Lo Lo Speaks

Re-Lease With Peace

2009-07-07T20:42:00.001-07:00

Internets, there is just so much going on around here, I can barely decide on what to write about. I actually have enough petty grievances saved up to tell you about that I won't need to leave the house for three days. And it's only Wednesday.

I should be sleeping, but the drilling and VERY LOUD pillow fluffing going on in the next room is keeping me up. That's right. Someone is using power tools and fluffing pillows in my former office. My "former" office because a renter is moving into it. A RENTER! Internets, do you know what that means? It means I am *this*much closer to moving out. And you know what else that means? For the next seven days, I get to share my bathroom with a stranger! A bathroom that I pay for! A bathroom that my good credit is helping to secure! A bathroom that I will have to learn to close the door to because when you OWN a bathroom, YOU CAN DO THINGS LIKE LEAVE THE DOOR OPEN WHEN YOU PEE. But you know what that ALSO means? It means I am moving out! In seven days. CLH and I are ending this experiment with co-living and we are moving into our our own place on July 15th: The two year anniversary of our move in date to this house.

After much searching, gnashing of teeth, and tearing of hair, we found a nice little unit in a triplex deep in the heart of one of our favorite neighborhoods back up in the city. It's not the rental house we were hoping for, and it doesn't have hardwoods, and it doesn't have a yard or a garden, but it's going to be ours. All ours. Every night for the past two weeks, I have gone to sleep dreaming about the three things I will want to do immediately upon moving in: walk around in my underwear, drink my morning coffee in front of my computer in peace, and watch obscene amounts of the Discovery Channel while painting my toenails. I'm currently trying to come up with a way to do all three simultaneously.

To be quite honest, though, I'm a little bummed that the apartment only met only 90% of our criteria. I'm excited to actually make the move and get this limbo thing over with, but there's a little nagging voice in my head that thinks that maybe I pulled the trigger a little too soon. I keep telling myself that we're only committing to a year there, that maybe we can go live in Europe or something afterwards. And, after looking at dump after dump, this place was the obvious choice for us, and, um, hello? NINETY percent is a pretty high number. On the advice of friends (thanks, Dave and Sarah!) CLH and I sat down at breakfast one morning during our search and wrote down all the things we wanted in a house. It was a great exercise because a) it gave me an excuse to make a list and lists are like the paper version of Valium to me, and b) it was a great way to expedite the decision making process when we saw a place that we were on the fence about. Some of the things on my list: wanting to hear birds (and NOT airplanes, for the love of god) first thing in the morning, bikeability to most clients' offices, and washer and dryer in the unit. Some of CLH's criteria: place for the missus to write, access to bus lines, and washer and dryer in unit. So, after confirming with each other that we would absolutely, under no circumstances, never, ever, ever travel more than ten feet from our clothes hamper to the washing machine, we took our list to the streets. And the place we chose met most of our demands. We've figured out some work-arounds to the whole non-yard thing (the biggest hangup for me); I'm going to set up a container garden next the garage. And CLH has promised me that he won't cringe too hard when I lay out the bolt of Astroturf on the driveway, roll the grill over it, and call the friends over for a barbecue in our "yard" .

Just to torture myself, I did another craigslist search for houses in our price range tonight. Thankfully, there weren't too many new listings. I say "thankfully" because I think I am still hung up on this not being an ideal new place, and wanted some confirmation that the place we've picked is the best thing out there. Having thought moving in to this house two years ago was a good choice for us, I am feeling like my ability to make a housing decision has become somewhat impaired. I think that I may have done some permanent damage to that lighter, more whimsical person I used to be when I agreed to move in to a fixer upper in the suburbs. Now I'm considering massive flowcharts and bar graphs designed to show, for instance, the inverse relationship between sleeping and planes flying overhead, before making ANY decisions. I know my wish list is a little unrealistic, especially in a rental situation, but, I sort of wanted this next place to be this beautiful, commodious, centrally located dreamhouse of a house. I think I need to realize that what we have chosen is going to be just what we need. Also, it sort of feels like it's SUPPOSED to be ours. I don't want to make too much of it, but I'm pretty sure the universe was trying to dropkick us in the head with this one. At the exact SECOND we finished clearing everything out of my office to make it ready for a renter, the landlady called to give us the place for $50 less than what she was originally asking. Did we need a bigger hint to take the damn place already?

We're just about ready to go, too. CLH and I spent last weekend stacking nearly everything we own into a very sexy 10' by 5' by 7' pile in our garage. We're at the dreaded place now where there are just random things lying around needing to be packed. Stuff that didn't get caught in the dragnet of my organization the first time around... things like the lone fork that's been in and out of the dishwasher a few times, the decorative glass jar that was hiding behind the sequined penguin ornament, a spool of thread, and the battery hatch cover to SOMETHING we own. That kid of stuff. I'm so OVER the whole packing thing, I'm starting to pack very unlike myself. I'm just throwing (inhaling slowly to calm myself) unrelated junk into a box. And the list-making, regularly-scheduled-sock drawer-organizing side of me is breaking out in hives over it. It's a slippery slope, that kind of packing. Classic gateway behavior. Sure, it's just a little toaster in with the tennis rackets now. But, soon enough, we'll be wearing stained sweatpants and "I'm With Stupid" t-shirts, parking our cars on the front lawn, and tying pieces of steak to fireworks. Just you wait.

The Bombs Bursting In Air

2009-07-05T23:22:00.000-07:00

Happy, Birthday, 'Murica! Do you still have all your fingers and toes? 'Cause you put on one hell of a show last night. You kept my backyard lit up till nearly 2 am. If I had to judge from the detritus in my front yard, I'd say you're going to come up short with the rent next month, 'cause we both know that a four hour firework show is not cheap. But who cares, right? For one night you got to recreate a war zone with shit you could buy from a tent on the side of the road, and, by golly, did you do it up. Oh, and that piece of charred STEAK on the roof of CLH's car this morning? Nice work. Nothin' says "freedom" like setting a choice cut of meat atop an M80 and letting 'er rip! You sure as hell know how to party, 'Murica.

Honestly, steak cleanup aside, it was a pretty darned good weekend. We got to spend July 4th with our friends Lacy and Roberto (who are moving to Canada in a week and who we will miss having so close to us.) What I love about these two is that they don't let lack of resources ruin a good engineering idea. The weather was extremely warm on Saturday, and, after a couple glasses of a wild mint/rum concoction made in haste, we were nearly unconscious with dehydration and exhaustion. So, naturally, Lacy and Roberto built a Slip N Slide. And when I say "built", I mean that they grabbed all the tarps we owned and the hose, and, within minutes, had us hurling our bodies face first down a 20 foot run of blue plastic into a "splash pool" that Lacy constructed with her bare hands. It was astounding. Oh, and did I mention that this was AFTER Lacy had built us a cabana out of two ladders, a couple pieces of timber, and a blanket? We had shade for hours. Seriously, people. If you're not using household junk to keep yourself cool on a hot day, you're doing it all wrong. And I'm pretty sure Lacy's for hire.

Today CLH and I washed our cars and then ate hot dogs for lunch (and then sang the national anthem 'cause it just seemed like the right thing to do). We both vacuumed the insides of our cars, and then CLH changed my burned-out headlight and topped off my windshield wiper fluid. And then, THEN! because it was empty, we got to (drum roll please) THROW AWAY the windshield wiper fluid bottle. It was thrilling! Because you know what that means? That means we don't have to move with it! Oh! And we blew through a dusty bottle of tequila AND a bottle of peach schnapps on Saturday. So you know what that means? WE DON'T HAVE TO MOVE WITH THOSE EITHER! Do you see where I'm going with this??? I could very possibly violate my own personal limits on exclamation point usage on this one if I let myself go, that's how excited I am! We actually are GETTING RID of stuff!

I am on this trajectory right now to get rid of HALF of what we own. Somehow, I have managed to cart around with us for the past ten years pounds and pounds of stuff that has just no meaning or use to us anymore. I can't explain why I have become so incredibly lazy at keeping inventory of my own life, but I have. We still have stuff in boxes from when we moved into this house two years ago. Unpacked. And the stuff we accumulated while living here? I understand now why everyone warned us about the curse of a big house: you simply fill up the space with stuff. Now that I have to pack so much of it into boxes for the move, I am realizing that I no longer feel the attachment to my stuff in the way I used to. I don't mean to imply that I've mastered the Zen art of non-attachement overnight... just that most of my stuff has this timestamp on it, and I don't feel connected with that time anymore. I want to create new memories. It feels good to let go. It feels like it has needed to happen for a long time now. Happy Independence Day to me, 'Murica.

I May Have Gone Too Far With This One...

2009-06-29T22:42:00.000-07:00

I consider myself pretty street smart. Usually, I can sniff out the con artist in the crowd. And I think I'm pretty good at knowing when someone's being disingenuous. I knew, for instance, right away that Make Mike Jason Smith was a Nigerian in a very, very stylish 20-something's clothing when he emailed and said he was interested in the room I had for rent on Craigslist. I knew that all his cronies were frauds too (though that may have had less to do with my street smarts with more with the fact that ALL the emails followed the same basic formula. Every last one of them "was into fashion design", and "was not gay, but was totally, totally cool with it".)

Something about this place, though -or maybe just this period in my life- has turned me into something of a village idiot. I have not fallen prey to one, but TWO different scams in the last year. The first one involved a teenager selling overpriced magazine subscriptions door to door this past Fall. And the second one happened on Saturday.

I'm going to make some effort to defend myself here... even though I feel ashamed and embarrassed at what was an undeniably stupid decision on my part, made in haste, and without listening to my gut instincts.

On Saturday, CLH and I went looking for houses to rent. We had seen what amounted to a whole pile of uninhabitable wrecks, with a few cookie cutter condo units thrown in for good measure. We were exhausted. But we'd seen this ad the night before that looked too good to be true (BIG. RED. FLAG. IGNORED.) and we wanted to jump on it. So, we stopped in at a local bar to see if we could set up our laptops, revisit the ad, and follow the instructions for setting up a viewing. There are a few things to consider here before I go any further which might explain why this particular scam worked on us. First, CLH and I are desperate to move. We want out BAD. Secondly, we were hot, thirsty, cranky, and had very low blood sugar when finally stopped to sit down. Thirdly, we couldn't get either of our laptops to access the wireless Internet, so we had to resort to using CLH's new 3G iPhone to access the website. And, as everyone knows, though the new iPhone can do many, many, many things, it still has a screen the size of a slice of Spam, and many things that would otherwise look suspect on a big screen look perfectly normal on this tiny screen. So you can kind of understand why we thought the request to fill out an semi-application online seemed like a perfectly legitimate request. We even asked our real-estate agent friend about it and she seemed to think it was perfectly routine.

