TXMas 2010

"It you're real good, mind your momma, eat your vegetables and go to church on Sunday, when you die you will go to TEXAS".

That was printed on an old vintage t-shirt in a small little shop in S. Congress that I stumbled into with my friends on a recent visit down south. I gotta agree. Between the "ghetto quiles" with hash browns instead of tortillas-and the amazing tacos from Taco Deli, from the brisket bbq to the 82deg. 2am beer drinking on the back porch, Texas was pretty heavenly.

With only 3 and a half days to eat, drink, and take in the heat, I soaked in cicadas and dove chirping and cooing to the tune of 362 lost nights spent in Seattle: bundled inside drinking hot tea trying to make the most of a 5odeg. rainy evening. The spices, citrus, salsas and scents permeate more than the food, engaging you in a way you forgot possible when it takes 5***** star curry to wake you from your coffee/gray day comma.

The heat! You sweat and your muscles finally relax, beer and sweet tea is MANDATORY since you have to stay hydrated after all. I found myself going into shock as the tension literally melted away walking from the pools at McKinney Falls to the car-my shoulders, jaw, back finally let go of all the cold, work and pressure that crushes down on you when you live, as any Seattlite does, on the inside of a ping pong ball.

All this said, when I stop craving TexMex, brisket, and potato salad, I will feel really fortunate that good Thai food and great Sushi is around the corner. That a fantastic cup of coffee can be carried into one of a dozen used bookstores brimming with finds-fiction and non. That I don't need air conditioning in the music venue hosting the Fruit Bats that the night before carried Peaches on their stage and at one time or another has been graced by so many of the amazing musicians that come straight out of Seattle's heart. That Seattle has one, maybe not as big as Austin, but then again, everything is bigger in Texas-but we can visit and that about makes the 362 days just about bearable for this Seattlelite.

The MEN

A few months back, Esquire published an amazing article called "the Women I Know". A list of all the women in the Author's life. Well, damn straight. It is good to reflect on the opposite sex's role in your life. Here's my list of MEN.

Rick. My dad and a caveman. Andy. true genius. Matt. computer-lover, slightly depraved. Jerry. lamp builder, dreamer. Mark. always a great source for stories or true heartfelt conversations over brunch. Onur. the love of my life, best friend, savior, and lots else. Matt. brother and knows the difference between Tatooine and Hoth, and taught me what it was. Damir. Troubled and sweet, a real jokester. Scott. Stronger than he knows, always aware of when a girl needs a bit of bubbly. Tyson. nobody loves Tom Hanks like we do. Tim. Tres bien my own Bill Murray. Clem. About 104 years old, and still comes to every party thrown at the shop. Alex. The only artist that I know that will one day make millions. Don. Grandfather, the one who taught me how to splice electrical cords. Ryan. friend, over beers or coffee, the only hedonist I know. Brian. band sensation and bar tending colleague. Jay. funnier, sweeter, & smarter than I thought. Furkan. so in his head that sometimes he misses out on some pretty great stuff. Ted. pretty impressive entrepreneur, and I hear, tennis player. Deniz. a man to have on your team. Cody. Brief but a kick. Doug. gives the best advice. Jason. takes care of Doug as much as he knows how. Ryan. Amazing photographer, possibly better with food. Rob. loves Emily. David. Makes pretty things, and takes ladies along for the ride on silly fun nights. Eric. my favorite neighbor of all time. Ian. can't get it together. Kyler. summer of 2009, sketching in our notebooks and laying in the sun. Frank. model and super sweet man. Casey. Ended up exactly where he should. George. Favorite barista, your move to Hawaii is a bummer for us all. Nick. Had a baby. Tom. a hoot and my Southern Belle. Jim. the only Uncle I give a damn about. Dan. a lazy sleaze-ball. Ron. owner of the Big House and friend to all dogs. Spencer. Sarcastic and too cool for me, but it makes me want to be his friend even worse. Phillip. a flirt. Tyson. my kindergarten crush. Honest Jon. my tattoo artist. Matt. the husband of my Sister.

And yet, I'm single. Go figure.

For Good Reason

Here is a list, a list of some things I know to be good, real, worthy, and interesting. I post this list because I feel lately-maybe it's the weather, maybe it's the city-whatever it is, is distracting us, ME, from these things. The things that matter.

1. work ethic. Not trying to be Capitalist here, just that when you are sad, down, out or distant-working, and working HARD will get you to pass through that time with dignity.

2. friends. The true ones. The ones that you have sat on curbs for, waiting to make sure they get home ok. The ones you can rant and rave to and the next day they forget about it. The ones that don't offer advice beyond: so, another beer? The ones that make you laugh so hard you think about it later and giggle.

3. the outdoors. Being in the trees, on the beach, in the desert- it is a reset. It calms you. It can cure you if you let it. Just go and be quiet in it. Don't hike, ski, paddle, drive. Don't bring anyone. Especially your cell phone.

4. green food. Asparagus, spicy green beans, barley green pot-stickers from Shanghai Gardens, guacamole, split pea soup. Trust me.

5. Manners. Basic table manners, social graces including introducing one person to another, poise in public settings. They are there not for others, but for YOU. They make you look good, sure, but they also give you POWER.

Here is one more list: a list of what happens when you don't value these things.

1. Work ethic. No work ethic makes you LAZY. You aren't really hurting anything, but you aren't doing anything either. You show up, but you aren't present. If you want to surprise yourself, it won't happen watching hulu.

2. Friends. Don't ditch them for new boyfriends or girlfriends. Don't make them last on your list. It isn't the down times you want to be able to call them up for-it's the victory drinks you want them to share with you. Ditch them now-don't expect them to cheers with you over a pitcher later.

3. Outdoors. Noise, movement, time lines, deadlines, twitter, facebook, email- trust me. They will be there when you come back from your afternoon in the Oregon rainforest. And people will still be posting that they are "going to the grocery store for a frozen chicken pot pie" or that their cat just swallowed a marble.

4. Green food. Yellow foods: pasta, cheese, chips, the list goes on if you get my drift. What I'm saying here is, once in a while, your mom was right, green foods do what green foods are supposed to- make you smarter, more vibrant, they make your skin nicer, sure they may make your pee smell weird, but why are you smelling your pee? Flush, wash hands and move on. P.S. They do great things for endurance and the libido. Just a thought.

5. Manners. ALL YOU SEATTLITES who think you can go to the ballet in your NorthFace jackets and Crocs, YOU MAKE ME SICK! Think how long those ballerinas spent forming their bodies into perfect instruments for your viewing pleasure and you can't even put on a real pair of shoes?!? Also, the next time someone doesn't hold a door for the person right behind them-I hope you slip on the wet mat outside and drop all your grocery bags- unveiling to the world that you buy 24oz cans of BudLight, are stocking up on athlete's foot lotion, and that you read Dianne Steele novels.

CasiNO?

I have a confession. I make snap decisions. I am a bit judgmental and at times quick to disregard people, places, items of clothing... completely out of hand. That said, I can usually be won over and then experience the unexpected delight of enjoying something or someone I never thought I would.
What am I referring to here? The casino.

I HATE CASINOS! They are filthy, aesthetically void, full of zombies pulling levers and staring at flashing lights in the hope that their pathetic lives will be changed-all with not having to get up off their #$%es! It's dark for a reason, the place smells like cigarettes smoked in 1994. The food-well I wouldn't know since I was too scared to order any. The drinks are uncultivated-just like all the people there. The clothes-the CLOTHES! Are pathetically ragged, dirty, or otherwise black leather fringe-covered. I could go on, and you know it.

Until yesterday I had never stepped foot in a casino. Never cared to. Never been to Vegas, never cared to. I'm Woody Allen-not Heidi Montag. All that said, 30 minutes at the craps table with my best friend was enough to convince me that though it is disgusting and you need serious hand-sanitizer, it's also kind of silly fun.

