more than this

meet me over there

2007-05-24T22:44:00.000-07:00

I'm growing a new blog. Fresh start. New me. Mountain get out of my way. I want to write again and I think this might help.

If you'd like the address, e-mail me and I'll be happy to share: haikugirl at gmail dot com.

I may post here. I don't know. Never say never, right?

if i kiss you where it's sore

2007-05-03T17:13:00.000-07:00

It’s been one of those days/weeks/months. It bleeds together like my skinned knee into my favorite pair of blue jeans. How it’s always a blur, a soup, a fog - I'm not sure. I wonder if I float above my days. Touching my toe down here and there but rarely making contact with the sidewalk. The soles of my shoes still look brand new and reality is for other people. Not me.

It’s been awhile but all that’s been missed are a number of happy days and a handful of ones that were not. And the drama that comes from the in-between. The switch from major to minor. The switch from go to no-go. That moment when you pull out your umbrella on the walk home from work. I don’t manage those transitions very gracefully. I wish to. I try to. But. My personality gets in the way. I’m tenacious. And direct. And sometimes I just don’t get it. And "no." Try telling me no. I don’t hear it. Literally. This is why I’m in sales. Wait. That’s not right. It’s not why I’m in sales, it’s why I’m good at it. I get praised 40 hours a week for something that causes people who love me to beat their head against a wall and not want to answer the phone.

So these months that are all the same month. This ying and yang that are all the same ying and yang. Hmmm. I think I stopped making sense back at “It’s been one of those days...” But there is something to say here.

Right?

Maybe about getting back up on the horse because for all the floating and for all the times I can’t hear you because I have my headphones on the one thing that always always happens is eventually I hit a wall and bounce on the ground and one second later I’m brushing my pants off. And one second after that? My shoelaces are skimming the tops of trees. He’s calls me unsinkable.

But that makes me want to sink.

He says all the right things but only some of the time. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Laying on the couch this weekend he told me that on my birthday I became his best friend. I let my guard down. Shared all my dirty secrets and shined a light on all my darkest fears. He dabbed my cheek with a Starbuck’s napkin that day. And no matter how many times I apologized for the melt-down he would volley it back with a no-need-to. A please don’t. He even said he was jealous that I could do that. That I could just be like that, a pile of goo in the front seat of his car. That made me his best friend.

Wow.

But after that. It was all mouths and legs and hands and spit. And today it’s all phone calls and emails and a .jpeg I found on the internet of a busy guy. With four arms. And he was sweating.

Is this pretty? Spilling words like this? Being able to spill words like this?

Worthy of jealousy?

Or even just worthy?

suppose i never ever let you

2006-12-21T19:17:00.000-08:00

He asked me to write this all down. Save it in a bottle like a scoop of ocean water and sand. He likes how I write. Thinks it’s pretty. He’s bonded to our story like he has to the smell of my soap. Holding my wrist to his mouth and breathing in. My fingers unfolding into his hair. For me it’s been a string of coincidences and moments like that. Almost sickeningly sweet. Dimly lit. In soft focus. But that is what this is. What these weeks are. The weeks before we one day disagree. The weeks before the day to day can even touch us. The weeks when seeing his name pop up on my cell phone gives me butterflies.

These weeks are to be savored.

I have this idea. Or picture. It’s more of a picture. Of all these very public diaries written by boys and girls and men and women. Posted with wordy snapshots and punctuative ideas of what life is like for us. What it means to share 2007 with a planet full of people who are more alike than different. I can see this timeline in my head. Of all the people before us and all the ones yet to come. Slices of who gets to share today. And it will be a slightly different slice tomorrow. All these people telling their stories of falling in love, of being in high school, of what they had for lunch. We’re documenting life in a way that its never been documented. Turning history books to puzzles where the pieces are scattered about and each one fits with all the others.

This is what I tell myself when I write down how he smells my wrist and how we were at the same punk show in Green Bay, WI summer of 1988, and how I knit stuff and how my cat did something cute. I’m adding to this collective story. Just like you are. Just like she is. Just like he is.

I had lentil soup with spinach for lunch. Keith taught me how to say “Where is the butter?” in French as though I was extremely cranky to have to ask.

And about two months ago I met a boy. Met him because he was wearing a wrist band and I think wrist bands are totally hot. Met him because he said he was brave enough to be truthful and had gone from punk rock kid to irreverent adult with a healthy dose of grown up and dad and guy next door. Met him because I couldn’t get him out of my mind once our paths crossed. 24 hours later I was sending him an e-mail and crossing my fingers. Now he’s having his mom analyze my handwriting and wearing a scarf I made him as he visits his family in DC. His 14 year old son in tow. His cell phone charger forgotten on his kitchen table. His dad wanting to take him to church.

Everyone, this is Bob.

Bob, this is everyone.

i got lost in the sounds

2006-12-18T22:41:00.000-08:00

Instead of blaming it on the New Guy, I’m going to first blame my hiatus on Flickr. That whole “a picture is worth a thousand words” thing is really appealing. I’m still in the honeymoon phase with my wee digital camera and it created an unholy alliance designed to bring down my blog.

Next up, I’m going to blame the weather. It’s been all end of the world here. Hail. Snow. Torrential rains. Wind storms. It was all I could do to make it to work on time, and by on time I mean, you know, like by noon.

After that I think I’ll blame laziness with a pinch of writer’s block tossed in for good measure. I tried to write. I really did. But it just wasn’t happening. If my blog was judged by hours put in and not words, I assure you November would not have gone by unnoticed. I spent at least 10 hours looking at a blank page and another 20 contemplating why that was so.

If I was forced to come up with a Top 5, maybe, MAYBE, the New Guy would make an appearance. But to say he’s an obstacle to anything is silly. He’s a distraction, sure. A very cute distraction who happens to be an excellent kisser. But he’s really Grade A Fancy fodder. I have a novel kicking around in me with him as a main character and to tag him a threat to this lil ol’ blog is preposterous. Instead, it was more like waiting to introduce a new boy or girlfriend to your kid. You know, you wanna wait to make sure it’s worth the trouble. Nothing is worse than waxing poetic about how fantabulous he is only to have him be yesterday’s news quicker than I can change my MySpace status back to single. But it’ll be 2 months on Christmas Eve and, dang it, that seems like something. 8 weeks of goo-goo eyes and flirty e-mails. 8 weeks of worrying about what I was going to wear and if I smelled nice. 8 weeks of constant smiling and butterflies. It’s been pretty neat.

I think I’m blushing.

In other news, Best Boss Ever left to go back to radio. He was a gopher on the set of WKRP when he was in college and apparently that had a mighty big impact on him. His leaving triggered my third mid-life crisis. Now I’m on this kick where I want to care about my job. Have it mean something. I have my eye on the perfect place and my fingers crossed. My step dad had heart surgery and is going to be ok. But, man, what a week. The scare made me realize I loved him and I told him so after 23 years of not telling him so. One of my friends is pregnant. And I couldn’t be happier because the world needs more curly haired cutie pies. Clover is robuster than ever. Boo is gonna be in Revolver magazine cuz she rocks that much.

Winter is the new metaphoric spring.

a thousand words

2006-10-11T08:25:00.000-07:00

I've been a lazy writer.

Lazy.

While this piece of internet real estate has been vacant, over here it's hopping. Fall makes it easy to take pretty pictures and being lazy (as previously established,) I can't pass that up.

However, if I have any hope of selling this blog to Google for 1.65 billion dollars I really need to update it weekly. So things are a'brewin. Perk-a-lating. French pressing.

I'll post something new this weekend. Pinky swear.

i'm blinking off and on and off again

2006-09-26T21:58:00.002-07:00

HOLY MOLY.

Writing is hard. Writing stories for newspapers that care about details and “getting things right” is extra hard. My sophomoric effort to the ass story made it’s debut on Sunday. I haven’t read it yet. I just can’t. It’s been the subject of enough e-mails to bring down AOL. It’s been passed from editor to editor with more frequency than a really bad cold. It’s been the inspiration for passionate rants in the parking lot about whether a word should be in italics or in bold. People. That is not worthy of a passionate rant. So this Sunday, I just let it come and go with nary a clinked glass to my second stint as a freelance writer. But let you not be fooled. I’m already signed up for round three.

It’s like San Pellingrino that way. It takes a little getting use to but once you like it you feel significantly cooler.

Want to know what is not cool? Amateur magicians.

I’ve been to many an advertiser recognition party. I’ve worked in media since you were a toddler and I know how they are supposed to go. The recipe is as follows: open bar, decent band. It’s really that simple. You are supposed to flex your market might to snag a band and venue that your competitors could only dream of. Then you get everyone drunk, fill them up on finger foods and watch the magic happen NOT hire a magician! His first trick were those hoops. You know the ones - where you clink them together a few times to no avail and then suddenly - poof! - they are magically linked together. “Can’t you buy those at Walgreen’s?” I asked Chris. “I’m fighting an urge to make balloon animals.” he said back. Thankfully, they nailed the open bar part.

It’s day 16 sans sugar. Feels a little like day 116. Keith seductively licked a Twix for my benefit. I passed up the prettiest little fruit tarts. I’m really really - really - sick of raisins. Day 21 will be on Saturday freeing me up to eat a wheelbarrow full of brownies on Sunday. Or not. The idea behind this little experiment is to reset my sugar tolerance. I want to feel it when I eat sugar. The highs. The lows. I want to face plant into my keyboard 90 minutes after eating a doughnut. I want to find candy too sweet and maybe, just maybe, chose something like an apple over something like a cupcake. I know it’s a long shot. These hopes typed from the fingers of someone who, say just 17 days ago, considered chocolate chip cookie dough a perfectly acceptable dinner.

Uncooked.

What else? What else? Chris accidentally dressed like an American flag one day. I’m undefeated in fantasy football. Clover The Cat tried to communicate an emergency to me using just her eyes. Boo finished her quilting project. That’s huge. BOO FINISHED HER QUILTING PROJECT. You know what that means ... pole dancing lessons are next on her agenda! This week is the corn-off! My coworkers and I are having a contest to see who has the shortest time frame from corn consumption to corn ... ah ... deconsumption? (a.k.a. pooping.) Kay’s having a football party. I’m making Chex Mix!

Woo-hoo!

Wanna come?

sing me the alphabet

2006-09-12T01:54:00.000-07:00

I’m quitting sugar for 21 days. Cold turkey. When chocolate chip cookie dough sounds like a good thing to have for dinner, you know you have a problem. Or perhaps a number of problems. I’ve made it through two full days of turning my nose up at all things sweet and delicious. So far so good. Keep in mind that the Hawaiian economy may collapse but I can’t worry about island states when there are peanut butter labels to read. And jams to shun.

Yes. I've shunned jam.

But I don't shun prophetic dreams! People are having dreams! People like Kay. People like Diana. In these dreams I'm hooking up with a certain boy who makes me laugh like a goofball and who also happens to star in the following snippet. Names have been changed to protect the inocent.

Zach Braff: Hi, this is Zach.
Me: You referred to yourself in the third person.
Zach: What do you mean?
Me: This email. It says “Braff doesn’t like that.” and it’s from you, Mr. Braff.
Zach: What’s your point?
Me: Referring to yourself in the third person is kinda ... um ... weird.
Zach: Braff doesn’t think it’s weird.

Then he hung up on me. Click. For comic effect. And today. I caught him looking at my butt.

I finished my story for Gender F. Gender Foosball. Gender Foxy. Gender Fifth of Gin. It’s about crafts and girls. Girls and crafts. If you’re in the knitting know you’ll be able to make a pair of leg warmers by following the bouncing ball. It hits the streets on September 25 and get this - THEY ARE PAYING ME AGAIN. I thought the first time was some kind of accident but apparently it’s on purpose. Even more amazing - I’m gearing up to write something for a section that is not special and is not about women. Hint: It doesn’t start with and G and end in an F. It’s about my friends and their super cool company and social networking sites and saving the world and doing what you love and seeing how many bottles of Perrier you can drink in an hour without blowing up.

The jam I shunned was blackberry.

I’m thinking of going back to school. I dunno for what. Maybe law. Or maybe French. Or art. I need more assigned reading in my life. And index cards. I’m severely lacking in index cards. Preferably scribbled with words in a foreign language and held together with a rubber band. I might just decide to bake raisin-walnut bread instead. Or join a particularly challenging book club. I could always take up Latin again. Nothing cured my want of an education as effectively as a quarter of Latin.

Ah. Those were the days. The frustration. The erasing. The cassette tapes.

I’d write something snarky here, in Latin, if I was able to retain anything that I could use in somewhat normal conversation. Instead, all I can say are things about killing. And herding sheep.

that dress looks nice on you

2006-08-13T17:58:00.000-07:00

Painting the hearts on the rocks and typing up the fortunes was the hard part. It was the part that made me cry a little and it was the part that made Boo want to come over for a bit to see what I’d made. I had six little polished black rocks with imperfect bright red hearts painted in the center of each one. In a few hours time they would be holding down carefully worded fortunes and a row of lucky numbers.

You are free to move on.
Lucky numbers: 8, 4, 6, 3, 18, 71

When I moved here. See. Right here. I want to justify what happened by pointing out that I was a mess when I moved here. I was bruised. Bandaged. It was all I could do just to go to work. I felt like I’d landed here, accidentally. Spit out of some tornado that was mostly made up of hurt feelings and no where else to turn.

You can have fond memories of bad places.
Lucky numbers: 8, 4, 6, 3, 18, 71

Really. I’m guilty of holding on too long. Of allowing mud dragging door mat hit by a bus rinse lather repeat. I had forgotten that I’m pretty much the best version of me that ever has been and instead was remembering that there is a little insecure place in me that thinks I don't deserve very much at all. That little insecure part of me is willing to put up with a lot. And it’s also willing to not be so little sometimes.

You did the best you could.
Lucky numbers: 8, 4, 6, 3, 18, 71

So round two happened. An affair. And there I was settling for a hundredth of what I deserved. Talking myself into thinking it was all these things that it wasn’t. Mainly: harmless. And then come a Tuesday in December everything crashes into a brick wall that I didn’t see coming even though. Geeze. I should have. We both should have. It was a lot of disbelief and confusion. The kind of crisis that shows what you are made of. I’m made of some pretty good stuff.

You are forgiven.
Lucky numbers: 8, 4, 6, 3, 18, 71

The next month is not a blur. I wish I could say it was a blur. That it was dulled and almost forgotten. But it is not. It was a mix of me being a superhero and me being unable to get out of bed. Disbelief. Deer in the headlights. Vacant. Swimming pools worth of tears. Finding a place in myself that could love something enough to make a rock solid decision in the face of a thousand voices a thousand feelings a thousand possibilities.

You are always welcome here.
Lucky numbers: 8, 4, 6, 3, 18, 71

Just like that it stopped. The out of control. The chaos. The toxicity. A few more changes. Adjustments here and there. I came across the calm I had been searching for. A quiet place to gather my thoughts and get over the last couple years, the last couple months. I beat myself up a lot. For being a door mat. For making bad choices. But no more. August 4 was the day I let go. I freed myself. I put 6 happy ever after fortunes out to change the lives of who picked them up but mostly to change mine. I made pretty offerings to other wise dark places and poked around in the idea of forgiveness. Forgiveness of him. But mostly, forgiveness of me.

You have purpose.
Lucky numbers: 8, 4, 6, 3, 18, 71

i don't laugh like a french man

2006-07-27T23:01:00.000-07:00

Although I've been accused of it.

Here is me trying to leave myself a voicemail about a sales lead I saw while driving around with my friend Chris. In the time it took me to dial the phone, I had forgotten the name of the business. This was funny only because it followed a two minute conversation about how I didn't need to write it down because I would "totally remember" it tomorrow. Yeah. Either that or completely forget it in, like, 20 seconds.

So, here ya go kids, this is me laughing while Chris mocks me.

with a side of punk rock

2006-07-18T22:16:00.000-07:00

Oh. I’m tired.

It’s a good tired. Hard day’s work kind of tired. Don’t be fooled, I wasn’t out in a field and my job does not typically require that I sweat. Instead, I was inside juggling about two dozen things including clients, proposals, coffee breaks, contracts and insertion orders. It was three o’clock before I would have guessed it was noon. And come 7pm I was a little cranky, a little hungry and a little accidentally calling one of my clients Karen when her name is Kristen. When you become a liability, it’s time to go home.

Isn’t it weird that I have a real job? I read some of the stuff I write and think, DANG, amazing that I’m employed in, like, a professional position and, like, I make good money and stuff. Because I write about boys and stitch fake teeth. And want a yurt.

I more than want a yurt, actually. I am OBSESSED with yurts. I’ve been rallying the troops, i.e. my coworkers and friends, to start a yurt colony with me. We’d each live peacefully in our own separate yurts and all pitch in and buy a Command Yurt or Yurt HQ where we can gather to watch movies and bake cupcakes. I have the yurt brochure on my desk and make yurt jokes at every opportunity. Chris accuses me of being a yurt instigator. I’m not sure what that all means, but if it has the word yurt in it, I consider it a compliment. Abby found a yurt tree house today so now the colony is looking for woodland property instead of grassy fields near babbling brooks. This whole idea kinda makes me want to start a cult.

Other obsessions: large scale graffiti style knitting, hamsters, scoop neck t-shirts from Old Navy and if soy milk is giving me stomach aches.

I was asked to write two, count ‘em, two stories for the next issue of Gender F. Gender Fuck You. Gender Flunked. Gender Fabulous. Gender Fun! I said yes so eagerly that you’d think they’d negotiate on rate. “Yeah, um, we’re not gonna pay you this time...” I have yet to get the full details on the assignments but I know this much: one of the stories will be on how hipster girls are getting together and getting their craft on. That’s almost as good as it being on yurts. Because if there is one thing I know, it’s ah, being crafty.

What else. What else. I got my hair cut. Used Rock, Paper, Scissors to efficiently settle a dispute. (I lost.) Saw As You Like It in Volunteer Park. Had a sno-cone. Pet a really cute dog. Oh! Chris threw his gum out the car window and it somehow landed on the hood. I got a picture! I made a t-shirt. Finished an iBook cozy and checked on airfare to Europe. Oo la la. Tres jujujuju oui oui oui le croissant, non?

someday somebody's gonna ask you

2006-07-09T12:31:00.000-07:00

He said he’d been antisocial and spent the holiday on his roof watching the tops of fireworks peek over trees from miles and miles away. I spent it on my neighbor’s deck watching them explode over Elliot Bay and having my mind wander sometimes to what he was doing and sometimes to how fortunate I was to be surrounded by tipsy friends with s’mores on the horizon. The mint julep had made my cheeks pink from two sips and I bet he was drunk, too. The booms were setting of car alarms and my friend Laura’s daughter was eating red licorice by the handful. Everyone looked so pretty in the darkened glow of red, white and blue.

All the important people were there. Laura. Boo. Charity. Charity is new. Met on 43things and have become fast friends. Together the four of us form some dream team of smart girls with special talents. Laura can speak French and makes an amazing macaroni and cheese. Boo works graphic magic and lights up a room. Charity is an emotionally smart genius who can knit you anything your heart desires. Me. I can paint and embroider dish towels and turn any problem into happy. If only we could fly. If only we could bring about world peace with well designed flyers, little sweaters and pasta dishes. I musta done something right to have found these girls in a city this big and this sometimes rainy. Apparently, I've had at least three lucky Seattle days.

I made a flag cake and baked beans and bought more food than I needed . Way more. Like four times more. I was sending leftovers home with everyone who had a spare arm to carry a zip-lock bag or covered dish. Laura and I made a trip to Costco for the occasion and while a giant jug of ketchup seemed like a good idea in the moment, it’s now turned into a lifetime supply. Same thing with graham crackers. Same thing with veggie dogs. Same thing with jell-o. In event of nuclear holocaust, I’m totally covered. Boo promised that next time I have a party she’ll follow me around and secretly put back 2/3 of everything I have in the cart.

It was my second Fourth of July here. The first one, I was a bit wide eyed and homesick. Remembering very clearly my last 4th of July in Minneapolis. Remembering riding my bike. Remembering the mosquitos. Then, from my perch on Capitol Hill, I watched the fireworks while playing with Sophie’s hair and wondering how exactly I had landed in Seattle. Figuring the reason would make itself known in time. And my only job was to be patient and recognize it when it crossed my path. That’s me still, one year later. Keeping an eye out and sipping summer drinks while sitting on the porch.

15 minutes

2006-06-25T15:22:00.000-07:00

My first ever published story is in the Sunday paper. I thought I'd kinda hate it when I saw it in print - - but I don't! Hooray!

Thanks to Boo for her ass and connectionz.

I'm blowing my $125 paycheck on booze! Bottoms up! Pun intended!

Read it here.

P.S. Boo's ass and I are trying to make the Top 10 list of most e-mailed articles on Monday. Sooooo ... if you'd be so kind to click the little "send this article" button at the bottom and forward it to a few dozen of your friends, that would be super fantastico. I really think that the Times needs to have the word "butt-love" in it's Top 10 something before turning 110 years old. Don't you agree?

hope you get to be happy sometimes

2006-06-20T00:21:00.000-07:00

It was a work project. Taking Polaroids of all the touristy spots for a client in Chicago. We spent 3 hours on a sunny Friday afternoon walking around the market and looking up at the Space Needle. We made friends with the fish mongers and Chris wished out loud for us to run into a Mariner’s player as we photographed Safeco Field. He said it with such youthful optimism that I asked him if he was nine. A giant 9 year old. Who could drive. And was entrusted with a company credit card. It was my little retrobutionary zing for saying the reason he didn’t have a myspace page was, and I quote, “because I’m almost 30.” Yeah.

Kay held the bobble head we had made tour mascot and I snapped the pictures. I had to search all over the city for a Polaroid camera the night before. The only one I have left is almost 22 years old, black with a rainbow stripe up the left side and uses flashes that haven’t been made since the early 90s. Everywhere I looked had film but no cameras. I struck gold at Walgreens and $40 later I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. It’s sliver and space age and cool. We shot almost 20 pictures. 20 times standing in a three person huddle, squinting in the sun and waiting for the picture to turn from drab olive green to the not quite kodacrome colors we all remember Polaroids to be. Wanting to shake it. Eyes peeled for recognizable silhouettes. The immediate critique of the shot. “Yeah, that’s a good one.”

We ate lunch at the pier and I paid an extra $2 to upgrade the fish in my fish and chips to halibut instead of cod. Cod reminds me of poverty and I always think halibut is the fish with both eyes on one side of its body. But that’s flounder. Hey. Had I been able to upgrade from french fries to tator tots, I woulda done that too. We all used a lot of ketchup and talked about regional names for things like tarter sauce and grandma made Jell-o salads. Chris is the right mix of alpha male and goofball. Kay and I play side kick and offer up the right amount of jokes at his expense to keep him in line. Come 3 o’clock my cheeks hurt from smiling. They were a little sunburnt, too.

Kay and I encouraged Chris to take us on a trip through the drive-through Starbucks on the way back and this is where you can take a second to hate me for lobbying for something so lame as a drive through Starbucks. It’s not like I don’t already go there almost every day with Diana anyway. But you know. Admitting it is a little sketchy. I told Chris I wanted the giant passion tea and that is exactly how he yelled it into the speaker. We decided to pay as a team since our triple threat outings were getting to be common place. Kay got this time. I’ll get next.

Stepping off the elevator on the 8th floor carrying a pink iced tea the size of my forearm, I felt almost guilty for the afternoon I’d had. I worried that my sunburnt cheeks and salt water smell would give me away and I’d be questioned about how dare I have fun at work and don’t I realize we’re in a revenue crisis. But instead. The quirky Polaroids getting the best of me and a revenue crisis no where in sight, I plop into Steve’s visitor chair and slide them across his desk. They are great he says. Asking if we had fun. Asking who took the pictures and who’s bobble head it was. Offering tips on the proposal and wishing us luck in closing the deal. Telling me to keep copies so when we win sale of the month, he’ll have handouts for the first time ever.

tiny things are always pretty

2006-06-10T11:14:00.000-07:00

I’m people watching. Drinking an iced mocha that surprisingly has cinnamon in it. And eyeing the people that make up the ever changing line. It’s a mix of khaki and hipster. Baseball hats and tattoos. The universal flip flop is ever present. (It’s the official shoe of Seattle.) This cafe is weird in two ways. One. It’s a Mexican-decorated cafe that servers up Cuban specialties and is owned by a French man. I’ll pause here for you to reread that.

Pausing.

And two. The barista looks like he should be featured on America’s Most Wanted. I’m not sure what his crime would most likely be. I don’t think adding cinnamon to iced mochas is anything that would lead to a life on the run. He looks like a bank robber. Or maybe someone who kidnapped a trophy wife for a few hundred thousand dollars. No one got hurt, but now he’s living out of a 1979 Chevy Impala and nervously smoking cigarettes while looking out his motel room window.

I’ve never been that dangerous.

And here’s proof: I kinda want to bake this weekend. Baking, by nature, is not a dangerous activity. Even whipping up a cake version of Piss Christ or a giant penis doesn’t elevate baking to a dangerous art. It smells too nice and there is something meditative about creaming butter and sugar together. Well. And then there is frosting. Butercream can only make people happy. It’s metabolically impossible for frosting to make you cry. Even if left out in the rain. That song was total bullshit. So I’m trying to think of a cupcake design that turns my crank and is G-rated so I can bring a batch to work on Monday. So no boobs. No butts. I gotta be appropriately creative. I will turn to this girl for inspiration - she is the world’s premiere baker of video game themed cakes. Absolutely amazing! Her house must smell really really good. And I bet she has a chorus of eager friends always sitting outside her front door.

Smelling in the smell. Anticipating the frosting.

I was worried for a few days. Maybe almost a week. WebMD got me. It was Saturday morning and I was putting on mascara like I do pretty much every morning and huh. One pupil is bigger than the other. Trying to think back to every eye I’ve ever gazed into, does this just happen? Or is it weird?

OH.

It’s weird all right. All the causes were terrible and the one I shared the most symptoms with was a brain tumor. I didn’t really think that I had a brain tumor. But I didn’t really think I didn’t either. I waited about a week and that eye got a little red and I finally sucked it up and made an appointment. Not a brain tumor. Not all that unusual. But instead, it’s an autoimmune thingy that can be no big deal or something to keep and eye on but the big news was I’m not dying. At least not from my odd sized pupils. So whew.