It turns out it is NOT perfectly routine. It is also not a legitimate service. It IS a scam designed to have you fork over $15 dollars (again, not an ungodly sum- hence our willingness) and some pertinent information so that this "third party" can "pre-screen" you for your potential landlord. When you initially email the owner of the property, you are sent a message back from some ridiculous made up name (I got "Kenna Chillinskas", which I'm thinking of naming my first dog) redirecting you to a website (erentalapplications.com) that will then ask you to fill out an application. What is actually happening is this: the scam artists are grabbing ads from craigslist and the like, deleting the original owner's information, replacing it with theirs, and claiming that they have the ability to schedule a showing of the property... right after you give them some information via their nifty little website.

Somehow, we avoided surrendering our social security numbers, but the ass clowns at erentalapplications.com now have our current address and phone numbers. I did a little sleuthing this morning to find out more about the site (thank jeebus for Google), and found multitudes of information about it, including a replica of the EXACT email I was sent when I emailed the "owner" asking about the property.

The more I read this morning, the more angry I became. I eventually had to walk away from my computer because smoke was coming out of my ears and I didn't want to have to explain to the neighbors that those fire trucks out front? Yeah, those were there because I had set the couch on fire with the stream of flame that had come shooting out of my mouth.

Still, I needed to do something. So, I just wrote down the first thing that came to my mind. And then I hit "send". I'm not exactly sure where this touch of bravado (or violence) came from... though, if I had to guess, I would say it came from the gaping, gory crater in my soul where I used to house a love for all things craigslist - and which has been replaced by a blackened, hardened little rock which I now use to pelt email scammers in the groin. Behold, the writings of a woman scorned (and not just a little out of her mind):

"You have been reported to the local police as a potential scammer. The
authorities at Craisglist have been notified as well. If you don't
take down your ad, your email address will be used as a vehicle to
infiltrate your personal information, and you will be hunted down and
possibly killed. I have my people working on this. You have just
messed with the wrong folks."

Movement II

2009-06-25T09:35:00.000-07:00

I just had to post an Internet-sized THANK YOU to all my friends who have sent me their good thoughts and prayers in the last week here. I am so blessed and lucky to have such a supportive bunch of folks in my life. You all have sent me such wonderful bits of wisdom and all-around-wonderful good feelings; and I am feeling much better these days. I will take some time later to post about what's been happening. Suffice it to say that the more we pack, the better things become. Also, I just returned last night from seeing David Byrne in Portland, so how bad could things be really?

Thank you, again, to all my peeps out there who have kept me in their thoughts these past few weeks. If I could, I would buy you all ponies and mansions and your very own rock band as a way of saying thanks. For now, just know that you are amongst the most wonderful people on earth and that you have reminded me of how fortunate I am to have you in my life.

Movement

2009-06-17T23:15:00.001-07:00

I'm going to try really hard not to sound like a whiny baby in this post, but it's going to come out that way anyway. I'm just feeling like I want to crawl under a rock and not make any adult decisions right now. I have begun the house-hunt. It's official. We're moving on from this whole communal living thing. CLH and I scoured crazylist....er... craigslist this evening and came up with the usual overpriced, poorly lit, beige colored, human-sized cat boxes for rent. Note to landlords: I'm not paying you a non-refundable cleaning fee. Unlike your former tenants, I don't plan on actually shitting directly on the carpets, so I'm having a hard time thinking of why I should fork over a non-refundable $400 for "cleaning". Here's an idea: make sure your next tenants have all their teeth and that their hair isn't falling out in clumps; it's pretty much a sure bet that you won't need to call in a haz-mat team to disinfect the place when they leave.

Why don't any of the housing options I've seen tonight seem appealing to me? Why do I want to find my next home in Fiji, or someplace like it? CLH and I even started looking at boats to live on; that's how non-house-dwelling I am feeling right now.

Part of me really wants to take all our boxes, drive them out to the ocean, and dump them overboard with a ceremonial Zen Buddhism mantra about how our stuff is not who we are. And another part of me wants to donate everything to Goodwill, and start ALL OVER. Get rid of every last unmatching bath towel, every collectible fish shaped bottle, every antique nutcracker, and just buy everything new. No more remnants of my past. Just all new. Forks, plates, bedsheets, endtables, everything. All sterile and without history.

I'm feeling everything come undone- every connection to this city, to my clients, to my friends... it's coming undone. The intellectual side of me knows that this is temporary. This is what we call "having a tough go of it". This is the struggle that makes us stronger, the strife that tests the strength of our character. But I want to be done with it. The emotional side of me just doesn't have it in me to fight. I just want my life to go back to being easy.

When I moved two years ago, I completely uprooted myself. I tore myself right out of the upward trajectory I was creating for myself. I was saving money, I was driving less. I was reading more. I was paring down and simplifying. Then I bought a house. Now I find myself surrounded with all this STUFF... my life has been complicated with schedules that revolve around my commute, and what part of the city I will be in when. I'm trying to negotiate traffic schedules, and clients' schedules, and activities I want to do, and I can feel my energy being sapped every time. This is not the chaos I crave. The chaos I love involves travel and writing and the creative process. This is none of those things. I feel like I traded in a life of simplicity for this ridiculously, and unnecessarily complicated one.

I am rambling, and I know it. This is supposed to be the place I come to create clarity, to write it all out and make it all pointed and brief and resolute and entertaining. But, tonight I can't. Tonight it is all spilling out and I am feeling like it would be false to end this cleanly. I have been in a state of limbo for so long; making a decision for myself seems like a foreign concept. I suppose this is the part that I have been looking forward to for so long: being able to choose my own future... making a decision based on want and not need. But I have to admit that this is more challenging than I thought it would be. It is difficult to shake off the last 32 years of bowing down to everyone else's dreams. It is difficult to not know what it is I am supposed to be. It is difficult to not feel shame over this. I am trying to stay positive and remember that all this is passing.

There is still so much of the old me left to contend with.

This Just In: International Symbol For "I Surrender" Doubles as "Need New Bra. Please Measure Me"

2009-06-15T00:19:00.000-07:00

As a general rule, I detest clothing shopping. I usually do it alone, and in secret. Mostly because clothing shopping in this country has become something of a vicious sport, and I'm not comfortable being statistically capable, even for a small while, of trampling a Wal-Mart employee to death to get to the sale rack. I'm also painfully aware of the luxury we Americans enjoy in having access to so much for so little- without any mind paid to the social and environmental cost of acquiring those goods so cheaply- so I usually think twice before I buy anything, anything at all. This awareness, more than the price tag or the trendy stylings, or the need for whatever it is I'm shopping for, informs (and inhibits) my shopping habits.

That, and the fact that finding jeans in my size is a akin to trying to put a whole sea lion into a hot dog bun: some things are inherently disappointing, cause unnecessary sweating, and are better left unattempted.

Underneath my layer of consumer consciousness regarding child labor laws and the true cost of shipping formaldehyde-laced clothing in shipping containers across the ocean, there is another consumer layer. The layer that's not interested in wearing earth toned shapeless sacks festooned with peace signs and silk screens of eagles midflight just to prove a point about consumerism. There is a layer that squeals and flaps her hands excitedly over... well... shoes. I love shoes. I do. And I like jewelry. And I like the idea that I, too, should be able to change up my look every season and not be condemned to financial or moral bankruptcy in the process.

Lately I've been trying to lighten up my rather heavy approach to shopping. I'm trying to abandon my role as Rancor Filled Older Sister Who Calls Younger Sister for Fashion Advice Because She Can't Find Anything To Match Her Ironic T-Shirt Collection, and trying to be a little more gentle in my condemnation of retail therapy.

When my friend Victoria suggested last night that we go to an actual shop that sold only underthings to shop for said underthings, I tried to put aside my mixed feelings and instead embrace the reality that I would be, in less than twenty four hours, spending on one piece of underclothing -clothing that no one would see- what I would normally spend in one year on clothes.

As soon as I got to Victoria's Secret (the store, not my friend's), I realized I was dealing with the big leagues. I didn't even have the stamina for my normal hand wringing because it took all my energy to just take in the fanfare with which these bras and panties were displayed. This was not the dismally lit lingerie section of the department store I normally shop. And these were not the JC Penney clearance rack bras I was used to shopping for. No, ma'am. These were meaty, beefy bras, complete with wires and multiple hooks and names like "Very Sexy" and "Angels". These bras had names, for godssake.

Oh, and here's the other reason I loathe clothing shopping: sizing. I started this blog three years ago with an entry about my shopping for jeans (an ordeal that could have easily involved my clawing the eyes out of sales associates and setting dressing rooms on fire, so mighty was my exasperation) and not much has changed in the world of denim leg enclosures for me. Ditto for bras. Bras are designed for women with much more to work with than what I've got. When bras my size are designed, they are stuffed with all manner of foams and liqui-gels and padding, presumably so that the wearer can feel like she can compete in some pretty severe chest bumping competitions without sustaining any major damage to her mammary glands. (Or maybe to give the illusion that she has actually outgrown training bras, but I'd say the chest bumping is really what the designers were going for). I'm not much into push up bras myself. I'm of the opinion that no one should be shoving foam into various parts of their ensemble to enhance their look (I'm talking to YOU, designers of 1980's era shoulderpads). I'm small, but at least at peace with the fact that my genes have dictated that all the stuffing that should be on my chest has been stapled to my ass instead. I don't want to carry two demitasse swimming pools in my shirt just because God is horribly unfair.

I guess I've never actually been bra shopping before. The whole process is supposed to start with a fitting (and not, like I presumed, by sighing heavily and steeling oneself for disappointment). The perky sales associate asked me if I wanted to be measured out in the open. Here? I thought. Right here in the middle of the store? Well, I guess so. I mean, we're all here for the same thing, right? So, I threw my hands over my head, and the perky sales associate threw a tape measure around my chest. Then it was off to the fitting room, where Victoria informed me that the sales associate would be getting me "my drawer". I repeat: I guess I have never been bra shopping before because when I was handed an entire drawer of bras, in different shapes, for me to try on, I nearly fell over from the excitement.

The poor sales associate must have thought I'd just spent the last ten years living in a cave because it took a few seconds for me to to wrap my head around the fact that Victoria's Secret has been making the ordeal of trying on bras MUCH LESS OF AN ORDEAL via a very sexy system of streamlined organization. If I had been able to collect myself enough to form sentences, I might have grabbed the sales associate by the shoulders and exclaimed: This? This whole drawer? I get to try on a whole drawer of bras? This drawer here? Full of bras? And all of them are flattering? And none of them are filled with foam peanuts? And they've all been designed with my shape and size in mind? These bras here? WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY ADULT LIFE?