The rules: um...not all too sure but there is a lot of putting red, white or green plastic circles on a table with numbers on it, rolling dice REALLY hard at the back of a long table and hoping to God no one rolls a 7. Why was this fun? Because my best friend who is not a gambler and has maybe been to a casino 4-5 times was humming with excitement, giggling, laughing, smiling and otherwise totally into the whole experience. We had $100 to lose, and in 20minutes had made about $50. But in the end we lost the whole $100. Sad? Not really. Sure it's silly to throw a Benjamin out on a table and not have any return, but the return was on his face. In his eyes, so sparkly and smiling-we were kids! It was reckless, irresponsible, and down right white trash(believe me, if you knew where I grew up, you wouldn't doubt I know what it looks like), but it was about an hour and it got our hearts racing enough to make the Chinese food we ate half an hour later-not at the casino-feel less artery blocking.

The moral of the story; even the worst has an ounce of the best. You just have to stop judging long enough to see it.

...that said, I think that was enough casino-slumming it for a life-time. :)

Books iRead

Been reading a lot of books lately. Whenever I can. Whatever I can lay my hands on. For now- Debra Oliver's "What French Women Know" is envoi de romance that I need right now. "Water for Elephants" is a re-read that I dissolve in, and "Less than Crazy" is making me feel like maybe I am more than.
That said, when I see someone at a cafe, bookstore reading nook, or even a bus stop whiling away the time engrossed on their iPad, i can't help but shake my head and roll my eyes.

Here are the arguments I have heard for the iPad:
1. it has an app for everything! Star maps, directions, schedules, movie times, Gravlux where you use your finger on the screen to move "grains of sand" into interesting shapes-ok, that one was actually pretty fun for 45 seconds.
2. it is convenient. I don't know how much more convenient than apps and email and photos blah, blah, blah can get on your cell phone. But, ok, why not.

Here are the arguments for books:
1. they smell good, new or used.
2. you can inscribe the inside cover and give it to a loved one.
3. even sitting on your shelf it looks good.
4. it will never need an upgrade.
5. if you drop it in the tub it can be fixed with a hair dryer instead of having to drop another $500.

Believe me, I could go on. Even though books don't have apps for finding out the temperature in Bangladesh, they sure do work well on a beach right here.

Pretty but not THIN

I'm not perfect. Obviously. My name is neither Laetitia Casta or Jane Fonda circa 1973. But I will tell you this: do you find any imperfection with Monica Bellucci? Christina Hendricks? Salma Hayek? didn't think so. In fact, what all these women have in common is that they are glamorous, seductive, beautiful women with pretty impressive vital statistics! And what do I have in common with them? Certainly not an admirable film career, but within about an inch in or out, I have the same measurements as these amazing ladies.
Why then, can I ask you, when I was waiting in line for coffee at my local Cafe did I hear the two women behind me say, "well, she's pretty but she's not THIN". If I hadn't been so shocked at the outright hillarity of it all, I would have turned to say something like: "God, no I'm not. Also, my husband isn't cheating on ME".
WHAT KIND OF COMMENT IS THAT?!? I know very well I am not "thin"! In fact, I dress in clothes and heels that ACCENTUATE my very "unthin-ness"-(read as: hourglass with an extra half and hour.) I am not ashamed of it, do not hide it, make no excuse for what I think is a quite respectable, well proportioned, (fully functional might I add!!!), ladies body. My waist measures 24", the average American female measures between 31-35". My vitals are 35-24-41. Does that mean I have a booty? Hells yes. But that is why I look so cute in high waisted pencil skirts with nice broad belts. Being a size C cup is enough for me, keeps me from worrying about back pain and also, I can usually get away with wearing a pretty skimpy bikini at the beach.
All in all, I guess what I have to say is: cold, undersexed, grouchy women in cafes should probably keep their thin lips closed. It just makes you look skinnier when you talk that way.
For more info about how very un-thin I am, visit: Seattle Met Magazine http://www.seattlemet.com/style-and-shopping/articles/capitol-hill-home-stores-lit-dawn-bassett-0610/

While I am Here

Getting old. I always assumed that it would happen when I was 50, maybe 45 depending on my lifestyle choices. I am sad to say that as it turns out, it happens when you are 26 years, 10 months, and 3 days.

I found a white hair on my head- not gray, white. And in the same week noticed a small age spot on my face, about an inch below my right eye.

One white hair and one small spot seems pretty insignificant, but it simply points out that I am heading towards- though gradual- my end. Or so I first thought.

I started thinking about all I have done, seen, survived. Let me give you an abbreviated list:

1. being born. Horrifying.
2. growing up in a rural nightmare, devastatingly void of any art, culture, or inspiration.
3. surviving Jr. High
4. traveling through Spain, racing cars illegally for $, breakups, breakups, and more breakups.
5. married and divorced.
6. sold first painting for $3,500.00, decided I didn't want to be a painter.
7. attended 3 colleges and 1 university all without suffering the blemish of obtaining a bachelors degree.
8. moved to NY. Lived in NY. Wondered about the popularity of Dunkin donuts while in NY.
9. Worked for wretched people.
10. worked for one wonderful woman, who moved to Texas and who I miss everyday.
11. Started my own business. Didn't sleep for a year. Drank lots. Felt too happy and too scared all at the same time.
12. met a soul mate.
13. soul mate dumped me.
14. bought a pet dog who pees standing on his front two feet.
15. still here.

That said, if I live as old as my grandmothers are, I'm not even 1/3 of the way done. The good thing being, I have already gone through a lot of the rough stuff. When you live fast and hard when you are young, the benefit is you learn what works and what to avoid early on. It may have given me a white hair and a few scars, but those are cheap payment for the focus it gives the rest of your life. Which actually works out, because here is the short list of everything I still have to do:

1. open my shop in Paris on Rue St.-Honoré in the First Arrondissement
2. adopt a sibling pair (ages 3-7)from Turkey and teach them that cheese, popcorn and pickles is appropriate for dinner and to read comic books in the bath tub.
3. fall in love at least 3 more times
4. buy a Welsh Springer Spaniel for my other dog to converse with
5. write a book of poems and publish it under my first lover's name
6. have a place to hang a hammock

That's about it. I figure I can knock all that out in the next 50 or so years, even if it gives me 5 more white hairs and my skin is not so perfect, heck, it's a steal for a place to hang my hammock.

Getting Fresh with Myself

Just a small disclaimer- I do NOT work for Amazon. I do not have stock in Amazon. I don't really think about Amazon except for how much I love the fact that they renovated and took great care in maintaining the classic structure of the 1932 Art Deco styled U.S. Marine hospital. It is the prize of Beacon Hill!

Ahem, that said, I recently "discovered" a little something that has absolutely changed my life! For those that know me, I live for food! I love nothing better, but you try hauling a 32oz can of olive oil, 4 avocados, a pkg. of ground lamb, and 3 bottles of wine home 12 blocks! Without a car, and my scooter waiting patiently to be fixed, the long walk home while plastic handles of the grocery bags cut into my fingers is about all I have. Until...Amazon Fresh! Holy half-price carrots! This is amazing!

I know that I complain a lot about there being no delivery in Seattle, turns out, Amazon completely agrees with me. Not only will they deliver a new steam iron, a pair heels, and a copy of Running With Scissors(thank you Augusten Burroughs!) to your door, but ONLY in Seattle will they also deliver:

sesame oil
tamari soy sauce
brussel sprouts
herbed chevre
a bottle of Cabernet(okay, 3 bottles! But who's counting?)
2 yellow onions
roasted red peppers
and yes, that 32oz can of olive oil

To. My. Door. What?!?

Here is something else lovely, upon receiving my delivery, the darling man who brought me the boxes gave me a bouquet of flowers- I say "oh, wait! These aren't mine!". He asks with a slight smile, "first order?" Um...yes...? "They are for you", he says as he hauls off the plastic bins all my groceries came in. WHAT? Since when has QFC given my a bouquet of flowers? Or anything for that matter?

I spent $38.13 on my first order, I was curious and went to the store and looked up what I would have spent if I had carried the damn bags home myself- $47.80 Also, it was a super sunny day out so I froze to death walking around the air conditioned grocery store wearing nothing but a sun dress and getting a chill from the freezer section. Boo. I hate you QFC.

Okay, there must be a down side right? YES!

