In My Fashion

Many fabulous things happened on my birthday weekend. One, Nordic Boy and my parents chipped in to buy me a new, fancy (well, fancy to me) camera. I AM IN HOT SWEATY LOVE WITH IT.

Unfortunate downside is that I have become a person who only looks at other people or myself like this.

Thusly, now I will likely run off at the mouth AND at the lens at you. Aren't you so excited?

Another downside is that I may think it would be really fun to take America's Next Top Model style photo shoots where I practice my Kim Kardashian poses, and I may force you to play along with me. And then I may fuck up the whole thing by not yet understanding how to work the damn fancy camera.

All of the coerced posing and silly blue steel faces! For what? For a nice clear look at a table top surface. Clearly I am a photographic genius.

The second awesome thing about the weekend was that Biogirl swept me off my feet to Portland and we went to the final runway show of Portland Fashion Week. What's that you say? Do I have photos? Oh mais oui.

The whole thing was in a shipyard. I kept looking for Frank Sebotka everywhere.

If you haven't ever been to a runway show before, here's my advice. Before they open the doors to seating, try to position yourself somewhere where you can see the models practicing their walks. Catching a glimpse of designer's assistants (often nerdy looking dudes) coaching them a la Miss J is worth the price of admission.

My other advice is that there are basically two places you can be for the best view. One is the front row. You have to be a high roller for that though, or be some sort of celebrity, or both. At this show, the most fascinating character we spotted was this Sam-Elliot-in-The-Big-Lebowski guy sitting front row center. He was surrounded on both sides, as well as in the row behind him, by young fashionista ladies. They were fawning all over him. Who was that guy? 

Biogirl and I concocted a whole backstory about him. We'd like to think that he is a high end leather wholesaler and that he is close personal friends with Stella Who Loves Leathah from Project Runway.

The second best place to be is the cheap seats. I am totally not just saying that because that's where you will definitely find me. I am saying it because it's really the best place to see everything. The"cheap seats" will get you the privilege of standing behind the back row of chairs, smooshed in where there is hardly any room at all and you will have to watch yourself or you may just fall off the back of the riser upon which you are precariously standing. Whoever said fashion is not comfort was someone who was standing in the back row. But truly it is the best because you can see right over everyone's head.

Anyway, here are some shots.

The whole thing was just delicious, I can't even tell you. Biogirl: birthday saver. As well as a mean catwalker herself.

One more serious one and then I am done I swear

So after the sad events I wrote about yesterday, I've been thinking, and I have to tell you guys something. I have a fear about my blog and it is this: I am afraid that the way I seem to react to Bad Stuff happening will make people think I am a horrible person. Like, remember last year on my birthday when my dad had to go to the hospital, and there really wasn't anything I could do about it, so after I talked to my family and we all agreed on that much, I went ahead and attended my birthday party anyway? When I told you guys about that, I was afraid that I sounded callous. Who goes to a party and has fun when their dad is in the hospital? I do. And I worry that people will think less of me for it. I know I am doing what feels right to me. But that still doesn't allay my fear that other people won't get that. Still being able to see my pals, go to work, genuinely smile soon after some serious shit has gone down? Who does that? A crazy person? A terrible person? Hopefully not. Hopefully it's just a person who's trying to cope.

All of this is to say that after Nordic Boy left yesterday and a morning of me being weepy, I took a breath and went about my day, and it was a good day in my awesome life, and I still want to tell you about that. I went out to a lunch with Biogirl where we talked for two hours, and cried in the restaurant (sorry for freaking you out, waitstaff), and peed ourselves laughing too. And then I went into work last night and had an super sweet time watching hundreds of teenagers screaming for their favorite author, who we hosted, and come on, what could be more joyful than seeing teens go bonkers for reading? And today Biogirl and I are heading out of town for the weekend, to try to salvage birthdayness for me. What is happening with Nordic Boy and Joel is going to be in my mind the whole time, but I have developed, over a long time of working on it, a way to simultaneously feel joy too. Am I horrible for soldiering on with birthday nonsense when heartbreaking circumstances are occurring? When I get back on Monday and show you guys pictures and such of the awesome, are you all going to be like "hey wow, she was talking about someone dying on Friday and she's talking about this ridiculousness not two days later?"