I settled for a comfortable contoured bra, which is far less imposing than a bra that is so full of strange viscous liquid, it comes with its own red haz-mat disposal bag. I think the sales clerk must have known she was dealing with novice when she rung me up because she actually congratulated me on my purchase when she took my credit card.

So, to all you bra designers who are trying to make us less endowed women feel like we've got some catching up to do: I'm not buying it. I'll make you make you a deal, though. I'll wear your silicone filled bras when you start padding the backs of your jeans with bags of frozen peas. I'd call it even if you did.

Warming the Planet One Ink Cartridge At A Time

2009-06-06T15:37:00.000-07:00

I'm gonna come right out and say it: The people at Canon should be ashamed of themselves.

THIS is why our planet is going to hell in a handbasket. A fiery, unapologetic handbasket.

These little turds CANNOT be recycled. These are ink TANKS, not ink CARTRIDGES. These "tanks" are not hollow. They contain little sponges, sponges that soak up a good twenty five percent of any ink tank, hold it for an indefinite amount of time, and then render it useless. Something about the chip embedded in them, the sponges, and the fact they are made to be impenetrable, renders them unfit for recycling. And before you email me and say, "But have you tried..." let me state the following:

1. You CANNOT bring them to any of the major office supply retailers (Office Depot, Office Max, Staples) and trade them in. Some of these stores have a "turn an empty cartridge in, get money towards your new cartridge" program. Canon tanks do not qualify for this program. The employee may offer to "recycle" the tank for you, but they usually offer this so you'll shut your indignant mouth and move on.

2. You CANNOT ask Canon to recycle them. They have a way to recycle toner cartridges, but not ink tanks. And sure, they'll pay for the shipping to get the toner there, and they will show you many, many pictures of polar bears nuzzling their young on their website and claim that they are doing everything they can to protect the planet. But they, in fact, are not. 'Cause you know what they would do if they were concerned about the earth? NOT MAKE THESE UN-RECYCLABLE PIECES OF SHIT IN THE FIRST PLACE.

3. You CANNOT refill them. Either your very clever printer will recognize your efforts to save the planet, and tell you that it recognizes (via the memory-saving technology stored in the chip on the tank) that you are trying to re-use a re-filled tank, and the tank will not work... OR... you will have to go through a series of button pressings to "trick" the printer into thinking it has a new tank in it. And that's after you've managed to find a kit that will help you messily get the ink into the microscopic holes in the tank. (side note: One website's forum suggested I take a drill and drill a hole in the top of the tank. A drill? Like I'm just going to casually pull a POWER TOOL out of my desk at the office the next time I run out of ink?)

Listen, I'm all about getting my hands a little dirty to help out mother earth. I've filled dozens of ink tanks in my day (mostly HP tanks. Thanks, HP, for ACTUALLY caring about polar bears.) I did it because I thought it was important to NOT throw plastic ink tanks into landfills. But what about the average office worker who doesn't have either the patience or the precision to deal with such an operation? Is it fair to expect that every person using a printer is going to go to the same lengths to not throw a 2 inch square piece of plastic in the trash? Because, given the choice, most people would choose not to ruin their white dress shirts. And I can't say I blame them.

I get it. I like money, too. And Canon makes thousands upon thousands of dollars creating these "consumables" for the printing industry. And there is a whole thriving refill-kit industry out there too. So, who am I to get in the way of every one's cashing in on the impracticality of making my own ink? I just think there's a better way. Canon also claims that their printing is superior because of the whole sponge-tank technology and because its printers physically prevent you from reinstalling spent tanks. I get that too. I understand the benefit of good quality printing. I also understand that plastic doesn't EVER GO AWAY and that Canon is single-handedly creating MILLIONS of pounds of pure trash every year worldwide. What I can't understand is why we can't have both high quality printing AND responsible ways of disposing of the tanks.

I've always thought: if you're going to invent a product that has its obsolescence built into it, you ought to also invent a conscious way to dispose of it. If manufacturers thought this through, they could actually stand to MAKE money on the disposal/recycling part.

My Ear Problems Could Be Due To My Recent Decapitation. Who Knew?

2009-06-02T22:38:00.000-07:00

Well, it's official. I've got Meniere's Diease, or, as I like to call it "Constant Diet of Extruded Corn Meal Covered In Dehydrated Cheese Powder" Disease.

It sounds all exotic and lethal, doesn't it? Meniere's Diease. I like to say it with an exaggerated French accent just so I can pull as much drama as possible out of having an inner ear imbalance caused by addiction to food the color of traffic cones. I don't mean to diminish the pain and suffering others have endured because of this disease; I feel deeply sympathetic. I've lived with this feeling of low grade nausea and discomfort for four years now and it is no picnic. It's just that now that I know how I came to acquire this disease (my own poor eating habits), I don't feel compelled to be all grave and serious when I talk about it. Which is surprising for me, because I usually know exactly when it is appropriate to take things seriously. Like when I need to ask a convenience store clerk if he carries a snack product with the word "Doodle" in its name.

Though the origins are debatable, most doctors think it's caused by an imbalance of sodium in the body. The symptoms range from vertigo, a fullness in one ear, dizziness, tinnitus, hearing loss, and lovely little thing called nystagmus, a "jumping" in your eyeball when exposed to stimuli. And, in keeping with my fanaticism for collecting all things odd and rare, I've managed to add all these wonderfully uncomfortable items to my curio cabinet of health.

Two years ago, I started the process of trying to figure out why my ear hurt when I slept on my left side, and it has led me through a series of tests, including an Audiogram (in which I learned I had lost some of my hearing in my right ear) an MRI, an ECOG, and an ENG, and, most recently, it led me to the doctor who said I was exhibiting pretty classic symptoms of Meniere's Diease. I cannot relate in words how incredibly RELIEVING it is to finally have something to call this annoyance AND to have something to do about it.

Of course, though I am willing and ready to make the necessary adjustments in my life, I am none too happy about it. Plain and simple, I have to lower my salt intake. And, as my doctor pantomimed by shaking her hand in the air above an imaginary plate of food, it's not just the salt I put on my food I have to reduce. She said I would need to lower my intake of processed foods and prepackaged foods. And when she said this, I thought to myself, "Now wait a minute. I'm a most-of-the-time vegetarian who cooks for herself using mostly organic ingredients. I NEVER eat processed foods.... unless, of course... you count the metric tons of salty snacks I eat. mean, I guess you could consider the onion and corn pulp that's been dehydrated, salted, and flash fried into the shape of a ring "processed food". Oh. Wait a second. I eat METRIC TONS OF PROCESSED FOOD." Have you heard about my love for all things curled and cheesy and salty? It is an unnatural love. And I don't even want to tell you what I would do to get my hands on a certain brand of cheddar cheese goldfish crackers. Let's just say it might involve a criminal investigation.

The most recent visit to the doctor's office included an audiogram (wherein the lover-of-all-things-spreadsheet-able in me ignored the fact that the graph was of my own hearing loss and got all hot and bothered by seeing it mapped out on an x and y axis anyway). There was also the requisite wait in the lobby while I filled out an intake form.

And maybe it was because I was feeling extra grumpy that day because that morning I'd woken up with some more classic Meniere's Disease pain, or maybe it was because the receptionist gave me an incredulous "Are you nuts?" look when I told her no, I was no longer with Regence, that I don't have health insurance... but I felt I needed to correct the third grade vocabulary word spelling error on that intake form with a bit of vengeance.

The intake form was worded to determine whether or not my ear pain might have been caused by something like exposure to repetitive loud noises in the workplace, certain diseases, and/or trauma to the head. REALLY BAD trauma to the head.

I present to you now, compliments of my camera phone and the mood lighting in the doctor's office, the most specific question I have ever been asked on a medical intake form:

"Have you ever experienced the following: A sever blow to the head?"

My response, written in the margin? "I've never had my head severed".

I may have lost my hearing, Doc, but my eyesight is still pretty fucking sharp.

Wherein My Demands For Lightheartedness Confuse Serious Young Children

2009-05-31T22:22:00.000-07:00

I can't explain my compulsion to anthropomorphize every object I own. I just know that I name nearly every piece of tchatchki that comes into my life the way a pet owner might her beloved litter of puppies. Don't dare refer to my reading chair as "that dingy thing you got for half price at Pier One". That's Chairy. And she can hear you when you talk about her that way. And that battery powered chewing-action kimono lizard we acquired during our toy-buying dot com days? Well, that's Karl. And he would greatly appreciate it if you didn't pick him up by his meaty rubber tail like that.

If there was ever a reason to want to be monitored by the CIA, I've got as good a reason as any. Between the weird alien language that CLH and I have cultivated to talk cute to one another in, and my drooling idiot names for common household objects, I'd say I'd be able to give any code cracker a good run for his money.

This habit is so out of control that I've actually got my friends calling my possessions by the inane names I've given them. The roomies now call the 100 pounds of acrylic and wool I crocheted for CLH one Christmas "Blankie". Our 24 inch long oversized wooden ladle? Well, that's non other than "Brunhilda". And then there's our longtime favorite, Sugar Chicken.

Sugar Chicken is a re-purposed jelly bean bowl that now houses our sugar. She came to me from a friend who'd received it as a gift from her grandma. It was on its way to Goodwill when I spotted it in my friend's donation box. I took one look at her smoky lime green glass, her chipped midsection, her hollowed out middle still harboring a jelly bean or two, and I decided she would make the perfect sugar bowl. I took her home (my friend incredulous that I would take such googly-eyed delight in the worst America had to offer in home decor) and filled her up.

Something happened with Sugar Chicken that didn't happen with all the other stuff I've assigned names to. Sugar Chicken compelled me to sing a song when I used her. Specifically, I started singing "Sugar Sugar" from the Archies. Only, instead of singing "Sugar Sugar", I sang "Sugar Chicken....dunh dunh DUNH dunh dunh-dunh.... Oh, honey honey... You are my sugar BO-O-O-O-WL, and you've got me wanting y-o-u-u-u-u-u".

And somehow, this tradition of singing the sugar bowl open became unwritten law in our house. No one, not even guests, could use the sugar bowl without first singing the first lines of "Sugar Sugar". Of course, I was more than happy to get them started.... and once they saw the deranged pleasure I took in singing to a glass bowl, they were free to spoon the sugar into their coffees (and make a mental note to bring their own sweetener to the next brunch I hosted.)