Fun links to say goodbye!

If you want to see my eyeball of near-death: click here.
If you want to see world's best hamster: click here.
If you want to see a bunny reading a book: click here.

never ending math equation

2006-06-03T01:30:00.000-07:00

On the drive to the ferry all the worries I’d had that he was sick manifested in my open palm against the back of his seat. He was talking about politics and I was trying to heal him with happy thoughts because somehow still at 35 I think that can happen. My ability to believe in spite of all evidence to the contrary is one of my greatest strengths. I know for certain that it can’t hurt and I only know for maybe that it won’t help. So with open hand I thought about him being well and about how health can be shared and I sent it along the invisible wires connecting me to him and him to me. All the while he was making us laugh with perfectly timed jokes. All the time, my hand was pressed against the dark gray leather.

That was Friday.

Then Saturday.

Then Sunday.

And Monday. A birthday party for Erik. I hated the pants I was wearing. And the fishnets dug into the soles of my feet. I painted him a painting in about 20 minutes that I wish I had 40 for instead. Todd was there and oh my. All. I. Could. Think. About. Was. Hating. My. Pants. But then there was this polar bear. And she was reading poems and singing songs. And she said: the only thing standing between me and everything I want for my life is my own self hatred. Drinking my drink and silently loathing my pants - that struck a chord with me. I was like YEAH. I could be a fucking SUPERHERO if I could just stop thinking that I can’t be a fucking superhero. I was having my own mini ah-ha moment when all of a sudden the crowd starts going wild. Hooting. Hollering. Clapping. People were cheering their own potential. Acknowledging their self-loating. WOW! We really are all the same! Just like I HEART Huckabees said! At that very moment, I decided to hate my pants a little bit less.

Shall we bring this full circle? SHALL WE?

On Tuesday I told him about the party, the polar bear, the terrible pants. Him of the open palm against the leather seat. Him of the well timed jokes. I could see he was a little surprised that I’d admit so readily to self-doubt. Self-hatred. Bad pants. And all so cheerfully! I spent the rest of the afternoon not thinking a thing of it when PLUNK! - an email from him. He wanted to “give me the response I deserved” to our conversation and proceeded to pen the nicest and most you-go-girl three paragraphs that have ever been written in my honor. I wept. I wrote back. I remembered my hand on the back of his car seat.

spring forward, fall back down

2006-05-28T14:56:00.000-07:00

I sent this to almost everyone I know. Now it's your turn, blog friends.

From: HaikuGirl
Sent: Fri 5/26/2006 5:13 PM
To: All who were silly enough to give me their e-mail addess!
Subject: "There was this one time ... "

Hello Friends, Romans, Countrymen.

As many of you already know, I’ve been slowly churning out a kid’s book illustration portfolio and dabbling with ideas to also write a little something something to submit along with it. Inspiration finally struck and the book is going to be about things that make 6 year olds cry. Not real things like daddy hitting mommy or cats getting run over by cars - - but silly things. Like not being able to have a cupcake for breakfast or being forced to wear velour.

I’m looking for your stories! Remember throwing a tantrum over something as simple as the crust still being on the bread? Witness a kid throw down in Target because they were out of pink toothbrushes? Clue me in! If it makes the cut, I’ll thank you, take you to lunch and hide an Ode To You in the illustration. I also will sign a waver so the Ode does not amount to your 15 Minutes Of Fame because that would seem like a total waste of your 15 Minutes.

Thank you in advance to the kind souls who share their stories. I will be forever in your debt.

xoxo,
HaikuGirl

everything smells like pink

2006-05-15T18:21:00.000-07:00

Today, my friend Diana found an entire hard boiled egg in her egg salad sandwich. An apparent lack of Quality Assurance (or QA as the corporate kids like to call it) in egg salad making. She didn’t eat it. Oddly enough, it kinda grossed her out. Even stranger, it kinda grossed me out. So we did what any normal duo would do and photographed it. I’m awaiting the camera phone picture as I write this. And of course, I will share its clammy white entirety with you when it comes.

The egg has been a topic of conversation now for almost 4 hours.

It’s that horrifying to us.

Meanwhile.

My terrible ex-boss interviewed at the place I like to call heaven, i.e. my new job. Diana and I launched Operation Khaki when he was detected on the premises. Khaki because he was such a fan of the drab. His skin, his hair, his pants – all khaki. Had they not been pleated, he might have made the cut for a GapEvilDictator commercial.

Did I mention that Diana use to work at the same place I use to work? We over-lapped by, oh, about three days. Here though, we’ve become pals.

Sooooo.

Operation Khaki consisted of batting eyelashes at security guards to peek at visitor logs, chit chatting to secure elevator rides with the Evil Dictator in order to find out which floor he was going to, scouring the company intranet for possible job postings, making plans to “bump” into key decision makers while sporting our hand made t-shirts that say “Only Goofballs Hire Guys In Pleated Khakis” and so on. We’ve also peed all over the building figuring if the t-shirts didn’t work, our estrogen laced pee would surely keep that woman-hater at bay.

The story continues to unfold. Perhaps the whole egg in the egg salad is some sort of terrible prophecy.

What else. What else.

I’m making some art. I’m buying some clothes. I’m dying my hair a darker shade of brown. It makes me look Belgian. Aw, yeah. ”I'm Belgium!” Again, I said that aloud and wasn’t even drunk. I’m your friendly blogging nation-state!

Did I ever tell you guys that my cat has a really tiny head?

She does. It’s wee.

Did I ever tell you guys that I like to sing jazz standards in the shower?

You should hear me. It’s lovely.

And.

Last thing.

I’m pretty sure that I have magic powers. Ask me nice and I’ll turn your stapler into a monkey.

we have a whole life to live together you fucker,but it can't start until you call

2006-04-30T22:50:00.000-07:00

My art space is almost put together. I have over purchased many things. Things like hole punches. And black embroidery floss. My previous lack of organization has cost me at least $14.74. Maybe more. Shopping was easier than digging through boxes. And my complete surprise at how many hole punches I have would lead one to believe I didn’t know either. But no more. It’s all tidy and I dare say that everything has it’s place. Believe it or not I have an entire drawer dedicated to creepy doll parts and another entirely to glue sticks.

A glue stick related snippet circa 2005:
Amy: Do you have a glue gun I can borrow?
Me: Yeah - I have two.
Amy: That’s one of the reasons why I like you.

The boy! The crush! My sophomoric secret admirer effort was in the form of embroidered dish towels. A gold fish in a bag, a hand on fire and this: ))<>((. All from Me and You and Everyone We Know. Our shared favorite movie. I’ve never embroidered before and the back sides ended up looking like little yarn afros. I was surprised at how much I loved it. The taught hoop and muffled puncture sound of the needle poking through again and again. The picture slowly taking shape on one side and looking like a total mess on the other. There are as many metaphors wrapped up in that as there are dye lots.

The towels!

He knows it’s me now. A two day e-mail exchange with about a dozen pointed questions outted me before I could finish the oatmeal in the would be pinhole camera container. It was the one present that deserved him as much as he deserved it. Did I mention that he’s a photographer? And a good one? He uses a real camera. Develops his own pictures. Must look cute in the dark room red light. I haven’t seen him since he guessed it was me. But we virtually pinky swore that it wouldn’t be awkward. That we were still on for Minneapolis. That we should hang out more.

On Friday we missed each other by about 30 minutes and I spent the night hanging out with his office mates. We bar hopped in Ballard and Erik said he wondered about this time in my life. What it was like to be me during all this. How I held it in my head. When he said it, it seemed rhetorical. Two days later, I’m not sure how I’d answer anyway. Other than I like being asked stuff like that. And hey, let’s make it into a movie. And you know what else, I wanna pick the soundtrack.

June 25. That’s the day my first ever published piece of writing hits the streets. It’s a sidebar in the Sunday paper. Boo sent this very blog to an editor and I was asked to write something for a quarterly supplement. My assigned topic: butt acceptance. As in: work it. As in: shake that thing. As in: spankable. First draft is due tomorrow. It’s ready to go. Sitting on the desktop. I think it says “hi.”

Lots else happened. I should have written last week. I made a close friend out of a casual one. I bought a pair of brown shoes. I met this guy Adam and think Boo and I found the sidekick we’ve been looking for. A 23 year old guessed I was 21. I suddenly realized it was possible to have a favorite 23 year old. I saw a band play in a church. I saw a band play in a bar. A member of Sound Garden held open the door for Boo and I and said “Good night, ladies” as we stepped on though. It’s been a good week.

say cheese

2006-04-18T16:30:00.000-07:00

He posted this on his blog!

secret superhero surprise

2006-04-14T19:34:00.000-07:00

I’m still coughing. Seriously. Hacking up lungs every time I go from horizontal to vertical or vice versa. I’m starting to crave Robitussin and wonder what type of cookie would taste best dipped in it. Chocolate chocolate chip would compliment the cherry taste well, no? It says on the bottle to consult a physician if coughing lasts more than seven days. Assuming they mean earth days, I should have gone in about a month ago.

Two Wednesdays have passed. That is one more Wednesday than usual.

In spite of my designation as a “sick person” I got gussied up (read: showered) and headed to Wednesday Night Rendezvous Number One with The Boy On Whom I Have Crush. I accidentally on purpose got a little drunk and we somehow wound up thumb wrestling. (Important side note: I have never thumb wrestled a boy I didn’t later sleep with!) I think he officially “made eyes” at me when I first sat down and there were about 10 perfect minutes when our legs were touching from hip to knee. The night ended well enough - us chatting outside the bar and him asking me to stay as I walked away, waving, with Boo to her car. Which rat pack type said always leave them wanting more? That’s riiiiiiight.

We met in a bar and while that’s nothing to be ashamed of, it doesn’t give much for the best man to say during the toast, so I decided to launch a secret admirer campaign to up the cuteness a few notches and give us both something to smile about in the meantime. He has, according to his myspace page, one and a half fake teeth. I do not know the story, nor do I know which teeth. Which is a relief - meaning they are not gold nor made out of anything other than tooth-like material. His smile is flawless. Appreciating it as I do, I stitched up one an a half plush teeth complete with happy faces and mailed them to him at work in a rather plain envelope lacking a return address.

Behold the camera phone foto!

I mailed them on Monday and come Wednesday Number Two, I was all a twitter to see if he guessed it was me. I expected a pointed question about my sewing skills or some clever ploy to get a handwriting sample but upon arriving at the Wednesday Night Rendezvous HQ, he was no where to be found! The horror!! All his friends were there, everyone was chatting and drinking and chatting some more. Boo and I settled in and had a couple drinks and suddenly it seemed a good idea to confess my crush and mad sewing skillz to his office mate. Erik is a fine lad. Friendly, smart and secret worthy. After about 15 minutes of qualifying if he could keep a secret and about 10 more minutes making him promise and double promise and then super promise that he would, I said this: Did any strange mail arrive at your office this week?

His eyes big. Open mouthed smile. Finger pointed at me. He said: That was YOU?!? His mouth was still formed in the “o” shape when The Boy On Whom I Have A Crush patted him on the shoulder and we all yelped like the Beatles had just walked into the room. Erik stood up! I yanked him down! Boo started laughing! Maggie threw herself against the back of her chair! He, well, all he did was look confused and order a drink. About 5 minutes later he sat down and asked what we had all been talking about, Maggie cleverly and without skipping a beat replied: Our periods.

Like the other nights, he and I wound up sitting by each other and talking over the music. Yelling in his ear has overtaken singing in the shower as my most favorite thing to do. The gratuitous touching amounted mostly to high-fives this time around but the night ended with him saying that he would like us to hang out more. Did you catch that? He. Would. Like. Us. To. Hang. Out. More. HECK YES!

On the way out the door I grabbed Erik and found out that he was teased about the mystery crush and stuffed teeth the entire day of their arrival. He tossed out a couple names of possibility and I was not in the mix. But! He had talked about me that week. Erik also said the postmark was too smeared to read so they couldn’t even tell if this girl lived in Seattle or Denver or Nashville. Couldn’t have planned it any better!

I have two more packages in mind and after they are sent, I’m handing him a note the that reveals my secret identity as the maker of plush teeth and other delights. It’s the bravest thing I may ever do. Let’s hope he smiles.

take a picture

2006-04-05T11:36:00.000-07:00

The new kitchen looks like all the other kitchens I’ve had and there is something very comforting about that. Old and charming with a big porcelain sink and window looking out to the back yard. Something about it makes me want to mash potatoes and bake a pie. It inspires me to fold the dish towel and hang it sweetly over the oven door handle. Suddenly, I am the maker of cozy. Stand still too long and I’ll wrap you in blankets and turn on cartoons. Watch out! I’ll smooth down your hair with a licked finger and top it off with a kiss on your forehead. Make room in your fridge because you aren’t leaving without a tupperware container full of left overs. That’s just how it’s gonna be.

Aside from the near nervous breakdown the move unlashed and the 30 hours of sleep it induced, it went pretty smoothly. The week leading up to it was filled with hard to get sales calls and me nursing a bad cough. Or perhaps The Consumption. I’d pack and swill Robitussin until which time I’d pour myself into a pair of dress pants and hoof off to the 41st floor of a swanky high rise office tower to pitch the benefits of online advertising with a smile. In three days I probably eeked out a mere 6 hours worth of work and somehow my boss was still pleased with me. God love him.

I slept after that. 18 hours on Saturday. 12 hours on Sunday. Putting away dishes and folding laundry for the few hours I was vertical, pushing the recommended daily dosages on cough syrup and Advil. Come Monday I was shocked to still be sick figuring the germs would have died from sheer boredom if nothing else. Four blocks from here is a drug store containing my next bottle of cherry flavored silence that I’ll be due to purchase tomorrow if my immune system can’t crack this puzzle. But if you think that will stop me from my Wednesday evening rendezvous with The Boy On Whom I Have A Crush, you’d be wrong. I’m going to go on the assumption that he finds cold medicine induced stoopidity charming and thinks Halls Vapor Action breath is sexy.

I have a mountain of art supplies to unpack. I was fairly unaware of the magnitude of my craft arsenal. It seems big enough to require some kind of license or registration with the state. I have enough pipe cleaners to reenact Hands Across America in stick figurine. Enough glitter to glam up the Space Needle. Paint for days. Sharpies by the dozen. I have the evil plan of turning my bedroom into an art studio in which I sleep. Ideas for shelving and storage bins are dancing in my head. I see bulletin boards with tacked up sketches and a big basket of yarn in my future. It’ll be a fine fine day when painting requires little more than sitting down and the skirt I want to make is covering my ass instead of kicking around my head. Making things keeps me happy. And out of trouble. So make things, I will.

The move was the last stressful thing on the agenda. That’s not to say another thing won’t come up and bite me in the ass, but after the break up with the Boy I Should Have Never Been Seeing, the job change, The Event ... it seems as though a break is in order. I’m playing it cool, focusing on art and work and filling my time with as much peace and glee as I can pack in. I’m shooting for a calm that borders on boring and if I even land close to it, I’ll be glad. I imagine my blog deteriorating into shopping lists and detailed cat updates. I can picture myself chatting with clients about how cool it is to watch dust settle. Like really cool, mind blowing cool. Like the plastic bag in American Beauty. You can’t take your eyes off it kind of cool.

spring is white and fluffy

2006-03-26T22:45:00.000-08:00

Lesson of the week: Egg replacer is like magic.

Boo is vegan and into metal. She also bakes cupcakes. Jessica and I got in on the action Tuesday night and low and behold if the cupcakes weren’t as tasty and softer than regular cupcakes. If softness is a criteria for your cupcake enjoyment, I highly recommend giving egg replacer a try. It comes in a box and for $1.49 you have enough egg replacer to last a lifetime even if you have some weird longevity gene. It’s an amazing value.

Cupcake Quote Of The Week: “I wonder if you could bake a really big cupcake. Oh wait, that would just be a cake.” I said that and sadly, I wasn’t even drunk.

Saw a rock n’ roll show. Saw The Boy On Whom I Have A Crush at that rock n’ roll show. We stood by each other and yelled things over the music. Drank beer and smiled a whole lot. I blushed a couple of times. Said a couple of silly things. Had an impure thought or two while yelling into his ear. I wish I had sang a Barry Manilow song when he prompted me to sing a little something for him. I woulda picked “Can’t Smile Without You” or maybe something we coulda disco’d to like “Copa Cabana.” I would have called him Tony the rest of the night and bought him a drink with an umbrella in it. This is my favorite. The happy that comes with potential. Even if the potential is just for another Wednesday night. Giggly and smiling on the bus. A reminder that happy is perennial. Just like the grass.

My favorite thing about this boy so far: his smile.

I’m moving in less than 7 days. My apartment is a sea of boxes and my cat is nervous. The new place is lovely. Full of windows and charming. It’s in Queen Anne and handy to everything. Right now, my current place, only handy for 3am drug runs and not much else. Oh wait, handy for getting mugged. And for throbbing techno beats. There are plenty of those around. But soon there will be squirrels and morning walks and pleasant smells instead. I’m going to get a plant and maybe a fish. And I’m setting up an art space so it’s easy to paint and sew. And less easy not to. Once I’m settled in, I’ll invite y’all over for dinner.

What I’ll make: potpie. Because it’s the funniest sounding food.

I had the most wonderful email exchange with my boss. About a job in marketing that opened up and my curiosity if the new girl, meaning me, could apply. Apparently I can. And apparently, he was hoping I would. He’d still be my boss (!) and tomorrow we’re going to coffee together to talk details. It’s not even the money or the neat new title. It’s the chance to have a job where ideas are the currency because I’m rich with those. I can promote and sponsor things in my sleep. I can hang a banner with my eyes closed. If I get this, man, again - Proof! Perennial like the grass. You can’t keep the happy down. It rises to the surface like air bubbles.

Bloop bloop bloop.

learning to name things

2006-03-19T22:05:00.000-08:00

All the milestones hit at once. I turned 35 on Saturday. Said goodbye to my proclaimed Year of Debauchery and toasted in The Year of Conscious Choices - designed solely for the purpose of keeping me out of trouble. Tomorrow is my one year anniversary of leaving Minneapolis. The yellow Ryder truck, the small Montana made me feel, the cute punk rock boy I was lucky enough to kiss. A few days after that I started my new job. Met the then strangers that would become my best friends. Met the boy I still can’t put into words. Realized quickly that a year lease is a really long time in a sketchy neighborhood. I remember getting here and thinking Seattle was all possibility. That I was going to change someone’s life. That I had changed mine. Three hundred and sixty five days later, I still feel the exact same.

Potential / potently.

Birthday events like comic book panels. Moving the story right along. A midnight donut run with Boo where we listened to a homemade fart CD. Not our handiwork, mind you. Charlie’s Greatest Hits. By track 62, I was having a hard time catching my breath. By track 85, Boo was curled up into a little giggling ball. Next. A mad chase to follow a shopping cart race. Waving and yelling as Chris and friends rode past our window, red shopping cart bouncing wildly behind them, pirate flag flapping in the breeze. Later. Someone else's birthday party. It was attended by a hodge podge of artists, musicians and indy business types. A faded rock star working on a feedback opera. A tattooed man in grad school for nursing. There was a rice crispy treat cake with frosting and mashed up Whoppers that was so dense you coulda killed a guy with it. An accidental puddle of fake blood on the driveway. An art piece that had a life of it’s own.

Birfday / burpday.

It ended quiet enough. Hidden away at the Hideout. Drinking drinks and talking talk. Further proof that Boo knows everyone: I met a boy there, friend of a friend of hers. We raced each other picking up ice cubes with straws used as chop sticks. Smiling wide the whole time. Somewhere in the middle I had that sudden awareness of how I was sitting. That shy nervousness about how close our hands would get. Plans for Wednesday. Or the Wednesday after that. An open invite. A certain rematch. When we said good night he held my hand for a second too long and looked me right in the eye, “It was nice to meet you, Heather.” Stomach knot. Butterflies. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Gun-shy / gushy.

I think this is where I say thanks, kids. For the birthday and for the year. For taking in the Midwestern girl and overlooking my inability to use hip hop slang correctly. For the happy hours gone awry and the ones that didn’t. For being the bright spots in an otherwise dim job. For letting me befriend your friends. For driving me all over this twisty city. And then for driving me all over it again. For giving me a sense of family when mine is so far away. For honest to goodness, no holds barred, without question being there for me when I needed it. For making me feel like the kid sister. For making me feel on top of the world. Y’all are living proof against the idea that Seattlites are cold and aloof. You could melt ice caps. Or boil water. You’ve made me feel right at home.

Aww shucks / awe struck.

pretty on the blue

2006-03-12T13:46:00.000-08:00

My last post. The last two paragraphs. Have lingered a little. Hung around. Disappointed. Disappointed that I’d have those feelings. Disappointed that I’d write them down. I shouldn’t miss him. And there are many days where I don’t. But I haven’t written those days down because they don’t lay on the page as lovely. Longing is pretty. Missing is pretty. It’s veiled and soft somehow. It’s starring out a window. But the sour that boils up in me some days. That isn’t pretty. Every time I try to write the why of it, it spits out juvenile and clunky. Filled with and thens. And then, and then he, and then. I imagine myself catching my breath between accusations. Finger pointed. Wet cheeks.

So I don’t write it.

Instead it gets blown away when I’m looking for my keys, or lost in the mail. It gets packed away and forgotten about or handed off in a knowing look. It gets dropped or kicked under a table. It gets left on the bus. It falls out of my pockets when I sit down. Or stand up. It washes off me in the shower. Twirling down the drain. Married to the soap suds and smelling like cherry blossoms. You can’t always tell the vinegar by its smell. And sometimes the pretty reeks of sugar beets. My hair reaches the middle of my back now and see. Time heals all. All, time heals. Heel. He. Eels. Hey kid, it’s. Time to move on.

Off. On. Off.

On.

Had drinks and tiny appetizers with Boo and a Boy With A Very Small Head. This was overheard: I’m a hermaphrodite. This was said out loud: It was a different fucking Algerian. Number of tofu puffs consumed: 2 dozen. Number of chopsticks used on both ends: 1 pair. Number of people with dark hair: two. Number of girls: one less than three. Number of mixed drinks consumed: too times two. Did you know that in the movie, he kills her because she is terribly inconvenient. Know what else, I’ve been terribly inconvenient. So there. At least I wasn't murdered. At least. That didn’t happen. Or at least I don't think it did becuase whenever you breath out, I breath in. Positive. Negative. Positive.

NeGaTiVE.

I think I just took a step sdrawkcab.

Nah. I’m moving right along.

Another afternoon there was Brad and me. We were both wearing dress pants, slacks I said, trousers he laughed. And talking on a conference call. All his papers were dog eared and we walked away with a $100,000 contract to split. Banana split. He said she swirled her ice like Yahtzee. And I told him I thought the word sticky was a terribly ridiculous thing to have a conversation about. With the window down my hair spun around my head. An updraft (like fingers) brushing my neck. I wished for my sunglasses as we drove toward the city, across the floating bridge. I wanted to see if I could walk on water. I wanted to see if I’d sink or float. I wanted to see if it would recognize me after all this time.

Because that’s my home town.

Where everything is fluid. Where everything bobs with the waves.

look at what you did

2006-03-04T12:12:00.000-08:00

Coming. Slow. Again. It’s been two weeks and seems like everything I wanted to say has been mushed together. In a ball. Like Play-Dough. And the happy parts are yellow. Like happy parts always are. Like street signs and banana taffy. Yellow like the sound of birds. Or yellow like taxi cabs. Yeah yellow, just like that.

There were parties. Two to be exact. But only one where I accidentally dressed like a French hooker. Black and white striped shirts and fishnets have a way of doing that. Instead of changing I made extra effort to throw my hips into my walk. Swish. Swish. Boom. Boom. I had my hair in folded up pig tails and drank red wine with a sense of purpose. The other one, we made cupcakes and I smiled wide like a 6 year old the whole entire time. Frosting with a pastry bag and choosing from trays of pretty to top the hill of buttercream. I smelled like sugar for two days. It was in my hair. My earlobes. That little place on my neck.

And then.

I made art and my hands were pewter from the wire. 5th Annual. Shrinky Dink. Invitational Art Auction. First ever. Time. I was invited. I drew colorful fancy-filled leaves and watched them curl and wiggle down to 1/5 their original size. Sticking the wire through the tiny holes and twisting it carefully around the branches of my stolen twig in the exact perfect way I’d think a pink polka dotted leaf would grow. Still more wire to hang it. Silver metal washers for balance. A few felt leaves to add a little soft. It was the biggest piece in the show and was bid on before I left. Smiling I said goodbye and wondered whose window it would be casting shadows from.

And then.

Procrastination caused an accidental meeting and a cat hair covered couch caused an accidental phone call to The Boy I Try Hardest Not To Think About. (Tuesday) Cleaning out the art space on the absolute last day we could clean out the art space, his mussed hair made him look like a little kid. He had on brown corduroy pants. The perfect brown, really. Cadbury if creamier. The color of the 1975 light brown M&M. I got my things and left as quickly as I came. Waiting for the elevator, I thought about the rock I held in my hand for two days straight and let the wave of missing him come and go. (Then Friday.) Transferred to him, I said nooooooooo even as it rang. Even as he answered. Even as he said there is a place in Fremont that takes unwanted couches. I mostly just wanted off the phone. I mostly just wanted to have been transferred to Chris. Where a call about a couch is a call about a couch. And not where a call about a couch is a call about a couch, ya know? Hanging up, I quickly started flipping though pages of market research on wine drinkers in Western Washington and figuring out ways to spend $10,000 of someone else’s money in a month’s time. When really. I just wanted to look out the window and remember how we’d laugh and kiss and how his hands would slide all over me.

But.