I have a huge fear that you'll think that. And I guess I can't control it if you do. But even if you do, somewhere in your mind, even as you think it, please try to be generous with me as well. I'm not selfish and terrible, I promise you. I'm just trying to deal.

Showing Up

Nordic Boy knew this kid named Joel when he was little. The two of them are related- cousins of some sort, but in a distant sort of way. I wouldn't call what they had a friendship, exactly. They were acquaintances, who knew the same people. They went to the same school for a while, but weren't in the same grade. Nordic Boy's sister was closer in age and knew this kid better. Nordic Boy remembers Joel as a nutty little rugrat who made people laugh. He also remembers that when he got to high school, he turned into a quieter, more serious person. After high school, Joel joined the Navy and ended up as a cook on a submarine. In recent years, he moved back to Wisconsin, got married, and now is a dad to nutty rugrats of his own. Nordic Boy hasn't seen him in many, many years.

Last night, Nordic Boy's mom called us to tell us that Joel hasn't been feeling well lately. He went to the doctor and seven tumors were found throughout his body, including in his brain and pressing onto his spine. Within the last week, his body has begun to shut down. His speech is intermittent and he can no longer walk. The doctor has give him three weeks to live, tops. Just like that. He had just gotten a new job, and his insurance hasn't kicked in yet. Hi wife and his kids are with him while he's spending his last weeks in the hospital.

Nordic Boy got off the phone, and told what happened. We didn't need to say much. I immediately knew what Nordic Boy was thinking, because I know what sort of person my Nordic Boy is.

Within an hour, he had booked a flight, and early this morning, he was on a plane to see Joel, and to help  his family in any way that he can. My guy isn't a person who waits for a funeral to show up to honor someone.

Today is my birthday, and I couldn't feel better about the fact that my birthday plans are altered, and that I spent the morning rushing to the airport and saying goodbye to the person I would most like to spend the day with. I feel like my present is that I am reminded, yet again, of how amazing people can be. One person in particular.

Comeback Kid

It would be totally fair to say that I live in a cushy environment compared to the majority of the planet. I am not super wealthy, but I have all that a person needs. I have education, and am healthy, and get vacation time, and can buy Funyons whenever I want to, really. (When I was little, my parents didn't buy us junk food, unless it was like, our birthday or something. So I only got Funyons if I was throwing a party, which forever after makes me think of them as a Super Fancy Snack). I also have surrounded myself with hip friends and we all live our progressive lives with our do-gooder activities and our artistic pursuits and our sophisticated opinions. However, I just have to tell you this. Some racist shit happens to me on a daily basis. A DAILY BASIS. Not exaggerating. I know you probably know this stuff happens all the time to the melanin-blessed. But there is always a part of me that wonders if those who don't experience this really, really know this. Sometimes it is all I can do to not live my whole life starting conversations with the words: "You are not going to BELIEVE the shit that just went down five minutes ago!" And then regaling everyone with the details. Because I know that that is boring. And would get old fast.
But I just have to tell you this one. Because it's awful, but funny.

I was going down an escalator and the up escalator was directly adjacent. So as the people on the down escalator make their way down, they almost brush shoulders with the people who are going up. So on this trip down, this white dude is traveling towards me. And just as we pass each other, side by side, him facing up and me facing down, he turns his head toward my ear and whispers the following.

"Kamasutra, babeeeeeee."

And I keep heading down, not looking back, and he keeps heading up.

Come on, people. OUT OF BOUNDS.

Anyway, I told Biogirl about this, and she said: "You should have turned to him and whispered back: 'Pilgrim's Progress, babeeeeeee.'"

SERIOUSLY. I should have said that. That girl is a genius.

Alrighty then

In the past few days, I keep having conversational trip-ups with semi-strangers. It's fun.


First of all, there's a guy that I see pretty much every day at the coffee shop near work. And you know what he says to me every day? "Alriiiight." Either that or "good, good." He says this when it makes sense:

Him: Hey, how's it going?
Me: Great, and you?
Him: Alriiiiiight.