The institutionalization of this custom became very real in our house just a few weeks ago when our friend Jodi and her 5 year old son, Sage, came to spend the night. The night they arrived, we sat around drinking coffee, sweetened, naturally, by Sugar Chicken. CLH informed Sage, in a mock serious tone, that we never EVER open up Sugar Chicken without first singing the Sugar Chicken song. We all then commenced singing the Sugar Chicken song. Sage took in the scene of five grown adults gathered around a chicken-shaped bowl singing a 1960s pop song and I imagine he stored it in the part of his brain labeled "Cult Experiences I Had As A Child That Now Prevent Me From Eating Chicken And Sugar".

The next morning, Josh came downstairs and found Sage hard at work herding all the slugs in our front yard into a new "home" constructed of leaves and twigs. Sage had been up for a while before any of the other adults were out of bed. He came in to the kitchen to chat with Josh while Josh prepared breakfast. As Josh was getting the coffee going, Sage stopped him and said, with deadly seriousness in his voice, "Um, you don't need to sing the Sugar Chicken song this morning because I already did".

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the legacy I will be leaving to our youth.

Hallelujah, He Is RAWKING HARD!

2009-05-28T22:30:00.000-07:00

Is it sacrilege to be thinking about the writing material a hymnal offers while you're attending a Jewish ceremony for a friend inside a Christian church? Because, if it's not, then I at least broke the commandment that states, "Thou shalt not find humor in the song title 'Eternal Christ, You Rule'".

The roomies invited me to their synagogue tonight to celebrate the recent conversion of our good friend. (Congrats, Josh!) And while I was able to follow the Hebrew along for most of the ceremony (the phonetic pronunciations were mercifully printed below the Hebrew letters in the booklet), my mind started to wander there at the end of the ceremony when I lost track of what page we were supposed to be on. Instead of nudging CLH and asking where we were, I picked up a hymnal tucked into the back of the pew in front of us and started thumbing through it. And, lo, there came upon me the most incredible hymn titles I had ever seen in print.

I was raised Catholic, in a very small church. I would not say I was raised in a church. I was raised by my Catholic parents who felt it was their duty to drag their four unwilling children away from their Sunday morning Abbot-&-Costello-on-public-television-routines to go to church, probably so they could be imbued by the priest with some sense of right and wrong (umm.... sorry that backfired so horribly, mom and dad). I can probably count on one hand the number of hymns I can remember being sung in church. And I say "being sung" because if there was anything worse than being dragged to an eerily lit, cold, cavernous building on Sunday when all you wanted to do was eat scrambled eggs and stay in your pajamas till three in the afternoon, it was having to sing in that eerily lit, cold, cavernous building. Singing was for the single old ladies at the back of the church... and Vicki's mom, whose singing God could probably hear from Heaven, it was that loud.

The hymns I remember were the ones we had to memorize for First Holy Communion... hymns like "Here I Am, Lord", and also the ones we sang during the mass like "Let There Be Peace On Earth". Stuff that sounded like, when accompanied by the slow pipe organ about a mile above us in the balcony, mules in their death throes.

The one that always made my heart catch in my throat, even as a young kid, was "Ave Maria". Maybe it was that I'd made the connection between the organ-led drudgery that was our church's version and the final chapter of Disney's "Fantasia"... when I understood, for the first time in my life, how songs can have multiple interpretations... or maybe it was that my mother's eyes glazed over and she smiled a little every time she heard it, and it was the only time in my life I ever really saw her in a state of silent reverence... or maybe it was that, after mindlessly following along in the hymnal for so many years, at age 15 (having passed Latin I in high school) I could finally understand that "Ave Maria" meant "praise for Mary" and not "Maria Street"... but that song always brought me to tears. Of course, most of the other hymns brought me to tears too, but that was because I was so bored at church, crying seemed like a good alternative to crushing my feet for fun in the hinge of the kneeler.

The hymns I found in the hymnal tonight were actual songs of praise. They seemed like something someone might sing when excited about their god. Definitely not the obligatory "wearecatholicandwesingbecausethisisthepartofthemasswherewesiiii-iiiiing" songs. The titles of these things were amazing. At one point, I mistook the words "eternal splendor" for "eternal spider" and I almost asked out loud, "WHERE HAVE THESE SONGS BEEN MY WHOLE LIFE?"

There were so many songs from different countries, too! Spanish songs, and South African songs, and one from Japan, titled "Ah What Shame I Have To Bear".

After I'd cleared out of my head the image of a giant arachnid seated at the Right Hand of The Father, I stumbled upon my favorite: "Behold The Host All Robed In Light". I don't want to admit just how spiritually bankrupt I am, but I think the fact that I thought of, first, a dinner party I throw where I am wearing nothing but light, and secondly, a parasite making its victim all glow-y, might indicate that I have lost my religion entirely.

When I really think about it, I guess still believe in the basic tenets of Catholicism. I didn't really know I still believed in them until just recently when I had the opportunity to really compare them to the belief systems of other types of Christianity; but the guiding principals of my life (do unto others as you would have done unto you, love thy neighbor as thyself) are still actively guiding my adult decisions. What the Catholic church is going through right now with the sex scandals is horrific and understandably devastating. But, I never (thank Flying Spaghetti Monster) had any inappropriate experiences with priests... nor do I really identify with the guilt that most folks associate with Catholicism, nor was I taught to snub any of the other religions out there. My Catholicism was pretty kind, and humble, and considerate, above all, of others.

I don't go to church, and I don't do much else on Christian holidays but eat candy, but I am thankful for the groundwork my parents laid for me. I have to believe that all those years of having to endure Vicki's mom belting out "Hallelujah" into the stratosphere, and missing the Sunday Early Movie left me with some moral fiber. Just not the kind that considers snickering at hymnal titles in church a sin.

Artful Bitching and How To Realize When Your Body Is Telling You Something

2009-05-26T21:43:00.000-07:00

Internet, I've been away, and I apologize. Typing has been extremely painful these last few days, so I have been resting my hands. I have a finger injury. Okay, it's more like a fingernail injury. I can't actually tell what it is because (if you're squeamish, now would be a good time to just skip to paragraph two) every time I try to trim back the cuticle around the middle finger of my right hand, blood and pus come oozing out, blocking my view of the wound site. CLH thought it might be a splinter, but I argued that a splinter should not make your finger ooze, nor should it make it numb. Plus, I should be able to see a splinter. And all I can see at this point is layer upon layer of ragged skin around my nail where I have been tearing away with my manicurist's tools for the past few days. That, and some dried blood. This is now the third or so mystery injury that I've sustained on the right side of my body. And if you think I take these kinds of things lightly, well then you have me mistaken for someone who is not ultra sensitive to every little thing and not just a little bit woo-woo.

The past few days have been odd and great.

I made an appointment to see a cranio-sacral therapist to help out with my ear stuff. CLH has been hounding me about making an appointment with this therapist for probably more than a year now, but I have been resisting. I didn't want anymore turtle-shell rattle-waving in my general direction from another "alternative therapist" before I went to a western MD and had my head x-ray'd for this ear issue. You'd think I would be a little more open to the turtle-shell rattle folks, being practically married to someone who does alternative healing for a living. But, I can't help but have a bad taste in my mouth. After my original cranio sacral therapist all but kicked me to the curb two years ago, giving me the excuse that she just didn't think we should work together anymore... and after the naturopath I saw dismissed me after five minutes of consultation, I didn't want anything but a big, deadly machine to tell me what was wrong with my ears. Unfortunately, the stress of trying to rent this house has really exacerbated this ear thing lately, so, I decided to give in and see this illustrious Dr. Pat CLH has been raving about.

And, man alive, am I glad I did. She is everything CLH said she would be.

A little background: cranio sacral therapy is a healing modality in which the therapist, by subtly manipulating the plates of the skull, allows for the movement of cerebrospinal fluid within the head and spine. The general effect is that the patient feels relaxed, relieved, and maybe a little lightheaded. That's my scientific understanding of it, anyway. I'm sure a quick Google search will reveal that lots of people think it's pure quackery. To me, though, all medicine is just Dumbo's magic feather in a labcoat. And I say, whatever modality gets you feeling like you're at your optimum, go for it. I do things like accupuncture and craniosacral because I can physically feel the results, and the results are generally awesome. I am fully willing to admit that it might just be me convincing myself that it's working, but who cares? I'm of the belief that a little bit of positive thinking never hurt a healing process. Anywho, I could actually FEEL the effects of Dr. Pat's work. Not only could I feel the intended movement in my head, which left me feeling slightly nauseous but happy that SOMEthing was unsticking itself up there, I had some intense visualizations that were deeply moving.

Now, as if giving a woman $70 to gently rock my head back and forth doesn't sound desperate-for-relief and turtle shell rattle-y enough, my visualizations were pretty damned outta-this-world, too. My visualizations during my therapy sessions are always revealing in this profound sort of way, and what I saw while I was laying on Dr. Pat's table was nothing short of THE GREATEST METAPHOR IN MY LIFE EVER. I saw with my mind's eye that the inside of the left side of my head was all pink and plump and juicy- it looked kind of like what a healthy intestinal tract might look like, or maybe a healthy brain- all squiggly and bunched together, teeming with blood vessels and shiny with some deep-inside-the-body lubricant. The right side (the side where my throbbing, aching ear lives) looked like something out of a Hollywood set. It was a old tin box, irregularly shaped, and lining its insides was fuzzy grey mold. I had the sensation of old age, and neglect, and a little bit of Boo Radley's house. Then I had the feeling that Dr. Pat was reaching in there- I could see hands gently scooping out that mold. And I was grateful- grateful that someone wasn't grossed out by the state of my head, and grateful that she was brave enough to get in there and clean some of the crap out.

And that was all at 10 am that day.

Later on that same day, I had a great talk with my friend Tracy about writing. She's an aspiring writer, and she works part time for a non-profit that I do the books for. She's such an inspiration to me. She just up and decided one day that she'd had enough of her own excuse making, so she applied to a graduate program for creative writing, and now, two years and a degree later, she's got a mostly finished manuscript for a play she's written that's ready for production. She's been trying to talk me into signing up for this same program for some time now. Always curious about her process, and excited about her nearing graduation, I asked her to tell me the greatest lesson she's learned about her writing. And she told me that, prior to her program, she never made time for her writing. Even when she finally learned to schedule time to do it daily, she would double and triple book herself with appointments so she could avoid the computer. Now that she's gone through the program, she's learned that she needs to treat writing like the daily exercise/job it is. I cannot thank her enough for sharing that little nugget of wisdom. While she was talking, I thought about how much I needed to learn about making regular time for my writing. I shared the image of the musty tin box on my right side with her... and suddenly my brain made a synaptic jump. The right side of my body... the side that scientists say is the impetuous, artsy, feeling side... is starting to mold from disuse. The left side, the one that does math and science, the one that balances my checkbook, and the checkbooks of my clients, is alive and well. The mysterious bug bite that has taken a chunk out of my right leg... the fingernail injury... the ear.... all on my right side. All right side, right brain, art brain functionality experiencing a major breakdown. It was like my right side was just screaming at me to DO SOMETHING already. I'm a FREAKING BOX OF MOLD, FOR GOD'S SAKE. It was saying that I needed to replace that box with something vibrant, something pulsating with life and creativity! Something worthy of the right side of my brain, the side that writes and dreams and drifts off into plot lines all day long.