Warning: Amazon Fresh is very, highly, ridiculously addictive and now all I can think about is the next time I will see that big green truck pull up! Do not ever use it or you will find yourself wanting to place grocery orders online at midnight just so you can have them a your door by 6am! You will find yourself scouting through their "deal" section, you will find yourself perusing page after page of tiny icons of food!

Guess I won't be able to bitch about no service in Seattle, thank you Amazon Fresh for delivering it.
xoxo

It's a SMALL Town

Hey there all you cheapskates, shoplifters, petty gossips and slanderers- just a note, Seattle is ONE SMALL TOWN. You think your bad behavior goes unchecked? Think again.
We are a small city, as a designer/maker/artist- it is a small community, as a resident of Capitol Hill- it is down right incestuous! You can't go around stealing from people's boutiques, talking trash for the hell of it about someones breakups or just plain being rude without it coming back to bite you.
We watch out for each other. We all are friends with someone-who is co-workers with someone-who is dating someone. We talk. We network. We hold each other up and talk each other up too. We aren't looking for drama or to inflate our egos, we are just living, breathing, and making this city thrive. At least we try to until silly, stupid, psychotic little no-bodies come into OUR spaces that we have worked and dreamed and fought for and try to take it from us- piece by piece!
That's right, LiT got shoplifted from! Lampshades, no. But during the pop-up shop at our store over the weekend SUSIE ******* came in for the opening and stole over $300.00 worth of merchandise. If it hadn't been for her idiotic plan to throw us off her trail by asking to put something on hold and using her REAL name, we may never have caught her! Thankfully, the stupid, silly cow was on facebook so we messaged her into submission and we got all the merchandise back. What an idiot.

To everyone else out there; I'm so glad I know you, even if it's 2 degrees of separation, at least it's not 7. We are all neighbors in some way or another, so lets act neighborly.
xoxo
Stay in touch, Seattlites

Seattle Sinister

Seattle is a truly sinister place. Sometimes it's pure evil. Please, I'm not being over dramatic, this city is in some ways, at some times @#$%ed-up!!!

Exhibit A. Parking
Have you EVER seen so many parking patrol cars? I saw a meter cop on a segway the other day! "Dear Cop, we already do not take you seriously since you are a parking enforcer, but you ride a segway and you think that it necessitates wearing a helmet?!?"
But seriously. The revenue gained by writing tickets left and right would be fine by me if I thought it was being spent to give us more buses, better sidewalks, and finish that damn monorail already!!! From the numbers I could dig up, Seattle made over $210,000 on parking fines last year and bought at least 8 Dodge Chargers with custom paint to use on their "Aggressive Driver Response Team". Ahem. WE WOULDN'T BE SO AGGRESSIVE IF YOU STOPPED TICKETING US FOR PARKING ON THE STREET WHEN WE HAVE NO OTHER MODE OF TRANSPORTATION!
Also, have you ever seen a city with more on-off parking restrictions? On many streets in Seattle you need a zone# parking sticker to park there more than 2 hours. Other streets you can park on the right side of the street, but not between the hours of 4-6pm, the other side of the street you can't park between 7-9am and there are so many bushes and signs and posters it's like decoding a Mayan tablet while drunk and blindfolded!

Exhibit B. Lincoln Towing
If you own a car and you live in the 206, I don't have to explain how @#$%ed-up this company is. I have seen them waiting on certain streets for the hour to end so they can car-nap your little VW Golf and then hold it for $200.00 in ransom. I HATE THEM.

Exhibit C. Delivery/Restaurant Hours
There is none. With the exception of a pizza, or Thai food(with a minimum or $30.00) delivered to your door in an hour-hour and 45min. it just plain does not exist. And who needs $30.00 worth of pad-thai?
Restaurants in this town are LAZY! Or is it the lazy people who eat dinner at 5pm are ruining it for the rest of us? Most restaurants in Seattle are on a cryptic time frame where they are closed Sun-Tues., open 11:30-2pm for lunch then closed until 5pm for dinner. Then they stop serving dinner at 9pm. 9:00?!?!?! I'm sorry, we are not all wanting the early bird special and then to go home and catch re-runs of that terrible Charlie Sheen show, Two and a Half Men. Was there never a time in this fair city when people left work at 5-6 and then grabbed a couple cocktails before wanting to eat? Or what about going to see a show and then getting dinner after? Guess not.

Well, no more negativity for today. I guess I'm just crabby since the car was ticketed and towed this morning and no one will bring me Indian food for lunch.

Watch what you Wear

Clothes say a lot about a person. For example, if I wore a postmaster uniform, you would assume you could ask me the going price of a postage stamp, and presumably I would tell you to buy the really ugly liberty bell "forever stamps" since stamp prices will jump another 3-7 cents every 2 months and your stupid Picasso stamps will be worthless. (also, I just noticed that there is no cent symbol on the keyboard. There is the $ symbol...looking, looking...nope. No cent symbol. Strange).

Back to clothes. It is not only uniforms that say something about you. Very tight thin black jeans, a checkered middle-eastern scarf, large plastic framed vanity glasses(non-prescription lenses), and flat pointed shoes is a good indicator that you listen to obscure bands, spend your paycheck on PBRs and t-shirts from Urban Outfitters. OR you are a 56 year old lead singer from a 70's cover band that works 3 days a week serving pizza, and you date 20 year-olds whose biggest dream in life is to get a turntable to actually play their loose collection of vinyl on. No judgment.

The other night I went with my friend to a restaurant I had never been to before. I was wearing a super cute asian collared, red with silver and gold dandelion print dress from the 60's I found for $18. It was very cute. Very red. And very Asian. The restaurant we went to was Benihana. For those of you(like me), who don't know what that is, it is a Japanese(loosely inspired) restaurant with 0ver 80 locations in the US, including 9 branches in Texas and 4 in New Jersey. Imagine my delight(read: horror) at finding myself walking into an Asian-ish restaurant wearing what some could guess to be the uniform of it's employees. My best friend told me not to worry, no one would notice anyway.

The first round of food was served to us with impressive knife skills, however we were bathed in the steam and smoke from the grill being located at our table. I decided to go to the ladies room to see if any of my makeup had survived the grill-side facial. On the meandering walk back through the cavernous restaurant, I was asked by a woman "oh! is this your restaurant?" Even though all the employees wear black at this establishment, this woman assumed that because I was,

a). half the age of all the employees
b). a white woman
c.) wearing that damn red Asian-inspired dress!

that I owned the restaurant. Well, there was really only one response. I gave her a 100watt smile and said, "why yes! Are you enjoying your meal? Can I get your waitress to bring you anything else?" Thankfully the patron declined, because had they ordered another round of Sapporos or some edamame, they never would have gotten it. I posed my hands in that Buddhist prayer style, gave a bow-yes, BOW, and then told her "Dōmo arigatō" and walked away. I think that means "thank you"....or "make me a awesome sword so I can avenge myself against my former Judo Master"...I've seen Kill Bill like 20 times...either way... it sounded pretty good.

Well, thus proves my point that clothes are powerful. In the right hands they can bring you fraudulent restaurant ownership fame, but in the wrong hands they can make you blend in at a Phish concert. Moral of the story: I don't like hipsters or trust the post office. Also, Phish fans are ridiculous.

Sriracha Syndrome

So, it's been a couple of stressful weeks lately. Between work, making plans with friends getting back into town, moving and painting every wall in my house, and preparing for a show at my shop, I have started a strange activity I like to call "stress-spicing".

A close cousin to stress-eating, stress-spicing is when whatever you are eating or drinking you feel the need to punch in the teeth with cayenne pepper, cocoa powder, hand shaved nutmeg, bucketloads of curry sauce or my favorite: sriracha, sriracha and more sriracha!

What is this? Why does this happen? Well, having a degree in medicine and a doctorate in the way the brain works(also known as brainyography), I can tell you that the neural receptors for taste and sight are un-affected by time of day, amount of direct sunlight, or sexual preference.* Thus, I feel fairly confident in my assessment that "stress-spicing" (or as us medical professionals refer to it in the 2010 bio-medical journal Health-ish as "Spicicological Predispository Manipulating Syndrome*), is caused by the need to feel aware, awake, engaged and otherwise involved. Patients studied with this syndrome were found to have fairly boring, mundane, or lackluster lives. As Clinical Study Patient 2B put it; "I just don't really give a #$%&". Adding spice to foods is one way those suffering from SPMS try to enhance their lives and deal with the symptoms if not the actual cause of their condition.

