Self-Respect: A User Guide

Given that I've had a fair amount going on, I've pretty much ignored this year's seasonal onslaught of American Idol. As much as one can that is, because American Idol is rather like being at your family's vacation home during hunting season. However you feel about it, you can't help but witness the guns and brightly colored jackets in the distance. So it was impossible for me not to note that one Carly Smithson had been - in the language of the show - "celebrated" home.

Now Carly Smithson has absolutely no interest for me as a singer - I would no more buy her diva album than I would spring for the Jessica Simpson late night boxed set - but as a personality I find her sort of fascinating. She was repeatedly described as "desperate" and "unlikable" - a record company's mishandling of her earlier teenage career became an oft picked over media carcass set to rest rather unfairly at her feet, and she openly pined away for the attention and admiration of the show's resident misanthrope, Simon Cowell. In fact, she could be described as a musical Hilary Clinton - while everyone admired her ability, she couldn't help rubbing America the wrong way.

"Love me," she seemed to beg, "Please, Mother of God, love me! But wait...Do I deserve to be loved?" Poor Carly - despite her rocky past and respectable talent - could not hide a lack of self-respect so virulent, she made people not just fail to vote for her, but physically recoil.

In the long run, self-respect is as obvious as red hair: you have it or you don't. If you do, you know instinctively that people should treat you well, and if you don't, you are forever in thrall to everyone's bad opinion of you. Poor J, who survived a break-up so devastating that I was occasionally surprised that he managed to get out of bed in the morning, is a classic example of how crippling this can be. Although the woman in question did him dirty in 100 ways, he remained certain that he could turn things around if she only gave him a chance. Her bad treatment of him, her lack of regard for him, her inability to see how bright and interesting he actually is - and I can assure you, he is - none of that mattered. She was the warped mirror that held his true reflection.

But that's the problem, you see. As Joan Didion once wrote in her essay "On Self-Respect" - “"To free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves--there lies the great, singular power of self-respect. To have that sense of one's intrinsic worth which constitutes self-respect is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference."

I don't know about you, but I think those are words to live by.

Duck, Duck, Goose Poop

I've acquired a new niece and nephew. Namely Bodhi, my wonderful roommate's awesomely sweet but supremely uncreative thinker/Golden Retriever, and Toffy, the old white ghost dog, breed unknown. We're a three dog family, which is occasionally a bit disconcerting since Brutto - who it must be said, is the brains of the operation - has a tendency to bark at the mailman which has a way of getting all of them barking as if the house was about to be bulldozed and not the insertion of daily mail into a slot by a cheerful and whistling mailman named Ulysees.

To walk Bodhi and Brutto more effectively, I purchased a "coupler" from a great little pet store in Ballard. The coupler, the Marilyn-esque clerk assured me, would not allow the dogs to get tangled in each other's leashes. That sounded $15 worth of worth it to me. Unfortunately, the clerk has never met Bodhi. Bodhi, bless his pointy little orange head, could get tangled in two inches of dental floss. Time after time, we set out with my spunky terrior x in the lead, only to stop cold when Bodhi has inexplicably wrapped the leash around his front and left paw. It goes without saying that Bodhi has no idea how to untangle himself. He would march around limping all day before figuring it out. In fact, let's face it: he would never figure it out. While Brutto stands there, giving him the look that my sister once perfected on me when we were children (roughly translated: "It's not that I mind so much having a sibling, but why do I have to have this sibling?") - I patiently unwrap Bodhi's little foreleg. Poor Bodhi. I love the guy, but well, he rides the short bus.

Our midmorning jaunt usually ends on Green Lake, where the runners circle and circle and circle. This is Bodhi's favorite place, not the least of which is because it has little stashes of goose poop everywhere. It is pate for dogs, this poop, and no one has to force feed a duck to get it. Unfortunately it is also disgusting. Yesterday a woman and a jogging stroller raced by (there are so many of these, I'm beginning to think that recent mothers go directly from the birthing room to the jogging path, not wanting to miss a day of body maintenance) and said with a distinct sneer , "your dog is eating poop." Well, it's goose poop, I explained. I'm not sure why that matters but it does seem like a point of pride.

Toffy might have a little more smarts, but she isn't the most proactive dog you'll ever meet. Her parents are in Malasyia for the year, which is why A. and I are taking magnificent care of her, and well, if you leave a 14 year old dog behind for a year, you might reap the expected result if you get my meaning. Still, she's holding steady. Also, bless her heart, she's the fastest pooper in the Northwest. The other day she marched exactly five paces before squatting on the neighbor's lawn. You can't ask for more than that in a dog, can you?

Finally, my friend B. asked me about how the ducks crossing the busy lanes to the park and back don't get hit by cars. Well, I don't mean to imply anything, but Duck L'Orange is on a lot of menus around here. No, I'm joking. They don't seem to get hit ever. They are either very smart ducks, or Seattle has very good drivers. I'll conclude they are very smart ducks.