Well, damn. That little revelation was well worth $70.

That night, feeling still slightly queasy from my session with Dr. Pat, I decided to take a nap before heading out to see Lindsay perform her burlesque routine (which was AWESOME!). I couldn't sleep, though, because aside from the general grunting and laughing noise that was coming from the backyard full of CLH's friends through the windows, it sounded like someone was hammering on the pipes DIRECTLY underneath my bedroom floor. You see, we've found someone to live in and pay rent for the basement. It's a small step to getting this place full of money paying renters. She's been moving in for the past few weeks and it has suddenly been made very clear to me that there is NO NOISE BARRIER between the basement and the two rooms in the house I spend the most time in. I can hear EVERYthing from below. So, in a rage at not being able to get one moment's peace in my own home, I took off for the show early. And I drove to the coffeehouse that sells my favorite coffee and I hunkered down with a book and an americano for an hour before the show.

Of course, it never fails. Whenever I am by myself in public, I attract all sorts. An older man sat down next to my table and asked me what time the place closed. Now, I've heard ALL kinds of come-on lines... everything from "I like your hair" to "Do you know of a good place to dance around this city? 'Cause I was thinking you could show me some time..." This guy, though, wasn't trying to guess my sign. He was actually interested in the time. And when I told him, he followed up by asking if this coffee shop had always been a coffee shop. I closed my book, turned to him and the dog eared stack of papers he was holding in his lap and settled in a for a long conversation with another member of the I-Am-Weird-So-I-Will-Talk-To-YOU-Pretty-Accommodating-Lady club.

Thing is, though, he wasn't weird. On the contrary. He was one of the most interesting strangers I have ever met. He was a screenplay writer. That rumpled stack of paper in his lap that looked like it was covered in Klingon was actually a work in progress. Some of his screenplays had been turned into movies that were being shown at Seattle's International Film Festival! And he seemed genuinely interested in my writing when I said I was experimenting with this blog. He wanted to know what my message was. What it was I saying in my blog. And because "contemplative musings about mostly nothing" or "artful bitching" seemed a little too vague, I said I wasn't quite sure yet. That I was still trying to figure it out. Mostly my writing is exactly what a blog was designed for: diary entries about my chronic ear and intestinal blockages and also a place to moan about how much it sucks to shop at the health food store. And since that sounded incredibly self indulgent and not just a little lame as hell, I decided I would spend more time thinking about it over the next few days.

I haven't quite reached any decisions yet about anything. I am just so grateful for this new awareness in my life. so I am going to sit with it for a few days while my finger heals.

So, Thank you, Tracy, for teaching me that it's okay to hang a sock on the door when I'm busy writing. Thank you, Lindsay, for showing me that you still need to practice your craft even when you don't think it's perfect. Thank you, strange dude at coffee shop, for forcing me to dig down deep for my message. And thank you, Dr. Pat, for revealing to me the rusty insides of my creative machinery... and for the hand in clearing out all that space to make room for more writing.

Updates on Mostly Nothing

2009-05-18T23:37:00.001-07:00

I've decided to take a break from responding to the morons who have inundated my inbox with requests to pay me rent via third party out of state checks to bring you this breaking news:

WAMU is now CHASE! (Cue the Darth Vader walking music...) Look at that evil octagonal corporate blue eyeball looking down on you. Doesn't it give you the willies? I think Chase got off easy - taking over a bank with a mostly blue logo. They certainly won't have to spend much on remodeling....which kinda makes me feel better about having a international behemoth take over my neighborhood bank; at least they have their priorities in order. They knew better than to take over a green colored bank, for instance. They've already done the math on the retrofitting costs! Step one to success! Outfitting hundreds of banks with ugly, color coordinated, itchy wool furniture costs MONEY, people. Money the good people at Chase have opted to SAVE by taking over a blue colored bank. Geniuses. All of them. Not like the brainiacs at WAMU. Sure, they got themselves all tangled up in the sub prime mortgage crisis. But we all know the REAL reason WAMU tanked. It was that stupid "Whoo Hoo!" ad campaign. That'll teach ALL the banks a thing or two about advertising. Take a hint, Capitol One. One more fucking ad involving Vikings and what's in my wallet, and you're toast.

In other news, insomnia amongst people who sleep in my bed is on the rise, our house isn't rented yet, and in sports, my right ear is still aching. I called the doctor this morning, explained that I still can't sleep comfortably on my left side because the eardrum of my right ear feels like it might sear a hole right through my brain and come out through my left nostril, it hurts that bad. I have an appointment in two weeks. I can't seem to convince anyone in the medical world that this pain should be taken seriously. I've learned that unless you are bleeding from your eyes, or threatening to kill yourself or others when you get inside a doctor's office, you get thrown into a metaphorical rubber room and told to wait out whatever's ailing you. Because the pain I've had wasn't affecting my ability to go to work or make an egg salad sandwich, I was pretty much dismissed by every doctor I saw. I was told, in effect, that there was nothing wrong with me. I was given prescriptions like "Don't eat dairy", and "brush your neck with this a stiff bristled brush to stimulate your lymphatic system." I am normally ALL ABOUT alternative methods of coping with illness. But I was feeling like this was something more than a dairy allergy. I was so miffed that, at one point, in a subsequent visit to yet another doctor, I actually had her draw a diagram of what she saw on my eardrum through her otoscope on a piece of paper so we could both see that I wasn't imagining the pain. (By the way, if you ever want to scare the hell out of yourself and/or marvel at how far we've come [or not come] since the Dark Ages, Google "medical instruments to look in ears". There's a tool called a "bayonet". I'm not even joking. It looks like it would fit on the tip of a very small rifle. And doctors use this tool, today, in 2009, to perform surgery on ears. Unreal.) Anywho, I have an appointment in two weeks with another doctor who is going to give me another audiogram to determine, for the second time in two years, that I can't hear so well out of my right ear. If nothing else, that first round of tests two years ago taught me that I need to be a little more demanding when I get to the doctor's office. This time, I'm going to try to get someone to x-ray the right side of my head. If they don't find the piece of lead I am sure is sitting on my cochlear nerve, or the 6 inch piece of the Rosetta Stone I'm sure is clogging my Eustachian tubes, I'll eat my hat.

And now for this week's weather. Forecast calls for a big middle finger being waved in my face from the North, indicating I am an idiot for thinking that it would actually be warm in May. There is a put-your-sundresses-away-until-August advisory in effect. Vitamin D levels are nearing precipitously low levels. Moodiness gaining strength on the western front.

Please, Internets. Send me some renters. Please keep the craigslist meth addicts from bargaining me down from $15 to $10 on a cheap wooden TV stand, and, for god's sake, send me some sun.

She REALLY wants to live here....

2009-05-14T23:25:00.001-07:00

Hi There,

I got your mail. Thanks for geting back to me so quick and I am extremely interested in ur room since you said you are not expecting it to be too long and i don't want you to rent it out to any other person...... I will inform company client I worked in the states for before I quit to arrnage for my last payment to you so that you can deduct the payment of the room out of it. You seem to be a very good and nice person. I want you to know that i'm a very straight forward and honest person. I contacted the person who i worked for when i was in the states. The man is owing me and he is ready to pay me with acheck. I will be paying ahead my arrival for a month, which is very important and that will secure the Place for me, and as soon as I arrive others important things will be taken care of before moving in the Place. I want you t o know that the first month payment will be made in full via Certified Bank Cashier's Check or Money Order and that will stand as commitment ahead my arrival. So i will inform him to issue out the check to you, so that the check can stand as the payment of the room. All you got to do now is to send me your full name name, contact address and phone number so that i can forward it to my client who will issue the check out to you... As soon as i get these info i requested for, i will forward them to my client immediately. As soon as you recieve the check you will deduct the frist month out of it you will now help me forward the remaning balance to my traveling manager so that i can use it to book for my flight back to the states. I just want to make sure i get the room before i get back to the state.. I will like stay there for a year even more that till when i will have my own personal place but I will prefer month to month lease.
More About me: ABOUT ME:
Name: Rose Michaels
E yes: Black
Age: 26yrs
Height: 5' 6' (167cm)
Weight: 122 pounds (55.0 kg)
Body Style: Athletic/Fit Activity
Level: Active
Smoking: No
Drinking: Socially
Marital Status: Single
Children: I have no kids
Sign: Virgo
Languages I speak: English & Spanish
Ethnicity: Spanish
Religion:Catholic/Christianity
Education: MCSA/MCSE
Occupation: Fashion Designer
My favorites are;
My favorite cuisines: Barbecue, Chinese/Dim Sum, Deli, Eastern-European, Fast Food/Pizza, French, Greek,Indian, Italian, Japanese/Sushi, Mexican, Seafood,
Soul Food, Thai, Vietnamese
My favorite music: Dance/Electronica, Disco, Easy Listening, Pop/Top 40, Rap/Hip Hop, Soul/R&B and Soundtracks.
My favorite physical activities: Basketball, Working Out, Dancing, Swiming and Hiking/Walking I love travelling, sporting and enjoy meeting people. I don't smoke or drink but i do not mind people who do being around me. Am cool headed and easy go ing person with no criminal record and i like to have a roommmate or neighabour who is very responsible and understanding,someone i can really get a long. As soon as you get this mail pls get back to me with the info i requested for so that every thing can be done fast. Take care and I will be looking forward to hear from you soon.

Thanks and have a good time..
Warmest Regards,
Rose

My response:

Dear Rose,
I'm going to do away with the niceties and cut right to the chase. The rooms are all but yours. You won me over with a single line in your response: Your body type. Now, I know most landlords wouldn't care about this sort of thing (and I'm pretty sure it's illegal to sell someone housing based on their physical fitness) but, well, it's important to me. You see, Rose, I need your body. I can't afford to rent to just any fat ass. No, Rose. What I need in my house is a lean mean muscle machine... what we in America call "a hard body". Can you be a hard body for me, Rose? I'll tell you why this is so important, Rose. It's the yard. The yard is a shambles. It needs a LOT of work. Work that only those possessing the body type "athletic/fit activity" are going to be able to handle.

