stuff plagues me. I lie in bed at night and ask the question: what am I supposed to be doing with my life? And always the answer comes back: not this.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Happy Black Friday! Brought To You By Crows, Harbingers of Messy Sidewalks
With all this focus on turkeys this time of year, I thought I'd bring you some news from other parts of the avian world.
These guys are getting their Christmas shopping done early. It's so easy with one-stop shopping! For mom, orange rinds. For dad, the crow who has everything: old shoelaces. And for that finicky Aunt Marion: a used wad of Saran wrap. It goes with everything!
Do you think they got the lid off the can themselves? Because sometimes crows, when rooting through old soup cans and newspapers, are freakishly strong.
And, in case you needed any reminders that sometimes Seattle looks like the set of of a Hitchcock film from about November thru April, I bring you this. Is it any wonder I want to swallow whole bottles of Vitamin D for breakfast?
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Thoughts and Thankfulness
On sitting still on the bridge in traffic: There had better be some major fucking construction going on up ahead because it has taken me a whole hour to drive 6 miles and I need to be home writing RIGHT NOW.
On passing the accident scene, seeing two cars with their front fenders smashed in, the airbags hanging limply from the dashboards, causing said traffic: I am such an asshole.
On my OLD dentist after my NEW dentist tells me I don't need a root canal: That sonofabtich.
On not needing a root canal after all: Um. Wow. My intuition was right. I am getting a second opinion on EVERYthing from now on.
On my impending credit card bill which will include the charges for my new boots, my fillings, my teeth cleaning, my cousin's birthday gift, my chiropractor's visits, my drugs for a now unnecessary root canal, and groceries for a month: Oh, crap.
On being able to still have a credit card in this economy: Shit. I have a credit card in this economy. And a job. I'm pretty lucky.
On being able to sleep in on Thanksgiving Day: Yessssssssssssssssssssss.
On having such amazing friends, people who have taught me what gratitude really is... And clients who challenge me in so many ways, and reward me with money so I can buy boots on a whim... And a wonderful man-friend who knows how to do laundry and gives me neck rubs when I want them and who has taught me infinite patience: WOW. I am REALLY fucking lucky. And grateful. Very grateful.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
On passing the accident scene, seeing two cars with their front fenders smashed in, the airbags hanging limply from the dashboards, causing said traffic: I am such an asshole.
On my OLD dentist after my NEW dentist tells me I don't need a root canal: That sonofabtich.
On not needing a root canal after all: Um. Wow. My intuition was right. I am getting a second opinion on EVERYthing from now on.
On my impending credit card bill which will include the charges for my new boots, my fillings, my teeth cleaning, my cousin's birthday gift, my chiropractor's visits, my drugs for a now unnecessary root canal, and groceries for a month: Oh, crap.
On being able to still have a credit card in this economy: Shit. I have a credit card in this economy. And a job. I'm pretty lucky.
On being able to sleep in on Thanksgiving Day: Yessssssssssssssssssssss.
On having such amazing friends, people who have taught me what gratitude really is... And clients who challenge me in so many ways, and reward me with money so I can buy boots on a whim... And a wonderful man-friend who knows how to do laundry and gives me neck rubs when I want them and who has taught me infinite patience: WOW. I am REALLY fucking lucky. And grateful. Very grateful.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Awesomeness Never Goes Out of Style
I'm taking a break from blogging about my health problems to show you the latest addition to my record collection.* Um, did she say record collection? Yes, my record collection. It's about 24 records big and includes this gem, MJ's "Thriller", and the WWF album. As you can see, I only collect quality pieces.
I popped this sucker onto the turntable the other evening and made dinner while doing some interpretive dance to "SOS". One minute I am moping about how I'm going to pay for a root canal and the next I am warbling into a wooden spoon and flapping my arms. There's just something irrepressibly happy about Abba. I would wager you could step knee deep in dog poop, get fired from your job, and find a human finger in your french fries, and you'd still find yourself jutting your hips to one side and hoisting your arms over your head once "Dancing Queen" came on.
Well, I'd wager you would. I'd wager CLH would chew his dinner and shake his head and wonder why his girlfriend insisted on singing harmony to "Fernando" with a mouth full of salad mix. I can't help it. They just make me believe that, with enough dramatic gesticulations, anyone can sing their way out of bad mood. I think it's because Abba are aliens made entirely of wholesomeness and good cheer. I'm not a statistician or anything, but I'm pretty sure you could track a very clear trend in world peace summits, hand holding, and Abba record release dates.
Also, check out the fashion points here. Um... knee-high boots? Cute tweed hats? Ponchos? Is anyone else weirded out by the fact that these EXACT outfits are totally in fashion right now? And the boots? Check out the details on these puppies. Amazing.
I'm gonna come right out and say it: the guys, the guys are TOTALLY rockin' it here. REAL men wear jaunty scarves and platform boots. Am I right, ladies?
And speaking of fashionable comebacks, I, for one, am totally ready for David Sedaris's new book. Know why? 'Cause I got me a phonograph. That's right. The NY Times has announced that his new book will be released on vinyl. Do I need any more proof that great minds think alike? Or that knee-high boots will ever go out of style?
*Thank you to Geoff, Steph, Gingi, for the contribution to my collection.
I popped this sucker onto the turntable the other evening and made dinner while doing some interpretive dance to "SOS". One minute I am moping about how I'm going to pay for a root canal and the next I am warbling into a wooden spoon and flapping my arms. There's just something irrepressibly happy about Abba. I would wager you could step knee deep in dog poop, get fired from your job, and find a human finger in your french fries, and you'd still find yourself jutting your hips to one side and hoisting your arms over your head once "Dancing Queen" came on.
Well, I'd wager you would. I'd wager CLH would chew his dinner and shake his head and wonder why his girlfriend insisted on singing harmony to "Fernando" with a mouth full of salad mix. I can't help it. They just make me believe that, with enough dramatic gesticulations, anyone can sing their way out of bad mood. I think it's because Abba are aliens made entirely of wholesomeness and good cheer. I'm not a statistician or anything, but I'm pretty sure you could track a very clear trend in world peace summits, hand holding, and Abba record release dates.
Also, check out the fashion points here. Um... knee-high boots? Cute tweed hats? Ponchos? Is anyone else weirded out by the fact that these EXACT outfits are totally in fashion right now? And the boots? Check out the details on these puppies. Amazing.
I'm gonna come right out and say it: the guys, the guys are TOTALLY rockin' it here. REAL men wear jaunty scarves and platform boots. Am I right, ladies?
And speaking of fashionable comebacks, I, for one, am totally ready for David Sedaris's new book. Know why? 'Cause I got me a phonograph. That's right. The NY Times has announced that his new book will be released on vinyl. Do I need any more proof that great minds think alike? Or that knee-high boots will ever go out of style?
*Thank you to Geoff, Steph, Gingi, for the contribution to my collection.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Not So Much Progress
It's official: I'm sick of writing this novel. The words are just not coming, and surprise surprise, I find it easier to write about myself than other people. Shocking, I know.
No, it will not help to twist the plot and have the neighbor's cat swallow the evidence during the police investigation. It will not be cute, nor will it be clever, to make my main character morph into a bird or a wolf or a wizard any of that stuff the young people care about these days. I cannot introduce any more characters this late in the game. There's already enough death and destruction, so no one else can die. And there will be no vampires, damnit. There will just be normal humans who did extra-normal things whose stories I cannot, for the life of me, seem to push out of my fingertips without sounding like Jack Kerouac having an asthma attack.
Fuck.
This is harder than I thought it was going to be.
No, it will not help to twist the plot and have the neighbor's cat swallow the evidence during the police investigation. It will not be cute, nor will it be clever, to make my main character morph into a bird or a wolf or a wizard any of that stuff the young people care about these days. I cannot introduce any more characters this late in the game. There's already enough death and destruction, so no one else can die. And there will be no vampires, damnit. There will just be normal humans who did extra-normal things whose stories I cannot, for the life of me, seem to push out of my fingertips without sounding like Jack Kerouac having an asthma attack.