Get on the Bus

After an entire week of sickness, you could say I had a case of cabin fever so bad that I felt like the heroine of I Never Promised You a Rose Garden when I finally left the house on Sunday. Wait, you don't get this reference? Heresy! This was one of the seminal books of my girlhood, along with My Darling, My Hamburger and The Pigman. I Never Promised You a Rose Garden proports to be the story of a schizophrenic teenager, who(in a rather unlikely set of circumstances, because who commits a 16 year old girl without at least trying a few options?)spends two years in a mental institution after which she is seemingly released and functional through her long sessions of talk therapy. Except that you know, it wouldn't work that way. Plus, I was stunned to learn years after reading the book so often that it is my personal Harry Potter that most schizophrenics do not "escape" to fantasy worlds that they create called "Zion" or something. In fact, you have to wonder where the author did her research because when I finally moved to San Francisco in my late teens, I was amazed to discover that the mumbling group of street people who were, in fact, schizophrenics were not having nearly as creative time of it.

But I digress.

The point of my story is that I left the house and found the outside world nearly as strange and alluring as a recently released schizophrenic. In short, I took the bus downtown to the Central Library, where my good friend B. was reading, along with my Seattle friend C. (also known as Seattle's Poet Populist. I am not making this up.) It was absolutely wonderful to see B. who lives in Portland with her sweet husband W. As an added plus, W. works for Nike and brought me two pairs of amazing new Nikes! Schwag-o-riffic!

The 16 bus is my new best buddy. I'm bringing coffee and donuts for the 16 bus the next time I ride it. It is scenic, it is friendly, it is efficient, and no one smells. I'm hoping to find a lover like the 16 bus.

Today I coughed and coughed like I was quitting smoking for the 14th time, but also made it halfway around the Lake - so it appears that I'll be back to my grumpy old self again in no time.

April Snow Showers

In a prime example of either global warming, weird weather conditions in general, or really bad luck for choosing a good time to move to Seattle - our "little weather system that could" served up a delicious fat-free helping of snow and hail last night. Now Santa Feans, let me tell you: there is snow and there is snow. It has been well-documented that I do not like to drive in the mass of white and ice. No, no, I do not like this, Sam I Am! However, even I have to admit that the fairy tale snow of Santa Fe - falling softly over the adobe rooftops of the City-ette like the wonderful last sentence of that James Joyce story The Dead - is lovely. The bluest sky, the whitest ground, O how the Tourists Revel. It's a little different around here, where the color palette is gray with a tiny helping of green, if you see my meaning.

So an April snowstorm around here - falling on a Friday evening and on Passover, no less - was hailed with the same enthusiasm as say, another plague. ("Wait, you said that the death of the first born son was the last one. Okay, not pleasant but we dealt with that, but snow? Snow? God  I don't like to get on you, because I know, I know you have your mysterious ways and all - but that is just going a little too far. Seriously, Dude. Not cool.")

Dogs need to be walked as birds gotta fly, so I took the beasties out into the muck yesterday. As I was crossing over to the Lake, a car stopped to let me by with two frattish looking boys in front. They actually shouted at me out the window: "Nice ass!" Let me ask you friends, what is up with Seattle? There is nothing more startling than having a frat boy shout nice ass at you in your calm, residential neighborhood. So if you're reading this, Mr. Frat Boys - thanks, I do have a nice ass. It is also encased in jeans older than you.

You know that painting Christina's World? No? You can look it up.

Which brings me to my current obsession: the sadistic TLC show "Ten Years Younger." Since I've been under house arrest this week, I've spent many feverish evenings watching this incredible program, usually thinking: "Am I hallucinating? Are they doing this for reals?" Apparently they are. Here's how it works. The victim is placed in a sound-proof box in what looks like Times Square. Crowds of tourists walk by after enjoying their delicious Hard Rock Cafe chicken wings, and sprout off about the age of the person in the box - who is standing there in the dumpiest clothes on earth, looking as if they were about to sit through Cats or face a firing squad. But they don't just say "52" and then walk on to the half-price TKTS booth. Oh no. First they give a detailed explanation of why the victim is looking rode hard and put up wet. "The teeth are yellow," the helpful tourist in their Kansas JayHawks sweatshirt puts in. "They have wrinkles. The hair is blah." (At this point, I always want the sound-proofing to fail, and the poor elderly-looking victim to spring from the booth and ask rather legitimately in my opinion: "What the hell do you know? You're wearing a pastel sweatshirt.")

After literally 100 people get to say how decrepit you look, the victim is released from the box and sent to the Table of We'll Make it Better. A "stylist" with the most maniacal curly hair I've seen since a high school production of Annie, tells the poor fool that the average age guessed was....much higher than their real age! Shocker, I know. Then, in my favorite moment, the curly haired satyr asks: "How old are you really?" There is a breath and a pause, as if the victim has to really think about it. (How old am I? Hmmm.) I'm.....(pause. breath. tearful look)...32.

32, the stylist repeats as if he had no idea. Why people guessed your age as 40. 40! (Does quick math). Why that is 8 years older than you are. How does that make you feel?

Wonderful, the victim responds. I love that a bunch of random strangers walked by and commented on my wrinkles and bad taste. Let's do it again!