You see, Rose, when we moved into this place, we had high hopes of making that yard the new Garden of Eden. We were going to prune the fruit trees and tame the lawn and really get those vegetable patches producing. But, you know how it goes, Rose. Sometimes life just gets in the way. And sometimes you have less time for big projects than you thought. So, I need to have my yard maintained, Rose, and it's going to be the responsibility of the renter to keep it looking good. I wouldn't want the (racist) neighbors to get any ideas about letting their lawns go because mine has gone to seed! Anyway, Rose, this yard, it needs help. It needs your athleticism and it needs it now.

Do you have experience pushing a lawnmower, Rose? The kind that neither plugs in nor uses gas? Because we only have the old fashioned kind. And the yard is nearly a quarter of an acre. On a slope. So, every two weeks, Rose, you're going to have to put on your Wellies and get out there and mow. It should only take about half the day. That will leave you the other half of the day for the other yard work. There are the rose bushes that need pruning, the ornamentals that will need thinning, the blackberries that will need trimming... and that's just the front yard! Oh, I almost forgot! I hope you're not afraid of coyotes, rats, rabbits, or raccoons, Rose. Your ability to run a mile without getting winded will really come in handy when you encounter our charming neighborhood friend, "Bandit", going through the compost pile!

Anywho, Rose, I'm sure your company client's accounting department is familiar with the procedure for illegal Internet scams, so you just have them wire me one million US dollars right away. That will cover your first week. Once you've learned to operate the WeedWacker, we can lower the rent to something more reasonable... say, something in the hundreds of thousands.

Your Pal With A Green Thumb (in your eye),
GoFuckYourself

Sleepless In Just-South-Of-Seattle

2009-05-13T01:16:00.001-07:00

Oh, Internet. I can't sleep. Not with CLH rhythmically kicking me in the shin with his icy toes like that. I'm going to ask him tomorrow morning if he beat Lance Armstrong on the uphill because he's CLEARLY trying to out-pedal SOMETHING right now.

Things I am thinking about instead of sleeping:

1. I need to rent this house out. NEED TO. This whole living in limbo thing is getting REALLY OLD really fast.
2. I finally caved in and joined (wincing) Facebook. If, in ten years, economists are wondering about the precipitous drop in American productivity right around this time period, I think they'll know who to blame. EVERYONE has welcomed me into the fold with a variation on this sentence: "Welcome to the greatest time suck ever known to man". I've already found half my grammar school class (not hard since there were a whopping 25 of us in the graduating class)... and it's odd to see my childhood playmates... with boobs. And bald spots. I know I'm not a) delivering a social commentary that hasn't already been delivered about this cultural phenomenon or b) saying anything profound or unique, but, seriously. Boobs and bald spots. On my childhood friends.
3. I am really tickled by how many FAKE FUCKING EMAILS I am receiving from scam artists about this house rental. Just wait till I show you the latest round. I could have a full time job just responding to them.
4. On some days (like today) I feel like throwing out all my possessions out and starting over. I've already begun the process of photographing and listing all the stuff I think will sell on Craigslist before we move so that we don't have to move with it. I cannot WAIT to be rid of it all. Something about austere living has really got me in its clutches right now. Of course, I know that as soon as the weather gets better and the garage sales start happening in my neighborhood, I'm going to want to make the inside of my house look like a Bennigan's turned up to 11... so I'm holding on to this feeling of wanting renewal while it lasts.

Response to Potential Renter #2

2009-05-11T22:12:00.000-07:00

Received a few days ago (and again this evening. Error number one, morons. Don't send the same scam email twice.)

"Hi There, How re you doing? I hope all is well. I'm Rose Michaels, am 26 yrs old and Am originally from Barcelona, Spain . Graduate of Huelva University on the Costa de la Luz, I have a master degree in interior fashion and I work as a professional fashion designer. I moved to Phoenix , AZ two year ago for work and that's where am living. I'm am not in the states right now, i am presently in West africa . I am currently working on contract for a company call (African Family Home Fashions) here in West Africa ( Nigeria) which the contract will be ending soon. I will be returning to states in two weeks time and I don't want to go back to my where am living in Phoenix because my house rent has expired there. I enjoy traveling, It is very interesting to get more knowledge about the new countries, new people and traditions. It's great to have such a possibility.

As i was searching through the web i saw the advert of your room. I would like to know maybe it's still available becasue i'm extremely interested in it. Here are the questions i would like to know about the room before planing to move in to the following questions below:
A}I will like to know the major intersection nearest your neighbourhood.like shopping mall,Churches,bus line e.t.c
B}I will like to know the total cost for the my initial move as in first month rent and if you accept deposit.
C}I will like to know if there is any garage or parking space cos I will have my own car come over.
D}I will like to have the rent fee per month plus the utilities.
E}I will like to have the description of the room, size, and the equipments in there.
F}I will also like to know Your payment mode.
G}I will like to know if I can make an advance payment ahead my arrival that will be stand as a kind of commitment that I am truely coming over and for you to hold the room down for me. I will be very glad to have all this questions answered with out leaving a stone unturned... Now a little about myself;I am from Barcelona, Spain : that means i am Spanish and had all my education in Spain . I am 26yrs old and very much single,the only child of my only parent,my mother alive, i lost my father and my only brother years ago while i was still a kid in an auto accident.I am currently living with my mom who's a catholic volunteer worker,but also manages her antique business. She is a volunteer at the sister's of the eucharistic heart of jesus convent,here in Barcelona , Spain . I have been wanted to relocated to the US longtime ago even while i was a little girl growing up and my mom is in support.It' been a long dreamed come true for me when i finnally settled in the US now. I have chosen your city for me to live when i arrive. I am easy to get along with and well mannered. I do not use people's items without permission and consideration.
Kindly get back to me ASAP with the your monthly rent and the deposit i need to pay to enable you turn down other interested parties and keep the place for me until i arrive,because i will like to pay for the deposit before my arrival and i will like to know the total amount the rent for a whole year would be,as i am more interested in a long term lease,but still open to any form of lease you want. But i will like to pay the deposit first of all before i arrive to show my seriousness and so that you can hold the place for me until i arrive.I am single as i said and i am not attached to anyone at the moment. I do part time modeling; i call myself an amateur though,LOL,just something i take as a hobby and also i have a masters degree in interior fashion which i bagged from the Huelva University on the Costa de la Luz in Spain . I will be looking to pick up Fashion Designer jobs once i arrive in ur city, Fashion Designer is my life and i love it. I am new living all alone as i have lived with my mom alone in the past but i have no doubs in my mind about my ability to live peacefully with as i was raised to be a lover of peace. A friend just introduced me to this thing and i really wish that i am able to find the good cultured kind of Place i am looking for here. I hope i am doing it right anyways.LOL. Well,i think we will get along well because am a easy going person who respects ones privacy,like i said i dont do drugs or smoke but i drink only occasionally,i strongly believe there will be any problems living with me as i was raised by strong catholic Christain parents and have inbibed such good qualities from childhood. I will love to see your pics and those of the place as well.I'll be so glad if you can reserve the room for me and remove all your the adverts abt the place as i'll love to rent the place.
Get back to me ASAP
Thanks and have a good time,and you can give me a buzz cos i am presently online on my IM ( rosesmich0101 ).
Warmest Regards,
Rose"

And, here's my response:

Dear Rose,
Perhaps you might know my friend, Make Mike Jason Smith! He, too, is a fashion designer living abroad or in the states (depending on which line in the email you believe), and he too needs an apartment! I have to tell you, Rose, that I am really intrigued at the DIRECT corollary between earners-of-masters-in-fashion-design and the sudden homelessness pandemic amongst you all. You ALL seem to be searching for apartments at exactly the same time! No worries, though. I'm sure there's room for all of you here in our fair city.

I love that you "bagged" your degree. You must be incredibly smart. And totally hip to be using a word like "bagged" when referring to a degree in a HIGHLY competitive field. I'm confused, though, Rose. Why would someone as smart as yourself want to know about the bus lines AND want to know about a parking garage on the premises? Is it because you are driving a bus? That would be WAY cool, Rose. And probably a nice way to supplement your fashion designer income! As for churches, I can't say. I'm not a church goer, Rose. But, whatever your parents gave you to drink as a kid that immediately made you full of Christian values, I would love to try it. I've never tried chugging Christian values myself, but, hey. I'm not one to turn away God if he comes in a convenient 12 ounce size.

I am concerned about your pursuit of the fashion world here in our small corner of the world, Rose. Really concerned. I don't know how they do it over there in Nigeria, but here in the Northwest, high fashion is considered not wearing socks with your Teva sandals. Also, if your fleece Harry Potter hat matches your ski boot bindings. I hate to disappoint you, Rose, because, believe me, I know what it's like to be disappointed by something that is masquerading as something it's not, but this place does not take kindly to fashion. And I know that, with your degree in fashion and all, you're going to want to be inspired by your environment. But this place inspires only smelly ultimate Frisbee players and Bigfoot with its fashion sense. You'd be better served ~~scamming~~ looking in some other major city for housing.

I, too, strongly believe there will be any (and all) problems with you living here. So here's what I suggest: give Make Mike Jason Smith a buzz. I'll even give you is email! It's: make_smith2005@yahoo.com. He's looking for a place, you're looking for a place. Why don't you guys room together? That way, when the police come and arrest you for email baiting, they only have to make one stop.

With Warmest Apologies for Your Horrible Spelling,
GoFuckYourself

What To Do With That Damned Catchy Song

2009-05-10T18:13:00.000-07:00

Okay, so we all know that I have been obsessing about a particular little pop song. Apparently, I'm not the only one who's been fixating on it. (The friends CLH and I went out drinking with last night ALSO think it's catchy). And this morning, as I watched the video for said song UH-GAIN, something came to me.

I have an idea for the inmates at Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center.

Wait. You don't know about the Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center? Go to YouTube right now and search for "prison" and "Thriller" (and try not to think of the implications of searching for an actual thriller in an actual prison.) Now watch the video of the reenactment of the Thriller video....by 100 or so prisoners in orange jumpsuits. ISN'T THAT AMAZING? And while you're at it, check out the OTHER half dozen or so songs they have choreographed. I mean, have you ever seen such discipline, such attention to detail, from a bunch of, well... prisoners? I'm beginning to think their only crime was loving the dance too much...