Fuck.
This is harder than I thought it was going to be.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Report From the Windowsill
When our friends Lacy & Roberto moved from the US to Canada, they had to leave behind a dozen or so houseplants. Somehow, I agreed to take them all in. Hopeless at decorating, I simply lined them all up, firing squad style, in front of my fireplace (and then I crossed my fingers and said a little prayer that we would never, ever have to use the fireplace because some of those plants were HEAVY and hadn't I had enough of the heavy lifting for one year?)
Well, I am happy to report to Lacy and Roberto that their African violets are doing marvelously. Apparently, we have the perfect combo of natural light and human sweat running down the window panes because they are thriving in here. And, as Lacy predicted, they've made a comback. When I got the plants back in July, they were flowerless and some of the leaves a little worse for the wear. But even the one we thought would never flower has shot up a lovely little stem of deep purple.
I've been experimenting with using CLH's big bad heavy camera lately, so I'm going to start posting bigger, more vibrant pictures to this site. Lucky for me CLH knows a thing or two about technology, because, let's face it, I have very little patience for it. And there might not be any pictures of African violets here at all if I didn't have him to ask about cords and file formats and which program I use to open what photo. If it were up to me, I would be chiseling you pictures onto a piece of slate using a mallet and a sharpened piece of rebar. And then trying to cram that piece of slate into to my disk drive while yelling obscenities.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Facts About the Sixties Triplex
Number of times CLH has nearly burned the place down in four months: 2
Number of cooking vessels he has nearly melted by leaving them on the electric stove while he works in another room: 2
Number of house plants that have been damaged/kicked over during the mad dash from the office to the kitchen because he has finally noticed the apartment is full of smoke: 2
Number of texts I have received this month that have started with the words "Uh oh": 2
Number of times I have forgotten to turn the heat off before I go to work: too many to count.
Number of cooking vessels he has nearly melted by leaving them on the electric stove while he works in another room: 2
Number of house plants that have been damaged/kicked over during the mad dash from the office to the kitchen because he has finally noticed the apartment is full of smoke: 2
Number of texts I have received this month that have started with the words "Uh oh": 2
Number of times I have forgotten to turn the heat off before I go to work: too many to count.
Friday, November 20, 2009
My Apologies To All The Trees That Gave Their Lives
Cannot. Find. Top. Of. Desk. Must. Grunt. Out. Statements. A la. William. Shatner. Must. Clean. Off. Desk. To. Think. Straight.
Aaaah. There we are. An hour and seven different emails to seven different charity organizations later, I am free of clutter.
Seriously. Who the hell authorized the selling of my name to every blasted charity under the sun? So I gave twenty five bucks to a Native American charity years ago. Does that mean that I have to receive a letter a day, some with return address labels, some with whole sets of Christmas cards in them asking for money for the rest of my life?
I'm pretty sure there's a service out there that will tell these guys to scram for you, but I can't for the life of me remember the name of it. I think Brad Pitt once did a spot on Oprah for it. Was it Brad Pitt? Or some other hunky celebrity? Well, a lot of good his looks did me because I can't remember his face or the website. Just his pecs. Under his white t-shirt. Yup. That's pretty much all I remember.
A quick Google search reveals the usual tips for making junk mail go away.
http://www.obviously.com/junkmail/
http://www.ecocycle.org/junkmail/index.cfm#step6
I'm not a penny pinching ogre or anything. It's just that I give to my LOCAL charities. And any yahoo willing to tape a REAL AMERICAN DOLLAR to the freaking ask letter to entice you to match his contribution CANNOT be hurting all that bad, right?
Aaaah. There we are. An hour and seven different emails to seven different charity organizations later, I am free of clutter.
Seriously. Who the hell authorized the selling of my name to every blasted charity under the sun? So I gave twenty five bucks to a Native American charity years ago. Does that mean that I have to receive a letter a day, some with return address labels, some with whole sets of Christmas cards in them asking for money for the rest of my life?
I'm pretty sure there's a service out there that will tell these guys to scram for you, but I can't for the life of me remember the name of it. I think Brad Pitt once did a spot on Oprah for it. Was it Brad Pitt? Or some other hunky celebrity? Well, a lot of good his looks did me because I can't remember his face or the website. Just his pecs. Under his white t-shirt. Yup. That's pretty much all I remember.
A quick Google search reveals the usual tips for making junk mail go away.
http://www.obviously.com/junkmail/
http://www.ecocycle.org/junkmail/index.cfm#step6
I'm not a penny pinching ogre or anything. It's just that I give to my LOCAL charities. And any yahoo willing to tape a REAL AMERICAN DOLLAR to the freaking ask letter to entice you to match his contribution CANNOT be hurting all that bad, right?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Life Is Handing Me Metric Tons of Lemons Right Now
And I can't find my juicer.
This blinding tooth pain I've been having? Yeah, that's probably being caused by an angry nerve. So I'll probably need a root canal next week. Happy Fucking Thanksgiving to me!
And the Amoxicillin I'm taking to clear up the infection that's probably raging in my gums right now? Well, that will probably destroy the flora in my gut that I've been working to restore by not eating wheat for nearly three weeks now. So, yeah. We can pretty much flush that little experiment down the toilet. I'm having 17 servings of macaroni and cheese in between layers of pancakes for breakfast tomorrow to celebrate.
And the Tylenol with codeine that I'm taking to kill the pain? Well, I'm not supposed to drive after taking it (thanks for the info, Mr. Pharmacist with the really bad nail fungus. You DO know you work in a pharmacy where they sell remedies for common ailments like nail fungus, right? Just sayin'.) How do you propose I get to work? Because this surgery isn't free, you know, and I need to work to pay for this shit. And all these trips to the dentist? Well, that's costing me money in the form of lost work. Dear Mr. Obama, I AM the health care crisis in this country in the flesh. Let me introduce you to my Single Lady Option.
The bright side? The dental hygienist thought I was a dead ringer for a certain blond celebrity (I get that a lot) so she labeled my x-rays "Meg Ryan".
This blinding tooth pain I've been having? Yeah, that's probably being caused by an angry nerve. So I'll probably need a root canal next week. Happy Fucking Thanksgiving to me!
And the Amoxicillin I'm taking to clear up the infection that's probably raging in my gums right now? Well, that will probably destroy the flora in my gut that I've been working to restore by not eating wheat for nearly three weeks now. So, yeah. We can pretty much flush that little experiment down the toilet. I'm having 17 servings of macaroni and cheese in between layers of pancakes for breakfast tomorrow to celebrate.
And the Tylenol with codeine that I'm taking to kill the pain? Well, I'm not supposed to drive after taking it (thanks for the info, Mr. Pharmacist with the really bad nail fungus. You DO know you work in a pharmacy where they sell remedies for common ailments like nail fungus, right? Just sayin'.) How do you propose I get to work? Because this surgery isn't free, you know, and I need to work to pay for this shit. And all these trips to the dentist? Well, that's costing me money in the form of lost work. Dear Mr. Obama, I AM the health care crisis in this country in the flesh. Let me introduce you to my Single Lady Option.
The bright side? The dental hygienist thought I was a dead ringer for a certain blond celebrity (I get that a lot) so she labeled my x-rays "Meg Ryan".
The Garage Sale Theory
We interrupt this interminably long season of rain and hail to bring you an update you on the state of affairs in the Sixties Triplex.
Ready? Take a breath, Internet. This is huge.
The garage is organized.
Isn't that thrilling?!! I mean, doesn't that just make you want to end sentences with an obnoxious amount of punctuation? Just picture it: Rubbermaid bins stacked neatly, one on top of the other... each with a little label in my symmetrical, all caps handwriting. Oh, the joy! The pure, unadulterated bliss at seeing my Halloween costume boxes stacked near the Christmas decoration boxes (not ON the Christmas decoration boxes, silly! THAT would NOT be organized! THAT would be sheer craziness! THAT would be blatant disregard for the universal rules of organizing that clearly state that decorations for holidays occurring in DIFFERENT months SHALL NOT TOUCH EACH OTHER!)