He also says it when it doesn't make sense:

Him: Hey, it's Friday! Do you have to work this weekend?
Me: Yes. How about you?
Him: Alriiiiiight.

I have started to try to ask him all sorts of questions, to see if I can get him to answer with anything other than alriiiiight, or good, good. So far, he has not broken his streak.

I also walked into the salon the other day (ok fine it was the place where I get my waxing done but I didn't want to mention waxing and be disgusting), and the lady at the counter, who I thought sort of knows me, said "Hey Sigourney!" I thought she was talking to someone else, so I didn't say anything back. "Sigourney! Hi!" she persisted. I looked at her sort of blankly and so she says: "Oh my gosh, I am so embarrassed. Do you not pronounce the "g" in your name?"

First of all, people who are not Sigourney Weaver are actually named Sigourney? That is awesome. And second of all, there are people named Sigourney who do not pronounce the "g"? That's a thing? So what would it be? Si-hoorny? As in 2LiveCru Me So Hoorny?

Anyway. So I said "I'm sorry. You must have me mixed up with someone else."
Her: No I don't! Ha ha! You come here all the time! What do you mean?
Me: Um, well, that's not my name.
Her: But. Oh. But, you look just like her!

So hey gang. I have a doppleganger out there somewhere named Sihoorny.

Alriiiiiight. Good, good.

Holy Saturday!

Oh Saturday, you were simple and sweet. 4 things was all it took.

1. Nordic Boy continues to make holes in our house.

Here is what I have learned. Home improvement revolves around one basic series of actions. Making holes and then covering them up. Almost any project, from installing a new dishwasher to rewiring electrical requires some sort of making/uncovering of a hole (in a wall, a floor, a ceiling), doing the bulk of the work, and then patching up the hole. I guess not everything (painting does not require hole making), but almost everything. It has gotten to the point where I ask Nordic Boy what he's doing and 9 times out of 10 he will answer by starting a sentence with "First, I am going to make a hole in..." I feel like my house is in a state of constant perforation. So Saturday morning, we started our day by patching up new holes (in new vents that work with our new furnace). Not a week goes by without some sort of hole work.

His Holiness.

2. We continued our morning by me getting other stuff done while he went to the basement to patch up another post-furnace hole. Every time I wanted to talk to him I had only to walk into the laundry and look down.

Flashing the horns and making silly faces is key to hole patching.

3.  After lunch we headed to the burbs to have cupcakes and tea at our friend M and S's gorgeous house. It could not have been more delightful.

Trees, tea, cupcakes, friends, dogs, cat, backyard chickens, gorgeous house = perfection.

4.  After a post cupcake trip to the hardware store, we headed over to Biogirl's for a cozy dinner, where she regaled us with stories about the previous night when she went dancing at a Moby show (because she is a young whippersnapper) but had to stop and stretch mid-booty shake in the middle of the dance floor (because she's not THAT young of a whippersnapper).

Consumables #50

I have done 50 of these mothereffers? That seems nuts.

In honor of the 50th Consumables post, I will write up something, well, pretty paltry this week. I don't know what I have even been doing lately, but it hasn't been very pop culturey, that's for damn sure. So fifty! Woo! Way to celebrate it with a flaccid post!


Books
The Leftovers, by Tom Perrotta
One day, 25% of the world population just disappears. It's like The Rapture, only people aren't all entirely sure it was actually The Rapture. People sort of don't know what to think. In the suburban town of Mapleton, we see the aftermath of this mass disappearance. People deal with it in a bunch of different ways, as evidenced by the main family at the center of the story: the dad does his best to buck up and move forward, sort of blindly. The mom makes grief the center of her life. The college age son dedicates his life to a self-help guru gone amok. The teen daughter shuts down and rebels. So basically, all things that people tend to do with loss, Rapture or no Rapture. Essentially it's about the ways we all abandon each other, physically and metaphorically. And sometimes it's about the ways that we don't.

