15 minutes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.