You've been so patient, waiting all this time to find out how we managed to fulfill our self-imposed mandate to get rid of half of everything we own. You deserve to share in my little heaven on earth.
But you're probably still wondering: How did you get rid of all those VHS tapes? What did you finally do with Alfredo the Concrete Parrot? Why did you move with all that crap in the first place, you idiots?
Well, the answer is that, the Garage Sale Theory proved itself again. People came in droves this summer and they ignored the awesome vintage melamine dipping bowls on the wooden lazy-susan thingee and they went right for the USED VHS tapes. They did NOT buy the couch in excellent shape but they ogled the mirror framed in a beat up, smiling, wooden half-moon face. They walked right past the chic cowboy boots, and instead picked up the torn bits of fabric and the ripped Mexican paper flags. And they gave me their hard earned money for what I was about ten seconds away from hauling away to the Goodwill. They did NOT give me money for stuff that I thought would be actually useful. Because, my friends, the Garage Sale Theory was proving itself over and over. The theory works a little like Murphy's Law. It basically states that if there is an opportunity for people to give you money for the junkiest, ugliest things you own, AND the nicest, in-best-shape stuff you own, the general public will always buy your junk. And your gently used, newly re-stuffed couch with the neutral color scheme PERFECT FOR ANY HOME will languish in your garage unused for the next four months.
We only had about four small boxes of junk unsold at the end of the sale. And we didn't have to haul one iota of it to the local thrift store. In this city, when you put something out on the sidewalk with a "free" sign on it, people come streaming out of their houses like termites out of burning log and they descend on your junk with a certain predatory glee. Within hours, nearly everything was gone. CLH and I shared many high-fives that night. HALF of our stuff was GONE.
Several weeks after the sale, we invited our good friend Gingi over and she helped us get even more stuff out of the garage. We hadn't unpacked our framed pictures yet because, well, we couldn't GET to them with all the crap down there. After we'd cleared out the stuff for the garage sale, we were able to unearth them, plus a few other goodies which we then decorated the house with. We couldn't part with Alfredo the Concrete Parrot, so he is now sitting atop our mantle along with a few other choice pieces of art and debris.
I think I might have cried tears of relief when Gingi was done. The place FINALLY looked like it was inhabited by ADULTS who knew a thing or two about design. The potted plants that we had just lined up front of the fireplace like a platoon of soldiers was tastefully dispersed around the house. My antique globe was finally taken out of the box of foam peanuts. The pictures of our relatives were finally hung on the walls. My favorite typewriter was put out on display in the living room. Huzzah!
And weeks after that? THE COUCH WAS SOLD. I had to restrain myself from kissing the lady full on the mouth when she said she would take it.
So now, the garage is only half full. HALF! We got rid of HALF of everything! Sometimes, when I go downstairs to check on the laundry, I just open the door to the garage and stand there for a few minutes and marvel at the beauty.
Ready? Take a breath, Internet. This is huge.
The garage is organized.
Isn't that thrilling?!! I mean, doesn't that just make you want to end sentences with an obnoxious amount of punctuation? Just picture it: Rubbermaid bins stacked neatly, one on top of the other... each with a little label in my symmetrical, all caps handwriting. Oh, the joy! The pure, unadulterated bliss at seeing my Halloween costume boxes stacked near the Christmas decoration boxes (not ON the Christmas decoration boxes, silly! THAT would NOT be organized! THAT would be sheer craziness! THAT would be blatant disregard for the universal rules of organizing that clearly state that decorations for holidays occurring in DIFFERENT months SHALL NOT TOUCH EACH OTHER!)
You've been so patient, waiting all this time to find out how we managed to fulfill our self-imposed mandate to get rid of half of everything we own. You deserve to share in my little heaven on earth.
But you're probably still wondering: How did you get rid of all those VHS tapes? What did you finally do with Alfredo the Concrete Parrot? Why did you move with all that crap in the first place, you idiots?
Well, the answer is that, the Garage Sale Theory proved itself again. People came in droves this summer and they ignored the awesome vintage melamine dipping bowls on the wooden lazy-susan thingee and they went right for the USED VHS tapes. They did NOT buy the couch in excellent shape but they ogled the mirror framed in a beat up, smiling, wooden half-moon face. They walked right past the chic cowboy boots, and instead picked up the torn bits of fabric and the ripped Mexican paper flags. And they gave me their hard earned money for what I was about ten seconds away from hauling away to the Goodwill. They did NOT give me money for stuff that I thought would be actually useful. Because, my friends, the Garage Sale Theory was proving itself over and over. The theory works a little like Murphy's Law. It basically states that if there is an opportunity for people to give you money for the junkiest, ugliest things you own, AND the nicest, in-best-shape stuff you own, the general public will always buy your junk. And your gently used, newly re-stuffed couch with the neutral color scheme PERFECT FOR ANY HOME will languish in your garage unused for the next four months.
We only had about four small boxes of junk unsold at the end of the sale. And we didn't have to haul one iota of it to the local thrift store. In this city, when you put something out on the sidewalk with a "free" sign on it, people come streaming out of their houses like termites out of burning log and they descend on your junk with a certain predatory glee. Within hours, nearly everything was gone. CLH and I shared many high-fives that night. HALF of our stuff was GONE.
Several weeks after the sale, we invited our good friend Gingi over and she helped us get even more stuff out of the garage. We hadn't unpacked our framed pictures yet because, well, we couldn't GET to them with all the crap down there. After we'd cleared out the stuff for the garage sale, we were able to unearth them, plus a few other goodies which we then decorated the house with. We couldn't part with Alfredo the Concrete Parrot, so he is now sitting atop our mantle along with a few other choice pieces of art and debris.
I think I might have cried tears of relief when Gingi was done. The place FINALLY looked like it was inhabited by ADULTS who knew a thing or two about design. The potted plants that we had just lined up front of the fireplace like a platoon of soldiers was tastefully dispersed around the house. My antique globe was finally taken out of the box of foam peanuts. The pictures of our relatives were finally hung on the walls. My favorite typewriter was put out on display in the living room. Huzzah!
And weeks after that? THE COUCH WAS SOLD. I had to restrain myself from kissing the lady full on the mouth when she said she would take it.
So now, the garage is only half full. HALF! We got rid of HALF of everything! Sometimes, when I go downstairs to check on the laundry, I just open the door to the garage and stand there for a few minutes and marvel at the beauty.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Go Ask Your Mom
I have just a few minutes here before I start my new nightly routine: slathering the left side of my ribcage with caster oil, throwing on an old t-shirt, then wrapping myself in a heating blanket. You know, a normal 82 year old's bedtime routine. It's to help detox my liver and get my poor, exhausted adrenal glands functioning again. I have to have a sense of humor about this because otherwise, my life is one long list of bizarre maladies and even more bizarre remedies. More on this later.
The real reason to post tonight is to share a little bit of the conversation I recently had with my mom. It was inspired by my friend Layla, who is pregnant with her second child. We were having tea at a local coffeehouse and we were talking about kids and where they get their funny little character traits from (this, as her first kid, a three year old, gets bored with our talking and is out on the sidewalk outside the coffeehouse in about 5.2 seconds because, as she puts it, she is "ready to go home now"). We got to talking about children being mini versions of their parents, and suddenly Layla asked me what I was like as a child. And I realized I had absolutely no idea.
So I decided to call my mom a few days later and ask her. Now, my mom is a phenomenal storyteller. My grandfather, her father, was too. But my mom hasn't spent much time rehashing the past for us recently. These days, she's busy trying to make ends meet, trying to stay on top of my brother's medical bills (he lives at home, and if you think my health problems are never-ending...). When you get her talking, my mom weaves a great tale. And she cracks herself up in the process. Guess that tends to happen when you have four highly resourceful, highly energetic kids whose idea of a good time is deconstructing household furniture).
