body like soft serve

I died my hair dark brown today. I look porcelain skinned now. Pink cheeks. Like some 1920s doll. Without the eyelashes or rouged lips. The hair dye was a remedy to a $100 hair fiasco that befell me on Saturday. I was blond. BLOND. No good. I could not be any further from a blond if I tried. I am not tanned nor sporty nor bombshell. I am pale and bookworm and maybe on a good day, mysterious. So the blond had to go and it had to go might quick. It took courage, courage I tell you, to walk my blond ass up to Walgreen’s and buy the first box of dark brown hair dye I came across. I wished for a hat. A scarf would have been nice. I would have even considered a helmet quite frankly. I nearly ran home. 30 minutes later I looked like myself again. Ahhhh.

I’m painting my apartment this weekend. It’s icy blue, pea soup green and burnt orange. I’m rather random about where I apply each color. A little here. A little there. The colors don’t really match any of my stuff, but I’ve decided that matching is overrated. So 1990s, if you know what I mean. I figure it’ll all go because it just so won’t go. It was the easiest I’ve ever had at picking paint. I didn’t even take a swatch home. I held it up to no pillow! I worried about no rug! I stood in front of the billion trillion choices and picked the first three that I liked, bought a roller and went home. When it’s done it will be airy and bright. And my couch will look like it’s from outer space. Perfect.

Paul is coming back this summer. For a few weeks. His mission is to help me sort out the boxes of receipts and sales reports and bills that are the remains of Purgatory Coffee. Right now they’re piled in a closet that I pretend isn’t there. But. It’s there. And ignoring it isn’t making it go away. It’s holding me back. Keeping me in place. Slowly turning me into a hamster running in a blue plastic wheel. I’d really rather be a girl. So Paul is coming. To rescue my girliness from the grasp of rodentdom. To be my own personal superhero. To drink wine with me on the window ledge. One step further. One more. One more. One.

It’s all deep breaths and runaway thoughts with him. Butterflies. And tidal waves. I knew the second I met him that he would be important to me. Felt it in our handshake. Didn’t believe it was true. But here he is. Being important. We would talk for hours and both smile the whole time. He reads books I wish I had written. And makes movies in his head. Like me. His are stories. Mine are pretty pictures in slow motion. I remember him saying that the wings I painted were perfect. I remember telling him that I felt like I was 14. This isn’t a love story. It’s a hunch turning into a true. It’s being rescued a little. Poked fun of a little. It’s holding on and letting go. I can’t decide how I care. Brother or best friend. Mad crush. Daydream fodder. The boy I pine for. Supporting role. Crisscross. He is buried in May twirl and there are streamers everywhere. Maybe I’ll know when they float to the ground.

My new obsession: POKEY!

What flavor I am: Chocolate!

her parents named her halleluiah

Here's to Lisa! She tagged me. Slapped a metal cuff with a serial number on it around my ankle and isn't taking it off until I answer the following questions.

The total volume of music files on my computer: Oh my. I don’t have a clue. I probably could find it if I asked the paper clip, but we aren’t speaking at the moment.

Last CD I bought: Separation Sunday by The Hold Steady. Whip smart lyrics yelled over guitar heavy rock and roll. If you have the chance to see them live – go. I command you! They are worth whatever the cover price – even if it’s ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS. They’re that good.

Song playing right now: I’m listening to KEXP. I have a bit of a crush on this radio station and strangely enough they just played The Hold Steady – How a Resurrection Really Feels. Coincidence? Kismet? Cosmic sign that Craig Finn and I are really meant to be together?

5 songs that mean a lot to me:

World At Large by Modest Mouse. I could have wrote this. I could have sang this. It sums up my last year and despite it’s minor key mood, I see it as my moving on, growing up, getting my smile back song.


Birdhouse In Your Soul by They Might Be Giants. I have loved this song since I first heard it way way way back when. Yes, I keep the nightlight on inside the birdhouse in my soul.


Government Center by The Modern Lovers. I fall a little bit in love with Jonathan Richman every time I hear a Modern Lovers song and this one is my favorite.


Can’t Smile Without You by Barry Manilow. My mom listened to Barry all the time. She had every record he put out. This song was my favorite as a little kid. I still like it. I still like him. I don’t care what y’all say!


Sing, Sing A Song by the kids on Sesame Street. I have really wonderfully memories of singing this song with my grandma and dancing around the kitchen. John Denver’s Sunshine On My Shoulders, too.

wait a minute mister postman

Kevin came last Sunday. He had a west coast layover and made it Seattle so we could see each other. It marked my sixth trip to the Seattle airport in three months. It marked the third time I’ve seen Kevin in my whole life. I kept scanning the faces as people stepped off the escalator, waiting for the smile or eyes or hair that I would recognize as him. It was instant. I saw half his profile, the tip of his nose, the outer most part of his big toe and knew it was him.