In the TeeVee
I watch Dancing with the Stars in the following way. If there is a dance number where it is all professionals and no celebrities, I watch that part. If there are a few minutes of rehearsal footage I watch that. I watch about 15-20 seconds of each celebrity dance number, just to get the gist of it (or, as my friend's father likes to mispronounce: the jizz of it. And no, I am not making that up, he really says that and no one can get over their embarrassment to tell him that he's saying it wrong). I don't watch anything the judges say. I don't watch anything the hosts say. Every two hour episode takes me about 15 minutes to watch, my finger poised directly on the fast forward button all the while. And yet, I feel like I am pretty much getting the full experience of that show. It's like I am watching the au jus of the show, I guess.

Music
I keep having dreams about Chicago this week. The town, not the band. No offense, Peter Cetera.

That is all. Have a loverly weekend!


Slow Down Chicago, by Canasta

Only You Can Prevent Reading This

I have been waiting for a time when I have ten minutes to write a blog post, and the universe around me has said HA HA, YOU WOULD LIKE TEN MINUTES? FIE ON YOUR TEN MINUTES. So I am going to write a sentence or two as fast as I can type and poop it out on the interwebs in as much time as I can squeeze out right now.


First I tell you that the bar for blog writing in my life is set at a very high ten effing minutes, and then I liken it to dropping a deuce. Why, you are probably asking yourself, are you blog friends with me again? Only you can answer that question, just as only you can prevent forest fires.

Smokey the Bear, was your grammar correct? Is it really only ME that can prevent forest fires? Wouldn't it be more correct to say "it is up to each of us to prevent forest fires?" Or something like that? Smokey, you had a lot of nerve talking to me like that when I was a child and had never even fricking SEEN a forest.

In other old commercial news, I have a confession to make. Sometimes, just sometimes, I still do that thing from that old beer commercial, where I say "what's up," or rather "WAZ AAAAAHHHHHHP," and if you say it back to me, I am delighted. DELIGHTED.

Yes, I do feel an appropriate level of shame on this front.

And (as a former boss of mine used to say) SECONDIVELY, I have been having a really nice last few days.

Lovely blog friend @metaleah and her trophy husband (1) came through my town on their way to Astoria, Oregon, (aka the land of The Goonies) where they (2) attended a wedding and (3) found a pirate treasure map with Corey Feldman. Ok maybe they only did 2 out of three of those things. We had dinner and I managed to not say WAZ AAAAHHHP at any point or guilt them about forest fires. I probably said some other foolishness but hey, you can't have everything. @metaleah also came to my place of bidnass, which was grand. Two visits in one short weekend! I felt special. I also had a lovely bruncheon with my friend M. where we agreed that cupcakes should be an acceptable form of currency. I accomplish things when I socialize, because I am a doer.

Lastly I just have to tell you that in the past couple of days all of our heating dreams were realized when we got a new furnace. It is easily the biggest thing that has happened to us for a long while, as evidenced by the fact that I have taken pictures of it and shown it to people who have clearly not asked me to see such a thing. Some people show photos of their kids, some people show photos of their vacations. I trap people with furnace photos. The only reason I am not showing you is because I don't have time to put the pictures in here. So for you, there's a bright side to this whole thing.

That's all I got. Hope you are having a lovely week!

My best conversation yesterday

A text conversation between me and my 6-year-old niece. I'll call her Asha.

Her:

Her: Ashs

Me: What am I looking at?

Her:

Her: Asha

Her:

Her: Asha

Me: What is the photo of?

Her: A wolf

Me: What is it made of?

Her: That I made

Her: Paper towel and tape

Me: Nice! Very cool.

Her: Thank you

Her: By

Me: Bye!

Her: I m going

Her: By

Me: Ok, bye.

Her:

Her: Asha

Her:

Me: Hey! I thought we were done! ha ha

Her: By

Her: By

Her: By

Me: Bye!

Always

These things happened, in this order, within the past few days.

1.  The Soggy Librarian said that she often gets the song "Always" by Atlantic Starr stuck in her head. As you do.

2. I responded by telling her that I once sang, with a boy named Brian, a duet version of that very song in 10th grade choir. I know, I just get cooler and cooler the more you get to know me, right?