A sister condition known as ACTE, Add Cheese To Everything, can be even more serious than SPMS since dairy and heavy calories are known to be hard on digestive tracks, and excessive calories can cause weight gain creating a side affect to ACTE known as WWMMNDA, Want to Watch Mad Men and Not Do Anything.

Hopefully my disclosure and honesty of suffering from SPMS will cause more people to come out of the closet where they have been spicing up their foods and we can all go play a super-charged game of tackle kick-ball while wearing flight attendant uniforms and chewing 18 sticks of gum. Time to spice up our lives not our mac-n-cheese!!!

*all medical claims and sources sited are fraudulent and have no basis in medical fact. The blogger does not posses any actual knowledge biologically speaking, or medically. In fact, she never learned the song the "leg bone is connected to the hip bone" and thinks that blood is "icky" and will faint at the sight of needles. She once asked to have her uterus removed so she could wear tinier belts.

Almost isn't Good Enough

This morning my lovely friend Jamie and I were piling brightly colored and patterned lamp shades into the car so that we could take them up to Queen Ann for a window display. Neither one of us had been indulged with coffee or breakfast and as we merrily finished loading the last of the shades, all we could think was- "great! this is only taking 10 minutes, soon we will have a cup of coffee in hand and we will finish this window so we can go get some delicious food at Cafe Presse".

Please note that I mentioned we were maybe parked on the side of the alley for 8-10minutes.

I had made sure to park against the wall so that other cars could still get by, and since my shop is in a fairly residential neighborhood, I figured at 10:37am, who is going to care?

Old, crotchety, barkingly-mad octogenarians that's who!!!

Old-man-white-Ford-Taurus pulls up and climbs out of his car- his little sedan that I guarantee you- could well make it past my car to drive on through the alleyway, and starts berating Jamie about parking there when I walk out with the last load of lampshades. Not only does he NOT ask if we(2 young girls in various un-practical shoes & over burdened with armloads of shades), need help- but he berates us? Jamie tells him "we're almost out of here", and he proceeds to yell at her as he clambers back into his white Taurus- "Almost isn't good enough!!!"

Um, what?

Yes. He actually said that. I think we can all surmise that this man was told that countless times as a child by his abusive mother before she walked out on him, thus leaving him to feel like all well-dressed, busy ladies are abusive and are taking up HIS valuable space- along an alley or otherwise. Look Scrooge, go get a therapist and work out your issues so you can leave un-suspecting ladies loading lamp shades into a beat-up Subaru alone!

Long blog short, why don't we give each other some leeway, a couple grace minutes, and back off a bit!? If we don't, we may find ourselves facing a alley in a white Ford Taurus hating our mothers and cursing out- "ALMOST ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH!".... sounds good enough to me.

Stayin' Classy, Not Trashy.

Just in case there are any young, impressionable ladies reading this blog, here is a post especially targeted for you:

NO naked pictures.

They seem like a good idea at the time. It's 11:30 at night and you are texting a cute boy and he requests a "pic" of you. Send him a cute shoulder, elbow, knee, even your feet in a bath tub, but I guarantee you, sending a full frontal, boob shot, money shot, whatever shot- will not end well. I'm telling you the truth. Plus, why throw out all the mystique? A well captured coy look over your bare shoulder is by far hotter in tiny pixelated format than your boobs shot with your iphone's anamorphic lens. (Making them seem bigger but also completely distorting your nipples and honey, you don't need that).
Also, sending naked pics on the internet, or even uploading them onto your computer, is bad, BAD, news. Once it's in the interweb- you can never get it back. If you're looking for a career based on bad PR and gossip columns, by all means, send that money shot and hope it goes viral. For the rest of us though? Stay classy, not trashy.
Back in my day, or rather slightly before, naked Polaroids were the way to play it. They produced that under-developed artsy look and made all your flaws fade while casting you in this moody blue tone. That said, you can burn a Polaroid and there are no negatives, no back up files, no hard drive-thumb nail-copy folder somewhere. The carefree Polaroid was killed by the scanner though, so all in all, it's best not to get too risque in front of the lens these days.

Darlings, I hope you take this to heart. Sexting is great fun, but safe sexts is the best sexts. After all, as my good friend Lynda pointed out, Peaches Geldof was penned to write and produce and rock the UK fashion/editorial world until nudie pics of her surfaced. Let that serve as warning enough...oh, and don't name your daughters Peaches, Pixie, or Fifi.

Grab the day by the pink panties.

Yesterday I decided since I was in an "off" mood, the weather was bi-polar and my steam iron broke, I would pull myself together, wear my favorite panties, and just go get it! (the day I mean).

Well, here's how that turned out. I had to redo a lamp shade twice(I make lamp shades for a living if you don't know that), I received multiple texts from someone who I had canceled out of my life for good reason over a year ago, and I a ran into a girl on the street who the last time I saw her, she basically insulted me for half an hour over a coffee I bought her!

When you are feeling fragile and sensitive, the littlest things can seem huge. Yesterday when I got those "little texts", they sent me into this wretched freak-out attack, making me question if I was still "back there", or if this person would turn into a crazy stalker/killer and come and get me while I would be redoing this shade for the 4th time late that night. Today, having erased all those stupid texts, I realize that no one can come into your life if you don't want them to. They can text or call, maybe show up at your door. But you can, erase, not answer and slam that door in their face and go back to watching 30 Rock on your sofa, "eating my night cheese!", thank YOU, Liz Lemon. Sure they can pop back up when you least expect or want them to, but they don't get to take up any more space in your head then you allow.

That girl on the street? Well, she seems to have forgotten that last time I saw her she had left her manners, charm and common courtesy at home with her wallet, but it was classy and kind of me to buy her that cup of coffee, and it was absolutely RIGHT of me to not spend any more energy on someone like that. I have plenty of friends who deserve a good cup or charitable coffee that would spend that half hour sipping it and telling me jokes, witticisms, or just chatting pleasantly with me and appreciating the time spent together. I will continue spending $3.75(Seattlites will pay up to $8.50 for a cup of Joe, it's a sickness), and 30 min. with them. Done.

The lamp shade? Well, since my iron is still broke, and the new one hasn't arrived from the magical Amazon truck yet, I have a slight reprieve. I think I will use this time to hunt online for more pink panties, wearing them on days I don't feel "off" seems like a plan.

2:16 AM

I'm not a great sleeper. Ok, actually, I am horrible at it. Always have been. I read that people with insomnia are cheaters. Well, I've never been good at it, I haven't a clue who or what I was cheating on when I was 7...I'm pretty sure it is a biological flaw, not a character one.

You see, I am tired at all the wrong times. 3 in the afternoon, Sunday brunch hour, 8pm at night. That's what happened last night. I was falling asleep at 9:30 and had I forced myself to stay awake, read a book, watch Beetlejuice(again), it wouldn't have made me drift off perfect and peaceful come midnight. I would have stayed fixed on that book till "the end". I would have put in Edward Scissor-Hands after the credits rolled naming Michael Keaton in his(as far as I'm concerned)best role. I just do NOT sleep.

When I get to sleep, its either a strange and disturbing nightmare, a simple sound not expected, or the slight shift of my dog at the foot of the bed that wakes me, then the vicious cycle starts all over. I wish I could say I did something constructive with all the extra waking hours, but for the most part they are spent lying there in the dark thinking thoughts not allowed in daylight hours; "what if it doesn't stay this busy at the shop?", "did they mean it when they said that?", "is that spot on my arm cancer?"...it gets more creatively horrible from there.

So tonight, when I fell blissfully asleep at 10:49, I was due to awake with a start at 1:38. I laid there for 12minutes and then decided to just finish reading the latest Esquire, take(another)bath, write a blog, check my email, and then watch the damn Beetlejuice dvd again. (Dear Netflix, I don't care that I will never get to watch anything new, you are never getting this movie back).