So this is what I found out about myself (mom's words): I was a very forward child, always curious, always asking questions. I was always very self assured, very pragmatic. My mom remembers once, when I was about 6 years old or so, waking up from a nap to find me on the kitchen counter measuring out my pink bubble gum flavored Amoxicillin into a spoon. When she asked what in the hell I was doing, I calmly responded that it was 3 pm, mom, and it was time for my medicine. Okay, so I don't know the saddest part about all that: the fact that I had to regularly ingest Amoxicillin for chronic ear infections, or the fact that I had an internal clock that knew when to take it before I had actually learned to tell time. Geezus. Okay, how about a happier story, mom?
Well, there was that time I taught myself how to tie my own shoes. My mom showed me the "bunny ears" method, but I guess this method struck me as too juvenile or complicated or something because I told my mom, effectively, to back off because I wanted to do it myself. I remember this, too. I remember fumbling with those laces for what seemed like days, and the next thing I know, the knot magically came together and I declared, "I DID IT! I TIED MY OWN SHOES" to everyone in the house. Mom didn't mention anything about my being a boaster...
There was also the time my mom caught me with a steak knife in one hand and an apple in the other. Again, the question about what in the hell I was doing, and again the very calm, matter of fact answer. "I'm peeling an apple, mom". Oh, did I mention I was four years old at the time? Apparently, I had a lot of confidence in my motor skills back then.
It was really touching to learn all this about myself. And even more touching to hear that my mom's recall was so sharp and so specific. She's got four kids and she's often mixed up details about our lives, but, I felt like, in this moment over the phone, she was channelling her younger self, seeing everything as it was those thirty two years ago.
My mom also revealed that she suffered some pretty severe post-partum depression after she had me. I asked her what she did to help herself. "Nothing", she replied. "The doctors didn't take you seriously back in those days. So, there was nothing I could do. When you were awake, you kept me busy, and that's how I kept my mind off it. The second you were asleep and I had five minutes to myself, I started to spiral downward".
I'd had some ideas about my dexterity with kitchen instruments, but I never knew this about my childhood. My mom spent the first months of my life caught between the boundless love she had for me, her new baby, and the all-consuming depression brought on by the change in hormones in her body.
I thought about this for hours after I hung up the phone. How alone she must have felt, cooped up in the house with just her kid and her brain telling her that it would be better if she just crawled under a rock and died.
I have a new respect for her, and all mothers who battle with post-partum depression. I hope she knows that all her struggles were worth it, that I appreciate the life she gave me, no matter how banged up and bruised that life got later on down the road.
Thanks, mom. You did okay. And you should see what I can do with a paring knife and a piece of fruit these days.
The real reason to post tonight is to share a little bit of the conversation I recently had with my mom. It was inspired by my friend Layla, who is pregnant with her second child. We were having tea at a local coffeehouse and we were talking about kids and where they get their funny little character traits from (this, as her first kid, a three year old, gets bored with our talking and is out on the sidewalk outside the coffeehouse in about 5.2 seconds because, as she puts it, she is "ready to go home now"). We got to talking about children being mini versions of their parents, and suddenly Layla asked me what I was like as a child. And I realized I had absolutely no idea.
So I decided to call my mom a few days later and ask her. Now, my mom is a phenomenal storyteller. My grandfather, her father, was too. But my mom hasn't spent much time rehashing the past for us recently. These days, she's busy trying to make ends meet, trying to stay on top of my brother's medical bills (he lives at home, and if you think my health problems are never-ending...). When you get her talking, my mom weaves a great tale. And she cracks herself up in the process. Guess that tends to happen when you have four highly resourceful, highly energetic kids whose idea of a good time is deconstructing household furniture).
So this is what I found out about myself (mom's words): I was a very forward child, always curious, always asking questions. I was always very self assured, very pragmatic. My mom remembers once, when I was about 6 years old or so, waking up from a nap to find me on the kitchen counter measuring out my pink bubble gum flavored Amoxicillin into a spoon. When she asked what in the hell I was doing, I calmly responded that it was 3 pm, mom, and it was time for my medicine. Okay, so I don't know the saddest part about all that: the fact that I had to regularly ingest Amoxicillin for chronic ear infections, or the fact that I had an internal clock that knew when to take it before I had actually learned to tell time. Geezus. Okay, how about a happier story, mom?
Well, there was that time I taught myself how to tie my own shoes. My mom showed me the "bunny ears" method, but I guess this method struck me as too juvenile or complicated or something because I told my mom, effectively, to back off because I wanted to do it myself. I remember this, too. I remember fumbling with those laces for what seemed like days, and the next thing I know, the knot magically came together and I declared, "I DID IT! I TIED MY OWN SHOES" to everyone in the house. Mom didn't mention anything about my being a boaster...
There was also the time my mom caught me with a steak knife in one hand and an apple in the other. Again, the question about what in the hell I was doing, and again the very calm, matter of fact answer. "I'm peeling an apple, mom". Oh, did I mention I was four years old at the time? Apparently, I had a lot of confidence in my motor skills back then.
It was really touching to learn all this about myself. And even more touching to hear that my mom's recall was so sharp and so specific. She's got four kids and she's often mixed up details about our lives, but, I felt like, in this moment over the phone, she was channelling her younger self, seeing everything as it was those thirty two years ago.
My mom also revealed that she suffered some pretty severe post-partum depression after she had me. I asked her what she did to help herself. "Nothing", she replied. "The doctors didn't take you seriously back in those days. So, there was nothing I could do. When you were awake, you kept me busy, and that's how I kept my mind off it. The second you were asleep and I had five minutes to myself, I started to spiral downward".
I'd had some ideas about my dexterity with kitchen instruments, but I never knew this about my childhood. My mom spent the first months of my life caught between the boundless love she had for me, her new baby, and the all-consuming depression brought on by the change in hormones in her body.
I thought about this for hours after I hung up the phone. How alone she must have felt, cooped up in the house with just her kid and her brain telling her that it would be better if she just crawled under a rock and died.
I have a new respect for her, and all mothers who battle with post-partum depression. I hope she knows that all her struggles were worth it, that I appreciate the life she gave me, no matter how banged up and bruised that life got later on down the road.
Thanks, mom. You did okay. And you should see what I can do with a paring knife and a piece of fruit these days.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
An Explanation
Hey, you payers-of-attention to linear time: I missed a day of posting. I know. But mama needed new boots, so she blew off writing and went out and bought them. And my, how new leather smells soooo much better than my apartment, which is where I have been cooped up for the past week trying to scratch out another babillion words for this "novel" I am supposed to be writing. Look for a make-up entry real soon here.
Since it's mid month, I thought I would take a moment here and answer a few questions that many of you have been asking me lately.
Question #1. Who in the hell is "CLH"?
CLH stands for Common Law Husband, and that is the pseudonym I have given to the saintly man I have been sharing my life with for the past ten years. Since we have been living together for so long, we are considered by the state of Washington, where we live, to be a common-law husband and wife. And there you have it.
When I started this blog years ago I was supremely paranoid about privacy. I wasn't sure I wanted anyone to know specifics about my life (HA!) because I wasn't sure what direction I wanted to take this blog in. Was it going to be my soapbox for my political rants? My venue for exposing the unprofessional doings of my clients? My million page opus on the juxtaposition between this city's yah-sure, you-betcha, can-do, consensus buildin', community-lovin', hug-fest attitude, and its staggering inability to make a goddamned DECISION ABOUT ANYTHING, SPECIFICALLY A MONORAL!? Ahem. (Smoothing down skirt and straightening hair). Where was I? Ah yes. Now that it's been a few years and now that I've told you about everything from my Eustachian tubes to my House In The Flight Path Of An International Airport, I think I can come clean about who I spend the majority of my free time with.
CLH's real name is Stan, but he also goes by Mr. Stan. At one point, he also went by the nickname Smooshy, hence the name of his blog and his business name. He is the one who makes the Internet go in our house, the one that does the majority of the laundry, and the one that makes fried eggs exactly how I like them. He is wonderful with kids, he is a black belt in Aikido, and he is a very talented massage therapist. As he has never killed a spider indoors, his karma is quite good. He is also eligible to claim a seat at the right hand of the Father for putting up with my mood swings, my demands for French Fries at 11:25 pm, and my utter disregard for the "proper" location of the toothpaste cap.