We chatted the whole bus ride into downtown. Shared business cards and movie reviews and talked about all things liquid and easy. It was like no time had passed. It was like we lived next door. We loaded up on Mexican food. He bought a superball. I showed him my office and the crazy beautiful hanging light that I always pause to look at through the spotless glass of the modern furniture store. Big round ball of pretty and wire. He liked it, too.

We stayed up late and I had a hard time not hitting snooze a dozen times when Monday reared it’s ugly head. It was off to work and then a quick lunch before good-bye. I hugged him lots before he got in the taxi. I always promise that I’ll visit him next and he always smiles knowing I mean it. He always visits next though. But this time I’m gonna try really hard to beat him at it. Walking back to work, waving to his cab, I felt pretty lucky for knowing him.

It’s funny how no time will pass. From the second we were standing at the airport waiting for his baggage from the time he left, we were comfortable and chatty. Kevin has been my pen pal since I was 14. I couldn’t even drive yet. My handwriting was big and round. It let me get just a few words per wide ruled line. I dotted my i’s with Cheerio sized circles and talked about wanting world peace and to be in a punk rock band. And still he wrote back to me! His handwriting was small and purposeful. He was working on fanzines and attending conferences and changing the world. He spelled things with extra u’s and sent me cool stuff like cool stickers and band flyers for all ages shows in Toronto. This was before e-mail. Each letter written on ruled paper. His usually yellow. Mine usually white. In pen. Carefully. We would go weeks between letters. Months sometimes. But I remember the days I’d get home from school and his letter would be waiting for me on the stairs. The third step up from the bottom. Leaning against the riser. Those were always good days.

Now we’re grown up, kinda. Sorta. Maybe. And have real jobs and worries and sometimes catch ourselves talking about the younger generation like we’re old. E-mail and phone calls have replaced letters. It’s easy and nice and he’s known me longer than anyone. Like a big brother. Like a good friend. He is still changing the world. I still wanna be in a punk rock band. Nice that some things never change.

summer in slow motion

When he says I’m pretty in ways that sometimes don’t involve words, all I see are butterflies. Thousands of them. Clouding my vision. Making it so I can’t see him anymore. His words hit me like make-believe. The compliments sink in only so far and are chased out with casual comments about his being sweet or too kind. Too kind. It’s too kind to think of me as lovely. Smart? Yes. Funny? Yes. Resilient? Sure. But Butterflies land on my shoulders. They fan their wings in the spring air.

I have this mistrust of him. It’s completely unfounded but it’s there. Under the surface. Lurking. It shoots up questions and misgivings and paranoia and wonder. Why is he here? Why is he standing here? Right in front of me. His lips are moving and butterflies are pouring out. His perfect lips. Pouty. Full. His heavily lashed eyes blink in slow motion behind his glasses. He is unaware of them. They land on his nose and ears and pause there. Listening. How doesn’t he see? There is a pale yellow one walking carefully on a strand of hair. Why can’t I hear what he’s saying anymore? His lips just move. He is smiling as he talks.

Sometimes he’ll walk through them and be waiting with a bag of unassembled dinner and want to get wine up the street. He’ll have gotten things I can’t pronounce. He’ll add walnuts. Or thyme. He’ll make dinner and think he is somehow getting the better end of the deal. But I am. I know it’s me who is the lucky one. It’s me with the butterflies circling around. Talking myself into letting down my guard. Testing the waters. I want so badly to give him my little knight in shining armor. But I keep it in a drawer. I have never given it to anyone like I would place it in his hand. The butterflies aren’t detoured by the steam rising from the pasta. They fly through like it’s not even there.

We’ll sit on the floor and eat dinner like we’re in a park. The wine will make my cheeks pink. And I’ll look at him all dreamy eyed and hopeful. It will smell like herbs and garlic and salty ocean breezes in the apartment. He will tell me about the book he is reading as though the characters were his best friends. We’ll wonder about how cities are on other planets. If aliens are green. We’ll play Chinese Checkers. Just a quick game. And then one more. The butterflies will be slow from the wine, like me. They’ll settle on the floor and linger there while I lay my head against the cushions and notice how perfect his skin is.

He will have band practice. Or homework. I’ll have glitter painting. Or writing. I’ll take my laptop to Zeitgeist and try to unravel this mystery. Try to undo the things that were done. Force open some doors so he can squeeze in another inch. Hoping that what he finds once there is at least what he expected. Perfect world, more than he could have hoped for. Later he’ll let me play with his hair. He’ll lay his head in my lap and close his eyes. He will hold my hand. Kiss my fingers. Bite my lip. All the while, being buried and then revealed by the swarm. A flutter of pastels and thin delicate black legs. Unbelievable pretty.

clover, for now

My new kitten!