I will go to work tomorrow, probably 2 hours early as always since I will wake at 7:34 and the shop actually opens at 10. I will make a bunch of lampshades, I will drink too much coffee, and I will inevitably be ready for sleep come 3pm. But at least with this ruined night I did something...productive; I took a bath.

Phone looses fight to a 5lb Squirrel

See this picture? Looks pretty innocent right? WRONG! This little guy is my pet Papillion(read Mogwai:no getting him wet, no food after midnight, etc. ), and he is a real nuisance!
Okay, okay, that is a little harsh. Here is what happened:
I am taking a bath, my phone is on a little table by the bath so I can answer when my Mom undoubtedly will call on her way home from work. Also, because I have a compulsory need to check what time it is and I think a watch will knock my look. Anyway. I am reading the Tina Fey article in this month's issue of Esquire, and my dog (if you can call something that weighs less than 6lbs a dog), runs into the bathroom, jumps up ONTO the table and "plonk"! there goes my phone into the bath!
I fish it out and do my best attempt of drying it off, taking the battery out and flailing it around trying to shake out all the mint and cucumber smelling water out. I grab a towel and as I am drying the screen off I see it gray out and flicker. Oh, shit. "DOG!!!" I now start yelling "Nikki!" as if he either cares or will change his evil ways of jumping up where he doesn't belong. He runs back into the bathroom, tongue out, smiling and looking up at me with this proud expression that says, "yes? did you call cute little me? I was just out in the living room wrangling your hair pins into bent shapes that will no longer hold hair. That and hiding your favorite bra from you".
As I look down at his pea-brain head I realize that this isn't just a phone to me. This is so much more. Here's a look at what my cell phone does for me on a daily basis:

1. clock. I look at it to determine time, how much time has passed, how much time I have left, etc.
2. calendar. I put all my appointments in this little piece of plastic with timers that go off to alert me when a meeting is, who its with, etc.
3. alarm clock. For when I was out till 3am and have to wake up at 7am. Yes, I still do this to myself on occasion. Not because I am young, but because I am to stubborn and too stupid to learn.
4. texting. Oh texting! My favorite way of communicating! You can relay info, send witticisms, flirt, all without a 8 minute preamble over the phone about "so, how are you lately...".
5. making phone calls. Yep. It does that too!

With all this said, can you imagine my panic when I realized I would be without all of this for a whole night until Verizon opened at 9am? Where is my xanax!?!

As it turns out, when I woke up this morning(at 9:15 because I couldn't set an alarm), I put the battery back in and the damn thing works. I immediately apologized to Nikki, though he could care less and had totally forgotten he was on my #@$% list anyway, and I said a big thank you to the brilliant makers of LG phones! You made a durable little piece of technology folks! You can be proud! Now I must go, I can tell by my phone I have wasted 12 minutes telling you all this.

R.I.P. Here lies a girl who smoked, drank, and wore high heels.

To say that I am sore, would be putting it far too gently. Muscles feel like fire is consuming them from the inside out, hell's demons are pinching and stretching my tiniest nerves, blocks of my body are severed from any kind of "normal range of movement". And this is supposed to be good for me?!?!
That's right folks, I have-for the very first time- decide to get physical. Sure I have danced and done pilates. Sure I have done hot yoga and body balancing. But ran? Done cardio? Aerobic activity other than what happens in the bedroom? Hells NO. In fact, while I was running and crunching and sitting-uping I overheard a woman say, "I haven't worked out this hard since high school". I flick her a sideways glance and countered with, "I have NEVER worked out this hard. I did THEATER in high school!!!!!". Sad folks. Pretty sad.
But what do you expect? I'm the girl who is 5'11" except in the shower. I should have my 5" heels surgically attached to my feet except I like variation in my heel choices. I had to go out and BUY a pair of shoes with laces just to make this happen! Also, I do NOT run. I just DO NOT. The crunches and sit-ups and leg raises are no problem, but running? In circles? Up hills? To me, I feel it is completely foreign. I have one pace- saunter. Okay, two paces, when I'm on pavement: strut. That is it!!!
Well, I guess what it comes down to is, I am hoping to be the hottest corpse in the cemetery. Because there is NO way, I will survive 10 weeks of this.

Cops and Criminals

Thursday morning came bright and twinkling with the smell of cherry blossoms and magic newness! Awakened early by my alarm clock, I was ready and out the door by 8:00. My drive to the shop I own was just delightful! Tangerine and coral clouds clustered in small flocks in the sky, just enough to catch the first glorious rays of sun cascading over the mountains. Ahhhh...what a fine day to live in Seattle!
-----whew! WHEW! WHEW!----blaring, beeping sirens jolt me from my happy reverie. A cop car flips a bitch(U-turn in the middle of the street) and pulls up behind me. Lights blaring, an unnatural neon blue and strident red. I pull over as the sweating po-po gets out of his vehicle. Why are they always sweating? His car is a 2010, I'm sure it comes with A/C, plus it's 8am on a March morning, roll down the window it's sunny but freeeeezing out!
Up saunters the cop-one arm at his right hip, directly above his hand gun. Let's not forget to let this little lady in her friend's 1998 Subaru know where she stands, right lawman! My window rolled down, he asks for the requisite documents. I abide. He saunters back to the car, I flip around in my seat ready to yell "what did you stop me for mutha fucka!?", but he is already sweating and computering in his car.
When he returns, he tells me that the reason he pulled me over is because I had my dog on my lap while I was driving. And here is a $124.00 ticket.

My 4.6lb dog was curled up on my lap while I was driving on a sunny Thursday morning with no traffic, not on my cell phone, and wearing my seat belt going 25 mi. an hour.

Your right. What a hazard!!! Here is where I slooooowly take off my sunglasses take the green carbon copy from him and slooooooowly look back up at him and say "you will NEVER see a cent of this money". Here ensues a conversation which proceeds with him calling me "mam" at every opportunity like I am his 83 year old aunt, and me telling him: there is, to be sure, a judge at the King County Courthouse that would no doubt agree with me that there are FAR better ways for him to be spending his time. I spare him the long list of petty and not so petty crimes perpetrated against myself and/or my friends that perhaps had he been patrolling for actual evil doers as opposed to say, stopping a girl in a Subaru on a sunny morning for her dog sitting on her lap- her less-than-a bag of sugar-weighing dog, would never have happened.

I flick the ticket across to the passenger seat and then with a wave of my hand and a quick replacement of my sun glasses I tell him, "carry on!". As he looks at me in shock, I drive off thinking two things: will he follow me and beat me down with his baton for not showing his "authority" proper respect? And, while he makes an illegal u-turn while talking into his radio and flipping on his lights and sirens, isn't he far more distracted than I am?

Dear Seattle P.D., yet again you have astounded me with your acute sense of right and wrong and your can-do attitude when it comes to thwarting every last effort on the part of us criminals and lawbreakers. Well done! I think I can say with confidence, thank you for making Seattle such a safe place to live!

Heart!

When we are young, we ask ourselves "what do we want to be when we grow up?". I had so many answers for that question;
age 8 an oceanographer and marine biologist
age12 a chef, as well as a food photographer
age 14-17 a comedian
age 19 a race car driver
age 21 a landscape architect
age 23 a fashionista
age 26 Ann Wilson.

Yes folks, after much deliberation I have decided I want, NEED, to be young Ann Wilson- lead singer of Heart.

I need 3 things to complete my dream:

1. a rockin' bad ass amazing singing voice- check!
2. big threatening glorious hair- workin' on it!
3. cool. Dammit!

That's the one thing in my way! In fact it's the very same reason I'm not an awesome chef-marine biologist-comedic-architect: no cool. I just am NOT cool. I don't have the mystique. Something to do with the fact that I wasn't neglected or abused enough as a child(damn you mom and dad for giving me a good childhood!!!!), and the fact that I will always choose goldfish crackers over cocaine. Dangit.

Well, if I can't be Ann Wilson, I guess I will be happy being me: the lamp shade making, little dog owning, cheese craker eating, me.

Paying for sex is not the same as paying for someone to paint your nails.