He looked so beautiful in the half light of my bedroom. Making me laugh and scream and pull his hair all at. The. Same. Time. Wine drinkers are 25 times more likely to visit us online than non-wine drinkers. The print buy is twice as much, with twice as much free. How do I write that? Let me try this. This. This connection could have powered a small city some days. Electric as I fed him licorice in a dark movie theater. Sparks when I'd kiss his ear. By adding online you increase your reach to wine drinkers by 35%. For just 10% more investment. How. Can. You. Say. No? He was pulling down the elevator gate as we all waved good-bye. And I was walking backwards for a second. Looking for the eject button and instead turning off the radio. Thanks for your time today. I look forward to working together to further promote and brand Washington wines.

rescue

2006-02-19T12:22:00.000-08:00

I think I was coated in gunk. Picture this: a penguin in an oil spill. It slowed me down. Dulled me. Changed my colors. I tried to think it was just a job. Some stress and a few sleepless nights. But it was really 40 hours of my week and then some. It’s one of the building blocks of calm. For as much as I claim it doesn’t, my career plays a role in how I define myself. I knew right away I wasn’t going to last there. By the end of week three I was already plotting a way out. I had applied for another job by month four. I started doubting myself. I started doubting my career choice. Second guessing everything I did. That was a recipe for a slow decline. I’d slump into Wendy’s office, open my eyes real big and ask her to take and peek and see if my soul was still in there. It was. But barely! I started looking for a job on December 2. I had one by the middle of January.

Thank GOD.

It’s been two weeks at the new place and I’m kinda in awe. My boss is supportive, encouraging and funny. My old boss - - eh -- not so much. This guy smiles and heaps on the praise! He’s asks me my opinions on things because he values my experience and perspective. He said that! Out loud! To me! WHO IS THIS GUY? My grandpa reincarnated? I keep expecting him to pull a quarter out from behind my ear! So the 9-5 is loads better and the gunk has been power washed away. I’m working my ass off and enjoying it. Best yet, my soul is firmly attached to my body and instead of plotting a way out, I’m plotting ways to move up.

Group hug anyone?

Went to the Seattle Central Library with Boo today. She had some research to do for an evil punk rock quilt project she’s up to her eyeballs in. I had high hopes of working on my kids’ book. Neither of us got much done. Instead we worked out an elaborate plan for a fanzine and are now in search of a leggy cover model wearing a Gucci dress to pose as if she were on the verge of cutting someone’s break lines. OH! It’s gonna be a good magazine!

Here is a picture of the Seattle Central Library:

Here is Boo’s first words upon entering it: Wow, this sure is fancy bum storage.

Boo also thinks Oprah is the only one who can bring about world peace.

A week has made a big difference in my mood. I think it was the fight I picked. Woke me up a bit. It was also a conversation I had with an unlikely confidant. And maybe time is kicking in. I'm typically pretty cheerful and it’s thankfully proven hard to hold down. I’m moving on and best part of that is I’ve given myself permission to do it. I hadn’t been. Thought I should feel like shit for a while. But I know that’s not needed and more importantly, it’s not respectful of The Events or lessons I learned to wallow in the discomfort. So I’m letting myself rebound and dang if I haven’t rebounded. I’m like a superball.

OH’Grady’s gonna have fun with that line.

Boing.

pull the ripcord

2006-02-11T12:10:00.000-08:00

I am employed again! It’s like working for NASA. I went from a much smaller paper to a much larger paper and the amount of high tech gadgetry and sales support is making me feel like I’ve hit some sort of work jackpot. You can listen to your email over your phone and your voicemail over your email. This may not sound like much. For all I know maybe 75% of all companies offer this fine feature, but my email and voicemail have never met before and if I wanted them to it would have required the help of a grumpy IT guy and a tape recorder. But OH, It doesn’t end there! Customer management programs are chit chatting with Outlook. Emails and attachments are automatically saved in the customer program via seamless address recognition. We drink Tang every morning and wear silver sapcesuits around the office. There are zero gravity rooms and the coffee is freeze-dried and crunchy. Seriously, pinch me.

Plus, I somehow got paid already and I’ve only been there since Monday. How do they do it? Seriously. HOW DO THEY DO IT?!?

Went to see King Kong. Otherwise known as the worst movie ever. Save your hard earned money, Jimmy. I didn’t hold a gun until I was in the army, Jimmy. I had a drill sergeant. I was a man, Jimmy! We were in the theater for what seemed like three days and the monkey still wasn’t in New York.

One of my many problems with the movie: there are like 10,000 prehistoric species of animals on Skull Island and they take the angry gorilla as their prize. THERE WERE DINOSAURS, Jimmy. Dinosaurs? Big gorilla? Dinosaurs? Big gorilla?

Can you hear me slapping my forehead?

Who picks the gorilla?!?

I’m experiencing post KONG stress disorder. It’s been 72 hours and it’s still pissing me off. Matt and Boo were good movie buddies though. Our collective squirming and snide comments got us through. We were like a team that went in and played a good game. We high fived when it was over. I poured Gatorade over Boo’s head. It was fun.

Tonight we’re going to a show. Matt has some pals playing in this kick ass zany hip hop meets punk rock aerobics kind of band and I’m nearly wetting my pants in anticipation of the night’s festivities. It’s gonna be a rip roaring good time and I may even take a shower and attempt to look “cute” for the occasion. Although. Eh. Don’t count on it.

The Events are still making themselves known. It’s all left field kind of stuff lately. Things I overhear or stumble across will remind me of it. It’s like high tide when that happens. It washes over me and then slides away. Anger is the most persistent of the tides. I picked a fight with my costar and realized, rather quickly, that it wasn’t a smart move but I didn’t know how to get out of it once I was in it. It’s easy to blame him. It’s easy to spew mean mean words that have my full backing and support only in the moment. It’s part of this process. Part of accepting what happened. I hear that it’s normal. I hear that it passes. I hear that you can stay angry for a long time while this settles into you. And that’s where I am right now. Sometimes fine, sometimes not. The scales will continue to tip though. The fine days will stake their claim to me and the angry ones will turn to understanding and peace and calm instead. It’s all deep breaths and one day at a times. Picking up a little meaning here and there along the way. Filling up my pockets.

fly away

2006-02-02T09:54:00.000-08:00

I’m on day, um, forty-five or something of my surprise unemployment. Seems like when you give your two week notice at the smaller paper to take a job at the larger one - - they aren’t such a fan of that. Suddenly you’re some kind of “media spy” or “security risk.” I got the same day boot topped off with no pay. The boot part isn’t so bad. I actually needed a few of the days off and have kept busy the rest of the time. The no pay part though - I pretty much hate it. I am broke. Broke broke broke. It’s temporary as the new job provides me with a pretty nice raise but until that glorious first pay period ends, it’s cereal in a bag for me.

Today I was cheerful. I have this idea that I shouldn’t be but was only momentarily concerned. I’m blaming it on hormones or full moons or my triumphant return to caffeine. Seems too soon after The Events to have this return to happy. But whatever the reason, it was a gift to feel like myself again. It’s been a while. I’m not usually a down in the dumps kind of person but it got pretty bad. My friend Laura said I seemed hollow. That’s how I felt. I was sinking into this circumstantial depression and couldn’t pull myself out of it. My friends were worried. My mom, calling 10 times a day. Brooke was the unexpected hero in my story. She crafted a phrase that turned on a lightbulb and helped me shift from depression into grief and while that sounds like not much movement at all, it was like an earthquake. Here is what she said: “You know in your heart what you need, you just have to give yourself permission to hear it.” That was about two weeks ago and today, happy. Funny how that works.

A 4pm coffee break was the icing on the good day cake. A rendezvous for a phone charger lead to seeing a bunch of people who I have sincerely missed. My old department turned out for the event and as I saw them file past the window and into the coffee shop, I was all smiles. Hugs and the same old jokes and lots of laughter filled the half hour and the residual smiley lasted well into the evening. I know they are a total buncha toads but dang if I don’t love ‘em.

This writing thing is coming back slowly. I feel rather rusty. Clunky. I know I’m ignoring the pink elephant in the room, but I’m not ready to tackle it just yet. Writing about coffee breaks and paychecks seems to be all I can muster for right now. And that’s probably a good thing. The dust needs to settle and I need a break. Some calm. Some peace. So it’s the surface for this girl. The ocean floor is safe for now.

i held it best i could

2006-01-31T14:03:00.000-08:00

January is almost over and nothing from me. I could have taken the easy route and posted some resolutions. You know. Eat more vegetables. Learn to fly. Sign up for tap dancing, make a name for myself on Broadway. But I've been kinda quiet. Got the wind knocked out of me. Random Tuesday kind of shit and the fog is just lifting. I've been writing the past few days but nothing sticks. It's too new or too unsettled still. Proving hard to match with words. It's the uncomfortable of fitting in a new experience to who you thought you were. I didn't want it. But probably needed it. It's mixed with grief and shame and thankfulness. Stirring determination and grace. Willpower like a superhero. I didn't want a January like that to go by unmarked. Without so much as a hello. So, hi. Here's to new normals and lessons learned and growing up just a little.

and we held hands like this

2005-12-19T20:05:00.000-08:00

Never before have I been to so many holiday parties. Not bad for being the new girl. They blend together in an early morning snowfall haze of too many drinks, an abundance of finger foods and heaps of idle chit chat. Picture us wrapped in garland and singing Christmas carols. Picture us drinking eggnog and munching on gingerbread men. Picture us as we toast the holiday and then walk out into the 40 degree, no snow winter that is Seattle in December. In 5 days I go home. To snow. To icy. To seeing my breath. Maybe then it will feel like Christmas.

One of the parties ended with a drunk 26 year old in my apartment, in his underwear and me wondering how exactly this happened. We talked most of the night and held hands off and on. He is complex in a "could fuel a trilogy" sort of way. His angst was apparent. Confused. Alone. Unsure. Is that all of us at 26? All of us prone to thinking too much. All of us prone to wearing our hearts on our sleeves. I listened to him unravel and came across as the level headed of the pair. You have no idea how novel that was. Pigs were flying by my window with yellow miners hats on so they could find their way in the dark.

Ha...

Me? Level headed?

From the desk of cryptic being the new straightforward: I had a thing for a thing and it went really well. I don’t know when I’ll hear about the thing, but I’m guessing soon. And while I’m not giving much away, trust me when I say it’s pretty much all I want for Christmas. That and world peace, or something. And those cute lime green shoes. And something to wear with them. But that’s it. I swear.

I've made a new friend and she is a red head. I have another friend who is a blond. We occasionally all hang out. In case you didn’t know, I have dark brown hair. So, together we form some sort of Playboy pictorial waiting to happen. Or better yet, some fast forward to a “where are they now” expose on the Power Puff Girls. We’ve talked a little bit about the hair trio we form and how many hair trios have gone before us - - from Charlie’s Angels to 9-5 to the aforementioned kindergartners out to save the world. We feel as though we should do something with this power, but we can’t decide on anything. We’re too lazy to fight crime. Too shy to pose nude. Seems like the most we can muster is attending happy hours together. Perhaps there is a sitcom in there somewhere.

And incase you were wondering. Yeah, the blond is the hot one. I’m the smart one who cleans up well. And the red head, she’s quirky with impeccable taste in footwear.

I painted this weekend and finished one piece. It’s either proof that I’m crazy or my inner child bonked me over the head and took control of the brushes. It’s a nighttime winter wonderland kind of thing with snowflakes and stars and there are a ... um ... a buncha pandas in it. Some may be floating. Others sitting in trees. Infestation style. It’s cute though. I’ll try to post a picture.

Panda.

Infestation.

Mmmm.

granny smith

2005-12-04T14:08:00.000-08:00

My friend Jessica and I made a trip to the Apple Store yesterday. My enterprising kitten had chewed though my docking cord ($29.99) and my iPod headphones ($39.99.) Yes. I still love her, just not as much. We walked in and DANG, it's well lit in there. Jess immediately turns to me and humorously asks how her complexion looks. Horrible, I reply. She concurred. It was operating room quality cold cold white bright light. We needed sunglasses. We needed lead vests. I was waiting to be knocked out so the "Genius" could remove my gallbladder.

But you know what. It's still better than sporting a PC. Apples have heartbeats. HEARTBEATS. Nuff said.

Confidential to UNreturnable in Seattle: HA HA.

it's fun like cotton candy

2005-12-01T14:48:00.000-08:00

Today is art walk day! We're mulling wine and seving homemade cookies and drinking beer and listening to music all the while people come and go and stop and talk and we pretty much smile the whole time. Pictures tomorrow on the art space site!

fearless

2005-11-29T12:40:00.000-08:00

The room was street light blue, soaked in middle of the night quiet. He was sound asleep. Splayed out on his stomach, facing the closet and not me. There were tiny curls in his silhouette. Poking out from his mash of dark dark brown hair. My hand on his back, he was breathing the kind of breaths that happen only in sleep. Deep inhales and savored exhales. I was tired and groggy but open eyed. Sleep had come and went with his movements. This was all new. The sleeping together. His rhythmic breathing. The wee hour silence. Inhale and exhale. Inhale and exhale.

If we were a picture just then, it would have been in soft focus.

With all the power of a misspoken sentence or midnight telephone call, he stirred. I slid my hand from his back, tucked it under my head. He rearranged himself in the blankets and sleepfluffed his pillows. His legs chased around for a new best place to rest. He was a flurry of activity and blankets and arms. Then. He settled slow. His legs, still. His arms, tucked. Before he laid his head down, he leaned over with barely open eyes and half asleep kissed me. Soft, quick and perfect. Then his head, nestled in pillows.

And me. Kissed. Wondering how he even knew where I was in the mess of queen size sheets and clingy kitten and my tangle of dark dark brown curls.

Slowed by sleep and dulled by tired, my defenses were down. Clear as day. Bright as snow. True as a compass it came. Not love or hope or contentment. Not thankfulness or peace or wanting to stop time. Instead it was the fear that has kept him at arms length by part of me while being pulled close by the rest. How. Would. I. Ever. Get. Over. Him? In the flawless of that kiss and the happy it washed over me, my first thought upon returning my hand to the small of his back was of him not being there anymore.

What a waste of a moment.

Unavailable. He fits the mold. There is a river between us even when it’s cozy and quiet and smooshed together and his breathing is slow and his skin is warm and oh. There is no talk of running away or turning our lives upside down for this chemistry that makes him kiss me half asleep. That’s the safe of this. The scary is that he is perfect. For me. Curious and talented and complex. Playful and creative and whip smart. He’s a million piece puzzle. He knows how I work, like a machine, watching me push and pull him back and forth. And for all this attraction and friendship and everything he can surely feel in my kiss, he doesn’t think he’s special because he sees this pushing and pulling as something that anyone could be the object of. Any married man or long distance fling could step in and I maybe wouldn’t even notice, he thinks. Doesn’t he know I’ve passed up dozens of them in favor of the few but.

There’s nothing you can say to that once you’ve nodded your head to the pushing. To the pulling. Cat gets your tongue.

I am this day dreamy hopeless romantic sparkle filled girl who is absolutely terrified of letting myself have the thing I’ve craved my whole life. I am 34 years old and I have met only three boys who I could have loved for ages or maybe even forever. They are spaced in almost exact 6 year increments. I pushed and pulled the first and the second until they gave up. At 22. At 28. Now, again. This one is the third, and for all his thinking that is he nothing unique in this, he is wrong. He is like a comet, passing though bright and lovely.

The kind you stay up til 3am to see.

He is different in that he is here and unavailable. The unavailability of the others came in the shape of a time zone. A couple hours ahead and I was safe to bare my soul to honeyed voices and handwritten letters and hundreds of sweetly worded emails. One I knew for 7 years the other for 6 months. This one’s timeline remains to be seen but for the first time I have no control over the obvious obstacle I’ve put in the way of us. It’s not a plane ticket. It’s not a few hundred dollars. It’s a whole other life and a whole other set of issues and fears and decisions. None of them mine. So he watches the unraveling of me. The simultaneous pushing him away and holding onto him with all my might. With my complaints of the situation, my need for reassurance, my sometimes cold shoulder I must be like a carnival ride.

But I’m doing the best I can.

I hold my worries and fears and not good enoughs up the light as much as i can stand. I’ve spent hours trying to sort it out in the pale green room, sitting across from her. Her notebook in her lap, her kind smile. Her dozens of questions. Patterns emerge like wallpaper and I can see all my smoke and mirrors in the occasional light of day. The irony of this one is not lost on me. I’m as close as I’ve ever been to letting someone love me but he is a million miles further away than a plane ticket or time zone. It’s a disappointment that sits with me sometimes and I buy it a cup of tea and a few shortbread cookies to make it feel better, but it only feels so much better.

Even when the tea is perfectly steeped and the cookies imported from Scotland.

There won’t be a six year wait this time. The gaps were where I fell into relationships that were comfortable like slippers but held little real promise. I would pretend and plan lives and move us forward but I knew there was something askew. I’d be lonely sometimes. I miss something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Years and years spent trying to hold together good enough with duct tape and bobby pins. Not this time. This time I won’t settle for anything less than what I’ve glimpsed with this boy. I want the wow I feel when I hold his hand. I want the happy I feel when I see him smile. I want that connection. That bond. That’s what I’m waiting for.

That four times in a lifetime spark dressed up in blue jeans and a clever t-shirt who just happens to need glasses.

sugar

2005-11-22T07:41:00.000-08:00

It would be just like that, you see. He holding on to me. Something in China would have fallen off a shelf so that I bumped into him on the bus. The old woman with the walker was cursing under her breath. Full of vinegar. Bottled up bottle rocket. But him. He went down like sugar. The tattoos on his arm remind me of a girl from a lifetime ago. He was nothing much more than right that second. Slipping me peppermints and a thank you. Showing him the door. The other one. Mixed up novel of who dunnit and who cares. Murky like the ocean he thinks. Dirty like a city puddle, I do. But her, when she opens her mouth daffodiles fall out. Sometimes I gather them neat and lay them at her feet. There is charm in the other. Southern drawl, southern slow. She bats her eyes at him and he finds himeself wanting more. But for me.

The movie theatre was pin drop quiet.

Painting her oddness on like fingernail polish, she leaves the house for the store. Mismatched socks and derby hats. She walks in sandles made before she was born. How did she reconize him so fast so quick. Like it was. Like it was. Ah. Like it was a movie. “Do you want me to tell it like boy meets girl and the rest is history or do you want it like a murder mystery? Awww, I’m gonna tell it like a come back story.” Because when I hit this city I was high on fumes. And the boy next to me just was.

Young.

Circling words in magazines and underlining the unimportant parts. Cutting the letter solid pages into strips for paper mache. Making sure to keep the good side up. The good side up. The good. The flour and water make my hands age before my eyes. Smoothing down each strip until it’s hidden. Now we wait for it to dry. I’m making a hot air balloon. She’s making it up as she goes along. Hey, wait. Aren’t we all?

My hair is chocolate brown, he says. And it smells like summer, he whispers.

Who are you anyway? Sometimes I picture his face and wonder how I ever got so lucky. Has it happened already? I think that an airplane just went by. Crawling out my window and drinking coffee on the ledge. We played a game of chinese checkers where I’m pretty sure he let me win. Shared a dougnut (we both wished we had gotten two.) Licking the sugar off our fingers and squinting in the 8am sun. Maybe this is all just a dream. And I’m on that plane really. Going home to say good bye to the boy that saved me.

Like an easter mass. Or like a two dollar bill.

That was a decade ago. Like 6 months or more. Now I’m undressing my soul and watching him look away. I’m sometimes like a car accident. I’m sometimes like an autopsy. I’m sometimes like the best thing that’s ever come his way. When she inhales slow and points her head up to the sky to let it all out I can see her when she was 15. I can see her when she was 51. But sometimes, it’s hard to see her at 35. It’s like time hit her all at once. And everything I said was a lie. An untruth. It was every little insecurity seeping out through my finger tips. Hollow. If you read it twice you would have heard the echo. would have heard the echo. I think i mentioned that before. But the thing is. Here is the thing. It’s like hearts slamming into each other. It’s like a bad science fiction movie. it’s like tapioca pudding. and he thinks it’s all to quiet some part of me that I’m tired of listenting to. Tired of listening. Tired. And there isn’t anything I can say to that no matter how loud i yell the nothing. my words hit his ears like butterflies in fog.

Hold my hand while I take these pills. Let the water trickle from your mouth to mine. Always know your lips always taste best when covered in the happy of me.

pretty like a plastic bag

2005-11-07T14:13:00.000-08:00

There’s sun. Warm on my right side. Showing off all the dust on this too heavy laptop. Showing off all my fingerprints and where I wrote “hi” on the screen a few days ago. I haven’t felt this kind of warm in what seems like weeks but is probably just days. And listen. Can you hear the wistfulness in me because it seems to be resting in all the little spaces that letters hold. It’s in the half circles of the lower case e’s. In the triangles of the upper case A’s. The u’s. They hold a perfect little measure of it. Filled up ever so carefully like cups of tea.

Yikes.

I’m such a girl sometimes. Like cups of tea and wistfulness? Good god. I promise I don’t carry around pink streamers and have absolutely no penchant for skipping. Further more, the last time I probably curtseyed while sober was in the 4th grade. But but but. I go and get myself into situations that pave the way for me to write things like “wistfulness” and “cups of tea” and further more these current state of affairs also make me stare out the window for up to 45 minutes at a time. Even worse, these situations occasionally force my head in his direction, soften my eyes and then implant the idea that my, he is quite lovely. Oh boy! Problematic! Wow! Nothing but trouble!

Can anyone lend me a hand here?

I need to be bubble wrapped and set in a safe place, say the garden spot in the Chocolate Factory, for about 6 – 8 months. I can have two visitors a day as long as they are unattractive and utterly lacking in creativity and spunkiness. I should be fed only hot cocoa and shortbread cookies and perhaps taken out for fresh air on Sunday mornings. In the unlikely event of a security breach and an interesting and darling would-be muse stumbles across my path, the following steps should be taken immediately: 1) more bubble wrap 2) more cookies.

So as you can plainly tell, I’ve accidentally fallen in love. And I mean that in the car accidentally kind of way.

This relationship is like a New York City deli at 12:15. I’m holding my number in my left hand and maybe I’ve gotten the head nod and I've maybe gotten the “I’ll be right with you.” but the fact remains that I’m holding onto number 34 and they are clearly only on number 29. So clearly in fact that it’s lit up in three foot tall red light bulb letters behind the counter. I knew going in it would be busy. I knew when I grabbed a number that I’d be waiting in line. But dang, if I’m not disappointed about it anyway. I had this idea that my number would be up right away because, well, I’m maybe the best thing since the sliced bread lining the stainless steal. I figured the sandwich guy would take one look at me and holy shit, that girl with the number 34 in her hand is about as wonderful as pastrami on rye. Step right up, sweetie - - I’m making you a sandwich.

But nope. I’m waiting in a line that might never move. Or move in a year. Or move in a decade. And then maybe I’ll get some email saying “Hey, where did you go and do you still want that sandwich” and I’ll be living in Sweden with some boy named Hans and that will be that. Two ships. Nighttime. No good.

I hate missed opportunity.

I know it’s a big big world and there are thousands of dark haired boys who will be able to make me laugh and who are in need of some type of corrective eyewear but DANG. I had my heart set on this particular one right now and there ain’t much I can do about it other than be sad for a little while. And hurt for a little while. And wanting to lay in traffic for a little while. Side street, not highway. But still. I woulda swam oceans for the chance of him. I woulda bet my mad knitting skillz on us being perfect fits. Instead, he’s sticking with something it’s not in the cards for me to understand. Hey it’s time to cue the theme song and roll the credits. Time to turn up the lights.

i'm gonna tell it like a come back story

2005-10-18T01:46:00.000-07:00

I can’t write today. The irony there. It’s so. So. Something. I’ve had a string of days that are altogether dissimilar to each other yet so the same that they’ve turned to some sort of autumn soup simmered so long the green beans taste just like the peas. It’s the texture that’s different and how do you make sense out of that. I’m not asking. But maybe I am. All I really care about is that it makes the right now trickier than I want it to be. I want words to flow and hate it when they don’t. Yeah. I said hate. I save that word for punch. I usually dislike things. Or don’t prefer them. But this. Not a fan. Clunk clunk clunk.

The pauses between sentences are killing me.

I was all set to wax poetic on him. Let loose my inner John Hughes and shower him in words written in cursive, the i’s dotted with hearts. I was ready to share birthday cake with him sitting on my dining room table, wearing a bridesmaid dress I don’t own. I was ready for someone to cue the OMD. But I didn’t say a word. I would’ve bet money that the world had ended because I just don’t pass up opportunities like that. Heart. Sleeve. Not. Tongue. Hold. But the moment came and went and I was left standing just fine. Dazed by my silence but pleased.

Three boys will read that and think it’s them, one of ‘em will be right.

It’s two weeks to the art show. It’s two weeks to November. I have a painting to finish and a novel to write. And happy hours to attend to. Cigarettes to clumsily inhale. Laundry to do. Verbs to conjugate. Here is me with eyelashes coated in $16 mascara. Here is me in my Hold Steady t-shirt and underwear I wore once already. Here is me kissing the fingers he jams into my mouth. Bring on the bed spins. Bring on the night sweats. Bring on the Rolling Rock. Guess what else. I have an iced americano every single day. And another thing. I make spreadsheets.

Yawn now. Yawn now and move along.

i have to concentrate when we kiss

2005-10-17T00:09:00.000-07:00

Two beers to his sixteen, The Hold Steady played last night. I want some story. Something about a boy with glasses and perhaps a drunken kiss or two. Something about a cat fight or maybe a conversation that continued to kick around my head for the whole set. I’d like to say I met the band, man. That they pointed me out as the sweetie for the bouncer to give the back stage pass to, but awww, they don’t do that kind of thing. Instead I was the girl three people back and center stage. I got my hand held. I got my smile returned and Tad the gee-tarist called me “honey.” So I guess I can’t complain.

Oh. To be 33 forever.

do you want it like boy meets girl and the rest is history or do you want it like a murder mystery?

2005-10-10T20:06:00.000-07:00

I posted art show things!

wash it in baby blue

2005-10-03T22:58:00.000-07:00

Us today, walking to the bus stop, bickering. We act like an old married couple. We can find each other’s buttons in the dark. One hand tied behind our backs. I don’t hear him. He doesn’t hear me. I said something about painting and he thought I meant walls but I meant pictures and I didn’t say one word. Instead, I threw my imaginary hands up in the imaginary air and sighed one of those sassy imaginary sighs. In real life though, all I did was realize that we weren’t listening to each other anymore and oh, he’s said about 4 dozen things and I didn’t catch a single one. There you have it.