3. I began to think about the fact that a boy had chosen (because we chose this song ourselves and auditioned that shit. We were not assigned to sing it) to sing the words "come with me, my sweet, let's go make a family," in front of everyone we knew when we were 15. Because that's not weird.

4. I received an email today from THAT SAME BRIAN KID. Who is not a kid anymore, obvs. He just said something totally nice like "hey, you popped into my head this week. How are you?, etc." And also "I think I remember that we sang a duet in school but can't recall the year or the song.  Maybe you can enlighten me or set me straight."

5. I began to believe that uttering the words "Atlantic Starr" brings back people from your past. Sort of like a light R&B Beetlejuice.

Say Atlantic Starr and see who pops back into your life. It's SCIENCE, you guys.

Decisions

At the Mac make-up counter.*


Saleslady who looks like Katy Perry: Can I help you with something?
Me: I was just trying to decide between these two colors. Charcoal or dark brown. I just can't decide which one to try. (Holding the samples next to my skin) What do you think?
Katy Perry: Well, that depends on what you want to use it for.
Me: Yes, how do you mean?
Katy Perry: Well, it depends on whether you want grey. Or brown.

She said that to me without a STITCH of sarcasm, people.

Me: Ok, yes. Thanks.

So I just wanted to pass along that piece of advice to you, if you ever are trying to decide between choice A and choice B. You should make that decision based on one thing and that thing is: whether you want the choice to be A, or whether you want it to be B. It's so unhelpful, it sort of rounds a bend somewhere and becomes helpful again.

Don't thank me, thank Katy.


* The Mac makeup counter is really not a counter. I ask you, what is with this new fangled retail model where there is no counter and no way to line up anywhere? Mac make up, Apple, AT&T, what is going on? Do you want chaos, is that what you want? What's a grandma like me supposed to THINK?

Consumables #49

Weirdo conversation of the week, started because my mom used the word "tarpaulin."


Me: Did you hear my mom use the word tarpaulin last week?
Nordic Boy: No. When did she do that?
Me: When she asked you to cover up the patio furniture. She asked you to use the tarpaulin.
Nordic Boy: I thought it was a tarp.
Me: That's short for tarpaulin.
Nordic Boy: It is?
Biogirl: I have heard of tarpaulin, but I never really put together that that's where the word tarp comes from. I think of tarpaulin as more old-timey, like a waxed canvas. Like in sailing. Not the blue plastic stuff.
Nordic Boy: Yeah. Or like when waterproofing was done by soaking canvas in gasoline.
Me: What? I have never heard of that.
Nordic Boy: Sure you have. It was mentioned by that guy we saw.
Me: What guy?
Nordic Boy: The one with the glasses.
Biogirl: Ok. And?
Nordic Boy: The one that everyone thinks is dead.
Me: Glasses, and rumored to be dead. Um...
Nordic Boy: We saw him IN THE TEEVEE.
Me: OH! Charles Nelson Reilly?
Nordic Boy: YES.
Biogirl: Really? You got Charles Nelson Reilly out of glasses, maybe dead, a gas-soaked canvas, and "in the teevee?"

With that, I bring you Consumables.

In the Teevee

Life of Reilly
Film of Charles Nelson Reilly's autobiographical one-man play. He does not dish about any Hollywood types, which was a little disappointing. Isn't being able to dish about Hollywood types the whole entire reason one would be on the Match Game that many times? Oh well. In the film, he does indeed wear glasses, he does make jokes about people seeing him in public and being surprised that he is still alive, and I did watch the play in the teevee. He also tells a childhood story about how circuses used to waterproof their tents by soaking the canvas in gas, and how one caught on fire and he almost died in it. So Nordic Boy makes PERFECT SENSE.

Lil Champs
My parents are not big tv watchers. They watch World Cup soccer, they watch a lot of news, they may watch a PBS version of Bleak House or something. That is it. (I know, right? How did they spawn me?) So I was shocked when I went to visit them recently and they were hurrying through dinner one night so that they could watch a tv show. The show? Lil Champs. This is a Hindi-language tv show that is like American Idol, but with little kids. It was sort of awesome on many levels, not the least of which was watching my parents so fricking into it. The heartbreaking thing about it though, was seeing the kids' backstories, which often went something like this: Leela just turned 12 years old. Here is some footage of her completely destitute life. If she wins the show, she will have a chance at life with maybe some clean water in her future, maybe. If she's voted off this week, well, we don't know what will happen to her life, since her opportunities are, to understate it, slim. I was a blubbering mess through the whole thing, because I am pampered and wimpy and guilt-ridden.