Paying for sex is completely different than paying for someone to paint your fingernails.

Let's look at the top 10 reasons this is true:

1. there is no manicure pimp, sometimes there is a little Korean boy working the cash register.
2. sanitizing of the equipment is key in a nail salon and regulated by the board of health. The $20 tranny you picked up north of 87th, not so regulated.
3. Prostitutes don't take visa or mastercard. Nail salons won't take personal checks.
4. You can sit with your feet in peppermint scented hot water and have your feet scrubbed and a polish change for about $15. I hear you have to pay a prostitute $150 to do the same thing.
5. First thing a manicurist says to you when you walk in: "pick your color". First thing a prostitute says: "unzip"
6. Manicurists take your money after the service and if you mess up a nail, they fix it for free! Prostitutes take your money before service and if your not happy they send their pimp after you.
7. Manicurists take pride in their work. Prostitutes don't really care either way.
8. Manicurists have salons to go to, Prostitutes can point you to the nearest Holiday Inn or back of a van. (same thing really, but check out goes faster at the van).
9. Manicurists have pictures of their babies and family around their station. Prostitutes have tattoos of Looney Toon characters on their lower backs.
10. Prostitutes is spelled completely different than manicurist.

These are just some of the reasons paying for sex is not the same as paying to have your nails done. Happy thought of the day: I don't do either of these things for a living!

Dear Craigslist, You Lie!

Alone on a couch last night, approaching the midnight hour, I decided to watch a scary movie. That was a mistake. I am neither as brave or as secure in the dead bolt stability on the front door as I thought. That said, it seems a merry and snugly feeling to what I am enduring this morning: apartment hunting.

Oh yes. The apartment hunt. What horrors of horrors you expect to find are nothing in comparison to the reality of the beautiful craigslist post becoming a stained carpet-no water pressure-one window-nightmare. And that smell! What is that? Craigslist should have a search option much like the sort by price button, but it should be: sort by smell. The last place was an infusion of 500 cats and cigarettes dipped in teriyaki sauce. Oh. Dear. God.

Dear apartment gods, here is my short list of what I am searching for, if it isn't asking too much, thank you:

1. NO carpet. Is it unreasonable to not want my bare feet touching the grisly gray filth soaked carpet that has been through 34 tenants? I don't care that is has been steam cleaned with a dirt devil- I would rather have the most scratched and abused hardwood floors-1970's vinyl even- than you, nasty carpet.

2. A clean-mildew-mold free shower/bath. With enough water pressure and a big enough hot water tank to shower without it feeling like I answered an add in the Stranger for someone to pee on me.

3. a two bedroom unit that costs under $1,400.00. We do not live in London, Manhattan, Tokyo or Dubai. We don't have a fully functioning public transportation system or even a night life that goes later than 2am, believe me Seattle, you are lucky to get $950 for a 2 bedroom!

My list goes on; a claw foot tub, a dishwasher, w/d in unit, high ceilings, etc. But really, these three requirements are my only non negotiables. Heck, I'm willing to live above a really bad thai restaurant and smell the ketchupy pad thai they make every morning! (though living above a good thai restaurant and smelling their panang curry every night would be ideal...).

Well, as for now, the search continues. The good side: a sparkling wood floored-vaulted-ceilinged-directly facing Volunteer Park-refinished bathroom-$1,200/month miracle could still be out there waiting for me... I will find you my love! I will find you and never ever leave you! ...until my landlord raises the rent.

Mother of Invention

Picture if you will, a sweet middle aged woman. Short with graying curly brown hair wearing a pink robe, she stands in her dining room at 8:45 at night: dropping knives onto the floor on purpose. Yes, straight down-point sticking in the vinyl squares she has laid out at her feet. What the...?

This crazy lady is my mother and she is not actually crazy, just trying to decide if the new vinyl she is installing in the kitchen is too soft. This got me thinking about all the seemingly crazy and secretly strange things we do when we are alone. For example; someone I know eats only the patty of a hamburger dipped in tarter sauce and throws the rest away. Weird. Truly. Another unnamed friend taps on her teeth in the mirror and tries to "hear" if they sound brittle or strong. I am guilty of draining the bath tub and then continuing to lay in the empty cooling bath for another 35-40 minutes reading Esquire magazine. Bordering on psycho.

That said, is there anything more self indulgent and relaxing than just being ourselves? To do the things that-in some way or another-we all do, we just don't talk about? Okay, maybe it's weird to put potato chips on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but when my sister and I were 8 and 10 we did just that and enjoyed it openly! In fact, I remember distinctly thinking we were geniuses. This leads me to strange curiosity, not necessity, being the mother of invention in our century.

Exhibit A: the Snuggie. Yeah, you know how many times you have thought "I wish this blanket had sleeves so I could read this book without my forearms getting chilly"? I thought that at least 2.3 million times myself.

Exhibit B: the Spork. In a Pennsylvania kitchen late one night, some dude was like, "dammit! I made this chili con carne too thin for a fork, but a spoon seems not quite right... I wish I had a spoon with little prongs on the end"...viola! Spork!

Exhibit C: Facebook. Someone was tired of internet stalking being so time consuming and so he invented this interweb world where people would willingly put their details and thoughts out there for all to read, enjoy and stalk openly.

As someone who gets a little odd in my off time, thanks to Scott Boilen(manufacturer of Snuggie) and Hyde Ballard-Pennsylvania Spork man, you gents are courageous and much appreciated! No thanks to stalkers and Facebook inventor dude; you have both stole countless hours and liberty from my life. Boo to you.

Where is Connery When You Need Him?

My friend calls me around 2am this morning. I am house sitting for her and watching her two little cats, as the phone chimes I wake with a start-the first thing on my mind; "this better not be a booty call!" *note: who would be calling me for a booty call? I flatter myself.

I turn over my cell phone and see that it is my friend calling me from out of town-something is very wrong.

Turns out, her upstairs neighbor called to tell her that her car window was smashed in the driveway and she was calling me for details. Sadly, folks, I have no knowledge of this as I fell asleep watching the Hunt for Red October around 10:00. I put on some clothes- a haphazard ensemble consisting of a bra, leggings, a trench coat and stiletto heels. This is how the pros do recon in case you were wondering. Plus, part of me is thinking- I can be found dead in an alleyway with no shirt, but I gotta be wearing nice shoes.

Approaching the car with nothing but calm and assurance(read: trepidation and fear of the bogeyman around every corner), I find that indeed the window on the passenger side has been smashed, and by all appearances, not a thing was taken. Here is what Detective Heels deduced:

1. Either this was a pointless crime committed by some bored felon or teenage scoundrel, or:
2. It was a focused attack. Did I mention this was the second time her car window was smashed in a month? Or:
3. An asteroid fell from space and shattered the window but I couldn't detect it's remains amongst the other debris in the driveway.

Let's look at the evidence surrounding each possibility(this is how real detectives, as well as Sean Connery as Captain Ramius would solve this):

1. If it was a pointless crime, why was nothing taken? Where was the threatening note left in cut-up magazine letters? Why were no other windows broken? Aha! Because it was pointless!
2. If it was an evil, bad, nasty focused plot to, over the next few months, break every window one-by-one of my lovely and dear friend's Volkswagen Golf...knock it off crazy town! That poor girl doesn't need to be replacing every window of her cute little car and you should seriously look into getting some help with your projection against German automobiles!
3. The most plausible and obvious explanation is of course the simplest: billions of years ago, a star in the Clancy Nebula exploded, sending particles hurtling through space. One of those particles found itself over the northern hemisphere-exact location: Queen Anne Hill, Seattle, WA. As it entered the atmosphere, it began speeding up to the point where when it hit that beautiful and durable German auto glass, it was with enough velocity to shatter the window and knock a tape out of the tape deck.

Case closed. It is such a relief to know that we live in such a crime free city. Watch out for falling space particles though. Oh dear.

*Katie dear! This is not funny at all really, and I am so sorry this happened to you. We will get this sorted out, and I will keep an eye out for any suspicious behavior. Hugs to you. :(

And on the 8th day...

God ate a reuben sandwich. The end.

We Recieve an Email You are Dead(no subject).