The bus came and went with him. I walked home, getting lost in the herd that is a downtown Seattle sidewalk at 6pm. I tried not to think about it and instead planned out my next paintings. Pictures. Not walls. As I weaved through the slower moving people traffic and crossed the imaginary line into my neighborhood. He was like barely there brushstrokes. Under the surface. Messing everything up.

He is my unlikely muse in tennis shoes and a track jacket. The pictures I snap of him are my favorites. The stories I toss up, my most read. My artwork bears witness. Secret messages hidden in little corners that he’ll never find. And I don’t tell. When we talk, we are all ideas. Sometimes saying the same exact thing at the same exact time and other times adding on to barely there notions until they are whole novels with hard covers and dog eared pages.

For all this sameness we are not the same. Easily I am the more sensitive. Sweet. Wavering of the two. He is stone sometimes. He is compartmentalized. Easily, the funnier of the pair. Attached by rubber bands. Or crazy glue. Or nothing real at all. We go from being best friends to not speaking in 15 seconds and then right back again. But it’s just me who brings him orange juice when he’s cranky from the rain. It’s just me. There you have it.

It’s Monday night and in three days I’ll be in the art space, hiding my nerves in a glass of red wine with my art up and lit and people squinting at my pen lines and whispering to their friends. I squandered tonight. I should have painted. Pictures. Not walls. One more piece for Thursday. One more block of color breaking up the white. But after a weekend of acrylic, my creative peanut is fast asleep.

Listen closely. You can hear the zzzzzzz’s.

say cheese

2005-09-26T19:40:00.000-07:00

“Who’s that whore you’re giving my orange juice to?” That whore meaning the blond in the next room. That orange juice meaning the carton he had in his hand.

I don’t know if he laughed. Answered. Ignored her. His mom standing in a “I lost my ass in Vegas” sweatshirt. Her words coming out not in English but Tagalog, her native tongue. Mike could understand her but not answer back. Passively fluent. Her words hitting him in a part of the brain that understood but was mute. There he was, silent, standing barefoot on the cold tile in their San Francisco home. On the cul-de-sac. With the manicured yard. With his spit fire of a mother making jokes at 7am.

He had moved back home after his engagement ended. Packed up and did the grown up thing of taking up residence in his boyhood room. Posters on the wall. Trophies on the bookshelf. Pictures of his friends from 10 years ago push pinned to the bulletin board above his desk. I don’t know for sure, but I bet the bedspread had trains on it.

The night before he had gone out with friends. Drinking his weight in mixed drinks, he met a girl and took her home. Charming enough to joke away the big house full of parents and school pictures as they pulled up the driveway. Smooth enough to get her laughing at his twin bed.

So there he was. Whip smart. Complex. Whirling from a breakup he didn’t see coming but needed just the same. On the verge of taking off and being a nomad for a while. He’s about 3 months away from meeting a Swedish girl in Europe. One who he’ll fly half way around the world to see on a regular basis. 4 years later he still has frequent flyer miles left to spend. But in his pajamas, with the orange juice in hand, all he knows is there is a beautiful girl who wants something to drink sitting on the sofa.

He told me this story at lunch. To illustrate his mother. His family. His home on the cul-de-sac. I immediately fell in love with his mom. “Who is that whore you’re giving my orange juice to?” In her native tongue? In her Vegas sweatshirt? Absolutely classic. This was a woman I wanted a photo of on a t-shirt. An immigrant from the Philippines, she was self made. Put herself through school while raising two kids. Her husband doing the same. A somewhat common story until you know that one of those kids was Mike. A hooligan. Full of bad ideas. Enough magnetism to talk people into executing them. He was fucking girls in middle school and growing pot plants in their back yard. To her credit, he turned out all right. The montessori and private schools and family lawyer paid off. He’s grown up, good job, grad school now.

Sometimes I wish I had known him then. The chaos of his teen years and the ups and downs that followed make for good stories shared over plates of fried food and beer drinks any night of the week. We call each other “partners in crime ‘ and plot our very grown up versions of mischief. Spray painting. Street art. Getting high. We’re soft now. Not undertaking anything we aren’t confident we couldn’t buy our way out of. He still has a family lawyer. I just have a phone book. But together we’re worth nearly 200k a year. That’ll get us pretty far.

How far?

Polaroid competitions far.

See, Mike is my one of my bestest buddies. We pinky swear. We eat lunch together almost every day. We tease each other incessantly. We concoct crazy plans. The latest being a photo duel involving me, him and two Polaroid cameras. We started a blog to chronicle the adventure.

www.hesawshesaw.blogspot.com

So think of this as a formal introduction to him. He’s good people. But remember, my photos are better.

girltee

2005-09-24T19:19:00.000-07:00

I had a weird dream last night. Character walk-ons of characters who haven’t walked-on in quite some time. Conversations that David Lynch could have written. And. I had a beard. Not a super full beard. More like a goatee. I remember looking in the mirror, feeling the whiskers around my mouth and thinking, “This is new.”

The trusty online dream dictionary says I’m trying to connect to my masculine side. Apparently my psyche isn’t aware of my off shore sports betting.

oh to be thirty-three forever

2005-09-18T16:31:00.000-07:00

She is racing around the house. Manic. Happy. There is something in her eye. It’s neither here nor there. Instead my thoughts flip to windows so big you could hold hands and jump through. Views so pretty they overlook highways. Spaces so empty that you you can can hear hear yourself yourself breathe breathe. There is a story in all this, but I lost it.

Free sunshine today and I’ve been told that I should save it. Soon it will be replaced with gray. And umbrellas with bright blue sky painted on the inside. That’s not mine though. Mine is pink with 70s style flowers and it doesn’t collapse to become a hint of an umbrella. It stays full size with its j-shaped handle always at the ready. Always. It reminds me of the one I had in 3rd grade. Minus the ruffled edge. Minus the smallness that makes an umbrella suitable for an 8 year old. Minus it really being the 70s.

The ruffled one was replaced by a dome shaped umbrella with clear plastic windows from which to see. I liked it so much I wanted it to rain every day.

Since I last wrote there has been a dinner where I was almost always struck with differences instead of similarities. Yet she says we are “so the same.” So. The. Same. But. But. I don’t say anything. She wants to find sameness in someone and it might as well be me. Malleable me. Flexible me. Never on the map me. She is steady as she goes. She is tidy. She is sweet. I haven’t showered since Friday.

Transferred 6 paintings to canvas. Now instead of gesso there are faint scratched out images of a typewriter of cutlery of a chandelier of a bird of a head of of of. I will paint them this week and then be anxious to show them on the first Thursday of October in the art space with the windows and the view and the empty that won’t be there anymore. I paint like I wish to screen print. Flat whole colors. Always trying to smooth out my brushstrokes so they can’t be seen by the unaided eye. It’s either pink or celery green or white. It’s either gray blue or day old tangerine. No middle ground. It is. Or it isn’t.

Like I see everything.

I cleaned my apartment this morning to afternoon. It smells like grapefruit and vanilla. And laundry fresh off the line. Bottled childhood memories to remove grime. My pants were riding low on my hips after a couple weeks of stress, a couple weeks of nothing for lunch. The hip hugging being one good thing to come of such a week. The slightly longer than average glance from him being the other. That glance. It’s not my body he sees. It’s my confidence he’s stealing a peek at. He catches it in my walk.

Boom boom swagger swagger boom boom swagger boom boom boom.

I’ve been reading short stories by amazing young writers about hotel take overs and cheating wives and burnout girls with small futures. Spending all my money on oddball literary magazines. Obscure music zines. Little books of art. I like thinking of the people who’ve put their time into them. Making a stapled dozen pages their everything. Being the editor and ad rep and creative director and accounts payable. Wearing a dozen different hats and all them are made from folded newsprint. Collate. Fold. Staple.

R
e
p
e
a
t
.

letting the curtains turn to beating wings

2005-09-04T19:15:00.000-07:00

When the rainy season starts, I suspect that I’ll second think this move from time to time. I like rain. Don’t get me wrong. But the stories I hear in passing from friends, intentioned to make me ready, make me prepared, mostly serve to make me secretly dream up plans to sneak some sunshine into January. A mason jar sealed tightly perhaps. A vacation to someplace warm and sandy maybe too.

You see. My mood is often swayed by the weather. 100 days of rain is dangerous.

Speaking of sunshine. Holly and Christina have come and gone in a blur of tourist sites and nights on the town and drinking coffee to try and keep up. Those girls slay me. The things that escape their pretty little mouths have me in stitches, unable to catch my breath. They mapped out places to go and it was Christina leading the way. Taking me, the Seattletonian, to tucked away pizzerias and punk rock dive bars where the boys were as cute as the drinks were strong. Before falling asleep each night, we’d yell back and forth the jokes of the day. Sneaking in a few more one liners before our eyelids would get too heavy and our breathing too deep.

Some of the places they took me are my favorites now. Favorites as soon as I stepped in the door.

Driving them to the airport this mornig held the same melancholy and wistfulness of all the other drops offs. Paul. Jodi. Kevin. Irene. Jodi again. And now them. The hugs and talk to you soons and have a safe flights are icing. Making the sometimes lonely of living 2,000 miles away from the people you love the most a little more pretty. A little more bearable. Covered in pale yellow butter cream that smells of birthdays.

There are so many things I’ve missed. I haven’t written in far too long. Let’s not count the barely legal Smurfette post. Let’s just not.

I missed spewing the goo of a happy hour gone wrong. Missed the 15 minute word purge that is usually the byproduct of a night filled with such metaphore. Such story below the surface. We talked about what we wanted to do like we were 17. Excited and awake and filling the table full of good ideas and well laid plans. I remember thinking how quickly we had stopped talking about work. And being happy for that. Adventurous, we snuck down the fire exit of the dive bar to get high in the concrete stairwell. Busted! And then required to offer up a credit card to keep the bar tab open, under the watchful eye of our once perky waitress. The three of us just starred at each other for the longest time, quiet. Dumbstruck. Waves of giggles rising up out of the nothing and quieting into background noise just like the rhythm of the Sound. The night ended with as many bad ideas as there had been good. Meetin up with some friends. Softly kissing boys I shouldn’t softly kiss. Staying up until the streets emptied. All on a school night. Still drunk on my walk to work.

There is more. Days, hours, minutes of missed this or that. Stories that were crystal clear are now foggy and dim. Making time to write keeps me centered. Not making time sends me spinning like a top. I use to twirl around and around as a kid. Six year old me in the living room, arms out. I'd spin until I was sick and could barely stand. Letting the room turn around me as I'd sway and smile.

More the same than different.

oh, brainy! harder! harder!

2005-08-28T11:26:00.000-07:00

It has recently come to my attention that there exists an genre of writing so horrible, so ridiculous that you can’t take your eyes away from it no matter how much they burn. You’re compelled to visit these websites and blogs over and over again, painstakingly reading each and every word of their vile until you are calling in sick for work because you haven’t gone to bed yet.

This evil is called: erotic fan fiction.

Here, you will find people writing about Transformers HAVING SEX or Thundercats HAVING SEX or Smurfs HAVING HOT STEAMY SEX IN THEIR MUSHROOM HOUSES. That Smurfette - you’ll never look at her the same way again.

Can you imagine: Barely Legal Smurfette? I thought so. How about: Smurfette Gone Wild? I knew it.

Upon perusal of this portal o' insanity, I noticed a few 80s fads had gone unnoticed. What about Strawberry Shortcake erotic fan fiction? “The room smelled of sweat, blueberry pie and strawberry shortcake. She knew at an instant what had happened here only moments before.” Or how about Care Bear erotic fan fiction? “While his thrusting was furious, the room remained silent, the pounding noise deadened by their stuffing.” Cabbage Patch erotic fan fiction? Better not say much more about that lest I risk jail time. But you can imagine the salacious imagery with cabbage and dirt involved.

For you, my dear friends, click here and see for yourself this horrible abuse of the first amendment. Enjoy!

hold out your hands like this

2005-08-23T20:51:00.000-07:00

I’m trying to write this story. About moving. About moving on. And I keep getting stuck on this image. The three of us, hugging and crying and laughing all at once in the pitch dark bitter cold of winter in Minnesota. While I was living it, I knew I’d remember it forever. It was just one of those times where you take a breath and think hard. Concentrate to see all the details. Smell all the smells. I knew I wanted this with me for the road ahead. Remembering how cold my pants legs were against my skin. Remembering the sound of a shattering coffee mug. Remembering what friendship can be and sometimes is. I’ll get it out eventually. For now it keeps kicking around my head and stirring up happy sometimes, sad some other times. The power of friendship is strong.

Stronger than strong.

Jo is home. Back in Minneapplesauce. Apparently, it never gets easier to say good bye. I miss her and her couch and her near endless supply of smarts and quips and pep talks. The girl is a real gem. A real gem, I tell you. We stayed up late yapping and making each other laugh. We drank my weight in pricey booze. We went all over this crazy town. Today I was tired and blurry eyed and happy. Vacation after glow.

Speaking of friends.

Irene sent me a haiku book. Published by a girl who is kinda like me. With glasses. Kinda not like me at all. With barrettes. Inside was tucked a postcard. It said, simply, that my haiku were better. And the best part about that is they probably aren’t any better. Oh, maybe one of my best haiku trump one of her worst haiku. But most likely they’re just the same. Here’s the thing though. The Important Part. I know Irene thinks mine are better, and that’s pretty cool.

I’d write a haiku here but.

I told Mike about how I see people sometimes. How I’ll just see them. Them. Suddenly. At their very worst or their very best. Just a flash. Like two frames in a movie. Then it’s gone and I feel like I have this insight that I shouldn’t have. Like I read a diary or heard a rumor I wish I hadn’t heard. It happened while we were talking. Not of Mike, of a passer by. Even clumsier than this, I asked if it happened to him. The seeing people. The peek. Watching his face to see if my new fall tv show style confession would hit anywhere that made sense to him. To my surprise, he said “yes.” To my surprise, I thought “huh.”

thinking himself sour

2005-08-16T20:22:00.000-07:00

he’s like lemonade
upside down on a porch swing
wondering what’s wrong

****

The air has the smell of autumn in it. Just a hint of what’s still far away. I remember last year wanting to hold onto summer and not let it go. This year it’s passing by like a breeze. I’m not trying to save any of it. That sounds wrong. Like the holding on meant it was good, meant I wanted it to last. Really, I wanted it over, just in a different way. A new season in the northwest will wash over me and I’ll come out the other side in some other place, some other time. Some other person. It’s more fluid here, I’m along for the ride. I want to see what’s next. So the smell is nice. I smiled when it made it’s way to my memory and I love that it smells the same as autumn two thousand miles away.

So there is this boy. He’s wickedly clever. With a voice like butterscotch pudding. And in true form, I mostly want to hide under my bed. I mostly want him to go away. I mostly want to kiss him in the hallway. My ridiculousness in the matter has surprised even me. That’s a feat! I rarely surprise myself, mostly because I feel pretty confident that I’m capable of anything. And not in an "I can climb that mountain!" kind of way. It’s more in a "Didn’t mean to spill that wine all over the carpet, Mr. President." kind of way. So yeah. He’s here and I’m here and he makes me feel like the dorky girl in 7th grade who I never really left back in 7th grade. Pigeon toed and messy haired and reading on the bus. Sometimes when I smile, I swear I can still feel the braces.

I start my guitar lessons this week. I bought a hard-shell case and printed out chord progressions for the song i most want to learn. It’s My Favourite Chords by The Weakerthans. Lovely little tune. I’ve also spent too much time thinking up song lyrics and eyeballing stickers for the now nude case. Which won’t be nude for long. If it sits still, is in arm’s reach and is mine - it’s got stickers on it. Heck, if it meets two outta three, it’s got stickers on it.

What did I say about still being in 7th grade? Yeah.

Jodi comes on Friday for a fun filled fabulous weekend o’ fabulous fun. Our biggest plan stands as getting unbelievably drunk on Saturday afternoon and then taking a ride in this tourist trap called The Duck. Actual residents hate The Duck. Duck drivers will occasionally poke fun of you, on their loud speaker (!!), if you don’t look appropriately happy when they pass by. Duck drivers play loud disco music and lead the dazed and confused tourists through the arm movements to YMCA. Their victims get complimentary duck billed shaped kazoos upon boarding. Mike hates them. They are these WWII water car boat things that can go from land to sea without requiring much more than a driveway. Legend has it one sank a year or two ago. Surely no one was hurt. Surely the kazoos/life preservers kept everyone safe and sound but upon reading the news, Mike smiled, thinking himself Duck free forever. It had sunk! Farewell and good riddance! Until lunch time! Turning his head to see what goofball was blaring YMCA he realized, and I quote: "Apparently, they have more than one." So that’s Saturday. Quack quack.

first year, paper

2005-08-11T12:45:00.000-07:00

I’m not one to toot my own horn.

Oh, wait.

Yeah, I am.

Well, this is no exception then. Today is my one year blogiversary! Yay for me! It marks the 366th day of thinking myself a writer. That’s something. It also has helped me make new friends and reconnect with old ones. It’s painstakingly tracked my progress through a whirlwind year and provides the stage from which I can look back and say: what the FUCK was I thinking?!? I’ve come a long way.

So thanks for reading my drivel! I wouldn’t be half as motivated to write if it weren’t for the comments and camaraderie. Y’all are the shit, you know that, right? You did? Good.

Cheers, everybody!

folding a paper bird

2005-08-09T17:53:00.000-07:00

This is what this sentence would look like without vowels: Ths s wht ths sntnc wld lk wtht vwls.

Hi.

I’m home sick today. And on cold medicine. I have a box of tissue at the ready and I’m fighting a near constant urge to nap. That’s how I know I’m sick. The napping. I can’t really nap unless I’m under the weather. I can rest. I can lay about. By no means is my lack of napping an endorsement of constant activity. Quite the contrary! But when I zonk out in the afternoon, you best go to Walgreen’s and hook me up with some Day-quil, because chances are I’ll need it when I wake up.

The worst part of being sick so far: I missed Six Feet Under at Laura’s house because I was feeling too icky. She said she’d “on-demand” it for me when I’m better. That Laura, always saving the day.

Best thing about being sick so far: hanging out with my kitten. Uh-huh uh-huh yo yo. Rad.

I keep thinking up names for our soon to be art collective. Now this isn’t the kind of art collective that springs to mind upon reading those words. I, nor anyone in the fold, will wear multicolored quilt like skirts. We won’t wash berries in the river or walk around nude in that not-so-sexy kind of way. We won’t have sing-a-longs or let our armpit hair grow. And I dare say that our first official act as a collective will be banning all granola like substances from the premises. You see, we’re gonna be more rock ‘n roll than that. We’re gonna have theme shows on zany topics and occasionally dress like superheros.

The gallery space is in a way cool building that is the hub of this way cool monthly event called First Thursday. It’s on, um, yeah, the first Thursday of each month and all the art spaces and galleries in Pioneer Square are open for walk throughs and peek ins and for purchasing art from people who could use the cash. For drugs! There is music in the halls and hundreds of people making their way through and around the building. It’s a swell time and if you haven’t been already, you should go!

So the names: Henry Says Hi. Sleep Spelled Backwards. Pensive Lemon. Math Donut. Lemonade Carwash. Glue All. Side Up Down. Ya’am. Superhero Banana. Sugar Sticky. And. That’s all. I bet it will be none of these. My favorite though - Henry Says Hi. I think I’ll make it the name of my pretend band.

Pretend bands are better than real ones!

Speaking of pretend bands and not that we were speaking of them, but let’s throw “teenaged day dreams” in the mix for fun. I start my gee-tar lessons in two weeks. My would-be instructor, herein referred to as Flirty Ken, is on vacation until then. So I have just two more weeks of my fake playing before it’s replaced by slow, clunky and out of tune playing. Neighbors - consider yourself warned.

Number of times I’ve blown my nose while typing this nonsense: Four

Number of naps I’ve taken today: Three

Number of glasses of orange juice consumed so far: Two

Number of things in this apartment that are enthusiastically chasing a bug: One (hint: it’s not me)

2005-08-06T12:37:00.000-07:00

I met a girl who is a lot like me while not being like me at all. She is quieter. More demure. More girl-like. Makes me realize what a cad I am. Burping and not combing my hair for days on end. If I’m not careful I’m going to get scooped up by one of the many Missions in my neighborhood for some hot soup and a roll.

This girl creates urges in me for beauty products and cute “outfits.”

We bonded over beer drinks at a dive bar on Capitol Hill. The music was loud and punk rock. We were at a two top over by the pool table. The boys playing there kept prowling around us, apologizing as they slid up against her or me to make the shot. They smelled like sweat and sexy in their tight t-shirts and low rise jeans. We yelled over the music. Yelled about how each of us had been spit out in Seattle for jobs that were too good too pass up. Yelled about how our business’ had went under. Yelled about how we went from never worrying about money to scraping together change for coffee. And boys. We yelled about boys. Been done wrong, been done right. For every story I had, she had one to match.

Tipsy, we left the bar for the last few minutes of daylight at 10pm. The streets were full of people. Hipsters. Punk rockers. College kids. Lurking in doorways and sitting on cars. Music poured out into the streets from the bars and their open doors. I had on my high heeled mary janes and was occasionally finding it hard to navigate the sometimes cobblestone sidewalks. We laughed and smiled. People seemed friendlier. We made eye contact with everyone we passed.

The smell of feta and spinach and lemon lured us into the Capitol Hill Grill. Food to soak up the beer. We found a spot on the couches and ordered pomegranate martinis and a hummus plate dotted with feta and olives and roasted red peppers. We sunk into the cushions and started talking with the people across from us. We shared food and tales and music tastes. Everything was velvet there. The curtains, the pillows, the couch, the conversation. Dripped in soft and jeweled toned.

It’s like this. Little by little. That a new city becomes home.

We stayed until bar close. And drank until bar close. And swirled pita in lovely patterns through creamy white dip until the waitress took the plate at last call. The couches were hard to get up from. Almost holding onto me, they were. Wiggling myself away, my legs were like spaghetti when I got to my feet. Hit with warm that slipped through me, I did nothing more than smile and deliberately put one foot in front of the other. Down the stairs with new friends and suddenly outside in the cool night, saying good byes with hugs and promises of getting together for a movie or dinner or window shopping in the next few days. I hailed a cab with the flick of my wrist and fell in. Saying my address and holding on as he did a u-turn and headed downhill to the inky night time water front.

I watched the buildings turn from quaint to glass and steel and back to quaint again as we pulled up in front of my apartment building. All at once I was glad that I was staying here. Glad that the place with the fog didn’t pan out like i thought it would and that this city, for all of my fighting, was becoming my home. Almost in spite of me. Maybe because of me. Either way. It was nice. It still is nice. This morning is me, at the coffee shop. Messy hair, in my hoodie and blue jeans. taking a handful of aspirin with a sip of iced coffee. Smiling and sharing music downloads with the boy a table away.

Perfect how strings tether us together.

hold me steady

2005-08-06T11:46:00.000-07:00

Stop everything and head to the nearest music store to purchase Seperation Sunday by The Hold Steady if you meet any of the following criteria:

1] Have ears
2] Have fifteen bucks

This is one of the best CDs to ever be shrink wrapped. It'll make you like music again. It'll make you think the Midwest is dangerous. And maybe even make you believe it is. It could cure disease and maybe even end world hunger if given a chance. Or just make you bob your head to some really good beats.

superhero banana

2005-07-27T17:36:00.000-07:00

Again. With the blur. But here’s the thing. I’m happy and that makes it hard to write. Words pour out like so much gasoline when my insides are in knots. But when they aren’t, calm takes me to something else for a while. Painting usually. And I offer up proof. That’s me up above. My first ever self-portrait. Baby blue with pink ribbons blowing on the inside. Pretty like the plastic bag in American Beauty. Plain like the orange you had for lunch.

I first wrote elf-portrait. Then I fixed it. Hee!

I’m in Bandon, Oregon. The vacation is needed. I could feel my Friday afternoon grumpiness fade away as the Space Needle did. It’s on the cost. Right on it. A short walk through some picky beach grass and you are toe to tide with the ocean. I love how moody and dark the northern Pacific is. It has personality unlike it’s southern self that’s all postcards and toddlers in one piece swim suits with ruffles round their hips. It’s not always anything here. Sunny. Cloudy. Perfect. Dreadful. It’s temperamental. Like your sometimes best friend. I’m gonna buy a house here. I have a pocket full of beach rocks. My feet are smooth from the sand.

It’s late and I’m typing away in the almost dark. The girls I’m with are sleeping in the blue glow of the TV. My keyboard is almost silent, mostly quiet. I feel like the naughty girl at camp.

The Honey Bunches of Oats commercial just told me that Honey Bunches of Oats is the cereal I’d make if I made cereal. Not true. If I made cereal, it would be giant Cocoa Puffs, so big that only one would fit in the bowl. You would maybe need a knife. You’d surely need to apply milk in doses. They could double as kick balls in a pinch. Maybe I’ll write them a letter. Maybe not.

Tomorrow we go back and I mentally prepare to be hit with the storm that is a special issue in the media world. I’ll eat ads for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Then have some ads for dessert and if I’m lucky enough to find myself at a happy hour, I’ll drink up a few ads then, too. It’s the most stressful week ever and come the final deadline when there is nothing left to do, you stand in a daze with your two dozen or so co-workers and stare silently into the fluorescent lights hanging over everyone’s cubes. After a few days the cleaning people shake us up and send us home. Ahhh. That’s why we get the big paychecks. Or something like that.

I wanna go into the happy. But I can’t. I can’t because I’m tired and the sound of the ocean is slowly but surely putting me to sleep. And I can’t because I don’t wanna jinx it. I want to keep it wrapped up in the fancy box with the big bow for a little bit longer. Keep it hidden away under my bed for just a couple weeks more. It’s good though. It’s smiles and ocean and fog. And not always needing a map. It’s the best thing to happen in a long long time.

put me in, coach!