Okay, so now that we know these guys can do the "Soulja Boy" moves like nobody's business, I think it's time we bumped it up a notch. I mean, they are clearly capable of dancing in formation, so it's only natural that they take on the next great dance routine of our time. It's the song on every one's lips. It's fun, it's infectious, and even Andy Samberg has danced to it on national television. I think we all know where I'm going with this. That's right. Those guys in the orange jumpsuits should roll up their pant legs, get themselves some ridiculously high heels, and re-enact the Single Ladies video.

Come on, fellas. Whaddya say? Put your hands up?

My Response to a Potential Renter

2009-05-08T21:28:00.000-07:00

Here's the email I received this evening, after posting my ad on Craigslist, from one "Make Jason" (that's his email return address name).

Hello ,
I saw your advert on craigslist .com ,I'm interested in renting the room . My name is Smith Mike (27 years) ,I am a young male,I am a fashion designer , i'm friendly professional male looking for housing in the USA area in hopes of moving closer to my Job , i am a fashion designer . I would like to shear 1 bedroom and a private/ share bathroom with male or female gender, I prefer to have straight male or female as a roommates. I'd like to sign 1 year lease and planning to move as soon as possible meanig that i will be staying for a minimum of 12 months. My budget is at the range of $500-$1800 per month including the utilities .
Please kindly get ack to me with the total movein for the first month?
A little bit about me: I currently live and work in ,San Diego California, working with 005 WAREHOUSE WHOLESALE CLOTHING & APPAREL our Head office is in melbourne in Australia . I'm not a huge partier either. I enjoy the performing arts, I don't smoke but have no problem with people who do, I'm pretty neat but not a clean freak.More i don't have pets but i will get to like it if you have I'm pretty low-key,independent, considerate and very friendly! I'm not a partier, drinker, drug-abuser, or smoker by ANY means. I'm not a super clean freak, but I will certainly contribute to the cleaning of the common areas of the house. I'm pretty quiet and won't have > a lot of guests
over… I'll rarely have overnight guests. Please email me if you feel I'd be a good fit for your next roomie!
N.b
Incase there is needs for me to attach my pictures please feel free to ask ,Please
kindly get back to me with the total rent for the first month and deposite if included.
Smith Mike

And here's my response:

Hello, Mike, Make, Jason, Smith, or whatever else you call yourself (all seem suspicious to me).

Thank you kindly for your interest in my house! Your first month's rent, should you choose to accept the terms of our contract, will be 1 million US dollars. I know that seems high Mike Make Jason Smith, but it is for a good reason. You see, we have to keep the first month's rent that high because, Mike Make Jason Smith, there are many dishonest people in the world, and we need to charge a high price to protect ourselves from those dishonest people. Let me explain what they do, Mike Make Jason Smith. Those dishonest people often pretend to be living abroad, looking for housing in the USA, and they write to people like me asking for my bank account number so they can "pay" me for rent on the room-share I have advertised for on the Internet. But, Mike Make Jason Smith, they do not use that information to pay people like me anything. In fact, those people (we call them "scam artists") try to TAKE money from those accounts. Do you know what a scam is, Mike Make Jason Smith? You would never try to scam me, would you, Mike Make Jason Smith? It would be very unfortunate if you did, because, you see, we in the USA have ways of dealing with people like you, and it's not very pleasant. Have you heard of a little nation called "Iraq"? Full of scammers.

Anyway, Mike Make Jason Smith, I know your intentions are sound, and I know you are WAY hip because you are into the performing arts and fashion design and that you are super laid back about pets and smoking. And it sounds like you're going to be a great match for our cleaning schedule and overnight prostitute policy... so, why don't you go ahead and get that check ready (we don't give out banking information over the Internet, you silly goose!). I'll give you my mailing address just as soon as you send me your bank information, your address, your phone number, your mother's maiden name, your government identification number, your driver's license number, your blood type, and your health insurance policy group number. Oh, and a picture would be nice, too.

Yours in domesticity,
GoFuckYourself

(In case you want to send Mike Make Jason Smith an small note reminding him that it's not nice to bait people on the Internet... here's his email: make_smith2005@yahoo.com.)

My New Profession

2009-04-26T21:21:00.000-07:00

So, I won't bore you with the beginning part of this story in which I forget to write down the address to the open house I want to attend and I call my Taller Younger Brother who lives across the country, for god's sake, ask him to open up my gmail account and hunt for it in there... and when he can't find it, demand he open up craigslist and search for what I remember of the address under "houses for rent" in my city and then Google "79th St. and cute house". Because I would never, ever want you to believe that I could be a) that forgetful or b) that desperate for an address that I would call someone in another time zone to help me find a house that was about five blocks where I was sitting in my parked car.

The real story here is that when I got to said house, (which was, in fact, on 79th street, but was only cute on the outside) Michele, who was supposed to be showing the house, was not there. Instead, there was an older gentleman there. An older gentleman wearing a tie tack in the shape of a house key. A house-key-shaped tie tack that was pinned to his tie and his fuchsia colored shirt. A gentleman who looked like he had recently been in a fight with a bag of boiling hot french fries because half of his forehead and part of his right cheek were covered in short purple scars. Now, had this guy just been wearing a hot pink shirt, or a key shaped tie tack, or just covered in bizarre scars, there really wouldn't be any story here. I'd just tell you that a slow moving man with unfortunate looking scars showed me a house that smelled of cat pee.

No, the real story is this: When I got there, he was in the middle of telling the people who'd arrived before me that he was only filling in for Michelle, that there weren't many questions he could answer about the house. I felt a little bad for him. He seemed very out of place. If he had ever been a real estate agent (and I'm guessing he didn't get that shiny tie tack for selling steak knives door to door), it seems like he had been out of the game for a while. Perhaps he had been recovering from the accident with his face and the nail gun when Michelle called and asked him to cover for her. I don't know. He just kept talking nervously to everyone who came into the house to compensate, it seems, for his total lack of knowledge about the heating bills and the square footage. All of a sudden, he stopped talking to a woman to my right, turned to face me and asked me, "And what do you do for a living?" I was a little taken aback, his nervous prattle going right into direct questioning, but I responded, "I'm a bookkeeper". And that's when the fun began.

"A bookie?" He asked. And without even blinking, I said, "yup". Now, I know it's not nice to mess with the hearing impaired. And I know it's even meaner to mess with someone who is probably taking daily painkillers, but I couldn't help it. It was hot, the place smelled like pee, I had just been on the phone with Taller Younger Brother for twenty minutes to find a place that took only five minutes to walk through, and I didn't appreciate this guy looking me and down like that. So I went with it. "And how do you get your clients?" he asked me, knowing full well that he thought I was a bookie. "Oh, you know. Word of mouth", I said, winking. His jaw went a little slack in surprise. He took a step back and really took his time eyeing me up and down. I folded my arms across my chest for affect. The woman next to me made a little shuffling noise and cleared her throat. "And you can make a living in this city doing that?", he asked me, completely and totally astounded. I knew where this was going, so I took a breath, waved him away, and said, in an accent tinged with just a touch of Tony Soprano, "Oh, yeah. A VERY good living".

The OTHER OTHER Reason I Live In The Northest: Yielding To Waterfowl

2009-04-22T21:48:00.000-07:00

Look right into the center of the photo. That's right. There are two ducks there. In the middle of the road. Two waterfowl are crossing the street and the CARS ARE FREAKIN' WAITING FOR THEM TO CROSS. Only in the Northwest, folks. Only in the Northwest.

I just so happened to be fiddling with my phone (illegal here in the Northwest! No phone fiddling while driving! Stop for ducks, but don't dial and drive!) when I saw these two, so I was able to snap this (contraband!) picture as they were crossing the road. Seriously. Look at that traffic backed up for miles. People are just so darned KIND towards their migratory mate-for-life birds here. If these same ducks (er... pardon me. Duck and Mallard) had been crossing the road where I grew up, they would have been flattened in seconds (after they'd been honked at, cursed at, and had balled up gum wrappers thrown at their heads). God bless 'em for having NO idea about anti-lock brakes.

In other news, I went to the first ever Carrotmob event here in our duck-loving little town! And, adorable spokesperson (who'd already had a beer or two in her) that I am, I gave the camera guy who was filming the whole thing a little interview about why I thought this was such a great idea. Vote with your wallet, America! Duh! So, maybe I'll be featured in the next video! How thrilling! I'll keep you posted. You can read more about Carrotmob and the idea behind it here. Thanks to my friend Rich for being my personal tooth inspector tonight. No one should appear on film without having a cute boy inspect her gumline for black olive bits. What a pal, huh? Oh, and note to camera guy: you might want to edit out the part where I mention that wheat beer is no good for my intestines. I don't know why i thought it was a good idea to advertise my flatulence problem while talking about social change. I was drunk with power... and wheaty beer.

Let The Packing Begin

2009-04-21T22:41:00.000-07:00

CLH and I have begun the process of packing up our belongings in preparation for our move from the house in the flight path of an international airport. Tonight we took our first load of books from the bookshelf and put them in the staging area in the garage. It's a strange thing, this move. For one, it's not exactly full of the hope and excitement that usually accompanies a new start. I'm feeling more like I just want this to be over, like I just want to let out the giant breath I have been holding for about two years now. This isn't going to be the clean break I was hoping for. This house, and all the responsibility that comes with it, has the potential to be a whole flock of albatrosses around my neck for the next few years here.

I haven't written much about the house because, well, I just haven't wanted to talk about it. Sure, I can write about our racist neighbors (charming!), or that time my battery was stolen out of my car while I was asleep 50 feet from the door (hilarious!), or how CLH saw a coyote in the neighbor's wild, abandoned lot of a backyard (sounds safe and fun!), but I can't seem to find the humor in any of this. All I can think of when I think about this place is the enormous burden I took on because I was one of the idiots who thought home ownership was something I needed to cross off my Great American Dream List (as if I've ever done anything in order on that list in my life...). There is, of course, much to talk about, given just how freakin' weird this whole arrangement is. And it really is weird. It's only occurring to me now that maybe I should talk about it because it is so weird and people are just dying to know how i do this. I just don't think I'm quite past the hump in this whole saga where the insane and tragic things that have happened here finally become, in retrospect, laughable. Right now, everything just seems raw and uncertain. And there's nothing really funny about uncertainty.

So, I'm just not really ready to talk about it. When my friends and clients ask how are things with the house, what they're really asking is, "What in the holy hell have you done with your life? And thanks for letting me watch while you figure it out". This whole experience has been a weird, slow motion train wreck; everyone who sees it pretty much says the same three things, in this order: "Wow. What a mess. Thank god I wasn't on that train."