American Chopper
I don't know. I just don't want to even link that that one. Nordic Boy was watching this the other day, and goddamn if it's not the Real Housewives only with mustachio motorcycle dudes. DRAMA.

Anderson
I watched a couple of that new daytime show because Anderson Cooper is pretty and I like to look at him sometimes. OK? LEAVE ME ALONE.

Books

Marriage Plot, by Jeffrey Eugenides
I am trying to decide if I really liked this book so much because I really liked it so much, or if I really liked it because it made me feel smart without really having to do anything. I fear it is the latter, but check back with me later on that. Eugenides peppers this whole novel with so many humanities-nerd references that if you get all of them, you can feel smug. So yeah, I got my smugly on a bit too much I fear. Oh-ho! What a clever way to reference Luce Irigary! Haw-haw! I mean, I just wanted to smack myself after a while. That said, the story is about the relationship (dare I say love triangle?) between Mitchell who loves Madeleine who loves Leonard. I never figured out who Leonard loves. It's basically an intellectualized, sort of depressing rom-com, if that even makes any sense. I did enjoy it.

Bloodroot, by Amy Greene
First of all, I have a bone to pick with whoever wrote the blurb on the back of this book. It makes the whole thing sound like it's got a bunch of magical realism going on, when really that's not even the point. Boo, publisher. Anyway. Story about four generations of a family in rural Appalachia. There was quite a bit of melodrama, but I didn't mind that. I loved reading the language, much of it written in dialect. Writing in dialect is hard to do. Usually it comes off really terrible and condescending and just ick. But this time, I liked it.

Last Man in Tower, by Aravind Adiga
A middle class condo building sits in the middle of a Mumbai slum that developers are trying to gentrify. A developer offers every resident an amount of money that would set them up for life in order to buy out the building and tear it down. The catch is that all residents have to agree. One couple, elderly and disabled, do not want to leave, but feel pressure to comply. Their friend, the dignified retired schoolteacher known as Masterji, tells them that he will take a stand for them. As things progress, the once tightly-knit community of neighbors begins to turn ugly. Suspicions, personal issues, religious and cultural clashes start to rumble under the surface. I was sort of riveted by this book. It's not a pretty story, but it was compelling.

That's all I got!
Happy Friday, everybody.

Spitacular

Whenever I go back to Michigan for a while, it doesn't take me long at all to get thoroughly entrenched in the place. No matter how long I have been away, there is something very natural to me about being there. So much so that when I get back, I have a few days of walking around in a bit of a daze, trying to remember my life. This is me, sleeping in my own bed. This is my job that I go to every day, wow. And look over there. There are mountains right there. I live in a place where there are mountains. WEIRD.

To get myself back in the swing of things sooner, I thought I would take a trip to see those mountains right up close in their faces. So I asked my best peeps, Biogirl and Nordic Boy, to hop a ferry with me and away we went.

First stop was Dungeness Spit. A spit is not just the loogie-related patooey action that Mr. Edwards taught Laura Ingalls. It is also a long piece of sand that juts out in a most boner-like fashion from the mainland. And when it comes to beach-boners, Dungeness is the biggest in the world. Yee-haw!

Look at that. You can't even see the end of it. (That's what she said).

What do you call the song that you sing while at Dungeness? A spitoon, of course. (Little kid style riddle courtesy of Biogirl).

What if the Spit were a really annoying rapper? It would be called D. Spitty of course. (Ok, that was Biogirl's too. She was on a roll.)

Nordic Boy is prone to gazing off into the distance, no matter what the occasion. The Spit was the perfect spot (Spit Spot!) for him to get some good pensive gazing in.

It's so weird to be looking downward and see the top of a mountain.