2005-06-26T19:08:00.000-07:00

I played softball today.

I’ll pause here to give all who know me a second or three to rub their eyes in disbelief, reread the above sentence and then gasp in amazement.

You guys ready to read on?

Good.

Mike said “Come to softball this Sunday.” I was all teary eyed due to a horrible no good very bad tax problem I was having Friday afternoon. He also said, “Bat your eyes, I can’t stand to see them all glassy like that. Man, you’re killing me.” But I digress. An invite to softball at a time of utter weakness is not to be passed up. So I said ok. I got a ride. I wore my hoodie.

I thought I was just going for the fresh air but lo and behold if the team wasn’t short a player. Would they forfeit? Would the game be lost by default? Heck no! I was the stand in Bad News Bear for the morning. We lost by trying, not default! That’s better right?

I played right field, and for those of you who don’t know much about softball, right field is where the weakest link goes. NO ONE hits to right field unless they are either:

a) left handed or
b) a "booger-eatin' moron"

I was pretty much left alone in my right field realm with the exception of two fouls and pop up fly ball headed right at me – which I dropped. But I got a thumbs up from my team mates nonetheless!

We play in a league made up of newspapers. We played against a daily today. Not the Big Daily, the Little One. Makes them somewhat more down to earth and slightly less corporate. They all appeared to be sober and somewhat athletic, however. Unlike our team. Ah, our team. 75% of us were hung over and still had the club stamps on the inside of our wrists. 50% of us had an appropriation of the word “Rock” included on our team jerseys or baseball hats. Rawk. Rox. Rok. You get the picture. Two of us had on chuck taylors. At least three of us hadn’t held a baseball bat in over 10 years. We were a force to be reckoned with … when it came to the one liners anyway.

We lost both games. By at least 15 runs.

The highlights:
• We recruited a 9 year old boy to play on our team. He could throw better than me!
• I got to first base twice!
• Jessie got hit in the cheek with a ball!
• Brian hit a home run!
• We tried to talk the opposing team into forfeiting the second game and going to get hamburgers and beer drinks instead! They declined.

I’m now on a mission to "suck less" at softball. The next few weeks are gonna be all 80s style movie montage of intensive softball training. Think Karate Kid. Think Flashdance. Think me going to Target and buying a baseball glove. Perhaps come next Sunday I’ll be able to hit the ball past the second baseman. Maybe I’ll be able to throw more than 20 feet. Maybe I’ll bring along a Clif bar cuz I got kinda hungry come the second game.

In the immortal words of Coach Morris Buttermaker: “Listen, you didn't come into this life just to sit around on a dugout bench, did ya?”

No sir, I didn't!

and we'll all float on o.k.

2005-06-21T16:51:00.000-07:00

I found out this weekend that I’m afraid of floating bridges. I had to talk my way across. It’ll be alright, I said. Thousands of people cross this bridge every single day, I said. Every single day. There was something disconcerting about the bridge being right on the water. Right. On. The. Water. Looking over to where there should just be air and seeing instead, reflected sky. Wavy. Crayola blue. Dozens of cars in front and behind me floating on this slab of concrete and steel. Floating. We were floating! The side rails seemed too small. The bridge was bobbing up and down with the currents. Or maybe that was just my imagination. Either way, the side rails, they seemed too small.

I had to cross it twice. And then twice again when I got lost.

I’m still here.

So is the bridge.

It’s Monday.

Coincidence: I painted a picture of moths circling a light bulb. There was a moth circling my light bulb the very next day.

Test: I’m going to paint a picture of a pigeon superhero friend who does all my laundry and plays with Clover when I’m away. I’ll let you know what happens.

I found out this weekend that Pike Place Market reminds me of an airport. The mood there is temporary. It’s made up of passers by, taking snap shots and sampling cherries. You could go everyday and not see the same straw hat topped hippy or Michigan t-shirt wearing dad of four. They are there for that day only. They are maybe only there for that day. Like ghosts. Like people on a highway. Nameless and somewhat faceless. Strangers bumping into you wanting to buy a box of strawberries to eat back at the hotel.

You don’t have to take off your shoes to get in though.

But you’ll sometimes get rained on.

Now, it’s Tuesday.

Coincidence: I went to the market for lunch today and I was almost, so close, one second away form buying a big bag of cherries. And now, Mike want to share his with me.

Test: Tomorrow I’m going to the market for lunch and will almost, so close, be one second away from buying one of those way cool Chinese good luck cat sculptures – the waving kind. Perhaps come this time tomorrow, I’ll have a shared good luck cat custody agreement all worked out.

Meow.

the kiss

2005-06-16T17:09:00.000-07:00

Listen: He said no and I said yes. It turned around a million times. I remember in my head I was wearing a summer dress. He had his glasses on. Pushed into an alley on a late night walk back home. Our mouths finding each other quick and fast and up against a brick wall. He would have his hands tangled in my hair. But in a way that was different than it was. I would pull him close and kiss his neck. Pull him to me. To me. I would sigh in his ear. That sigh. That girl sigh. The sound of yes and now and yes and now. His hands would wrap around me to my back and I would be held. Tight. There was unspoken curious there. These kisses were all about the maybe, all about the what could have been, all about the not right now. In the alley up against the wall. With him pushing into me. The pricks of mortar finding their way to the small of my back. The summer night air enveloping us.

But then: I said no and he said yes. It turned around a million times. I was wearing blue jeans. Smelled of cigarettes that I didn’t smoke. Tinge of vodka on my breath. His glasses were in a case on a nightstand somewhere far away. He said meet me in the middle and leaned over. Half closed eyes and his sly smile. Meet me in the middle. In the middle. Meet me. I had wondered and wanted and worried and wished and met him in the middle in my head a hundred times before. Then I met him in real life. Eager mouths, eager hands. I kept sliding them off me and back onto him. Too much, I said. Too much. But I kept on kissing. His hands were tangled in my hair and pulling my head back. (Rough.) Passionate. (Hard.) Sexy smooth. He was kissing my neck. And telling me how pretty my hair was. Your hair is so pretty. Your hair. Your. But there was something else. Something unspoken that wasn’t about daydreams. Something untold that wasn’t about the what could have been. My soft sigh didn’t come until after a hundred no’s. But it came. It came. And then he did.

And now: Blindfolded and spun around, I stopped to grab hold of him. He grabbed back. He was sturdy and firm and the type to smooth the hair away from my face on a windy day. The type to take care. The type to be there. Me, I was the head in the clouds trying to hold it together girl made up of 400 yesterdays. I was vulnerable and walking on brand new legs. I was looking for the boy to smooth. Smooth my hair away from my face on a windy day. In that kind dad romance novel boyfriend kind of way. When I found him, I handed me over. When he found me, I was put in his pocket. Gleefully it was. Flirting it was. Coyness and cleverness and wondering how his lips would feel. That is what it was. What it was.

It’s what it is.

get real drunk and ride our bikes

2005-06-11T21:07:00.000-07:00

Went to see Minneapolis heroes, The Hold Steady, on Thursday. It was only $8 and like I said in an earlier post, I would have gladly paid ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS to see them. They are amazing live. Craig Finn leads you through his clever analogies and word plays with big smiles and follow the bouncing ball hand movements. Plus he just looks like he’s having a crazy good time up there. It’s contagious. I grinned the whole set. Ear to ear.

The place was packed and there were lots of people from work. One of the music critics knew Finn, and once being informed of my Minneapolis status, introduced me. Due to my drunkenness and penchant for over-excitability anyway, I came off a bit 14 year old. A bit groupie. A bit hometown girl wanting to talk about playing the Triple Rock. He seemed to get it. Upon returning to the group, I vowed to never wash my hand again. Of course I did. But I waited a little longer than I maybe should have. Remember, Pisces have sketchy hygiene.

The rest of the night was all about the booze and the bad judgment. I drank way way too much. My friends here are so West Coast. Drinking pricey vodka and Red Bull. Keeping things on the down low. Listening to hip hop and talking about turn tables. I gave a knowing look to Mike when Finn asked from the stage if you’ve ever been to a place that had a DJ that really shouldn’t have had a DJ - - like a laundromat or a party with 4 people. I reminded him of the 8th grade birthday party he “spun” for. Sometimes, it’s just too easy.

Sometimes, I’m just too easy.

Found a brainy boy in the corner and started talking books. The conversation was slow and soaked in alcohol. Ulysses came up. Joyce. Stream of consciousness. The last few pages about sex and love and falling asleep. He said it was about the Male Penetrating Gaze and the Female Yes. I loved that idea. The Female Yes. Female. Yes. Held onto it the whole night. Let it kick around my head. Bounce off the walls. Tacit approvals and unspoken green lights. Air you can cut with a knife. The meeting in the middle for the kiss that changes everything. Going from here to there with closed eyes and eager tongues. Wondering what in the hell you’ve just done. Soft sighs and wandering hands. Wandering minds. Once you cross that line it’s yours. You can’t put it back. Undo. Rewind. Reverse. Recalculate. Rethink. Think at all. The female yes. Female yes. Female. Yes.

Where were we?

At the part about falling asleep or maybe waking up. Friday morning with a headache and a slow stroll to Zeitgeist. They know what I want when they see me. I like these mornings when I don’t have to speak other than a quiet “thank you” and a dollar tip. Pour in the half and half and sneak out the door. Squinting in the 7am sun. Last night’s lyrics rushing through my head: “Taxmen coming around the back with the kevlar vests. Militia men cooking up a batch of crystal meth. There's a war going down in the middle west. There's a war going down in the middle western states. The kevlar vests against the crystal flakes.” The music. The booze. The Female Yes. About standing on tippy toes to peek over the shoulder of the giant in front of me. About bouncing up and down to the rhythm of a bass drum. The club stamp still on the inside of my wrist. Time to go to work.

body like soft serve

2005-05-29T18:02:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-29T17:16:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-17T12:03:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-10T09:11:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-01T12:01:00.000-07:00

My new kitten!

talking shit about a pretty sunset

2005-04-26T18:48:00.000-07:00

I dropped Jodi off at the airport. We got rained on while saying good bye. I got teary eyed and hugged her for a long time. It was pitch dark on Hwy 5 coming back into the city. The wipers were keeping time to Me and Bobby McGee. Seattle is hidden a little. You don’t really see all it’s bigness until you turn a corner or round a bend and boom – lights everywhere. That’s how it was tonight. Like fireworks.

I got off on Seneca and the exit twisted me around through downtown. All the stone and glass buildings, black concrete street, side guards, painted lines, medians – they look the same as the city I still think of as home. Seattle is much bigger. Much prettier. More hills and views and bustle. But that little section, the up close of a few buildings paired with a highway exit and a nighttime sky reminded me of home. Once I was spit out onto Seneca, it was Seattle again. I was on top of a steep hill facing out to a jet black ocean. By the W Hotel. There were cobblestones and people out still. I was just a few blocks from work. From my apartment. From my neighborhood.

I have one toe in the water of making this my home. Some days I’m ready to leave. Not sure to where. Or how I’d get there. Or what I’d do when I got there. But some days, I just don’t want to be here. It seems too big and scary. Too much work. Too little friendship and no soft place to lay my head. And other days - other days - I’m glad I came. I assume it’ll even out. The glad I cames will over take the ready to leaves. I’ll be settled. I’ll be in the water with my hair wet. I’ll know the best place for pizza. Someone will wave at me from the bus. I’ll say that I’m gonna go to Minneapolis for a few days instead of saying I’m going home.

One ruby slipper click done. A few baby steps taken. My apartment kinda looks like someone lives there.

Tuesday night happy hour with Mike went until 2am. We bar hopped and drank through $60. Talked a lot about photography. I’m surprised at how much I remember from art school. F stops and aperture. Light meters and contrast. We also talked about philosophy and if life is fair. Beauty without pain. Thinking too much. Sometimes not thinking at all. The conversation was elastic and stretchy and polka dotted with drunken laughter. We took a walk to sober up and he drove me home from the parking ramp. The next morning, the headache failed to make it not worthwhile.

Wednesday night Jodi came. I took the bus out to meet her and we got lost coming back. It was the dreaded bus 194 that caused the drop off in the middle of no where, the idle conversation with smiley men whose breath smelled of warm beer, the 2 hour trek getting back to the apartment. We were both sleepy and giddy and talked a mile a minute. My dress pants were making me slide off the bus seat. I was so very happy to see her wonderful big grin.

The days she was here flew by. We ventured to parts of the city I had only heard about. Ballard. Freemont. Belltown. We roamed my neighborhood with eyes peeled for little places I’d like. We were in and out of bars and cafes. Shops and shoe stores. We got drunk on martinis and hopped in a cab at 3am to go to the grocery store. My apartment was barren. I hadn’t been able to find a near by or easy bus ride away place with more than a quarter of anything you’d need to whip up a dinner but drunk and resolute with money to spare Safeway was our destination. We pooled our collective and considerably lessened brain power into loading up a cart of “heavy things” and junk food. We ate ice cream drum sticks as we made fun of most everything, including each other. Again, the hangover was well worth the fun.

It was so nice to have her here. To help me find my way around. To rent a car with. To go to Vancouver with. To feel like I was on vacation with. To find the best breakfast place with. The best martini bar with. The best thrift store with. Saying good bye was pretty dang hard.

This airport. Every time I drop off a friend there are 15 minutes of wishing it were me with the ticket. A little stomach knot of worry or fear or just plain old stress comes and then - - - goes. The drive or bus ride back, the smell of the ocean, the sound of my neighborhood all start to work their magic and wiggle their way into me. They remind me of the possibilities. The good. The potential here. I think of my new friends. My apartment. The job that I’m coming to love. And then, it’s alright that it’s not me with the seat assignment and snack sized peanuts with my name on them. I think it’s then, I think it’s now, that the whole wow of being here starts to settle a little. Seattle starts to creep into me. It’s personality making itself known.

It’s late.

Monday is already here.

Jodi’s plane leaves in an hour.

She’s at the airport now. Magazines and pretzels in tow.

It’s bedtime for me.

hold still and smile

2005-04-17T19:44:00.000-07:00

Mike is concerned that I will one day succeed in my quest to grab hold of and then hug a ginourmous pigeon. As I have established in an earlier post, the pigeons here are huge. Chicken sized. House pet sized. Give me another piece of yo muffin or I’ll kick your ass size. They are also plentiful. I pass two or three hundred just on my way to work. The whole idea that I would actually catch a pigeon is a bit far fetched, no matter how much I threaten to do so. My ridiculous arm outstretched jog toward my feathered friends has yet to achieve the desired results. The pigeons, for their enormity, are still rather quick. Having witnessed many a failed attempt, Mike still is compelled to yell “Stop! Stop! They are dirty! Don’t touch them!’ each time I start my determined trot. I counter with my non factual and completely unscientific argument that their dirtiness is an urban legend propagated by pigeon wranglers to keep themselves in business. But he ain’t buying it.

For all you who may be gasping in HORROR, Mike is a friend from work. Out here. In Seattle. To my knowledge, he has not, nor in theory ever will:
1) Own a coffee shop with me
2) Have a job that pays him less than $25,000 a year
3) Have trouble getting his own apartment
4) Use more hair product than I do

Hee hee.

Seattle is, like, a real city. I went out until 4am and I wasn’t at someone’s house. Clubs can stay open past bar time as long they quit serving booze, which of course they don’t. They just quit serving booze in glasses. You can buy cans of Coke or Red Bull with some emptied out and the liquor of your choice making up the difference. Slick. Score 10 points for ingenuity! For those of you who know me, this next part is going to come as a bit of a shock – it was a loungy dance club kinda place! There was a fog machine and disco balls! There was throbbing techno beats and my kidneys were wondering why they were vibrating! I’m usually the kind of girl to be found drinking beer at low key neighborhood bars or the occasional rock n roll venue – so this, this slicked up stobe lit room of rumba – was new for me. I had a fabulous time though! I even DANCED. That is also new for me! I like dancing, quite frankly, I dance all the time, but it’s usually alone in my living room. Not anymore! And apparently I even have “moves” – who knew!

I was offered lip gloss. Of all the clever conversation, of all the people watching, of all the drinking and drunken debauchery, that is the one moment that stands out the most of the loungy experience. Being offered lip gloss by a total stranger. It was clearly HER lip gloss. Not hermetically sealed. Surely been used at least a dozen times. Handed over in some lip herpes sharing gesture of friendship. I had to pass, homie carries her own stash. My excuse: “I’m currently rocking Lip Smacker’s Dr. Pepper – but thanks!”

The rest of the weekend has been pretty low key. I have some work to do. Laundry, too. I went for a couple walks. I had round two of my knitting class. It’s one of those spring days where it’s hard to be inside. The weather forecast threatened thunder storms, but they have yet to materialize. They have yet to even darken the sky. It’s still crystal clear bluer than blue pretty outside.

Spring.

Zeitgeist had old Modest Mouse playing when I stumbled in there for my morning coffee.

I made spinach quiche in my fancy French pie dish that was a present from all the cool kids I use to manage back in Minneaplesauce.

I have a crush on KEXP.

Jodi is visiting next week!

I got paid on Friday. A check with taxes already taken out (!!) and that was just mine mine mine. All mine. I could buy an entire fruit stand full of heirloom oranges! I could buy a hundred pairs of cashmere underpants! I could hire someone to remove any lint that might collect on me though out the day using only the finest scotch tape!

Endless.

Possibilities.

you were all over town but still so crayola brown

2005-04-16T11:30:00.000-07:00

Free falling. Trying to grab hold of a tree branch on the way down. Leaves scrapping my skin. Twigs poking. Spit out. Merry go round. Fuck! I’m late! Do these pants look alright? It’s only my third week. I can’t be late. Third week. “Yes ma’am,” he’d say. Whistle, too. Pinstripes are the best things ever. This sweater is pissing me off. Wrinkled. Smoothed. Wrinkled. No time. Gotta go. Some days I will look better than other days.

Out the door. Sunny. Fish for pink movie star sun glasses. Why is my bag so fucking BIG? Here they are. They seem wiggly. Fix. Find a glasses place and have them fixed. What time is it? That Asian place across from Tully’s has a clock. Take Yesler to Western. Yesler to Western. Look at my ass. How did that happen? It looks round, but it isn’t. Magic pants. Super imposed over a $1500 lime green sea urchin made of wire and plastic and for sale. Hello. I see you every day. Turn. Yesler. Down to Western. What am I doing here? Go home. Go home. Hey, come get me. I belong here. Dropped out of the sky here. Put here. Thrown here.

Stop light.

Crossing the street. Dozens of people. Like a real city. “Sorry, I don’t have any change.” But I do. Is that a lie? A fib? I don’t lie. Does that count? Do I count? Tree branches. Scraped. Rocks. Grab hold. Stop all this for a bit. Can I catch my breath? Flashing orange hand. Flashing orange hand. Flashing orange hand. Glowing. Our turn soon. On. Walking man silhouette. Go. Cobblestones. Clunk clunkc lucnk. Who do I ask?

I saw her before. Remember her hair. Did I leave my door open? Time? Tully’s. Pho. Vietnamese. Clock inside. 8:45. Fuck! What can I say? What can I say? Nothing to say. I overslept. Slept over. Alarm went off. Closed my ears slept through did not stir sound asleep go away be quiet I can’t hear you. I’ll just say I overslept. Nothing more to. Is this Western? Yes. Turn. Just a few blocks. Just a few now.

Will today be any easier? It will be 5 before I even take off my coat. Fast days. Questions. Reports. Who is going to call the book? Meeting. Do I have meetings today? Did I bring that. I did. Lunch with that guy. I think at noon. High noon. He said he watched Deadwood. Bang bang. Oh. Look. He’s cute. Smile. Smile back. Someone’s life changed when I said yes. When I packed. When I left. I wonder whose it is. Bother. Bother. Just focus on. Stop light.

Ferry dumps 4 dozen people onto the side street. Have to wait for the human river to let up. Turn to a trickle. I need to cross. I’m late. I’m late. “Sorry, I don’t have any change.” The line in Starbucks is a dozen deep. Fucking ferry. Stop light now. So close. Alexis hotel awning one block up. One block up. Is it 8:50? 8:55? Fuck. Turn green, please. Turn. Green. Go. Shuffled. Jostled. "Excuse me." Pigeons. Crossing the street. That's the driver who took Paul. Smile. Wave. He knows who I am. One block. In. There. Main doors. My shoes sound like high heels on the glossy wood floor. Click click click. Press up. Just once. That mirror makes me look pretty. Why do I even bother to do my hair? It's all over. Wind. When will I get rained on today? Or the light. Maybe it's the light. Some sort of orange glow. Smoothes. Ding. Open. Press three. Press door close. Close. Up. Clear my head. The lights in here are bright. Catch my breath. It's all good. It's all good. Fuck! Pinch. Open. Out.

the more lost you are, the more you have to look forward to

2005-04-10T22:14:00.000-07:00

I had a page and a half of 11point Arial all set and ready to go, but this isn’t it. The page and half was on the Seattle this isn’t. On the occasional bouts of homesickness that kick me in the stomach. My once in a while doubts. My hands shaking during my first staff meeting. I wrote it in bits and pieces of overwhelmed and worried and afraid. But that isn’t Seattle.

It could be.

But I would rather it not.

It’s clay right now. It’s all up to me. It’s a million strips of newspaper and bowl of flour and water mixed together, and maybe even a balloon. I can make what ever I want.

I think I’ll make a crow.

A big one.

Jet black.

Have it hold something shiny and beautiful in it’s beak.

I once read somewhere that crows carry souls from darkness into light. That they are good luck. Ethical. Keepers of time and space. Magic.

Like here.

Seattle is Good luck. Magic. Silver lining. Pure potential. Open arms.

I have a few great co-workers. A local coffee shop. A Chinese take-out place. A dry cleaning lady. A smiley soup guy. A knitting class. A writing class. A really good friend. A one week away from being mine kitten. Guitar lessons. A nice apartment. A NYC style walk to work. Mostly nice weather, including some of the rainy days. The fun feeling of being lost and not caring. Of everything being new. The Sound. The Market.

All that in just three weeks.

Yes.

I’ll make a crow.

better to help people than garden gnomes

2005-04-02T22:45:00.000-08:00

We woke up Wednesday morning without an alarm clock. Without a watch. Without a cell phone to give us hints as to how late we’d slept, if we’d missed the movers, if it was even still Wednesday. The clock on the oven said 6am. The one outside said 6:30. The second hand on both appeared to be still. The movers were coming at 8. It was sunny. We could hear cars and seagulls. Horn beeps and pigeon coos.

people in pinstripes
and furrowed brows walk by, we sit
wednesday, 7 a.m.

In a daze we made it to the coffee shop. Standing in line, wearing the same clothes we’d had on for days, our hair everywhere, talking. Paul needed stamps for postcards home. Ones he had bought in Montana. For his parents. He liked the idea that his mom would hang them on the refrigerator. I needed to wait for the movers and let them in. We each got coffee and shared a scone, walked along the water and made it back just in time to wait outside. The concrete stoop was cold and in the shade.

The movers came. Paul left in search of a post office. I signed paper after paper saying that if they broke something, it wasn’t their fault. In triplicate. One to me. One to them. One for good luck. They were done in less than two hours and sat around in my new apartment until I kicked them out.

Paul came back but I don’t remember it at all. I can’t recall if I was outside or in my apartment. If he was late or on time or if we even had agreed upon a time. I just know he came back and we returned the truck and took the bus to downtown and it was sunny and warm. I remember the sun and the warm. I remember being happy that it wasn’t raining and happy that all the things we needed to get done were done and the day was free. Paul wrote a poem on his walk that I made him repeat a dozen times. His gravely voice, perfect. I want to write it here but didn’t ask him if I could. So I won’t share it yet. It will be just his for a while longer.

We went to the Market. Pike’s Place Market. My favorite part of Seattle. It was filled with tourists and smelled of fruit stands, ocean and camera flashes. We liked the hub-bub. The being jostled. The bumping into each other and everyone else. Like cattle. We’d duck into the Italian markets for a second to gaze at the cheese cases and bins of fresh bread, then back into the heard until the next little store pulled us in with a smell or a window display or a catchy name. Everywhere my eyes landed, there was something pretty. Rows of fruit or magazines. Families taking pictures of each other with fish mongers or iron pigs. Cobblestones and scruffy men with guitars.

guitar case open
dollars and coins on the teal
his voice kissing the notes

We had lunch outside, on a balcony above the hustle. A Cuban place. We could see the water and the mountains. I got to wear my sunglasses and trade spicy black beans for potato halves covered in a rich ochre colored sauce. I remember Paul asking me about my new job. Saying he could see living here. Maybe moving here. Maybe in a year. I remember telling him that I wasn’t nervous for my first day. That I liked not having to be anywhere and I especially liked that neither of us had watches on. After 4 days of being no more than a foot apart, we started to tease each other and banter. I kept accusing him of picking on me, and he’d defend himself saying he wasn’t. Said with a smile. A sly one.

After lunch, we poked fun of each other and the exhibits at the Seattle Art Museum. Paul is whip smart and it was extra nice to have a sparring partner who could hold his own with witty repartee as well as impress me with ideas about what we were seeing. He made fun of Jackson Pollock and confessed a love for large things made out of wood. I was enamored with the repetition of images in the China exhibit and amused by the hundreds of hand stitched Barbie sized jumpsuits on display, nailed in a pattern to a white wall. I remember walking out the front doors of the museum, face to face with the ankles of the Hammering Man, and knowing that this was the best day in a long time.

The rest of the afternoon melts together. We got coffee and sat outside. We looked at the water and walked around the city. I remember us each saying more than once how much we loved not knowing what time it was and having no where to be, nothing to do, no truck to drive. It was nice to finally be where we were going.

We had planned to eat dinner somewhere kind of fancy and I had planned to eat fish for the first time in ages. I wanted to get a little drunk on white wine, too. Laura gave us a few recommendations but due to long waits and no seats at the bar, we wound up across the street. It was fancy and nice, and instantly better than where we had left. Paul picked the wine. I liked that, chivalrous and smart all at once. I was tipsy after a glass or two. Cheap date. Dinner was amazing. I had berry salsa. He had a drink that tasted like stuffing. The conversation is kind of a blur. I know I smiled the whole time. I know a laughed a whole lot. I remember giving him a look and, I think, getting it back. That look of when it’s been a good day, when you are with a good friend, that happy to be just where you are kind of look. On the walk home I made him say his poem a dozen times more.