And, really, I guess I can't blame them. I mean, if someone had said to me, "I am going to buy a fixer upper, in the flight path of an international airport, in a town with no sidewalks, and live in it with my two friends, and then try to move out after two years... during the biggest economic downturn in American history", I would have told them good luck and then laughed at them as soon as their backs were turned.

It's tough to tell the train wreck story over and over and over without wanting a happy ending. I mean, if it always ends in gore, you start to feel hopeless every time you tell it. So, I guess that's where I am right now: sick and tired of talking about the gore. I want to start talking about how the paramedics arrived and med-evac'd everyone to safety. I want to start saying that everything worked out; less people died in the wreck than initially believed.

I keep telling everyone that I think this is all going to work out; I believe it when I say it, though, lately, my belief fluctuates hour by hour. I wrote the "for rent" ad last night, and a lady at the office I was in today overheard me talking about it to my client, asked me to forward on the information, and she's totally interested. When she asked me for the info, I felt like this whole transition might be easier than I had planned. But, here, hours later, as I go over the idea in my head of having to be someone's landlord... of leaving my friends here to live with strangers because I just couldn't hack it in the suburbs... I get all down about it again.

I know I've made the right choice in leaving this house. I know that even this worrying will be funny one day. But, I just had to be honest with myself and admit that this process is weighing down a HUGE part of my soul. The release will come. And then I'll finally be able to tell the story of the house that nearly broke me.

Adventures In Dogsitting Entry #1

2009-04-15T20:08:00.000-07:00

I promised myself when I started this blog that I would never try to craft a clever title using the words "adventures" and words ending in "ing", but I've gone ahead and done it anyway. You have my permission to just shoot me.

I came home tonight and The Dog had my sock in his mouth. Not in a guilty no-eye-contact "Umm... yeah... about your sock being in my mouth...." sorta way. No, this was a maniacal "And guess what ELSE I've been doing all day?MWHOOHAHAHAHA!" sorta way. In fact, this dog wanted to PLAY with the sock with me when I got home. There he was, jumping, and, I swear to God, smiling at me, holding a ball of saliva-moistened blue Smartwool in his mouth. I'm pretty sure he was trying to tell me that he was bored all day and then LOOK WHAT HE FOUND! and why wasn't I as excited as he was?

You would think, given that I grew up with a beagle who would literally try to pull the socks you were wearing on your feet off to play with them, I would know better than to leave my socks on the floor of the living room. Dogs like socks. It's a given. It's just that the sun finally came out yesterday and after months upon months of weather that has made me want to suck on an exhaust pipe, I just HAD to take 30 minutes and just lay there, in the small shaft of light coming in through the window in the front room. And, for maximum exposure, I took my socks off (every square inch counts when you're this desperate for sun). I just forgot to bring them upstairs with me at the end of the day.

The Dog made sure my humiliation was complete by running off with my sock (after I commanded him to drop it) and depositing it in a hole in the backyard he's been working on for what seems the last eight years or so. He then came back inside, acting as if he had not just dumped an article of clothing of mine into a three foot ditch.

AND, you would think, given that this sock, this very same sock, was the victim of another sort of dog abuse just a week before, that I would have been extra careful with my socks this go around. You see, about two weeks ago, another Dog, a small, impish dog the size and shape of a loaf of bread, stole my sock when I wasn't looking, and then she sat on it, like a hen on her nest of eggs, until her owners got home and found it. I was watching this dog, making sure that she was fed, and kept warm and out of the jaws of much larger dogs while on walks. And this is what she did to me. She stole my damn sock and then hid it. Unbelievable, huh? That was my payment for putting fresh water in her bowl? I mean, have you ever heard of such cunning coming from something the size of a fuzzy slipper?

To be fair to this Other Dog, I did leave my socks out at a latitude that she could reach. And, I was warned by her owners that she might be inclined to steal not just my socks, but my underwear as well. I thought I made sure to hide all unmentionables, lest they be used as a prop in a modern dance routine involving lots of violent head shakes...but this dog rooted through my suitcase anyway, found my purple striped panties, and pranced around the house with them in her jowls like she was a majorette and my Hanes Her Way were her baton. I only found out about the sock via a text message that included a picture of said sock that read, "Is this your sock? We found it in the dog bed".

Tonight I will be gathering up all discarded footwear and bringing it upstairs with me. I will have a talk with The Dog tomorrow before I leave for work and I will tell him that, though it completely grosses me out to have to touch it, I will leave him a pig ear on the kitchen floor for a snack/plaything. All he has to do is go and get it. The socks are off limits. And if he promises to stick to the pig ear and the pig ear only, I will work on not using the word "adventure" in my blog titles.

The OTHER Real Reason I Live in The Northwest: Renegade Marching Bands

2009-04-13T20:45:00.000-07:00

I don't know how this happened, but I've lived here in the Northwest an entire NINE, count 'em NINE, YEARS and I have never once been to Honkfest West. NEVER! I'd never even heard of the festival until a gracious co-worker who understands my penchant for public displays of absurdity told me about it. I don't think I can adequately spell out my love for marching bands. Maybe it's that Eastern European in me, but if you give me an open road, a drum, a horn and maybe a violin or two, I feel like I've come home. Add a whistle or ten or fifteen, multiply the drum factor by eleven, and throw in some striped stockings, bowler hats, and eye makeup, and you've got the makings for a perfect night as far as I am concerned. Lest you confuse the folks below for the buttoned up band folks leading the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade... let me warn you: these are not they. This is more like anarchist biker clique meets talented musician meets Grandma's dress up trunk. I literally planned my whole weekend around this, it was that important to me. I just love the circus. I'm not even kidding. So, without further ado, I present to you, compliments of my phone camera with no flash, HONKFEST WEST!:

This blur is the Leland Stanford Junior University Marching Band. Well, part of it anyway. I couldn't possibly take a picture of all of them because a) there seemed to be hundreds of them and b) they danced like maniacs. Quite possibly the most energetic band of the night. You might not be able to read it... but the inside of this man's instrument says "This Bud's For You". He ran around carrying that thing like it weighed nothing. And when I say "ran", I literally mean "ran". He ran with that tuba. Do you know how in shape you have to be to run with a tuba? I'm out of breath running to the bus stop with a tuna fish sandwich in my hand, never mind 20 pounds of fluted pipe.

There they are. The Yellow Hat Band! Just one of many bands that we followed into dark alleys to hear what else they could play that would echo off the highway overpass.

Apparently, the man carrying around this obscene (and sexy) amount of bent brass is the man responsible for this whole hot mess. If he weren't so busy cranking out the Klezmer tunes with the rest of his Fedora topped crew, I would have kissed him right on the mouth in gratitude.

That's right. That's a man in a carrot suit. Playing a saxophone. In a parking lot. You can't see it in this picture, but there's a stilt walker to his left. God bless the Northwest.

The Joys of Living In The Flight Path of An International Airport

2009-04-09T22:32:00.000-07:00

Oh, Wait. You thought there were joys involved in living in the flight path of an international airport? Well, I am sorry to have mislead you with that subject line, but there are no joys to be had living in the flight path of an international airport. Not a one. Not a damned one. I mean, unless you think joy is having your HDTV cut out every, oh, I dunno, FOUR SECONDS or so because there is a LINE of airplanes queued up, quite literally for MILES, just to the left of the window you've chosen to stick your receiver in and each time they fly directly overhead, they literally block your TV signal to the satellite in space that is so generously beaming Oprah down to you while you work out. I guess that's a lot like joy. Just like it, I'd say.

It's a not unlike scraping your knuckle on a shelf in the fridge as you reach for the lime in the back, and then squeezing that lime (and the juice from a jalapeno, let's not forget) ALL OVER your bloody knuckle. Now, living in the flight path has nothing to do with that little joy. I could have done that any ol' place. It's just that... when I want to make chili lime popcorn for dinner after working out, and I've just had to witness the gore that is a) seeing the local news team's haggard faces in HDTV and b) seeing them FROZEN GHOULISHLY MID-WORD while the TV tried to retrieve the signal blocked by the FLEET above me.... well, you can see where I'm going with this.

And the only reason I even bring up the chili lime popcorn and the fact that I had it for dinner (as a follow up to a mid afternoon snack of french fries, naturally) is that I have had to really watch CLH's diet lately and I offered the popcorn to him without considering that it was covered with a 1/3 cup of butter. I am a thoughtless person living in the flight path of an international airport.

You see, CLH might have something wrong with his gall bladder and he has been taking some dietary precautions to make sure it doesn't turn into something more serious. Fatty foods exacerbate gall bladder issues. So, while he chugs gallon upon gallon of apple juice (something about malic acid dissolving gallstones...) I have been trying to plan meals, since I do a majority of the cooking, that don't include lots of fats. Which is nearly impossible for me because, well, I LOVE FAT. I don't understand you if you've got a sweet tooth, because, given the choice between a candy bar and a bag of pork rinds, I will almost always go for the pork rinds. Or potato chips, or french fries, or Cheez Doodles. Oh, how i love Cheez Doodles...

Somehow, the internal systems gods saw fit to equip me with a decent metabolism and a love for green leafy vegetables (this, after the anatomy gods cursed me with a big ass and no boobs to match), so, I manage to stay in a somewhat normal weight range... even after I've eaten a whole bag of Robert's "SmartPuffs". In one sitting.

So, while I try to enjoy my one hour of sinful pleasure a night as my screen intermittently goes black, then pixilated, then gorily animated with wrinkles and fake eyelashes and spray on tans in time to the international airport's landing schedule, CLH fights with an aching internal organ the size of a golf ball. We all have our individual battles, now, don't we?

Saved Voicemail from Taller Younger Brother #1

2009-04-09T00:09:00.000-07:00

"Here's a tip for you. If people come to your door and are selling God, it's okay to say no thanks. And if kids ever come to your door selling cookies, it's okay to say no thanks, too. But, if kids ever come to your door selling cookies MADE by God, you should definitely say yes."

The Difference A (Sunny) Day Makes

2009-04-07T21:03:00.000-07:00

-Went sailing today (economy in crapper=clients in the building industry with no work=no work for me=day of sailing on friend's boat. Hooray for no work! Question mark? Exclamation point?). Had a much better day on the water than on Sunday.

-After living a relatively dog free life for the past nine years, I suddenly find myself surrounded by dogs. Swimming in dogs. Bombarded by dogs. I will tell you about my adventures in dogsitting soon. I have another gig lined up for next week and I'm really looking forward to it.

-I am learning to slow down and make better decisions for myself. I know this sounds so banal, but it's pretty important for me to say this aloud. This is what the flu taught me: I spend a lot of time serving others. It is now my time to serve myself.