Junk mail box leads to sad news. This is exactly the contents of my junk mailbox today:

VIAGRA (no subject)
VIAGRA (no subject)
VIAGRA (no subject)
Fetch Dog doggie breath beaters
Ultimate Replicas high end designer watch and handbag replicas.
Adderol+Percocet (no subject)
V1AGROW number 1 male enhancement
MR.SCOTT WILLIAMS we receive an email you are dead

From what I can tell, Mr. Williams, you should have read the warnings on the pill bottles you were taking, seems like with all the viagra, percocet, and adderol you were doing, it's no surprise you are in an early grave. I hope someone is there to take care of your dog, even though he has bad breath, and that you are buried in your favorite Swiss Chronographe knock-off.

Here's Where I Lose It.

I just spent an hour and forty-five minutes of my life on the phone with my bank. This was after a very frustrating half hour inside the actual bank branch. Here's how it went down;

A girl walks in wearing a jade silk dress, black tights and grey jacket. She has her deposits pre-filled out and in her hand. After waiting in line for exactly eleven minutes, she is nearing the counter. She wonders, "why is there one bank teller behind the counter, and 2 bankers come up to me in line to take my deposit from me-to as they tell me "make things easier and more efficient", when no-one wants to hand over their deposits that way, we must have other banking to do or else we would just deposit it in the ATM". Also, the girl in the jade dress wonders why besides the 2 bankers probing the line, there are 4 bankers at desks, one at the weird hub at the center of the room, one greeting people at the door, and 2 talking to each other near the far side of the counter. Let's do the math shall we! That makes 9, 9! people on the floor doing nothing, essentially and 1 behind the counter as the 8-14 of us wait in line. Grrrrr!!!!

When the girl finally gets to the counter, she hands over her slips and says, "when you are done, can I have my balance please?". The teller absentmindedly takes her deposit slips and starts typing with one hand, while talking to her co-worker who just came around back to stand at her booth with her. She passes the girl in the dress her deposit verification and then turns to keep chatting with her co-worker-note: no balance receipt and there are 6 people behind still waiting in line.

Once the girl finally gets the balance, she notices it is not correct and tells the teller so. Teller calls over the personal banker(what does that mean?), and the PB tells her to please use the courtesy phone to clear up the confusion. (Courtesy phone? Since when is getting the brush off from the place you store your money a courtesy? The mattress I keep my savings in never treats me this way!). Said courtesy phone drops the call, misdirects the girl, doesn't offer the option needed and finally the girl-oh screw it- finally I realize I need to get back to the shop and get to work.

Once at work the girl calls the number on the back of her debit card and endures the same run around as the courtesy phone-no wonder since the number she dialed was called "direct assistance" and has been anything but. Seems banks are so safe to leave your money with because they are geniuses at smoke and mirrors, misdirection and downright confounding even when you have the account number and SS# right there is front of you! How do identity thieves do it? Do they have their own line they call for optimum service? Any identity thieves who read my blog, please feel free to give me tips on how I can get to my money and information.

Finally I talk to someone and don't get dropped or transferred long enough to explain that as far as I know, the balance on my account is incorrect. Here is the part where I lose it: the idiot hired to answer the phone and who has access to MY bank accounts tells me the business account I'm referring to belongs to a Miss ______ _______ (and tells me the name of my accountant, actually my previous accountant) and he can't give me any information since I am not the owner of the account/business. WHAT!!! Oh, so I own, work, slave, fore go, invest, cry, sweat, bleed for this business for over two years, open the account to begin with in your #$%@ing institution and you are going to tell me it doesn't belong to me!?! That you won't tell me anything because some idiot entered some data wrong-over a year ago!?! That for over a year I haven't owned my business and yet I get my statements at the address I gave you, I pay all the bills through this account, my signature is on all the deposit slips and I have been using MY SS# for reference and you didn't seem to have a problem till NOW!?!

To shorten this horror story to the appropriate feature length of 90 minutes, I will close by saying: it was a bank glitch. They "apologized for the inconvenience, and they are happy to help me again if I have any future questions". Bank of America: Go To Hell.

Getting Lucky

First, a disclaimer: if you are too high-bred for direct talk on subjects involving lady business, read no further.

Okay.

So my good friend has been dating women for some time and decided that she would like to try pitching for the other team and see how it went. She went forth and you will not believe this: the guy she hooked up with starts CRYING in the middle of it! While he is still inside her! WHAT THE WHAT?!?! Who does that? Turns out he had just broken up with his girlfriend so was feeling rather sad...blah, blah, blah... No excuse!

Here's the thing I told her when she came over scarred and swearing off men for good; "look, (we will call her Lucy), look Lucy, it's the law of averages. You can't expect to go out and fuck one guy and it's all fireworks and perfect. It's not fair to the rest of us who have been wading in that pool for years with as many failures as successes. It's called "getting lucky" for a reason. You may see a guy who looks like a 10, and turns out to have the sexual prowess of a 4. You can see a 8 and think, well he's kinda cute and a bit nerdy and turns out, he rocks your socks off in the sack! (Not that anyone should be wearing socks during sex. Creepy). You never really know, but once in a while, you get lucky. Here's the other side of that coin: men's definition of getting lucky is getting laid. Which, I feel goes to prove that most women are dynamos in the sack, or at least we don't jack-rabbit hump you till you need a back brace.

Some of my lady friends and I were talking about why this actually happens, why we are so shocked when we set out into the world of male/female relationships. Here's what we determined should be set forth in a handy guide book given to all young ladies to clear up misconceptions:

1. Men who look like they will be "good in bed" rarely are.
2. If you aren't sure how you "work", don't expect him to know either.
3. Never go to bed with a man who is drunk on bourbon or sells pot for a living.
4. When a man asks you your number(you know, the NUMBER), always say: "seven".
5. For every man that is bad in bed, there is hopefully one who knows what he's doing. Don't get discouraged, just keep expectations in a realistic realm.

To all the ladies out there who are bewildered or disenchanted, here's the silver lining: if you go to a lame movie, you probably won't get your $12.00 back, but if you have a lame time in bed, at least you didn't pay for it. And Lucy, believe me, one day- this WILL be funny, bad sex is always at least good for a laugh later on...

2010

My dad left back in January. He left nearly everything and is living somewhere in the desert of Nevada, Colorado, Arizona. Before you get all choked-up and sympathetic, let me do some explaining...
The year is 2010, we can email, watch TV shows on hulu, order groceries to be delivered to our homes, and look through people's profiles all from our cell phones. Our cell phones are built to last, approximately 8 months. The chargers they use are meant to last between forever and 4 weeks but cannot be used with any other phone except for the one right there in your hand. We can vote for an American Idol, but we can't believe in our President. We can buy anything with plastic cards and then keep paying on that one item the rest of our lives. We can drive shiny new huge cars, but we can't afford to put gas in them. We have the best hospitals, but we can't afford to go to them even if we need to. Our kids can take out student loans to afford the astronomical tuition expenses, and they can start their lives as they will end them-in debt.
My dad left and is now living off the grid for all these reasons. He is living that way because he can't seem to fit in to the way we live in 2010. He left because when he was little bad things happened to him and back then, dealing with it meant shutting-up, shutting-down, keeping it to yourself. He left because he never took the chance before. He left because he wasn't who he thought he would be. He left with hardly anything, unfortunately he took guilt, pessimism, self loathing, rejection, denial and disillusion with him.

I am not sad, angry or worried that my dad left. I'm not putting this out there to incite empathy or concern. I tell you all this, because I hope that whoever out there feels any of these things; that they aren't good enough, that they don't belong, that they can't figure it out- you aren't alone. 2010 came without flying cars, rocket packs or a world of peace where everyone can buy the world a coke. But here's what 2010 does have that we can all relate to:

1. When you are really sad, going through a breakup or missing your dad, you can log onto YouTube and watch Old Spice commercials and instantly feel pretty good. http://www.oldspice.com/videos/

2. Even though it's 2010, you can still pick up the phone, order a pizza and have it delivered in 40min. or less. Unless you live in the middle of nowhere in the desert (that's you Dad). Think about what you're missing!