This is probably the only situation in which I am excited to see snow.

I tried to get someone to pull a Maria Von Trapp and twirl around but no one was buying it.

Ok, so you know that we weren't roughing it too bad when you see that there are paved trails. And mowed grass. But whatever.



Here's what I hear when my hometown is mentioned.


The one from Roger and Me?
Is it really as bad as they say?
Good for you for getting out!

I get it. It's warranted, really. It's known around the country as the archtype of the de-industrialized factory town. Population decreasing rapidly since the 60s, urban decay, attempts at renewal, all of it. It's known as Murdertown, USA, for Chrissakes. There are things to legitimately be scared of while there, it's true. There are big swaths of my town that feel like they are out of The Road, and not just because I am prone to theatrics. Abandoned-looking streets, boarded up houses, gangs of feral dogs whose late night barking is one of the eeriest sounds I have ever heard. I can't argue that these things don't exist.

You know what else I think of when I think of my town? I think of the people who stay there, and love that place, and try to make it better, and do great things. Like, truly great things. I think of the fact that many of the most amazing people I have ever known come from there. They are warm, uncynical, hopeful people. I think about my parents' house, which is, to me, the most beautiful place there is. I think about how much of the me in my me-ness comes as a direct result of that city, and hi, have you met me? I am pretty cool. At least I think so. The way I feel about my town is the way some folks feel about complicated parents: I love it with all my heart, and I know that it made me, and I feel intense loyalty to it despite everything, but in the end it couldn't give me what I needed so I had to go, but that still makes me wistful.

My hometown. It's a messy, resilient, depressing, strong-willed, tough, big-hearted, jacked up, inspiring place. I could write about it for pages and pages and still never pin it down.

This is my childhood library, which used to have an awesome mural of the Hungry Caterpillar in the front window. I used to read Beatrix Potter books in there when I was 4 years old. I loved that place. It was struggling along, until this year when it finally closed. Kind of broke my heart when we drove by. The liquor store next door was still going strong, if that tells you anything.




This is the lot where my middle school used to stand. It was knocked down a few years ago and has stood empty ever since. That little row of white building you see in the background is a weekly-rate motel. Some of my middle school teachers used to live there. If that doesn't prove to you that teachers are not gravy-soaking freeloaders, I don't know what will.




This building used to house my family's favorite pizza joint. The family who owned the place lived in my neighborhood- the dad's name was Dave. Every year at the local pool we would have a sleepover (a sleepover at a POOL, how cool is that?) and Dave would be a chaperone, and one of the things he would do every year was project "The Yellow Submarine" movie onto the pool wall for us to watch.

Since the recession started, people sometimes ask me: how is your hometown doing? Is it weathering things ok? This is a hard question for me to answer, because no, it's not weathering it ok, but on the other hand, we had troubles long before this latest boom-and-bust so it just seems like more of the same. It's not like we were riding high before the recession hit. Then again, I see so many cool things cropping up out of the dust, I am always amazed at the pockets of awesome I see when I go there, and how hard people are trying. So I just don't know. I don't know how you answer that question.

Hello Seattle, and see you later

Hopping the ferry this morning and running off to the woods.

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Sweets

My mom still gives me my currant scones on my very first plate that I had when I was a baby. I love that.

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Granny logic

Look what I found in my parents' cupboard.

Me: What. is this??
Mom: It was for when the grandkids were here. I took them to the store and let them pick out whatever cereal they wanted.
Me: But, you never bought us this stuff. Not even once.
Her: It was for the grandkids.
Me: That's not a reason.
Her: Oh, of course it is.

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Siesta

It's 1pm, we just had minestrone soup for lunch made with vegetables straight from the garden, and all four of us are now retreating for an afternoon nap. The only stipulation is that we have to wake up by 3 in order to reconvene for teatime.

Two out of the four of us are over age 75. The other two are in hardcore training for retirement. I really do think old people are my peer group.

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Pretend this has good lighting

Nowhere more than at my parents deserves good food photography skills. Oh well. Just imagine i'm better at this.

Mustard greens, dahl, potato-cauliflower curry, cucumber raita, and pickled apple slice.

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