Question #2. How does one avoid the public stoning that is sure to happen once my crazy neighbor/soccer mom friend/impossible coworker reads what I have written about him/her on my blog?
Well, I don't know the answer to that one, my friends. Blogging is a balancing act between saying enough and saying too much. There are the lives of your loved ones to consider, after all.
Chances are, if you're committing your day to day life to your blog, you are going to have to tell a story or two about someone who REALLY pisses you off. And that's okay. I would advise against devoting TONS of time on bashing your coworker (unless, of course, you're trying to make us laugh. In that case, bludgeon the guy to death. Really. Go for it.) Seriously: I think there are ways to tell your audience a story without exposing all the identity revealing specifics and still make it readable.
I think you have to ask yourself two basic questions before you sit down to blog: for whom am I writing? And why? If you're worried your grandma from Texas might be reading your blog, and she might not like the part where you get high and start using your dog's back for an ottoman while you lie on the couch and watch re-runs of "Benson" night after night, you might want to turn your filter up to eleven. You risk, however, depriving yourself and your greater audience of the full experience of your life. Editing your work for the more sensitive reader means you're probably leaving out some of the very excellent stuff that makes us cranky, petty, angsty, confused, and therefore human. Not that those are the only things that make us human; there are plenty of other horrible things that make us human as well. It's just that blogging offers us the unique opportunity to hide some of the more "colorful" sides of us, and I say that we do ourselves a great disservice by not telling the whole story of ourselves. What is the Internet if not a giant sounding board for all of us to yell about our stale cookies? Or coo about our babies? Or post videos of our cats running into walls? Give your audience as much as you are willing to give up and I think the connections you will make with perfect strangers will far outweigh the scorn you'll receive for admitting you don't particularly fancy your neighbors. My only rule for writing is this: be honest. Tell the truth as best you know it. Be aware that your truth is not every one's truth.
This is YOUR blog, and YOUR life. Be honest. Be aware.
And the next time that sonofabitch in the next cubicle over starts chewing his doughnut with his mouth open again, you make sure to tell all of us about it.
Since it's mid month, I thought I would take a moment here and answer a few questions that many of you have been asking me lately.
Question #1. Who in the hell is "CLH"?
CLH stands for Common Law Husband, and that is the pseudonym I have given to the saintly man I have been sharing my life with for the past ten years. Since we have been living together for so long, we are considered by the state of Washington, where we live, to be a common-law husband and wife. And there you have it.
When I started this blog years ago I was supremely paranoid about privacy. I wasn't sure I wanted anyone to know specifics about my life (HA!) because I wasn't sure what direction I wanted to take this blog in. Was it going to be my soapbox for my political rants? My venue for exposing the unprofessional doings of my clients? My million page opus on the juxtaposition between this city's yah-sure, you-betcha, can-do, consensus buildin', community-lovin', hug-fest attitude, and its staggering inability to make a goddamned DECISION ABOUT ANYTHING, SPECIFICALLY A MONORAL!? Ahem. (Smoothing down skirt and straightening hair). Where was I? Ah yes. Now that it's been a few years and now that I've told you about everything from my Eustachian tubes to my House In The Flight Path Of An International Airport, I think I can come clean about who I spend the majority of my free time with.
CLH's real name is Stan, but he also goes by Mr. Stan. At one point, he also went by the nickname Smooshy, hence the name of his blog and his business name. He is the one who makes the Internet go in our house, the one that does the majority of the laundry, and the one that makes fried eggs exactly how I like them. He is wonderful with kids, he is a black belt in Aikido, and he is a very talented massage therapist. As he has never killed a spider indoors, his karma is quite good. He is also eligible to claim a seat at the right hand of the Father for putting up with my mood swings, my demands for French Fries at 11:25 pm, and my utter disregard for the "proper" location of the toothpaste cap.
Question #2. How does one avoid the public stoning that is sure to happen once my crazy neighbor/soccer mom friend/impossible coworker reads what I have written about him/her on my blog?
Well, I don't know the answer to that one, my friends. Blogging is a balancing act between saying enough and saying too much. There are the lives of your loved ones to consider, after all.
Chances are, if you're committing your day to day life to your blog, you are going to have to tell a story or two about someone who REALLY pisses you off. And that's okay. I would advise against devoting TONS of time on bashing your coworker (unless, of course, you're trying to make us laugh. In that case, bludgeon the guy to death. Really. Go for it.) Seriously: I think there are ways to tell your audience a story without exposing all the identity revealing specifics and still make it readable.
I think you have to ask yourself two basic questions before you sit down to blog: for whom am I writing? And why? If you're worried your grandma from Texas might be reading your blog, and she might not like the part where you get high and start using your dog's back for an ottoman while you lie on the couch and watch re-runs of "Benson" night after night, you might want to turn your filter up to eleven. You risk, however, depriving yourself and your greater audience of the full experience of your life. Editing your work for the more sensitive reader means you're probably leaving out some of the very excellent stuff that makes us cranky, petty, angsty, confused, and therefore human. Not that those are the only things that make us human; there are plenty of other horrible things that make us human as well. It's just that blogging offers us the unique opportunity to hide some of the more "colorful" sides of us, and I say that we do ourselves a great disservice by not telling the whole story of ourselves. What is the Internet if not a giant sounding board for all of us to yell about our stale cookies? Or coo about our babies? Or post videos of our cats running into walls? Give your audience as much as you are willing to give up and I think the connections you will make with perfect strangers will far outweigh the scorn you'll receive for admitting you don't particularly fancy your neighbors. My only rule for writing is this: be honest. Tell the truth as best you know it. Be aware that your truth is not every one's truth.
This is YOUR blog, and YOUR life. Be honest. Be aware.
And the next time that sonofabitch in the next cubicle over starts chewing his doughnut with his mouth open again, you make sure to tell all of us about it.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
A Short List
Here's a short list of things that brought me joy today:
1. Getting the filling between my two teeth filed down so that the blinding pain would cease and desist.
2. Being told by the dentist that I would need to suck down 9 ibuprofen a day for the next three days to help with the inflammation. Mandated muscle relaxation. I love it. Just in time for my period, too!
3. Seeing pictures of Ellen Degerenes and Portia De Rossi's wedding day on Oprah.
1. Getting the filling between my two teeth filed down so that the blinding pain would cease and desist.
2. Being told by the dentist that I would need to suck down 9 ibuprofen a day for the next three days to help with the inflammation. Mandated muscle relaxation. I love it. Just in time for my period, too!
3. Seeing pictures of Ellen Degerenes and Portia De Rossi's wedding day on Oprah.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Urban Homesteading Part II
AFTER:
Admittedly, not my finest photography work, but you get the idea.
Speaking of ideas, here's CLH's latest: chickens. Raised in our garage.
Him: When can we raise chickens in the garage?
Me: I already told you. I'm totally cool with it. Do you know how to do it?
CLH: My grandmother did it when I was growing up. I'm sure I can find out. But you wouldn't like it.
Me: What do you mean?
CLH: The smell. You would DIE.
Me: Oh. Is is bad?
CLH: Um. Yeah. It would smell like guinea pigs and shit. It would waft up the stairs and you'd ha-a-a-ate it.
Me: Wait. Why would chickens smell like guinea pigs? Is it because of the cedar shavings? Because I kinda like the smell of guinea pigs. And cedar.
CLH: Alright, maybe not guinea pigs. But definitely POOP.
Me: Oh. Well, anyway, don't chickens need sunlight? The garage doesn't get any light. And living things need light to survive. They'd never see daylight unless you took them our for walks or something.
(and here's where we both pause and get lost in our own imaginings of CLH walking chickens on leashes down the sidewalks in our neighborhood.)
Me: Guess we're not raising chickens in the garage.
Admittedly, not my finest photography work, but you get the idea.
Speaking of ideas, here's CLH's latest: chickens. Raised in our garage.
Him: When can we raise chickens in the garage?
Me: I already told you. I'm totally cool with it. Do you know how to do it?