3. Books haven't been burned and in fact there is a magic place on the internet called Amazon where you can buy them really cheap and have them delivered almost as fast as a pizza!

4. If you don't have the internet(how are you reading this?) you can go to libraries. They still exist. They are still free. And yes, you still have to whisper, but now you can check out DVDS and not just Encyclopedia volumes! Note to self: return Six Feet Under season 2...

See! Things really aren't so bad, scary or confusing as they seem. And if you still feel like they are, well, feel free to pack up and move south to the desert-I hear they have great sunsets...

Dear Dad, if you ever read this; xoxo miss you.

Seattle buys stock in Tide sticks.

I have heard people complain about how people in Seattle wear alot of black clothes. Not black clothes like Sean John or Baby Phat, but black as in not from Miami. As in: goth girl sitting in corner drinking black coffee writing black poetry-black. Well, lets review the facts here on why that is:

Why we don't wear white: we live in a very rainy city and wet t-shirt contests are a little too LA for the 206. Also, our cynicism and sarcastic bitterness goes alot better with a basic black turtleneck than a white oxford button down. Also, Seattlites love coffee and red wine-here is a little tale of why that doesn't work out so well...

I wore a white and light gray BCBG zebra sweater allllllll day yesterday. No problem. I got coffee, pumped gas, applied lipstick while driving on Seattle streets(pot holes and suicidal bicyclists). Totally uneventful. I ate a very messy Schwarma sandwich from my favorite street vendor-beets and dripping sauce included-clean as a Tide comercial. I made it until 7pm when I poured a glass of red wine and sat down on the couch. There I am, chit chatting away with my friend when my dog jumps right up onto my lap and...you guessed it. No more white and light gray sweater. It now looks like someone masacred the zebra and bathed it in it's own blood before carefully sewing little pleats into the sleeves and adding a hem. Less Ferragamo and more Freddy Kreuger.

You can't blame the dog, though I figure he knew what he was doing because he didn't miss a beat when it came to licking the wine up off my sweater, couch, floor, wall etc. Lush. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree it would seem....

Let's review the plus sides of the equation: I have someone in my life who loves me so much he leaps without looking(even if it's just because I buy him turkey bacon dog snaps), I have wine-or I will as soon as I stop by the market. I have friends to chit chat-and laugh uproariously with when things go wrong, and believe me, when you wear white- things DO go wrong. So, I hope that clears up why I, along with most other Seattlites, wear black. Just to be safe, I will have a gin and tonic please...

Wallpaper vs. Girl

I've been up against a wall all week. Backbreaking work, hours and hours spent seemingly in futility, frustration, disappointment. I can't begin to tell you how many times I have cursed my very existence! By now you are probably asking yourself, "Jeezus lady, what's the problem?". Well, like I said, I've been up against a wall, four of them actually. Four floral, blue and pinkish mauve-small repeating pattern-walls of paper! Yes, that's right. I have been taking down WALLPAPER!
There is nothing, and I mean NOTHING more frustratingly painstaking, slow paced and maddening than removing wallpaper in a small bathroom put up in the late 80's. However, here are the things I have learned:

1. Goo Off won't take the paper off, but when used in an enclosed space it will get you high enough not to care.
2. Martini's between walls is mandatory. If you don't have that, perhaps large doses of prescription pain killers.
3. Just when you think you can't take it any more, a unusually large piece will rip off the wall and it will give you the emotional fortitude to tackle that horrible space around the toilet.
4. never put wallpaper up to begin with. Ever.

While battling through these "highs" and lows, I had much time to think about where my life was going, hopefully at one point it would be taking me out of the bathroom...
I thought about my Mom, it is her bathroom after all, and thought how she was so stubborn about putting this @$%#ing paper up all those years ago, but now here I am taking it down! That said, she was in labor with me for 4 hours, carried me for 9 months before that...guess I owe her a bathroom. I hope when I'm her age I have some slave child who loves me enough to come 6hours and one state over to tackle some project from hell.
Thought 2: will my adopted children love me enough to do said hell task? Note to self: add addendum to adoption paperwork...
My other thoughts wavered-depending on the amount of paint/Goo Off/plaster fumes in the air- from what kind of tree house mansion I would build if I lived in French Polynesia to who is it that stamps all the "Ms" on M&Ms?...

Long week in review-and it's only Wednesday; removing wallpaper sucks, have kids so you never have to know it's pains.

Sweet and Sour

Ah, Valentine's day. For a holiday based on love, it sure brings out the haters. Oh come on, admit it, whether you are a lovely lonely or a cute couple, VD-day(double bag it kids, STDs are on the rise) causes a lot of broken hearts. The reason for this is a little confusing when you take into consideration what the day consists of:

1. Thoughtful cards, ephemera, and treats all signed: be mine. What's the problem there? That's just charming!

2. Flowers-especially pink ones. You can't hate flowers, especially in the cold month of February.

3. Chocolate. Nuf said.

Let's be realistic though, the day may consist of these lovely things, but the weeks-heck, months, leading up to Feb. 14th consist of:

1. E.E. Robbins and Kay Jewelers commercials. Trust me folks, they are annoying yes, but it would be FAR worse to get one of those crappy heart-key diamond chip pendants that are on sale for $79.99. What is that!?! The cheapest, worst design sprinkled with the left over diamond granules found on the floor of the sweat shop- lets be honest: if hardworking African baby's didn't mine it-it wasn't stolen from a museum-or Paris Hilton didn't have to hock a hotel for it, it's just insulting. I would rather someone gave me a new traveling tooth brush container.

2. Thinking if you lose 5lbs, dye your hair, get a raise, cure cancer it will make you feel better when V-day actually arrives. Try this instead: solo-mojo dance party in your living room to Peaches. Fun.

3. And this is the most crucial: Expectations. Oooooh they're a killer!
I have a formula worked out for life happiness, H=R/E That is: Happiness equals Reality divided by Expectations. Meaning, the only way you will be happy, on Valentine's or life in general, is to lower your expectations so that when divided into reality you come out with a positive number. Let's face it, unless you are extremely wealthy, (and if you are bothering to blog on a Friday morning you are not), you can't change your reality. However, you can change your expectations, your perspective, and that will help things come out alright.

All right ladies and fellas, for this Valentine's Day let's expect to get kind-of-trashed, high on pink frosted cupcakes, and probably fall asleep watching Joe Vs. the Volcano for the 80,000th time. Sweet dreams.

Dental Damage

As I previously mentioned, I am recently single. When one has spent a decent amount of time on the other side of the fence; the side with his and her bathrobes, his side of the bed, her razor...things are thrust into focus quite abruptly when one finds herself on the side of; watching whatever movie you want, having popcorn and a gin and tonic for dinner(again), and laundry taking a lot less loads to do(please notice how these are not actually bad things).

One thing I have noticed being blatantly biased is buying a tooth brush. Having been mugged(see earlier post) and therefore robbed of my green tooth brush, I set out to find and purchase(I hope you are reading this, mugger!) another dental tool. I was quite disturbed to find that the only way to buy a high quality, beautiful green tooth brush was as a SET of two tooth brushes. Yes, sure, I could buy one of those horrible hard, clear plastic brushes like the kind the dentist gives you with their name in gold letters on it, but who buys those?

My other option for buying a SINGLE toothbrush(because it must be thrust in my face at all times that I am single), was to buy a child's toothbrush which I don't want because though it is fantastic that it is the shape of a T-Rex, it has a weird little suction cup on the bottom and I really don't care for suction cups. These are my options!?! The crapo tooth brush, the creepo suctiony tooth brush or buying two tooth brushes when I only need one? One more discriminatory issue with the double brush situation: blue comes with pink, green comes with purple. See where I'm going with this? Same sex tooth brush scenarios are out, unless as a dentally hygienic gay man you like pink brushes and your partner happens to like blue...but really, what are the chances of that. Also, if I buy the two pack, I can have my green brush now, but in the future I have to brush with the purple one...geez.

Enough ranting, or I will give myself a tooth ache. As always, the silver lining, or rather, the gold filling; I don't work at Bartells selling bull-shit brushes. Ahhh...not so bad after all.