Back in the apartment, we kept the lights off and sat on the couch together. He laid his head in my lap and I mussed and smoothed his hair. We were quiet, I remember. Street noise bounced off the floors and walls. The glow of downtown made everything blue. He kissed me. He whispered “Oh, Nichols” when I bit his lip a little. I laughed and he kissed my teeth. I kinda wanted to stop time for a bit. It was a present day. I don’t know who from or for what occasion. But it was so needed. Like a calm after a storm or soup when you’re sick. It wasn’t Paul. It wasn’t Seattle. It wasn’t the sunny day. It was something in me. I let go of some of the ick I had been caring around and picked up a glimpse of what my life could be like. That there are boys out there who are who a wild mix of sweet and creative and sexy and smart who’ll trade secret looks with me at dinner. That there are apartments with swings and 2nd floor windows you can crawl out of. That there are newspapers and moving allowances and brand new jobs.

This ends the story of our drive here. Of being dropped off by Paul. Thursday there were clocks and clothes to pack and airplanes to catch. When he left, there were about 15 minutes where I wished it was me leaving instead. I missed my house and my friends. I missed knowing my way around. I felt really alone and afraid for the first time. Worried Seattle would never seem like home. But just as quickly as that feeling came, it left.

Welcome to Chapter Three.

can you even dye my eyes to match my gown?

2005-03-28T23:26:00.000-08:00

My favorite part of the treck was the last day - Bozeman to Seattle. Almost 700 miles of pretty. Paul was determined, determined he said, to drive us out of Montana. I was making silly jokes about how we’d been there 2 days or 6 weeks or 134 years. Montana is big. Big as in you can spend three days driving through it and still have another three days to go kinda big. It’s also breathtaking. I had never before had a landscape make me feel all fluttery and in love. Extra surprising to me given my city mouse status. I’ve never been a camper or nature hiker, I’ve never owned a sleeping bag – yet there I was, breathless and wide eyed as we drove curve after curve of mountain passes from western Montana through Idaho. We both felt kinda sentimental leaving Montana. It probably didn’t help matters that I had picked Simon and Garfunkle as the music to leave Montana by, or the slight drizzle and overcast skies. Unlike much of the trip Paul and I were mostly quiet, feeling kind of small in comparison to all the beauty that was around us.

It sounds so trite.

But listen up, city dwellers, there are places still that are empty. Where there are no billboards or electrical poles or airplane noise ordinances. Where it’s just tall and golden and full of colors that are brand new and completely familiar at the same time. Where you can really get the feeling that you are tiny. Just a hundred pounds or so of squishy and there are these trees that effortlessly outstand you and these mountains that have rocks resting on them that are triple your size.

It was that stunning.

It’s turned me into one step above a Harloquin novelist!

Three things about Idaho!

What Paul thanked Idaho for: taking care of the downhill.

His other astute observation: in winter, I could pretty much sled from Idaho to my apartment. Depending on snow cover.

What I bet and lost on: the “Welcome to Idaho” sign was not, I repeat, NOT shaped like a potato.

I was swirling with emotions when we got into Seattle. You can’t really see the city until you are almost in it. We turned a bend and all of a sudden there were lights everywhere. As we took our exit and were spit out into downtown I was just stuck on thinking “I live here now.” It wasn’t in a freaked out way, or in a terribly excited way – it was matter of fact. Convincing myself. Calming myself. That kind of way.

We, of course, got a little lost. Took a try or two to find the building. But once I realized that I had my apartment number and address mixed up – we were all set and just across the street from where we needed to be. Opening the door and peeking into the street lamp lit room, I felt like a kid sneaking into a neighbors playhouse. Familiar yet unsure. It smelled of fresh paint and recently refinished hardwood floors. Paul was the first to find the swing. I was the first to swing on it though. He gave me a big hug and suggested a much needed beer. My heart was pounding. We grabbed the keys. Locked the door and walked to Collins Pub for beer, booze and a jumbo ravioli.

Later, we feel asleep in the living room. Mattress on the floor. Looking out the windows. I was drunk and happy and preoccupied with the boy lying next to me. The first night here was as good as it could have ever been. Paul was a nice bit of home to have around and the city was a good dose of brand new. The next day would be the best day ever. EVER. It was movie good.

Today was my first day of work. I wore high(ish) heels and met about 14 dozen people, all of whose names I won’t remember tomorrow. I made one friend, a food critic, who took me out for what has surely got to be the best macaroni and cheese in the entire WORLD and then assisted me in my quest to purchase a shower curtain. I walked home from downtown after dark and came to the realization that my neighborhood is about 200% sketchier at night than it is during the day. Thank goodness for my crime fighting skillz!

I’m about one ruby slipper heel click into being home.

buffalo girl

2005-03-27T20:45:00.000-08:00

I’m nearly unpacked. If the Ryder (Not Ryder) truck were still parked outside, I would hug it for being so small. So toy like. So ten foot. I know that I gave it a dirty look or two when I wasn’t able to fit in the coffee table or the microwave or the stereo or the tv… but in the end it all worked out because any more things in my apartment and I’m pretty sure the swing wouldn’t work.

The swing you wonder? YES. The swing. There is a real life, honest to goodness, working swing in my apartment. Hung from the rafters. In the middle of the main room. With a somewhat unconventional furniture arrangement and a good kick start, I can swing until my hearts content without having to endure any dirty looks from impatiently waiting 3rd graders. Nice.

The other reason I’d hug the truck is that it was such a good idea to drive. Oh sure, I thought that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to drive when the truck was sliding on the ice at the North Dakota border, but the rest of the drive more than made up for it. The 360 miles between Glendive and Bozeman were beautiful. The sky really is bigger in Montana. The horizon seems closer to you and the sky just fills up. It’s uncluttered with billboards and the telephone poles are set far back from the road so you hardly notice them. Everything was golden, just coming out of a winter drought. Lots of Montana looked like it was a hillside in a model railroad. The pine trees and rocks seemed so overwhelming and small at the same time.

The drive went by quickly and we made it into Bozeman before 8. Paul and I split a grilled cheese and French fries at a little diner on main street where the open sign said: “Sorry, we’re open!” I wished out loud that I had had one for the coffee shop. We walked around Bozeman a bit, still tired from the drive and weird morning sleep. We chose the most cowboy of the hotels that we passed and checked into the Western Heritage Inn. There was a stuffed bear in the lobby! And an elk head! The staircase looked like the Brady house! It was a good choice.

I took a much needed shower and Paul went and scored some beer from the neighboring Kum and Go (two in one trip, go figure!) – the day ended drinking beer and making fun of the local news station who when interviewing the newly crowned 2005 Bozeman Chef of the year, called him the 2005 Chief of the Year under his name. We set the alarm, fell asleep talking and laughing and wondering why Bozeman was spelled with a “Z” but Missoula was not.

The next night we’d be in Seattle.

I spent some time at Zeitgeist today. Writing whatever came to mind mostly. Thank god for writing. It’s effortless. A laptop. A pen. A piece of paper. I don’t need to unpack the taped up boxes of art supplies and paint brushes to make something. I think Lisa called my never-ending sentences and overstuffed paragraphs “splash and ping thoughts.” I liked that lots. Here they are. Splash. Ping.

Stiff neck. Feather bed. Still smells like him. Heavy eye lids wanting to sleep still gray weather making for a nice day. Sat in the coffee shop and looked at newspapers. It feels like New York Chicago San Francisco rolled into one. The skyscrapers disappeared into fog this morning. Like a movie. Like a photo. Like a painting. The manhole covers have steam rising from them. White poofs against a city colored background. You can see your breath but it isn’t cold. The same homeless man is curled up in the vestibule each morning as I walk past, long strides, head up, to get coffee from a block away. Tan dirtied wooly blanket covering all but his white grey socks. The sound of drips splashing down from the awning. Car tires in puddles. My feet hitting the wet pavement. Spring came early thanks to a 24 hour drive. The weather is warm. Wet. Swimming. Tames my hair. Makes it fall into soft curls. I want to wear my sunglasses but instead carry my pink flowered umbrella. There are seconds where it feels like home despite the unpacked boxes and unfamiliar faces. Unimpressed uninspired unmoved by where I had been. Uterus in utero, hold on tight. Unicorn underfoot, careful where you step. Unified ultimatum unconditional underclass, watch the hammer, hit, real, slow. Up up up. It goes. Tattooed number. Unidentifiable urchin. They all look the same. Ulcered uncle. You. Know. More. Reach into his head and pull the ideas out. Lost. Boy. Found. Girl. It’s going to be a good year.

my baby does the hanky panky

2005-03-26T09:56:00.000-08:00

It was already middle of the night dark when we left at 8:30. Paul was coming off a seven hour drive back from Chicago. His band had played there the night before. Thanks to either his youth or his rock n roll cowboy-ness, he was ready for the first leg of our twenty four hour drive after a bathroom break and a spring roll.

I had recently come into the habit of saying “lest” and “it’s all good” far far too much. Lest as in: “We should turn the lights off lest the aliens find us.” And it’s all good as in: “The truck won’t fit all my stuff. No worries. It’s all good.” I found that my use of the later phrase actually meant that it was NOT all good. In fact, it usually meant that it was quite terrible and I had no idea how to remedy the situation. My only rule for the drive was to be pinched in the arm whenever I said either of those two phrases. Paul obliged. I think it was an “it’s all good” that led to laying my arm down on the pillow between us for the requisite pinch and instead got a much anticipated hand hold. Paul and I had developed this strange and fast friendship over the past month or so and my crush on him had started to polka dot my thoughts after the whole Scooby Doo Incident. It was nice to have butterflies again.

We drove through Minnesota without much problem. I drove first and he tried to sleep a little to ready himself for his turn. We talked a lot, listened to some music, tried to figure out an Encyclopedia Brown mystery or two and went through half a book of Would You Rather questions. For the record, Paul would rather forever have to speak in the style, accent, and intensity of Hitler whenever talking to members of the opposite sex rather than having to take all his meals in a hockey net. I can’t say I'd pick the same.

North Dakota tried to give us a hard time. The darkness was so dark that I got a little edgy. It was all horror movie and Bela Lugosi. There was a thick layer of clouds so no moonlight was peeking through and the sky was starless. Lots of times we were the only car on the road, no one ahead of us, the side mirrors only showing black for what was behind us. No street lights. We each tired to sleep. Paul successfully, me not so. I opted for a few No-Doze pills purchased from the Fergus Falls, MN Kum and Go. Seriously, the Kum and Go. Ha! Just before dawn and just before hitting Montana, it started sleeting and the roads got icy really fast. We pulled off to the side and decided to give it a half hour for the sun to come up. Thanks to the No Doze, I was wide awake and anxious. Paul fell asleep with his head in my lap.

After 30 minutes it was still sleeting, although with the sun up, it was easier to deal with. Paul offered to drive and we decided we’d just get into Montana and find a place to stay. Glendive was the first city we found, about 40 miles past the North Dakota border. We wound up at the Super 8 and fell asleep within 30 seconds of our heads hitting the pillows. In my newly acquired insomniac style, I woke up much before the 1pm alarm. I quietly snuck out of the room and used the phone in the lobby to check in with everyone and reschedule the movers. We had decided to add a day onto the drive in order to miss a storm that would surely have made driving the curvy mountain passes pretty scary at night. Which my mom, especially, was very happy to hear due to her constant Weather Channel viewing that day. I spent the rest of the morning at the town diner across from the hotel. I wrote some haiku and ate some scrambled eggs.

smell of scrambled eggs
and perfectly coiffed gray hair
breakfast served all day

the first day of spring
landscapes, more gray than golden
big sky Montana

an hour ‘til one
his hair splayed over pillows
me, writing haiku

five foot two feet of
pure glamour grandma spunky
lipsticked coffee cup

I snuck back into bed and tried to get in another hour of sleep before the alarm would sound. Paul and I were both smelly and the room had rocketed to about 200 degrees thanks to the heater kicking in but never off. We had dubbed it the Tour of Sketchy Hygene somewhere along the way. I settled back in and wished I was brave enough to grab his hand, but fell asleep without much worry about it. When the alarm did go off though, he grabbed mine. We curled up together and whispered our days itinerary which only consisted of for sure driving to Butte and if the weather was alright, trying to get to Bozeman. With bad breath and all, we kissed for the first time then found some toothpaste and got back in the truck for part two of the drive.

pinch me, pinch me harder

2005-03-24T19:44:00.000-08:00

I’m in Zeitgeist Coffee. It’s a cool place about two blocks from my apartment. Legend has it they have these really amazing donuts, but I have thus far restrained. And by thus far I mean, I’ve been here three times total and the only time pastry was an option, I opted to split a blackberry oat scone with U-Paul. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I really haven’t had to put any work into passing up the donuts. Tomorrow, when I walk down here in my pj’s for some iced coffee that 1) I don’t make myself and 2) have to pay for, well, we’ll see how the donut boycott is going then.

If you haven’t guessed already, Zeitgeist Coffee is in Seattle. Which means we made it. Which means that while Montana tried to kill us, it didn’t succeed. Which means that this last week has been a careful mix of teary good byes, happy birthdays, making googly eyes at Paul and lots and lots of driving.

Last Friday was my burpday. I noticed that while Blogger hasn’t updated my “Recent Posts” since November, it sure was on the ball by immediately upping my age come the big day! Thanks, Blogger. Glad you’re looking out for me.

I am now 34.

You know what that means: one of these years the pigtails are gonna cease being cute.

The last three days in Minneapolis were really difficult. Saying goodbye to friends I’ve had for years and who I’ve come to rely on lots as I’ve struggled through this mess proved to be harder than I imagined and I imagined it to be pretty hard. My last night was spent falling asleep on Jodi’s cushy sectional couch while holding onto Irene’s hand. And I probably don’t need to say it but just incase I do, I was bawling like a toddler. Surprisingly, the ickiness of the last year has had a lot of payoffs and one of them is a renewed friendship with my two best friends. Saying good bye to them was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I’m certain that I have some of the best people in the whole world as my cohorts. And that makes me pretty sure that I’m one lucky girl.

Sunday was a mad rush of last minute packing and trying to reduce the size of my puffy eyelids to a thickness in which they could be opened more than a quarter inch. I had to make a couple tough decisions – ditching the TV, the coffee table and microwave in favor of clothing and art supplies – but all in all, most everything important fit snuggly into a 10 foot Ryder (Not Ryder) truck.

Ah, the truck.

The little yellow moving truck with the yellow duct tape over where it had, at one time, said Ryder. I assume the last time it bared it’s name with confidence was sometime right before the Oklahoma City bombing. Since then, I’m guessing it’s been all duct tape and second glances. To make us even 30% more sketchier as we drove across this fair and mighty large land, was the fact that our Ryder (Not Ryder) truck was registered in and baring license plates from Oklahoma. Even better. I started calling Paul “Tim McV” and nicknamed myself “Nichols.” We didn’t bomb anything more than the occasional joke though. It really was a fine little truck. It navigated the steep and curvy mountain passes with grace and only made a burning smell one time.

Sunday night was spent eating Chinese take-out on the floor of my empty house with my best friends and waiting for Paul to finish his drive back from Chicago, drop his bandmate off and eat the spring roll I had ordered for him. We were on the road by 8:30, leaving via the western suburbs and talking about how strange it was that I wasn’t crying. Paul didn’t think it was strange at all. It was an adventure he thought. A fresh start. As our shared Pisces horoscope had said a week earlier, “the season of our awakening is now at hand.”

“See, you have no reason to cry.” he said.

“I guess you’re right.” I nodded back.

howsomeever

2005-03-15T10:45:00.000-08:00

All good things must come to an end. And thankfully, all terrible things must come to an end, too.

YEE-HAW!

Tomorrow is my last day at Purgatory Coffee! There were days where I honestly thought I would grow old and die here but the last couple months have been filled with far more hope than doom. Oooooh, I’m sure I’ll get a little teary eyed when I hand over the keys since I’ve the tendency to get teary eyed over most anything remotely touching - although I’m pretty sure it’ll be fleeting. I’m also pretty sure that as of tomorrow there will be a little extra bounce in my step because I got through this and if I can get through this, well, I think I’ll be able to get through anything.

My head is so full it’s hard to write. A dangerous mix of daydreams, to do lists and Soul Coughing beats. I linger on the daydreams. The giggle inducing sun in my hair better than the movies daydreams. They float me through the hard parts. The overwhelmed more things to cross off than I have ink for parts. I’m mostly just in awe of how life works. I find myself wanting to say “thank you” a lot. Not sure to who. Just sure of the why. I feel grateful. So thanks, world. Maybe you’re not so mean after all.

Next is a going away/birthday (burpday!) bash that will hopefully go down in the annals of parties had at Big V’s, then I’ll leave Minneapplesauce on Sunday for a two day drive with U-Paul across the top part of the U.S. We have an iPod, lots of nicotine gum and some Mad Libs. The recipe for hijinx if I’m not mistaken. We’re littering the trail with haiku penned in permanent marker on sticker paper and affixed to gas station bathroom stalls as well as our fair share of banana peels. If you want to follow us, just look for the messy haired duo with the Sharpie arsenal.

The next time I’ll probably have time alone with my laptop will be in my new apartment in C@L. Seattle. Sea. At. El. Huh. Wow. Wish I could send you all post cards and invites and blow kisses your way. It’s been a good run. It’ll be a better one soon though. Farewell, home. Hello, new one. I’ll come back to visit. I promise.

ffoo!

2005-03-09T11:26:00.000-08:00

I'm alright but my laptop has sprouted devil horns and fangs! Makes it hard to type! I'll try to tame it later and post something about the crazy week! Crazy in a good way! HOW COOL IS THAT?!?

so much time and so little to do. wait a minute. strike that. reverse it.

2005-03-02T10:27:00.000-08:00

Let the happy induced freak out begin! I have to pack! I have to sell the store! I have to tap dance and jump on the couch for AT LEAST two hours a day! I have to sell my house! I have to sell most of my stuff! I have to find an apartment in Seattle! I have to STOP drinking coffee!

It’s a lot! In a good good thank god I couldn’t be happier about it way!

Yesterday I started to read Ulysses. I’m on page 34. WISH ME LUCK. This book has kicked my ass on at least three occasions. Here’s hoping the fourth time is a charm. So far, I like the banter between Stephan and Buck. I like the ghostly image of Stephan’s mother coming to him smelling of “wax and rosewood.” I like how Joyce makes compound words out of words that might have never been compounded otherwise. I hope that I’ll get so into it that I can’t set it down. Where I carry it around where ever I go in spite of it’s heavy hardcoverness. The edition I have was a find at a used book store. It’s teal green cloth hardcover with two black lower case j’s on the front. All 1950s beautiful. It smells musty and bookish. I like how it feels in my hands. I read it out loud just before falling asleep and let the left over images of Ireland and Bloom fill my head as I close my eyes. Fourth time. Charm. Fourth time. Charm.

Yesterday Basement Dwelling P and I embarked on a project that culminated in us feeling like Fred and Thelma from Scooby Doo. We had the lofty plans of opening a door to the back alley that had long been boarded up and nailed shut. P, or let’s call him Fred, did all the heavy thinking and came up with the plan as to how to unnail the door open. After a few tries, it was freed and with much joy we threw open the door only to find ourselves face to face with a BRICK WALL. A surprise to be sure! We felt around some for super secret hidden latch, expecting it to open all jagged edged along the mortar – but no such luck. Disappointed! Not wanting to give up hope for a separate basement entrance, we headed down the creaky stairs to the creepy basement. We searched around for another door, a boarded up window – anything – all the while our way being dimly lit by a Bic lighter and our hair getting caught up in the cobwebs. We think we found a trap door! We know we found some spiders! It was an alright afternoon. All I needed was an orange turtle neck and some glasses. Oh, and an ascot for P. Fred style.

I’ll end it with this note. Last night :A:, B and I were talking about elementary school romances. Mine was Ross LaHaye. Blonde hair, blue eyed Ross LaHaye. We were a “couple” from kindergarten through 5^th grade. We’d talk in class, hang out at recess then he’d throw snow balls or berries at me on the walk home depending on the season. But then I moved away. The realization: that still stands as my longest relationship! No good! Or maybe good! He was pretty cute for an grade schooler!

are you sitting down?

2005-02-28T10:54:00.000-08:00

Cuz I'm not! I'm all wiggly and jumpy and wanting to tap dance because....

I

GOT

THE

JOB!

Good bye Minneapplesauce! HELLO, Seattle!

i like cream cheese, that's something

2005-02-26T09:20:00.000-08:00

Hello Left Turn! Hello Monkey Wrench! Hello Philadelphia!

After the longer than expected wait to hear from Seattle (C@L!) about the Swank Job, I came across another opening for a swank job, herein referred to as Son of Swank Job. I sent in my resume. It was more of a Plan C kind of idea. I wasn’t really excited about it. I’ve never been to Philadelphia. I’ve actually only twice in my life even spelled Philadelphia and you just read both of ‘em folks. D’oh! Make that three times now. But you get it, it’s off the radar. It’s hard to spell. I don’t know a soul there! No good!

But!

The paper there sounds incredibly cool! The publisher, Would-Be Boss #2, is very laid back. They do lots of really interesting and innovative things. The atmosphere seems like something I’d fit right into. As for the city itself, well, from what I can tell on this here internet thing, it seems pretty darn nice! Lots of things to do and cool old brick colonial style buildings everywhere. It’s the 5th largest city in the U.S.! If that wasn’t enough already, the LIBERTY BELL is there! The Liberty Bell! Oh! And this season of The Real World was filmed there, too! And maybe best of all – it’s an hour train ride to NYC! Weekends of debauchery! And it’s just an hour train ride to Washington DC, too! Best chance I'll ever have to make out with President Bill Clinton! Maybe I’ll make the news!

They fly me out there next week!

Here is a patriotic photo collage I found of Philadelphia:

Suddenly my decision of Take Swank Job or Live Impoverished is slightly more complicated. If’ I’m lucky, I’ll have three choices! Swank Job, Son of Swank Job or Live Impoverished. It feels kinda good to take a few eggs out of the Seattle basket and set them aside for safe keeping. It feels EXTRA good to make decisions without having to consider anyone or anything else, just me. Maybe I really am gonna be alright. Wow!

I spent a lot of time yesterday talking to basement dwelling P. He is one of the coolest people I’ve ever had the pleasure of looking at hairy tongue pictures with! We also had a number of interesting conversations about such things as the Egyptian Two Headed Baby, the Pope, leprosy, Eliot Smith, feeeeelings and figuring out what it is you should do with your life. The Egyptian Two Headed Baby and the Pope were rolled into one conversation as we wondered what the Pope would have done with the extra head. We decided that he would want to keep it attached. And P agreed. It’s not often that P and the Pope come down on the same side of an issue – but in this case, he thought they would both recommend a custom knitted hat. I couldn’t decide to go with P and the Pope on this one or venture out on my own and support it’s removal. The extra head blinked! It smiled! It had curly hair! BUT! It was growing upside down out of another baby’s head who also blinked and smiled and had curly hair! So, it’s a tough call. As we all know it was removed – with the Pope being out of commission and the family being Muslim and surely not giving a damn what the Pope thought anyway and all – I at least hope the Head was treated to a proper burial! I also hope the other head with the baby attached will be ok! Has this left you wanting more Pope and Two Headed Baby talk? Click here!

I feel like I should end this with some sort of deep thought or Doogie Howser M.D. style lesson learned about eggs in baskets or figuring out what to do with your life, but I think for today, I’m just all about the sun outside and the friends I’ll see in a bit.

Nice.

woo hoo woo hoo hoo! oh yeah!

2005-02-25T10:40:00.000-08:00

Still jumping on the couch! Waiting. Boing! Waiting. Boing! I’ve had a few people ask if I really do, indeed, jump on the couch at the coffee shop and the answer is this: HECK YES. I’m cooped up in this place for 12 hours a day. I drink coffee. I tap dance. I email. I jump on the couch while talking on the phone and looking out the window. It helps to break up my day. That and seeing how long I can hold my breath. A girls gotta do…

Today is shaping up to be a very good day. The phone is ringing with more good news than bad, my cup is overflowing with clever e-mails and friends are bringing me waffles. Yes. You heard me right. I was brought waffles today! SURPRISE WAFFLES. Which, incase you didn't know, are the best kind of waffles there are. Especially if they are covered in walnuts and banana slices and then shared while chit chatting with a good friend. So thanks, :I:! You ROCK.

My 6pm interview yesterday went well. It’s smacked of formality and i dotting and t crossing. I’ll be way surprised if my ass isn’t in the red office within 30 days time. Come to think of it, I’ll also be kinda surprised if is! Like I said, this year has thrown me more than my fair share of curve balls. If I can pull this one out – well – it’ll be a fine fine day. The interview was more chit chat than the hard hitting questions I was expecting. DISAPPOINTED! I had written out over a page of notes designed to make me seem very no nonsense and unafraid of firing people. I was even going to try to work in the phrase “kick ass and take names” into the conversation, but it just never went down that road. Instead, he talked of moving to Seattle and how he liked it there, told me of fun things the sales departments do for contests and nights out, asked me about where I would live and again, my favorite question, when I would start. I hung up with a big smile on my face and an overwhelming urge to jump up and down. Which I, of course, gave into.

How I answer my favorite question: “I can start immediately!”

How they respond: “Good to hear!”

Tonight is an art show with some friends. The art is all grungy rock n’ roll posters which is quite possibly the best kind of art there is. I love the spooky creepy yet ODDLY cute designs this place spits out on a regular basis. It should be a good time. I might skip outta here early to score some new duds so I can look all cute and stuff, but we’ll see how the day unfolds. Purgatory Coffee has quite the death grip on me! If I can escape it, look for me at the mall. I’ll be the girl with the big smile and deranged coffee shop following her around on its tip toes and ready to pounce at any second.