CLH: My grandmother did it when I was growing up. I'm sure I can find out. But you wouldn't like it.
Me: What do you mean?
CLH: The smell. You would DIE.
Me: Oh. Is is bad?
CLH: Um. Yeah. It would smell like guinea pigs and shit. It would waft up the stairs and you'd ha-a-a-ate it.
Me: Wait. Why would chickens smell like guinea pigs? Is it because of the cedar shavings? Because I kinda like the smell of guinea pigs. And cedar.
CLH: Alright, maybe not guinea pigs. But definitely POOP.
Me: Oh. Well, anyway, don't chickens need sunlight? The garage doesn't get any light. And living things need light to survive. They'd never see daylight unless you took them our for walks or something.
(and here's where we both pause and get lost in our own imaginings of CLH walking chickens on leashes down the sidewalks in our neighborhood.)
Me: Guess we're not raising chickens in the garage.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Urban Homesteading
Client cancellations come few and far between. When they do happen, I almost don't care about the money I am missing out on because, these days, time to myself is a rare and precious thing.
I decided to make the most of my day by running a bunch of errands that I have been putting off for weeks now. On the top of the list was:
1. Run the postcards from the Galapagos over to the moneyed side of town for hand delivery.
So, twelve years ago, I went on a trip to Peru with a bunch of other community college folks, and that's where I met my friend Barbara, who I lovingly call Babs. Babs and I have been in communication for the last twelve years now. Babs has visited every single continent on this planet, minus the Arctic. Some of them several times. She is an amazing woman and a true friend. She's also a HUGE advocate of the US Postal system. She worked as a mail carrier for a few years and I'm pretty sure Babs is single-handedly keeping them in business. Every few months or so, I receive packages with random assortments of stuff in them... things like letter openers made entirely of corn plastic. Just something to keep those mail delivery folks happy and employed. Anywho, the last time Babs was in the Galapagos, she visited Floreana, an island with a neat little tradition. Dating back to the time of whalers, mail has been left in post "barrels" for sailors (and now tourists) to pick and carry back to their homes in Europe and beyond for hand delivery. So, Babs, being the devoted ex-postal worker, scooped up a few addressed to Seattle and she mailed them off to me. I hand delivered them today. I have to admit, it was sort of neat to watch the reactions of the mail recipients. Also, I'm now guaranteed a place in heaven. Move over, Mother Theresa.
Next on the list:
2. Pick up hardware at packed-to-the-rafters-with-stuff, my-kinda-place hardware store. Hardwicks, you are the hardware store my father always dreamed about. Thank you for your bulk bins of six-cent screws and eighteen-cent anchors. I can finally hang that shelf in the bathroom.
And then:
3. Grocery shop at now-infamous home of the lady who banged a stale cookie on the deli counter. Mostly uneventful except cashier almost didn't swipe my coupon and I almost overpaid by $6.00. These are tough times. Pay attention to my coupons, ya damned hippies.
4. Came home and hand dyed napkins. Okay, okay, this one needs some explaining. Bleach, laundry, and colorfastness in my house are all mortal enemies. CLH and I have done more than our share of white loads that have come out pink because of a rogue red sock we didn't ferret out of the wash. I have destroyed a number of towels with my sloppy bleach handling. And our bath mat is only now starting to fade back to its original checkered pattern after CLH washed it with a indigo colored something or other that turned everything in the load blue.
Now, for ecological reasons, we don't use paper napkins in our house. Instead, for the past ten years, we have been using the same six cloth napkins. As you can imagine, they are a little worse for the wear. They're still in great shape structurally. It's just that they're stained with so much wine and discolored with so much bleach, it looks like we've been using them to clean up after autopsies rather than mushroom risotto. So, I decided to pull out the box of dye I've been hoarding all these years and my canning pot from the basement and try my hand at stovetop dyeing. It was incredibly simple, really. I probably didn't agitate the napkins as much as I should have. But they came out well enough. And now I have a set of clean, uniform looking napkins!
BEFORE:
DURING:
I'll post the AFTER shot tomorrow, right after I finish painting the fence and milking the cows.
I decided to make the most of my day by running a bunch of errands that I have been putting off for weeks now. On the top of the list was:
1. Run the postcards from the Galapagos over to the moneyed side of town for hand delivery.
So, twelve years ago, I went on a trip to Peru with a bunch of other community college folks, and that's where I met my friend Barbara, who I lovingly call Babs. Babs and I have been in communication for the last twelve years now. Babs has visited every single continent on this planet, minus the Arctic. Some of them several times. She is an amazing woman and a true friend. She's also a HUGE advocate of the US Postal system. She worked as a mail carrier for a few years and I'm pretty sure Babs is single-handedly keeping them in business. Every few months or so, I receive packages with random assortments of stuff in them... things like letter openers made entirely of corn plastic. Just something to keep those mail delivery folks happy and employed. Anywho, the last time Babs was in the Galapagos, she visited Floreana, an island with a neat little tradition. Dating back to the time of whalers, mail has been left in post "barrels" for sailors (and now tourists) to pick and carry back to their homes in Europe and beyond for hand delivery. So, Babs, being the devoted ex-postal worker, scooped up a few addressed to Seattle and she mailed them off to me. I hand delivered them today. I have to admit, it was sort of neat to watch the reactions of the mail recipients. Also, I'm now guaranteed a place in heaven. Move over, Mother Theresa.
Next on the list:
2. Pick up hardware at packed-to-the-rafters-with-stuff, my-kinda-place hardware store. Hardwicks, you are the hardware store my father always dreamed about. Thank you for your bulk bins of six-cent screws and eighteen-cent anchors. I can finally hang that shelf in the bathroom.
And then:
3. Grocery shop at now-infamous home of the lady who banged a stale cookie on the deli counter. Mostly uneventful except cashier almost didn't swipe my coupon and I almost overpaid by $6.00. These are tough times. Pay attention to my coupons, ya damned hippies.
4. Came home and hand dyed napkins. Okay, okay, this one needs some explaining. Bleach, laundry, and colorfastness in my house are all mortal enemies. CLH and I have done more than our share of white loads that have come out pink because of a rogue red sock we didn't ferret out of the wash. I have destroyed a number of towels with my sloppy bleach handling. And our bath mat is only now starting to fade back to its original checkered pattern after CLH washed it with a indigo colored something or other that turned everything in the load blue.
Now, for ecological reasons, we don't use paper napkins in our house. Instead, for the past ten years, we have been using the same six cloth napkins. As you can imagine, they are a little worse for the wear. They're still in great shape structurally. It's just that they're stained with so much wine and discolored with so much bleach, it looks like we've been using them to clean up after autopsies rather than mushroom risotto. So, I decided to pull out the box of dye I've been hoarding all these years and my canning pot from the basement and try my hand at stovetop dyeing. It was incredibly simple, really. I probably didn't agitate the napkins as much as I should have. But they came out well enough. And now I have a set of clean, uniform looking napkins!
BEFORE:
DURING:
I'll post the AFTER shot tomorrow, right after I finish painting the fence and milking the cows.
Monday, November 09, 2009
Parallel Lives... Almost
For the past year or so, CLH and I have been marveling at how similar our lives are to that of Dooce and Blurb, to whom we are wholly and Internet-ally devoted. I fell in love with Heather's writing about a year and a half ago when my friend Kevin emailed and said YOU MUST READ THIS BLOG. At the time, I was all, Kevin, get a grip, man. How good could it be? And then I started reading. And it was good. It was so good, in fact, I made a vow to read every single entry. From the beginning. And then, basically, I read nearly seven years' worth of blogging over the course of the next few months.
And over the course of those months, I sometimes felt like I was looking into a mirror (if a mirror was shaped like a monitor and had a keyboard dangling from it). I mean, minus the being a mom to two kids, and the Mormon upbringing, and being raised in the south, and the dislike of licorice, and her being extremely tall, and living in another state, and the owning of two dogs, and making a living blogging, and the beautifully decorated house, we have a LOT in common. Okay, so we really have nothing in common. Her husband is a big computer geek and my almost-husband is a computer geek and sometimes I also want to stick my head in the oven at the sight of the first flakes of snow. So, in my mind, that qualifies us to be twins.
You see, this is what the Internets has done to me: it's made me feel this kinship with people I've never met. It's as if, because we can eloquently spell out the joys and pains of raising kids, or training dogs, or hating winter, we can all call each other family. And I kind of like that. I don't know about you, but I think I might know Heather (and other bloggers I follow) better than my OWN family sometimes.
I mean, her life has become dinnertime conversation around our house, for god's sake. CLH will ask me as we sit down together: Did you see what Chuck was wearing today? And I will answer yes and we'll laugh about it knowingly and then cut into our baked potatoes.
So, I guess I shouldn't have been that surprised when CLH came running into the kitchen the other day and blurted out, DID YOU SEE WHAT DOOCE'S KID IS WEARING? SHE'S DRESSED LIKE SPECIAL FRIEND FOR HALLOWEEN!
Internet, meet Special Friend.
Special Friend is a bit of a family joke around our house. Back when I worked for a major retailer, and back when I blew whole paychecks on weird toys, I came across a stuffed multi-colored centipede and brought it home to add to the menagerie. He was a bit of a prominent feature in the bedroom I shared with my sister at the time (this is back when CLH and I were first dating). Somehow, CLH and my sister developed a bit of a rivalry over who had true ownership rights to this stuffed centipede, and he was christened Special Friend (as in, "You can't have him. He's MY special friend"). He then spent the next five years being spirited away under winter coats and stuffed into suitcases at the last minute as each of us stole it from the other and back again. To "settle" the custody battle, my sister HAND STITCHED a second special friend (this time in khaki and navy) so that each of us could have one at our house and gave it to CLH for Christmas a few years back. Can you believe that? I mean, she got the eyes to match and EVERYthing. She even made him- get this- a little tiny top hat! Internet, that is some ingenuity.
My sister still has the original, and displays it proudly with the beaded throw pillows on her bed, and mine acts as a lumbar support when we sit on our couch.
Here is CLH holding up Special Friend II in front of our shower curtain. Yuen Lui, eat your heart out.
That kid could have been dressed as anything, ANYthing at all. But she was dressed as a centipede. A rainbow centipede. Coincidence? I think not.
Recently, CLH was offered the chance to go to Salt Lake City for a meet up with the other half of the development team he has been working with. Immediately, I asked him if I could go too. He smiled and asked if it was because I wanted to see where Heather and Jon lived. Maybe, I said. Or maybe it's because I've always wanted to see Utah. But probably it's because I want to meet Heather and Jon....and that baby wrapped in Special Friend.
And over the course of those months, I sometimes felt like I was looking into a mirror (if a mirror was shaped like a monitor and had a keyboard dangling from it). I mean, minus the being a mom to two kids, and the Mormon upbringing, and being raised in the south, and the dislike of licorice, and her being extremely tall, and living in another state, and the owning of two dogs, and making a living blogging, and the beautifully decorated house, we have a LOT in common. Okay, so we really have nothing in common. Her husband is a big computer geek and my almost-husband is a computer geek and sometimes I also want to stick my head in the oven at the sight of the first flakes of snow. So, in my mind, that qualifies us to be twins.
You see, this is what the Internets has done to me: it's made me feel this kinship with people I've never met. It's as if, because we can eloquently spell out the joys and pains of raising kids, or training dogs, or hating winter, we can all call each other family. And I kind of like that. I don't know about you, but I think I might know Heather (and other bloggers I follow) better than my OWN family sometimes.
I mean, her life has become dinnertime conversation around our house, for god's sake. CLH will ask me as we sit down together: Did you see what Chuck was wearing today? And I will answer yes and we'll laugh about it knowingly and then cut into our baked potatoes.
So, I guess I shouldn't have been that surprised when CLH came running into the kitchen the other day and blurted out, DID YOU SEE WHAT DOOCE'S KID IS WEARING? SHE'S DRESSED LIKE SPECIAL FRIEND FOR HALLOWEEN!
Internet, meet Special Friend.
Special Friend is a bit of a family joke around our house. Back when I worked for a major retailer, and back when I blew whole paychecks on weird toys, I came across a stuffed multi-colored centipede and brought it home to add to the menagerie. He was a bit of a prominent feature in the bedroom I shared with my sister at the time (this is back when CLH and I were first dating). Somehow, CLH and my sister developed a bit of a rivalry over who had true ownership rights to this stuffed centipede, and he was christened Special Friend (as in, "You can't have him. He's MY special friend"). He then spent the next five years being spirited away under winter coats and stuffed into suitcases at the last minute as each of us stole it from the other and back again. To "settle" the custody battle, my sister HAND STITCHED a second special friend (this time in khaki and navy) so that each of us could have one at our house and gave it to CLH for Christmas a few years back. Can you believe that? I mean, she got the eyes to match and EVERYthing. She even made him- get this- a little tiny top hat! Internet, that is some ingenuity.
My sister still has the original, and displays it proudly with the beaded throw pillows on her bed, and mine acts as a lumbar support when we sit on our couch.
Here is CLH holding up Special Friend II in front of our shower curtain. Yuen Lui, eat your heart out.
That kid could have been dressed as anything, ANYthing at all. But she was dressed as a centipede. A rainbow centipede. Coincidence? I think not.
Recently, CLH was offered the chance to go to Salt Lake City for a meet up with the other half of the development team he has been working with. Immediately, I asked him if I could go too. He smiled and asked if it was because I wanted to see where Heather and Jon lived. Maybe, I said. Or maybe it's because I've always wanted to see Utah. But probably it's because I want to meet Heather and Jon....and that baby wrapped in Special Friend.
Sunday, November 08, 2009
Wherein My Desire to Nickname Everything Results In A Glaring Typo
So, it's come to my attention (thank you, Shoshi) that I stated CLH went to go see a "Henry" Potter movie last week. The movie was, in fact, about "Harry" Potter.
Why the confusion? Well, at our house, we have a tendency to assign made up names to everything. You remember that our sugar bowl is the Sugar Chicken, right? And that the proper way to open it is to sing to it, right? Well, ditto that for lots of things around the house. There's our beat up armchair Chairy (sorry, Pee Wee, you can't have ALL the good names for furniture). And there's CLH's car, a white Volkswagen Passat, which we call OMC, or "Old Man Car".
Somehow, our alternate name for the wizard child "Henry Porter" merged with his given name, "Harry Potter". I don't know why we had to go and change his name. I really don't.
Now, if it sounds like we are in need of a swift kick of adulthood to the ass, or that we have a million cats, or that we collect appliqued Christmas themed sweater vests, rest assured that only the first thing is true. We can actually have normal conversations that don't involve adding cute endings to words, or altering normal names into pseudo porn star names. It's just more fun when we do.
Why the confusion? Well, at our house, we have a tendency to assign made up names to everything. You remember that our sugar bowl is the Sugar Chicken, right? And that the proper way to open it is to sing to it, right? Well, ditto that for lots of things around the house. There's our beat up armchair Chairy (sorry, Pee Wee, you can't have ALL the good names for furniture). And there's CLH's car, a white Volkswagen Passat, which we call OMC, or "Old Man Car".
Somehow, our alternate name for the wizard child "Henry Porter" merged with his given name, "Harry Potter". I don't know why we had to go and change his name. I really don't.
Now, if it sounds like we are in need of a swift kick of adulthood to the ass, or that we have a million cats, or that we collect appliqued Christmas themed sweater vests, rest assured that only the first thing is true. We can actually have normal conversations that don't involve adding cute endings to words, or altering normal names into pseudo porn star names. It's just more fun when we do.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
A Month of Movies
The bonus to my being chained to my computer for the next 23 days or so is that CLH gets to do something he rarely gets to do around here: watch movies. It's not that I'm anti-movie or anything, or that I put the kai-bosh on his movie watching needs. It's just that most movies out there are so... predictable. Especially American movies. And if I wanted to sit for an hour and see something predictable unfold, I'd throw a bunch of lollipops into the air above a dozen three-year-olds.