Perhaps The Haiku Master will jump into save me if I am in peril! I know it’s usually the side kick, which would be me, that does the saving but perhaps just this once I could be snatched from the bared teeth of the shop by someone other than me. He could “hai-ku”ng fu it and whisk me to the safety of Urban Outfitters where I’ll buy a sassy t-shirt and a funky ring while he fights for my honor! DANG! That would be almost as good as surprise waffles, people! AND it carries with it the added benefit of being able to go shopping. Nice!

boing! boing!

2005-02-24T12:31:00.000-08:00

My news:

1) I am the leading candidate!
2) I have another interview today at 6pm!
3) I am WAY happy with the news because it SURE beats NOT getting the job!

The couch’s news:

1) Jumped on!
2) Ceasing to be fun.
3) Please! Make her stop!

hanging on the telephone

2005-02-23T17:07:00.000-08:00

I’m supposed to write everyday. I want to write everyday. But I can’t. I mean, I can. I will! I am! It’s all suspended animation for me right now. For me right now. Me right now. Right now. Now. I have tossed everything up in the air and it’s stalled, just before hitting the lawn. Paused. Waiting for a phone call that will send it tumbling down in order or not in order. Is this my bus? Or am I waiting for the next one? Plan B is so plan b. It’s a job in New York. One I was offered before and turned down 4 years ago. It’s either a long shot or a shoo in. New York City doesn’t seem the hometown I thought it then. It seems like work now. Like it’d take me a long time to find normal there. All I want is normal. All I want is calm. All I want is me again. Seattle though, that’s like home. That’s like easy and cake and something I can wrap my arms around. It’s the same size. The same pace. The same job. It’s where I want to go. If they want to have me. But the phone is not ringing right now. It has no news to bring. My day is almost over and so it’s on to tomorrows nail biting, pacing, jumping on the couch. I know I can take one more day. I hope the couch can!

i just happened to be nowhere near your neighborhood

2005-02-18T15:10:00.000-08:00

I’m heading home. Once again, I was the sloppy girl with all the things trotting through the airport to get to my gate, which like most of the gates I need to get to, was the furthest possible away from where I checked in. But I made it! I’m here! I even have plenty of time to kill thanks to a delay, although while I just thanked it, I’d rather it not be working it’s magic because my assigned seat is a good place to be once we are airborne. But for now I sit with the others, trying to keep busy before the real trying to keep busy starts for the nearly 3 hour flight.

I’m sad to leave! It started to feel like home. HOM! I looked at apartments this morning, took the bus, shopped, walked a ton and met Z for lunch and grocery shopping in the market. The weather has been absolutely amazing. Not a cloud in the sky sunny and 50 the whole time. Seattle (C@L!) is really beautiful. Parts of the city remind me of home, others of Chicago with a little New York mixed in. The hills remind me of San Francisco. Which were my favorite part of living in San Francisco. They make for these amazing surprise views. You’d turn a corner and all of a sudden realize you’re on top of the city with a perfect view of the Pacific or the mountains or the forests. It’d stop you in your tracks. Seattle is like that too - - jaw dropping, breath taking, hey honey look at this pretty.

The job interview was intense! It was seven and a half hours long. Seven. And. A. Half. Hours. Long. No breaks. No pop until hour 5. No restroom visits. Even lunch was an interview! By the end I was half dead. I had sadly woken up at 4am that morning thanks to my inner clock still being set to the time of my people. But I made it though. They seemed to really like me. I really liked them. I want to say that I’d be surprised if I didn’t get it, but after this last year, nothing much surprises me anymore. So I’ll wait with baited breath and cross my fingers that I hear sooner than later. I’m due for a break though, and I’m really hoping that it’s this one.

I’ll know by Wednesday.

GULP!

What :I: prayed for while I was in my interview: that my pigtails were neat.

Were they: kinda!

I know most people have touristy stories of scuba diving or parasailing but my touristy story centers around two pigeons. First off, I have to say that Seattle pigeons are HUGE. Apparently mild winters make for good pigeon growing! Also apparent is that pigeon ginormity is directly linked to pigeon IQ – lemme tell you, these birds are brainy. They’re super smart chicken sized hi-breds!

By now you must be wondering what happened! Did I see a pigeon reading the New York Times? Did a pigeon wait on me at Tully’s? Is there a pigeon lecture series that I attended over lunch?

No. It’s better than all that! You see, I was walking to meet Z when I found myself at a stop light with two pigeons. They were standing on the corner, looking straight ahead and waiting. When the light turned for us to go, they hopped down of the curb and walked across the street the whole time staying in the cross walk. When they reached the other side, they hopped up the curb and turned the corner and headed down the hill to the water. Seriously! These were law abiding pigeons. Waiting for the walk sign. Staying in the crosswalk. I seemed to be the only one amazed by this which leads me to believe that this must be normal behavior for Seattle pigeons. The pigeons here surely don’t cross the street like that! It’s that super intelligence I was talking about. They know laws! They can read signs! It’s amazing!

What I wish pigeons could also do: wear hats.

What else: fight crime.

I just want to grab my stuff, wrestle my checked luggage away from the baggage handler and walk outta this airport. I’d grab a cab to downtown and look out the window the whole ride. I’d asked to get dropped off by the market, maybe hook up with Z or L for dinner and magically have an apartment to go home to. Insta-Seattleite -- just add job! Instead though, I’ll go home. I’ll open the store tomorrow morning and put in another 12 hour day for god willing another $250. In a few days, get a call that’ll let me know where I’ll be in a few weeks. If the brick red office with the big window is mine. If the staff I met is the staff I’ll manage. If the cool people with promises of showing me around will stick to their words. If the apartment I looked at this morning will be where I call home.

If.

If.

If.

Wednesday never seemed so far away.

you're like new york city

2005-02-16T21:37:00.000-08:00

I got my cheap ass to Seattle! I was actually a little early getting to the airport. This is most unusual for me. While I am always a little panicked about missing my flight, it usually doesn’t motivate me to get my shit together much before the last minute. Yes, that’s me you see running through the airport, boarding pass in mouth, magazines in hand, bookbags strewn haphazardly over my shoulder, hair popping out of my braids, panicked look in my eyes. Honestly, it’s a wonder I can get anywhere. But today, I wasn’t running. All those other things – yes – still true. But I walked from the check-in to my gate. Leisurely at that. Apparently, this trip means a little more than most.

What I saw looking out the airplane window: clouds mostly.

What I saw looking out of the taxi window: sun, sun and more sun.

And now I’m here. Unpacked! Dinnered! Quenched! Waiting! My friend L is coming by to get me shortly. Truth be told, I’m way sleepy. It’s 11pm in the land of my people and only 9pm here. I had some coffee from one of the many coffee shops on the block and it’s hardly kicking in! I kinda just want to go to bed but it’s NINE. That’s like bedtime for 4th graders! Must! Stay! Up!

While waiting I’ve worked on my flight themed haiku for my Illustration Friday post. I had lots of writers block but them some happy kicked in and these came out.

he held my heart, soft
cupped careful in open palms
you could hear me breath

when i grow wings
i’ll fly around the world and
settle by you

flying in i knew
the hardest thing would be
saying goodbye

J and I didn’t have a chance to haiku duel prior to my getting the hell outta dodge. But I have him down for next week and head locked him into a promise of e-mail haiku duels when we are separated by a whole mess of miles and a two hour time difference. He is one of the things I’ll miss the most about Minneapplesauce. Him and almost everyone else. My friends are some of the greatest people ever invented.

I am off for a 50 degree frolic in this fair city! See you tomorrow! Wish me luck! Pet your cat! Hold your breath! It’s gonna be a great great day!

illustration friday: flight

2005-02-15T21:22:00.000-08:00

This week's topic was flight. I thought of kites or balloons or birds, but settled on a soaring heart. I like paintings of things with wings that don't normally have wings. This one is done up in acrylic on cheap ass canvas board. The haiku will follow later due to the mad rush to get MY cheap ass to Seattle!

YEE-HAW!!

Wanna have your spirits lifted?

I finished my haiku!

adventures make one late for dinner

2005-02-15T06:36:00.000-08:00

J likened me to a hobbit yesterday. Except taller. He wondered aloud if I was embarking on an epic journey with my trip and move to the Pacific Northwest. If I was the chosen one. If the weird ring I picked up at the thrift store was hiding some magical secret. With all this talk, you’d think J was a pasty faced basement dwelling D&D aficionado. No no no. Couldn’t be further from the truth. J is all mile wide smiles and Seven jeans and great hair.

Just incase he was right, especially since he is known to often be right, he espoused a few simple rules to guide me along my way. He intended them to be his parting words of advice to keep me safe and help me navigate this mean mean world. It was like highschool commencement, except nothing like it at all. I wrote his words of wisdom down in my handy dandy notebook.

H’s Rules For Encountering Magical or Mystical Creatures:

1. Never give them your real name.
2. Never ever wish for anything in front of them.
3. Never eat any food or accept any gifts they may offer you.
4. Never invite them into your house.
5. Never touch a unicorn.

I know what y'all are wondering. I wondered the same thing. This conversation snippet should answer your question:

Me: These rules are for all magical or mystical creatures - - even fairies?
J: ESPECIALLY fairies.

Now, I don’t really except to be seated next to a unicorn on the plane or bump into a troll while visiting the Space Needle, but I’ll take these along just incase. Maybe try to gleam some meaning out of them for encounters with non-magical creatures. Non magical creatures with nice smiles and cool t-shirts who want my phone number. They are surely as dangerous as fairies are. Probably more so. If asked my name by one of them, I think I’ll say Beatrice.

I was nearly offered the job over the phone yesterday! Due to discount airlines not wishing to fly between here and there on Saturday and Sunday (lazy!) I was asked to come on Thursday and return on Friday. I said, and it’s a nearly direct quote, that while not wanting to be presumptuous, that didn’t leave me any time to look for an apartment. Without hesitation, my would-be boss replied “Good point!” and switched my flight so I had a free day in C@L to look for a little place to call my own. He might as well have just said “You’re Hired!!” and asked me if I wanted a regular or ergonomic keyboard in my office, but this was just as good.

Speaking of a little place to call my own - - here is what I have my heart set on:

Charmed!

Cozied!

I wish the cat came with it!

D’OH! I made a wish! I hope there aren't any lurking magical or mystical creatures reading my pollyblog or I could be doomed! DOOMED!!

sun sun sun here it comes

2005-02-13T11:03:00.000-08:00

I’m in need of a pep talk. It’s probably the booze messing with me. Got accidentally drunk last night. Oops! J makes knock you on your ass drinks. I had two and was then, officially, knocked on my ass. Now the weird after effects are taking hold, the worst of which is this icky blah feeling. The second worse of which is this headache. Aspirin for the headache, writing for the blahs.

There are things that I know about myself, about M, about life and people and just how things work. Things that I completely believe are true, yet, I need reminders. Some sort of constantly available mom or best friend to help me digest all this in a way that doesn’t leave scars. Or at least leaves the smallest ones.

I just feel sick sometimes. I was treated so poorly. I didn’t look out for myself enough. I trusted him. He wasn’t worthy of it. And here I am now. I sometimes feel like I’ve lost nearly everything. A lot of the people and things I placed value on are gone. And it’s sad. It makes it extra sad that he didn’t skip a beat. Off to the next girl. I feel replaced. Tossed aside. Disgusted. All of this is so ridiculous. I’m privy to this occasional birds eye view of it all and I see myself rolling my eyes and walking away laughing under my breath at how stupid this is. At how stupid he is.

And he is stupid. Immature. Irresponsible. Egotistical. He turned into someone who I wouldn’t want to be with. Had I been the next girl he was on to, had he made this mess for me, I would have said no. I would have wanted to see him be the bigger person, take care of his obligations, prove himself to me by following though with someone else. I would be smart enough to know that how he treats other people is a window into how he could one day treat me.

I didn’t really have any warning signs. He seemed all the right things. I stayed because he seemed sweet and kind. I gave up my ideas of long conversations and reading books together in exchange for ones about calm and fate. I knew I was trading things right from the start. And I kept trading until I think I really lost sight of what it was I had wanted. I was left with a set of cards that weren’t familiar to me and left me nothing to play.

That isn’t to say I didn’t love him. I did. It’s to say that I shouldn’t be upset by this. It’s to say I should have realized this earlier. It’s to say that I’ve known almost the whole time that there was something better for me. But I chose to trade. Trade. Trade.

Sometimes I feel like I’ve been pulled from this life by someone or something that has an idea that there is better for me. The more I hung on, the more I was tugged away. Beat down until I was too weak to hold on and then I was lifted out. I’ve been happier in many ways these last few weeks than I have been in years. I’ve been working on saving myself and funny how when you do that you really do wind up saving yourself. Things started happening right away. Great jobs. Friends. Boys. The possibilities of it all are infinite. Within reach. Mine for the taking.

But still there is this ball of melancholy in me. Kicking around with a sad look upon it’s face. Not wanting to go outside and play. It doesn’t like being left. It feels uncared for. Sad. Unimportant. It wants this to be a big mistake, a regret, so it can feel better. It wants to be right about all the things it thinks will happen. It wants to mope.

Cheer up little ball.

There is sun. It’s on the way.

You and I both know that there will be a day when you thank god that this happened. Where you won’t be able to imagine yourself any other way. You will feel creative and fulfilled and there will be this calmness in your little spherical soul. It could be while walking home from work on a rare sunny C@L day. It could be when you sign up for singing lessons. It could be when you look over and see a really sweet and lovely boy who's head just happens to be resting on the pillow next to yours. You’ll be happy you were given this chance. It is a chance after all. Ends are just beginnings. Your life is all possibility. Glowing yellow with it. On fire. And that isn’t anything to be afraid of. You are magic sometimes. You draw people in, you find your way. You are always loved and cared for, even when it might not seem so clear.

Until then, it’s just getting though to that day. To the worth it day. To the thank god this happened day. Just fill up those days in between. Make art. Learn music. Sing. Write. Move. Work. Participate. Be fearless. Be yourself. Tie this year up in a box and put it on a shelf. One day, put a bow on it. Know that this made you better. Stronger. Smarter. Growth is always painful. Always. Know that you took all you could from this year. Lots of lessons learned. Lots of looks into who you really are. Would you trade them, even now? Haven’t you already come far enough to not trade your now for what you had?

I thought so.

You learned that early on. You knew that this was better than it was, even when this was as bad as it could be. That’s why you’re going to be ok. Because you are smart like that. Because you figured it out when you were just out of the gate. Because you know that you are pure potential. The wind at your back. And the best part of that is, you realized that before there was anything else. No other job. No boy. It was just you knowing that you were made for better. That’s a gift.

So buck up little melancholy ball. It’s gonna be a-ok. Come and get breakfast with us. Come get some sun. Some fresh air. Maybe you’ll even smile a little. Laugh once or twice. Feel hopeful.

I promise, the sun is coming. I see it peeking though the clouds.

come on down!

2005-02-12T09:00:00.000-08:00

I’m going to Seattle!!

Aaaaaaah!

I made it through round three! It was a piece of cake! My would-be boss LOVES ME. He said my answers were “eloquent” and “intelligent” and “well-thought out!” He mixed in a few “we must think alike”s and “I completely agree with your approach to that”s. He laughed at my jokes. I laughed at his jokes. He ended by saying: wanna come to Seattle? And I ended by saying: HECK YES!

I leave on Thursday!

Today’s theme song: Daybreak by the one and only Barry Manilow!

What Barry Manilow fans are called: Fanilows!

Am I one: YOU BET!

I watched movies and ate pizza with P (pee!) last night! It was a night of high-flying karate kicks and hilarity. Feeling the need for a movie about girls who KICK ASS, I netflixed Buffy The Vampire Slayer, The Movie. HI-YA! Take that creepy looking and bad toothed vampires! Oh yeah, and then lemme finish you off with this sharpened fret board to the heart! Kick! Kick! Stab! Then it was on to Anchorman, quite possibly one of the funniest movies EVER MADE. “I just pooped a Cornish game hen.” Seriously, if you didn’t just laugh when you read that, you should check your pulse! Pooping + Cornish game hens = Comic genius! It’s true!

There are more than a few deals swirling around to sell the store. THANK GOD. Apparently, nearly free coffee shops are in high demand! Closing the store for the swank job would create a whole new pile o’ problems to sort out. It would probably involve court dates and public floggings and running around like a headless chicken and the actual invention of taffy for anxious girls, if just for my own use. I feel like my life is a high stakes game of Plinko where I’ve simultaneously let go of all my plastic discs and am watching, with baited breath, to see which ones land where. So far, it’s looking good. So far, Bob Barker hasn’t rested his hand on my ass. So far, my name tag is still sticking to my t-shirt.

Plink. Plink. Plunk. Plop. Petunia pansy painting pwa pwa pwa. Pick me, pick me! Plip plastered punk rock. Penguin paradigm. Pair of dimes! Postulate posture stand up straight. Personality crisis criss cross. Point part purl pester plain partner. “Prima ballerina on a spring afternoon.” Porcupine possum pond, frogs jumping in. Pressue pulse pupils. Deep breath, deep breath. Pleased.

illustration friday : year of the rooster

2005-02-10T16:48:00.000-08:00

Here is my promised cock… ah … I mean ROOSTER for y’all this week. I made it out of origami paper and glue. Then my friend J and I engaged in a haiku duel! Topic: roosters!

J’s

beady eyes squint in
serpent skin under brighter plumage
the lingual phallus

Mine

grandma’s house, quiet
sound bursts in through open window
rooster alarm clock

Wanna see more cock?

(It'll stop being funny soon - I promise!)

720 minutes

2005-02-10T07:19:00.000-08:00

Wow. Dang. Yeah. Another long day at the office. These 12 hour days are so 12 hour. It’s kinda like taking a road trip every day but without the scenery and bag of FunYuns. Although I could watch DVDs on the iBook and eat a whole bag of FunYuns every single day but that might just be too confusing given the fact that as 6pm rolled around I’d still be only a half block from home. Instead I spend the day writing, emailing and talking on the phone. Sometimes I’ll toss in something weird like jumping on the couch or seeing how long I can hold my breath - - you know - - to break up the day. But in the end, it’s still 12 hours and 12 hours of anything gets kinda boring after a while.

Enter Illustration Friday! My latest attempt at spicing up the long long days. I’m working on my rooster themed artistic escape for my Friday post. I won’t say much, but I will say this: it involves origami paper and glue and, well, a rooster. Cock-a-doodle-doo!

How long I jumped on the couch: the whole time I talked to P.

How long I held my breath: 58 seconds.

I was asked by my would-be boss to answer, essay style, 10 questions about the would-be job. I half expected there to be a wee college blue book in tow but there was not! I pounded out as smart of answers as I could muster and sent them along. We have the much anticipated part 3 of 4 this afternoon. In my true cart/horse style I have an application for a way cool Seattle (C@L!) apartment in my e-mail inbox. It’s on Capitol Hill. It’s pale blue and butter colored. Lots of windows! Claw foot tub. French doors. You can walk to lots of neat things! The absolute best part though – cats are a-ok!

I got a present! Janey drew me a picture! Look here!

What I think of presents: they ROCK!

I had a funny little conversation with P the other day about Nessie (The Loch Ness Monster! Our peaceful underwater ally!) and what would be in her pouch if she were a marsupial. I said grilled cheese. He said Ron Popeil’s Pocket Fisherman and pointed out how damp the grilled cheese would be. Good point, I thought! So that lead to Zip-Loc bags and picnic blankets and generators and extension chords and diving bells. In the end, he solved all my soggy concerns with the idea of a magic air bubble that would surround her at lunch time and keep the grilled cheese toasty and dry. Genius! Now on to the problem of Nessie not really having arms. No arms! No pouch to mouth delivery! No good!

Where else you might stumble across the phrase “pouch to mouth”: kangaroo porn.

On that note…

pretty like this

2005-02-08T08:37:00.000-08:00

I’m about half way to C@L!

I had phone interview numer-oh two-oh last night! It went well! Things such as moving companies and reimbursement checks and start dates were discussed. There was laughing and agreement and sentiments such as “we’d be lucky to have you” tossed about freely. My new office is red wine colored (I’ve been in it before!) and I’ve already decided that I’ll fill it with pink art and glitter paintings! I’ll figure out how to work a Ramones t-shirt into my 9-5 clothes without getting yelled at. Same goes with these gloshes. I’ll dazzle them with my ideas and Minneapolis-free smile. I’ll buy a really really fucking cool umbrella.

A conversation snippet:

Me: I probably shouldn’t talk about things like this, lest I jinx it!
A: There is no such thing as jinxing.
Me: Cool!

I have again decided that music is the best thing since fluffernutter or elm trees or sugar-free gum or something like that. My good friend P (pee!) made me a few CDs of happy glam rock meets punk rock meets Pat Benetar music to help groove away my long long days at the coffee shop and they continue to make me smile with each repeat. I’ve been spotted singing along and rhythmically wiggling. WIGGLING. Heck yes! Thanks, P!

You know who else deserves a thanks on this here little piece of information superhighway real estate? Lots of people! My friend Jo. She took me shopping and scolded me until we’d found an outfit that was professional enough to land the swank job. My friend :I: is also deserving of thanks. She’s kinda like my mom! OH, and since I’m talking about moms, I should thank my actual mom, too. She’s been way nice and supportive. My new friend D. She chats with me and makes me laugh and posts way nice comments for me here. J, too. He’s the king of the smile inducing comment! My other friend J. He’s my hero! He can cheer me up in a single bound. :A:, too. Her kind looks and abundance of wit have worked wonders on my mood and spirit. A new person, S, she is nice, understanding and ready to defend my honor at a moments notice. All the customers and friends and people I’ve worked with who are pitching in to help sort this mess out. C and H, too. They are awesome, fun, funny girls with a knack for putting things into perspective. All the people who read this pollyblog, too. It makes me happy to see that 50 or so people read me each day! Brightens my spirits. Makes me feel proud. I’ve really been showered in kindness. I’m a lucky girl! Thank you, everyone. Let’s hug!

hold your breath, make a wish, count to three

2005-02-07T06:36:00.000-08:00

One of the things to which I thought I could not speak has been cleared for speaking! Which is good because not much else has been on my mind as of late other than THIS VERY THING! It’s exciting! It’s ginormous! It’s earth shattering! It’s… well, it’s not THAT amazing, but it’s almost that amazing. It’s a job interview! For a really great job. It would pay a TON. It would whisk me away. It would solve lots of this mess and have a way good chance of helping me find happy again. It’s in Seattle. It’s at a newspaper. I’d have an office and a staff and a boss and a career again. I’d have a new place to live and new people to meet and a clean slate. I’d have ocean views and open air markets and space needles and mountains. Mostly though, I’d just have the chance to be me there. Happy me.

Wowsers!

I should know by next weekend. Cross your fingers. Your toes. Braid your hair. Throw salt over your shoulder. Kiss a frog. You know the drill! I need all the help I can get!

How I want to spell Seattle: C@L

Guess who just happens to live in C@L: Isaac Brock! HECK YES. All the Modest Mouse you can see for the low low price of $8.95!

In prep for the trip there for the final interview and GOD WILLING the job offer, I went shopping with a friend to find an outfit that would be fitting of the SAVE MY ASS salary and swank corner office - - found one! It’s pin stripe pants and black jackets with white piping and hot pink shirts. It’s high heels and pig tails and enough of me where I can smile in it. Girls, listen up, if you didn’t already know this, what I’m about to say could change your life: pinstripes are WAY flattering. Seriously, we should start a movement were pinstripes are on EVERYTHING. Jammies. Sweatpants. Blue jeans. They’re magic I tell you, magic.

AND I may need that special magic given the sad fact that anxiety is the one emotion that still makes me seek out things like cheese puffs and junior mints and tootsie rolls. I’m officially anxious about this job and the thousand other things swirling around me. It has to do with nervous energy. Fidgeting. Being unable to sit still. Chewing is apparently a way to keep busy! This led to some ideas. The “best” of which being really really hard taffy that would take hours to eat. D and I thought we’d call it “Taffy To Gnaw On For Anxious Girls” or TTGOFA for short! It would come in all sorts of flavors. Strawberry. Banana. Spring Roll. Chocolate milk. Nacho cheese. One wee piece would keep your mouth busy for about an hour. Added bonus: Dentists would also probably really like TTGOFA given it’s filling removal possibilities. So as you can see, it’s really win win for everyone. Us for selling it. Girls for munching on it. Dentists for repairing the damage. Ahhh, synchronicity!

Driver’s License Weight Goal Update: half a pound away! HECK YES.

How I will most likely celebrate reaching the above goal: going out to dinner! That makes sense in the same way skim mochas with whip cream make sense. Which is to say it makes very little sense at all.

Here is my new favorite thing: Illustration Friday. Thanks to :A: for showing it to me! Armed with my digital camera, a shoebox full of markers and 12 hour days at a coffee shop I just might be a force to be reckoned with by next Friday!

it's all in the eyes

2005-02-04T06:05:00.000-08:00

Today is the day where things happen. Big things. Things that I can’t get into just yet for reasons of superstition and street smarts. Things that if typed in here right now would send me in search of something made out of wood on which to knock. So it’s best I keep my trap shut and let these possibilities decide if they are gonna hook up with me for a while or drift on by and let the next set work their magic. Possibilities are like buses that way. There is always another one coming.

I am now 2.5 pounds away from my goal of weighing less than my driver’s license says I do. I have never weighed LESS than my driver’s license says. Never! From 16 on, I have always weighted more. LOTS more. For instance, I had to lose 70 pounds to reach this little goal. YEAH. Stop laughing! I actually thought people wouldn’t notice! I should go renew it today and drop another 70 pounds on plastic. I’d be nearly see though then! Awesome!

Is that really awesome: no.

Wouldn't it be cool if what you wrote on your driver’s license for height, weight, hair and eye color came true: HECK YES. I’d like purple eyes, please!

Bananas!

I often wish we lived in a world that was a little more James T. Kirk than it is. I would very much like a computer friend who was all knowing concerning my activities and body functions. It would log even the smallest of tasks in huge databases that were instantly cross-refresenceable and provide answers to many of my most pressing questions with out batting a diode.

“Computer, how many waffles have I eaten in my lifetime?”

“422.”

See!?! Hours of fun!

“Computer, how much time have I wasted looking for scissors in the past year?”

“3 hours”

DANG!

“Computer, how many times have I misspelled the word “museum?”

“Everytime you’ve written it, or 1,435 times.”

Yikes!

Fuck! I’m yawning! And I got 8 more hours to go! Wish me luck! Send me emails! Keep me busy! It’s gonna be a long long day!

first the "a" and then the "b"

2005-02-03T06:13:00.000-08:00

I spill out ordered alphabet components, stream of consciousness like, when I can’t think of anything to write. When that first word won’t come. Or sometimes when there is just too much to get out and I don’t know where to start. Tongue tied. Hands in lap. Staring at a blank page. That was yesterday’s post. I just let my head go for a few minutes and watch what happens. It’s almost like a game. It is a game. It was in my writing book. My writing book. The only proof that I take this seriously. The only hint that my secret daydream is this, is writing. “Apple orchard angst” was my favorite phrase found in the pile yesterday. I like how it sounds said aloud. I like that it has a rhythm. I like that it makes me think of secret sects of teenagers creeping around scented apple orchards on crisp fall nights.

The only kind of apple I like: honey crisp.

Is it crisp? Indeed!

Does it taste honey-like? Not so much.

The 12 hour days suck! They’re not hard in the way a 12 hour day polishing tubas would be hard, they are hard in the bored, stuck and feeling lonely kind of way. My friends are being really supportive and nice and all that good stuff. Lots of phone calls. Lots of emails. Chatting on line. Stopping by for lunch. It breaks up the days. I’m still tired and brain dead and prone to the occasional teary eyed bought though. It’s no fun being left with something. Especially this something. But I’ll figure it out somehow. I’m doing what I can. Amazingly enough, things seem to be falling into place a little. Or maybe that’s not amazing at all. Maybe that’s just what happens when you start looking out for yourself.

WHO KNEW?

Oh wait, yeah, I knew.

I saw a pangolin for the first time the other day. That’s it up there. Today’s foto! It looks like a cartoon. I want one as a pet! You think you are all smart and have your animals down from like 3rd grade on and then you see something like that and are reminded that you maybe know 10% of the animal kingdom by sight, much less are able to make the accompanying noise. I have no idea what a pangolin sounds like, but I’m guessing it’s something like “gruwp gruwp.” I imagine they like to wear hats with ear flaps and eat pancakes for breakfast on Mondays.

Right now, someone is eating pancakes while wearing a hat with ear flaps.

Right now, a pangolin is putting together a bookshelf from IKEA.

Right now, I better sign off before this turns into a Van Halen song!

mash mush mope mango mwa mwa mwa

2005-02-02T07:12:00.000-08:00

Traffic. Music. On a date to church. Still listening to the Replacements. Again with the bar and the beer and the bass lines making my insides vibrate. Mail boxes and camel cigarette ads. Fences that look like licorice. Cars covered in the grey of winter roads. Newspaper boxes. Piles of snow, dirtied. Almost black. Exhaust. A yellow ribbon on the side of a red Jeep Cherokee. The shop keeper across the way bringing in the morning newspaper. Lines of cars waiting for the light to change so they can go to work or to home or to nowhere. Impatience. Horn honk. The last car in the line has it’s left blinker on. The first car now. Everything sparkles, covered in frozen dew. Like a sugar cookie. Like my hands after I made 6th Grade Saturday Night. Like a super ball. Tired. Yawning. My eyes feel dulled. Scraper marks on windshields. Skinny defrost lines on rear windows. The people in a hurry with just enough gone to see. Inside the heat blasting. Warming up the glass from the back. Waiting for the wiper blade to whoosh the melt away. Bus sides covered in ads for doctors and malls and ice cream. So hungry I can feel the cold hit my stomach. The walk sign switching from orange hand to white walking man and back again back again. No birds. No squirrels. No grass. Artificial tree branches poke up over the window sill. Their bright green shouting out over the grey of today. Of the winter. Of the year. Yellow school bus with it’s stop sign flush against it’s side. Penguins and rabbits and triangles and words written in cursive and more school buses. All go by. No one here except for me and this cd. Trying to sit up straight. Legs crossed. Can feel the skin tight around my jaw line. Can feel the curve of my back. My arms stretched out to meet the keyboard. No appetite. Jeans hang low on my hips. The building across the street looks like it could be made of crackers. They have a mustard and ketchup awning. Muster. Muenster. Monsters. Why can’t monsters get along with other monsters? Why is it that vegetables can’t talk but cats can float? Accordion buses. Accordian solos. Weird Al once sang me a song. Warewolf hair and black leather jackets. Broaches on long wool coats. Customers who ask for skim or decaf or half caf or no foam or whip cream or cream or want to know if the bakery is fresh. I think sometimes I should just go. But I stay because I am strong like that. Responsible like that. Don’t want to leave like that. Leaves. Orange and red and yellow leaves. Fall. Autumn. Atonal. Argyle. Apple orchard angst. Archived. Alleviated. Almost there. Almost there. Done.

again with the kittens

2005-02-01T11:01:00.000-08:00

I don’t feel so much like getting into it today. Some things are bad and sad and anything else that happens to rhyme with that. Other things are a little hopeful, brain kicking in, dusting off superhero suit kind of things. I’m just trying to take care of myself now. I wasn’t at all for months and months. I still don’t do it 100%, but I do it some. And a little more each day. I worry about other’s feelings, situations, messes too much. I want to fix everything all the time. I want to get to the happy. I’ll do the right thing in this mess. I’ll find the high road again. I’ll come out a-ok because that’s how I always come out. I’m stubborn like that. Determined like that. Hopeful like that.

My favorite part about getting through a huge mess: when something happens to make it all “worth it.”

What that thing has almost always been: a boy. FUCK!

What I want that thing to be this time: a kitten!

hurry, hurry, here comes my stop

2005-01-31T07:15:00.000-08:00

The Replacements are on. Bar band crack. It makes me want a beer. Makes me want to have my ears ring. Makes me want to smell like smoke and deep fried food. Makes me wish I was here and 21 during their Minneapolis heyday. Kiss Me On The Bus is playing. “Your tongue, your transfer, your hand, your answer.” I’ll kiss you, Paul. I’ll kiss you.

I glitter painted! Here are the results.

This one isn’t done yet – I have to get a marker to draw in some cute bunny faces! So until then, please pretend there are cute drawn in bunny faces where there are just empty circles in hoods right now!

Bunnies In Spaaaaaaaaace!, 2005, acrylic, glue, glitter and (coming soon) marker on itty bitty canvas board.

6th Grade Saturday Night, 2005, acrylic, glue and, of course, glitter!

That one is my new favorite. I have much pride inside me when I look upon it.

This one, however, kinda sucks!

Hummingbird, 2005, you know the drill.

Glitter paintings don't fotograph so good! SADNESS!

I figured out that to make the $20,000 we need to straighten out this mess, I need to make 1,333 glitter paintings – AND – I need to sell them ALL. Suuuuure. This’ll work. YET, I keep doing it so that I feel like I’m doing something.

SIGH!

And even though I just said I don't think it will work, a part of me thinks it WILL work!

Have I gone MAD?

Maybe Marlo Thomas or Isaac Brock will offer to buy just one glitter painting for $20,000. The roller skate one, of course! Then I could get on the horn and call all the people we owe money to and gleefully inform them that the check is, indeed, in the mail and this time I’m not lying! I would cease walking and only skip from that day forward. I would be entrenched in perma-smile. I would spend the rest of the afternoon doing good deeds and rescuing kittens. It would be a fine fine day.

I talked to M’s sister last night. She is sad and disappointed in M. Doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what to say. Me neither. It’s such a mess. I’m so in the middle of it. It seems dream like. Disbelief. Doubt. Disdain. Disclaimers. Broken doors. Dirty dishes. Dank apple green rooms. Dust. Drunk. Disco. Don’t do this. Do that. Deaf. Distant. Dischord. Done. I throw my hands up.

What I just overheard some guy say: “you can’t tell the mouse.”

What I now think he does for a living: spy.

Before I heard him say that: mortgage consultant.

blop blop bloop

2005-01-29T08:20:00.000-08:00

my night

hazy day dreams go
with his coke bottle glasses
blushing, knees touch

fourteen year old me
handing him a gift I made
when I was thirty three

my head

Bee. Be. Bea. Bursting bubbles clear. See through nightingale, heart beating, blood pumping, see how it works. Window boxes, clothes lines. Running through rows of sheets hung out to dry. Tiny pink percale clusters of flowers floating in a white white sky. Did you ever look at me and know all this? When I was 5 and running by. What was inside. I feel the hands of you on my back. I feel the Thursday bruise on my arm. I feel the hangover of my today sliding through my body. There is glitter on those chairs now. It’ll be there forever. A sparkle. A fleck. A piece stuck to his cheek. His eyes were big behind his glasses. His smile wide. He liked my painting. Matches a rug. Matches a wall. Matches his corneas. More beer than I could drink. More than I could spend. Who has my ankles? Who has my wrists? Have I even struggled against this? I forget that I don’t see the world like everyone else. Specialness gives way to none until someone says they’ve never seen anyone eat a donut like me. Reminded! Poked! There is just this one me. Safe. Slop soothe sanctuary scream so far so good. Scolded. Sink swim swoosh by. Sunday best. Isn’t best at all. Hover horse hang hop hop hopped up on goofballs. "Wanna see me disco? Wanna see me DISC-GO!!" Tongue sticking out. Bright eyes. Breathtaking breathless breathe deep. In and out. In and out. Close my eyes and remember the dream of glittery moons passing by. In the end I know where I land. Trees tall thoughtful tink tink tinkerbell! Thumbelina size of a button. Toss taste topsy turvy. Thank you for the trick. Run. Ran. Romper room. Rancid rain water ring ring ring the telephone rings. Doorbell. Church bells. Hand me my baton. Twirling. Practice. Again and again. Hits the driveway with a metal clang. Bouncing on it’s white capped ends. Punk rock paper airplanes paper beats rock. Scissors beats paper. He always let me win. Playful he knew. He use to know. Crisscrossed over. Water. Bridge. Brigade. Bounce. Rebound. Reborn. Redo. Redone. Reverb. Resonate. Release.

so pretty

2005-01-28T08:10:00.000-08:00

Last night was greasy bar food and quiet weird instrumental music curtsey the Tin Hat Trio, who just happen to be four strong. I much enjoy band names such as theirs. The food stuffs were had at the Triple Rock. I opted for a plain old grilled cheese and no kidding, it was the best fucking grilled cheese I’ve ever had in my whole entire life! (Sorry, Mom!) They work magic there with the bread and the cheese!

After that, we headed up the street for the show. My day of adrenaline induced bruising and 12 hours of work left me thinking sleep would be a really really good idea about the same time as the opening band left the stage. Half way through the Tin Hat Trio my head was on A’s shoulder and I was dozing off to strange eerie violin notes scratched out softly by a girl who could have been me and a melody of guitar, clarinet and harp filling in the gaps. The best part of dozing off and maybe even the whole evening (better listen up, what I’m about to say beats out the grilled cheese!) were these dreamlike images of notes and floweres and confetti and streamers circling around me and lifting me up. I was floating along in a world that looked painted by Chagall. There were stars and thick smudges of paint that wouldn’t dry and glittery moons making everything pretty. I had a sleepy smile on my face and watched my dream unfold like it was a movie.

How I later characterized my grilled cheese sammich when asked: triple rockin’.

What the Cedar Riverside Cultural Center always smells like: curry.

If I think that’s a good or bad thing: can’t decide.

I think the earliest layer of dust has settled. The first of many things are sinking in. The funny thing is that it’s what I’ve known all along. I would say it to myself in my clearest moments and yell it out loud in my most unclear. This wasn’t really about M. It was about me not wanting to give up on big things. Not big things like houses and coffee shops, but big things like life being fair and people being good. So many of my more practical friends say that I just have to accept those as true.

Life. Isn’t. Fair.

All. People. Aren’t. Good.

I think I’m going to respectfully disagree. This is fair. Not that I deserved this hurt, but I deserved growth. And I’m getting it. Growth always kinda sucks. Learning is hard. Learning life stuff is really really hard. But you are always better for it. And M. He isn’t a bad person. I wasn’t wrong about the boy I thought he was. He is still him. All that good and unique is still in there. But his role in this was the catalyst. If it was for both of us or just me, only time will tell. I know that inspite of some of my choices, I’m getting off this roller coaster a better person than when I got on. That’s what this really is about, isn’t it? It’s not who gets the boy or who gets the girl. It’s who gets themselves. And since that really is only up to you, isn’t it fair?

Donut time!

downside up

2005-01-27T12:48:00.000-08:00

HOLY SHIT.

M and I just beat each other up. A low point to say the least. I started it. Things have been broken by me being thrown into them. M’s jacket is ripped. I kept holding onto his pocket. He was in a rage. Tossing me around, I kept holding on.

HOLY SHIT.

We have been dragged down by each other. We are no good right now. There is anger and hurt and rage flying all over. Hitting the walls. Sticking to the ceiling. I am embarrassed by my behavior. By his.

Apparently, this is my breaking point. My nerves are gone from the last 8 months of my choices. My common sense has been beaten down by my raging emotions. Us being trapped here together has done harm to each of us.

God willing we’ll both be ok. I don’t know much right now, but I know that this morning wasn’t us.

shaken

2005-01-26T15:22:00.000-08:00

I asked M to move out. He refused. SIGH. Said that as long as he was at the store, he wanted to live at the house.

So I said, you need to do better. He said he needed to go.

4 years comes down to this.

I feel kinda better. Surprisingly. Amazingly. Astonishingly. It’s nice to have things in my control. To not be subject to his whims anymore. To not have to see him crying and saying that he is afraid to loose me but then do things that make it impossible to not lose me. To not have to hear him say how little she meant to him and that this new him is really him and then watch the new him be no better. The confusion of all this has made me feel like I live in a snow globe. Just when the glitter starts to sink to the bottom and cover the little scene in it’s pretty -- the giant hand reaches for the glass and with a quick shake sends it all up into the sky again. It’s not the snow globe that needs to go, it’s the giant hand.

What I’m wondering right now: could I get away with wearing roller skates ALL THE TIME like Tootie?

With all the whirlwind cyclone upside down trouble that surrounds us, I don’t trust these decisions. What I think is right for me changes with the clock. I don’t trust he knows what he wants. I don’t trust that I do. He doesn’t trust that he knows what he wants either. He surely doesn’t trust that I do. Again, Isaac Brock can sum it all up and put a bow on it: “I’ve changed my mind so much I can’t even trust it. My mind’s changed me so much I can’t even trust myself.” That’s from a Modest Mouse song called Talking Shit About a Pretty Sunset. I love it when what you hear can help you see.

What I know right now: I feel a weight has been lifted. About 160 pounds.

My brand spankin’ new friend P is coming to my rescue! He has kindly agreed to make the Crafting Out Of Debt website. THANK GOD. I possess no website skillz. No form making skilz. No setting up a Paypal store skilz. But he gots all those and more too boot! So, let’s hear it for P! Three cheers to you, my friend! I owe you a beer or 200!

What kind of beer P drinks: Summit.

What kind I do: Newcastle.

Wow. On ward. Buck up. Brilliant. Boing boing. Boy. Beats me. Bus stops. Bang boip. Brummel bristle. Back away.

Hey, everyone, can we take a collective deep breath and hope that my evil plan of crafting out of debt works. Hope that I can run the store alone. Hope that handing over my lemons to the kindness of strangers will result in a tall refreshing glass of lemonade. Hope that in the end, the good guy wins. Hope that in the end, I’m the good guy.

lifetime money back guarantee

2005-01-25T09:07:00.001-08:00

Today, I’m asking M to move out.

SIGH. Or UG.

It’s been another drama drenched week.

It’s his usual modus operendi. He’s confused, he says. Doesn’t know what he wants, he says. Covers me in the maybe of us, then does the same to her. Then says he wants to move to Chicago and be alone for a while. The back and forth, up and down, in and out of this has changed me. I’ll suddenly and sometimes realize that this isn’t me at all. I’m not a yeller. I’m not insecure. Or mean. I know this isn’t worth losing myself in. Things have to change so I can preserve what’s left of me in a nice little Tupperware container. A pale green one. Hey, if you listen real hard this afternoon, you just might be able to hear the burp.

The crafting out of debt continues. Forward ho! I finished two glitter paintings last night and they turned out way cool. Need proof? Feast your eyeballs on these babies:

Twiggy, 2005, Acrylic and glue and glitter on wee canvas board.

My 3rd Grade Feet, 2005, made from the same stuff as the other one.

I want to make one of aliens. And roller skates. Maybe aliens on roller skates!

:A: went to a bird conference this past week and there was a man who kidnapped penguins. Did you catch that - - he KIDNAPS PENGUINS! Something about blindfolding them and placing ‘em 200 meters away from their nests – then watching to see if they can find their way back. They can! But it takes a while. Cute! Next time you’re feeling blue try imagining a disoriented penguin who has just been kidnapped. That should cheer you up.

What I’m thinking about right now: a disoriented penguin who has just been kidnapped!

much much burp slurp! me no hurt you little girl.

2005-01-23T08:00:00.000-08:00

I had never thunk myself as a girl in search of attention. I would have checked off the “wall-flower” box without much thought, but all of a sudden I want this read. Yes. This right here. My pollyblog. Read by people. Real live people! So I emailed my friend who has patented Advertising Access and told her to go ahead and advertise this little puppy and she said ok. It was that simple. Done. Fini. 10-4, good buddy.

In preparation for The Advertising, I’ve gone through and reread almost of all I’ve wrote. Changed a few things. Hid others away for rainy days or posterity or maybe never to be seen again. There are lengthy posts that I have no recollection of writing. There are crazy rants and goo drentched paragraphs of angst and woe is me. I’m not proud of it all. Some things kinda make me cringe but are still living on the information super highway for all to see. I guess they serve to make this real.. or realer. Like watching a dissection. My insides laid out for anyone who wants a peek.

What I have to restrain myself from writing every time I pen the word PEEK: a-boo!

Last time I played peek-a-boo: Thursday.

I went to a fondue party. I had never fondued before! It started out innocently enough. An asparagus spear here, a chunk of bread there and before you know it I seriously think I consumed a POUND OF CHEESE. No good! It really sneaks up on you. I think I’ll invent a pedometer type device (a fonduometer!) to attach to the pokey fondue forks that will tally the number of times it’s dipped into the cheese. Sure to make your jaw drop at the end of the evening! I wonder what else you could stick to the poker and dip into stuff. Donut holes into coffee. Cock doggies into warmed ketchup. Lima beans into peanut butter. Fun size Snickers into bubbling tarter sauce. The possibilities are endless!

I can’t really hold a grudge. So while I should be hopping mad at M again, I’m just sorta whatever about it all. Apparently, I can’t deny a teary eyed boy a hug! I’m a sucker for trying to get to the smooooove. To the no stress. To the calm. To the smile. It’s my whole heart thing messing with me again. You know, the fact that I have one. Ha! Insert rim shot here, please.

Watched Freaks and Geeks last night. What a great show! They somehow figured out how to do the whole “feel-good” thing without throwing in a buncha sappy. There were dance scenes that made my stomach all googly with vivid memories of my own high school dances and first kisses and parties gone out of control when my parents were asleep upstairs. I think I woulda been more of a freak than a geek. Teen aged Wisconsin punk rock girl. Messy hair, punk t-shirts, tattered old cardigans, hand stamps from shows. I had band stickers all over my notebooks and published a fanzine called Scream with my friends. The only fanzine put out by girls in the whole city! GIRL POWER! I almost cried when I got to meet Ian McKay. I cut class and lied to my parents. Listened to poppy punk rock beats at top volume in my headphones. Never missed a show. Was kinda afraid of the Misfits. I remember taking the long way around to the door so I could avoid Glen Danzig, completely convinced that he’d eat me if I got too close. That seems like a whole lifetime ago.

I’ll end this with the wee little thought that’s been running through my head the entire time I’ve been typing away about fondue and big hearts and punk rock: I met a boy.

i heart lowered expectations!

2005-01-19T05:00:00.000-08:00

I'm going to learn how to play the guitar. It's a critical piece of my most recent self-actualization day dream. In it, I sing somewhat out of tune versions of indie/punk rock favorites in front of real live people. Songs like The Sweater Song and Get The Time. People like real ones, possibly armed with rotting fruit. OH, and I'm wearing gloshes. And :A: is backing me up on the accordion. And I look really cute and stuff. HECK YES. That is a formula for success! Or SUCKsess! We'll see!

I love to sing. I sing ALL THE TIME. Mostly in my head. Apparently, I'm a wee bit tone deaf. But that's nothing some hard work and lowered expectations can't cure! I figure if I sing breathy enough no one will notice. Or maybe I could have Ashlee Simpson lay down a backing track for me.

I'm going to give myself a year to realize this dream. I gots myself a good teacher and that's like half the battle or something! I'll start drinking tea like Madonna. You know, for my voice. I'll do exercises to improve my diaphragm. The organ one, sillies! And most especially, I'll work on building up finger calluses so I can properly hold down the power chords !!! January 2006, open mic night at the Chatterbox Pub, baby. Prepare to be DAZZLED. *jazz hands*

rockin' in the free world

2005-01-17T06:35:00.000-08:00

Back to work, and I’m not even itching to kill anyone! Thanks, Day Off!

I went to see M’s two band’s play their little hearts out on Saturday night at the way cool musician’s co-op. I was assigned the task of “Door Girl” which means I got to touch everyone who was there at least once. The hand stamp said PICK UP on it, like you were mail. Last time I was there the stamp was a pair of kissy lips. We stamped the lips on our hand faces (you know, the Mr. Bill hand faces…) and proceeded to make out with each other and feed them beer drinks all night.

I was way impressed with M’s bands, as always, but kinda more so this time around. Something about M looking so at home on stage, something about how his hands move so fast they are blurs, something about their music being really really good, something about where we were, too. I use to play violin, I like to sing, but I’m not a musician by any stretch of the imagination. But there, I was surrounded by musicians, people who were pretty skilled in their own right and in bands that didn’t suck and they were all in AWE of M’s bands, especially his baby. I over heard dozens of praise-filled comments on their level of musicianship and music ADD sound. It’s gotta feel pretty dang good to be praised so enthusiastically by your music-nerd friends. Good for him! He deserves it. It’s been a long road to there.

OH the other thing that impressed me – they didn’t go on until after 1am and the place was PACKED still. AMAZING. Usually the last band plays to a third of the crowd, if they’re lucky. They gots the sticking around power!

The co-op is BYOB, which apparently stands for "Get Drunk - Real Cheap!" in some other language – and OH - that’s what I did. I did whisky shots. I had lots of beer drinks. I was having to think real hard when people born in the 80s handed over their IDs. Don’t drink and do math, kids! It leads to no good.

Sunday morning was cartoons and pancakes just like I had wished for. Dreams really do come true! I guess the key to that is to start wishing for things like pancakes and cartoons. Mental note! No more world peace crap – I wish for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch! Hand it over!

The only plan I had the whole Sunday was attending the Women’s Expo with M and his sister, L. You know, cuz I’m a woman and all. Roar. I have never before been in a place so drenched in estrogen! We mostly waited in line for free things and each left with two fully stuffed shopping bags. Good people watching and more free samples of food stuffs then you could shake a stick at. You don’t believe me? We started keeping a list of all we ate – you’ll be in AWE! What’s even more impressive is that there was plenty we DIDN’T eat. Read on!

Things consumed at the Minneapolis Women’s Expo:
1 and a half nacho chips
Ice cream
FUZE green tea beverage
Pre-spooned spoonful of key lime pie
Roasted corn thingies
Nacho cheese protein chips
Brownie
Ritz cracker with soynut butter on it
Potato soup
Uncrustable grilled cheese (fucking DELICIOUS!)
Jam on a cracker
Diet Pepsi
RADIANT soda beverage
2 small pickles
Zesty ranch rice cake crackers
Bite of a oatmeal raisin Kashi bar
Honey glazed carrots
Taco pizza slice, wee
V-8 Splash smoothie
Apple chips
Turkey pepperoni
Banana
Pear wedge
Cookie
Jelly donut, tiny

No wonder we skipped dinner! SHIT!

The weekend ending watching Desperate Housewives under blankets in the blue light of the tv. Perfection!

I’m all happy inside and stuff.

more than this

meet me over there

if i kiss you where it's sore

suppose i never ever let you

i got lost in the sounds

a thousand words

i'm blinking off and on and off again

sing me the alphabet

that dress looks nice on you

i don't laugh like a french man

with a side of punk rock

someday somebody's gonna ask you

15 minutes

hope you get to be happy sometimes

tiny things are always pretty

never ending math equation

spring forward, fall back down

everything smells like pink

we have a whole life to live together you fucker,but it can't start until you call

say cheese

secret superhero surprise

take a picture

spring is white and fluffy

learning to name things

pretty on the blue

look at what you did

rescue

pull the ripcord

fly away

i held it best i could

and we held hands like this

granny smith

it's fun like cotton candy

fearless

sugar

pretty like a plastic bag

i'm gonna tell it like a come back story

i have to concentrate when we kiss

do you want it like boy meets girl and the rest is history or do you want it like a murder mystery?

wash it in baby blue

say cheese

girltee

oh to be thirty-three forever

letting the curtains turn to beating wings

oh, brainy! harder! harder!

hold out your hands like this

thinking himself sour

first year, paper

folding a paper bird

tweet

hold me steady

superhero banana

put me in, coach!

and we'll all float on o.k.

the kiss

get real drunk and ride our bikes

body like soft serve

her parents named her halleluiah

wait a minute mister postman

summer in slow motion

clover, for now

talking shit about a pretty sunset

hold still and smile

you were all over town but still so crayola brown

the more lost you are, the more you have to look forward to

better to help people than garden gnomes

can you even dye my eyes to match my gown?

buffalo girl

my baby does the hanky panky

pinch me, pinch me harder

howsomeever

ffoo!

so much time and so little to do. wait a minute. strike that. reverse it.

are you sitting down?

i like cream cheese, that's something

woo hoo woo hoo hoo! oh yeah!

boing! boing!

hanging on the telephone

i just happened to be nowhere near your neighborhood

you're like new york city