The other thing about movies is that I have a hard time sitting still for very long. And when I do sit still, I prefer to read a book. Also, the remote scares me and books are really easy to open.
A couple of nights ago, he got to catch up on his Henry Potter repertoire by going to see the last one at a great little theater just north of us called The Crest. The place hasn't been renovated since Elvis died, but, for $3.00 a movie, no one's complaining that their seat is missing half its stuffing.
Since we had our garage sale this summer, we've been paring down our belongings, including our furniture. Though keeping the enormous couch we moved from the House In the Flight Path of An International Airport would have been more comfortable, both CLH and I were tired of looking at the thing, and we finally sold it last weekend. That means that we only have our lovely (but small) couch and armchair as our living room furniture. And that also means that poor, poor CLH must suffer the indignity of reclining his six foot tall body on a five foot long couch. Of course, he doesn't seem to mind. He's getting to watch movies! And he did pay $3.00 to sit on a avocado green tweed seat vomiting its own innards. Something tells me that, when it comes to movies, comfort is a sacrifice he's willing to make.
The other thing about movies is that I have a hard time sitting still for very long. And when I do sit still, I prefer to read a book. Also, the remote scares me and books are really easy to open.
A couple of nights ago, he got to catch up on his Henry Potter repertoire by going to see the last one at a great little theater just north of us called The Crest. The place hasn't been renovated since Elvis died, but, for $3.00 a movie, no one's complaining that their seat is missing half its stuffing.
Since we had our garage sale this summer, we've been paring down our belongings, including our furniture. Though keeping the enormous couch we moved from the House In the Flight Path of An International Airport would have been more comfortable, both CLH and I were tired of looking at the thing, and we finally sold it last weekend. That means that we only have our lovely (but small) couch and armchair as our living room furniture. And that also means that poor, poor CLH must suffer the indignity of reclining his six foot tall body on a five foot long couch. Of course, he doesn't seem to mind. He's getting to watch movies! And he did pay $3.00 to sit on a avocado green tweed seat vomiting its own innards. Something tells me that, when it comes to movies, comfort is a sacrifice he's willing to make.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
I Think We'll Call This One Snout Flu
If suddenly you found yourself unable to figure out what time of year it was, all you'd need to do is shine a flashlight up my nose and you'd know in about a nanosecond. Clear up there? It's summer. Slimed over? Well, then, dear nose-looker-upper, it's Fall. Know how you know? Because what you are looking at up there is one of at least three sinus infections I will get in the next three months. So that means it's at least November. Let the neti pot games begin!
You know what most women have behind their vanity mirrors? Things like dainty bottles of perfume and makeup and expensive face creams. Know what I have? A Tupperware container full of sea salt and a ceramic nose bidet.
At times like these, I feel like writing a letter to my pre-natal self . It would go something like:
Dear DNA,
I think you are about to make a terrible mistake. See, you have a set of instructions laid out before you that may have been drawn up by a drunken clown. The human being that is about to be sculpted from these plans could suffer immeasurably from having a head that is, well, too small for everything that needs to go inside it . The problem is that the proportions are all wrong. I would like to draw your attention specifically to the sinus areas. Now, I know you have instructions from the father to make these as prone to inflammation as possible, but I urge you not to listen. You will also be tempted to follow the plan for some fucked up looking Eustachian tubes, very short legs and an intolerance for spaghetti. Please, I beg you, spare this child...
CLH says this infection is probably all due to the massive amount of bodywork I am having done to me right now to fix my neck (and to make sure I don't faint at work again). Turns out that all this ear stuffiness I've been experiencing might have nothing to do with Meniere's Disease (which one MD thought I had). It might, however, have EVERYthing to do with the fact that my neck bones/muscles are all compressed. I saw a chiropractor last week who took one look at my head and neck and declared that my head was noticeably "tilted". I tried to tell her that the tilted head look was totally in this year, but she didn't buy it.
The timing on this whole thing couldn't be worse. I do have a crappy novel to write and there's only so much procrastination I can blame on sinusitis.
You know what most women have behind their vanity mirrors? Things like dainty bottles of perfume and makeup and expensive face creams. Know what I have? A Tupperware container full of sea salt and a ceramic nose bidet.
At times like these, I feel like writing a letter to my pre-natal self . It would go something like:
Dear DNA,
I think you are about to make a terrible mistake. See, you have a set of instructions laid out before you that may have been drawn up by a drunken clown. The human being that is about to be sculpted from these plans could suffer immeasurably from having a head that is, well, too small for everything that needs to go inside it . The problem is that the proportions are all wrong. I would like to draw your attention specifically to the sinus areas. Now, I know you have instructions from the father to make these as prone to inflammation as possible, but I urge you not to listen. You will also be tempted to follow the plan for some fucked up looking Eustachian tubes, very short legs and an intolerance for spaghetti. Please, I beg you, spare this child...
CLH says this infection is probably all due to the massive amount of bodywork I am having done to me right now to fix my neck (and to make sure I don't faint at work again). Turns out that all this ear stuffiness I've been experiencing might have nothing to do with Meniere's Disease (which one MD thought I had). It might, however, have EVERYthing to do with the fact that my neck bones/muscles are all compressed. I saw a chiropractor last week who took one look at my head and neck and declared that my head was noticeably "tilted". I tried to tell her that the tilted head look was totally in this year, but she didn't buy it.
The timing on this whole thing couldn't be worse. I do have a crappy novel to write and there's only so much procrastination I can blame on sinusitis.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
It's National Write Till Your Fingers Bleed Month!
Internets, I have made a contract with myself.
I'm going to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.
That's right. It's National Novel Writing Month, and people the world over have agreed to ignore their spouses, hygiene, and housecleaning for thirty days while they sculpt 50,000 words into a quasi-meaningful plot under duress! All for the prize of being able to say, "I wrote a novel in thirty days". Isn't that thrilling? Kinda makes you want to run at full speed into a barbed wire fence. Because that would be less painful.
Oh, and in case that wasn't ambitious enough, I've also agreed to post 30 times in 30 days to this blog. Know why? Because it's also National Blog Writing Month! So, now you get to enjoy the antics of CLH and me (and the Leagues of Indignant Seattlites I live amongst) EVERY DAY for thirty days. Who knows? This could really turn my commitment-phobia around.
The only problem with this whole situation is that I am master dilly-dallier. Tonight, for example, I scoured my pantry for the oldest, hardest legumes I had so that my split pea soup for dinner would require hours of watching the stove (and not my computer screen). I also opted to clean out my spice drawer, catch up on the Oprah show, and paint my nails. All so I wouldn't have to come in here and write. Clever, huh?
The soup has been simmering for two hours now. CLH wants to know why my vegetarian split pea soup smells so good. Is there ham in it, he asks? No, honey. The secret ingredient is procrastination.
I'm going to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.
That's right. It's National Novel Writing Month, and people the world over have agreed to ignore their spouses, hygiene, and housecleaning for thirty days while they sculpt 50,000 words into a quasi-meaningful plot under duress! All for the prize of being able to say, "I wrote a novel in thirty days". Isn't that thrilling? Kinda makes you want to run at full speed into a barbed wire fence. Because that would be less painful.
Oh, and in case that wasn't ambitious enough, I've also agreed to post 30 times in 30 days to this blog. Know why? Because it's also National Blog Writing Month! So, now you get to enjoy the antics of CLH and me (and the Leagues of Indignant Seattlites I live amongst) EVERY DAY for thirty days. Who knows? This could really turn my commitment-phobia around.
The only problem with this whole situation is that I am master dilly-dallier. Tonight, for example, I scoured my pantry for the oldest, hardest legumes I had so that my split pea soup for dinner would require hours of watching the stove (and not my computer screen). I also opted to clean out my spice drawer, catch up on the Oprah show, and paint my nails. All so I wouldn't have to come in here and write. Clever, huh?
The soup has been simmering for two hours now. CLH wants to know why my vegetarian split pea soup smells so good. Is there ham in it, he asks? No, honey. The secret ingredient is procrastination.
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