Then the victim tells the sad story that got them to that horrible point of (gasp!) looking older, because apparently you can get the death penalty in California and Manhattan for this. Usually it's a combination of having children, no money and no time. There you go. Kids and poverty, friends. Sell those kids now and save your looks. That's the hidden message of this program.

At any rate, victim is dashed off to have a combination of botox, fillers, peels, makeup, new clothes and - for some reason I have yet to understand - veneers and Zoom whitening. What is this fascination with super-white teeth all of a sudden? Teeth are not supposed to blind. At the end of all this futzing around, the victim - who typically is dolled up to look like a downgrade version of a Dancing With the Stars contestant - is once again placed in the box. But now they are - looking younger! Yes! The guessed age is perhaps 33 and not 52. Mission accomplished. No clue as to how they keep up with the botox and peels and highlights after though.

How much do you want that free botox to stand in a box on Times Square as part of a fun family outing on a trip to New York while strangers insult you? You'd have to want it pretty badly, wouldn't you? In the most cynical fashion, the show confirms that beauty and youth are just things you can buy if you want it enough. Speaking as someone who has (at least in the past, I don't know about now) always looked a little younger than I am, I think it has a lot more to do with sunscreen, not wearing mommy jeans and using a touch of mascara.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back into the box.

Night Fever, Night Feev-vuh

One of the curious consequences of this sickness that will not go away is that I'm running a temperature of 101 every night and straight on into morning. (It's somewhat inexplicable unless you take into consideration that I have acute bronchitis and a respiratory infection.) So in an effort to walk on the sunny side of the street (which isn't easy in Seattle) I decided that in one of those twisted fairy tale wish things - you know, the kind where you wish you can fly and you end up as a squashed mosquito - I'm actually living one of my most treasured childhood fantasies: the recurrent fever.

Now it probably won't surprise anyone who knows me (and let's face it, who else would be reading this?) but my mother ran a tight ship. Although she was French, she would have been a truly magnificent Isreali Commander. In fact, I can assure you that if she had taken a crack at it, those problems on the West Bank would be history. One of her most fervent beliefs was that unless you had been recently backed over by a car - you belonged in school. Period. No amount of belly-aching or whining ever swayed her from depositing us on the school bus and off to class. The one exception was the Fever. For my mother, a fever meant business. It was the key to the Magical Kingdom of Daytime TV (moved into the sicky's bedroom. Schwing!) and glasses of ginger ale. I can't speak for my sister, but I know that for me a Fever was a holy grail. Please God, I would pray, just a little over 100. Is that too much to ask for?

As I entered the fourth grade, I was not above utilizing a little, uh, trick. I would carefully put the thermometer (and we're talking the old-fashioned kind, the kind you held under your tongue - not the horribly accurate pop in the ear ones that children are cursed with these days) on a light bulb for a couple of minutes. This would give the temperature a little boost, and I would enjoy another day of going back to sleep. I'm not sure which I objected to more: School (hated) or waking up in the morning (beyond hated). My mother, who is still the smartest cookie I've ever known, never figured out the light bulb trick.

Or maybe it never occurred to her that a nine year old could be so diabolical. That could be it.

Death by Gloom

My recent silence (both in person and in the blogosphere) has to do with the fact that I've been hit by what I'll call the Seattle Crud. To wit: Mix one incredibly gorgeous sunny tank-top wearing day with two gloomy, rainy days and you'll have either a terrible cough, a fever, or if you're really in luck - chills. Guess what? I had all three. Jackpot! This is a massive hubris punch as I'm the type of person who likes to chirp annoyingly about how "I never get sick." Don't you hate people like that? I do, and I am one. But clearly, I do get sick. I get so sick that my nice friend A. actually went to Jamba Juice to leave me a Cold Buster in the fridge this morning - and I was so grateful, I cried.

Given my general state of Sick & Pissy, I thought I would follow up my Things I Love post with some Things I Will Never Be Okay With (hate is such a strong word, isn't it?) all of which can also be found in Seattle:

1. Live music. Now I'm not talking about James McMurtry or Lucinda Williams or Cat Power or the kind of musician you see in the paper and think about how $55 for a ticket is an awful lot of money, but dang, you'd still like to go. No, I'm talking about those concerts where you have no idea who you're listening to, and the sound system is shrieking, and every song and every band sounds exactly the same, although there is always some girl/woman dancing in weird balletic movements at the edge of the stage who seems to be able to tell the difference. I especially hate those block party live music events where it's so cold you're shivering at 4pm and the only food is stale corn chips with yellow cheese on top.

2. Condos. Condos have their place, but do we need four million of them? I think not.

3. Dogs with hair cuts and little outfits. People. It's a poodle, not Paris Hilton.

4. Runners. Just the kind who give you dirty looks if you happen to step in their way and slow down their physical fitness by sixty seconds. Gosh, I'm sorry. Also, strollers.  Please.

5. Garbage Cans that say "Do Not Deposit Animal Waste Here." About 8 out of 10 of the public waste bins in Seattle call doing this a "health hazard." But let me get this straight. You want me to scoop up Brutto's poo, but you don't want me to throw it anywhere? How does that work?

6. Pious Celebrity Greening. True, this isn't particular to Seattle. But if I have to read one more account of how Gwyneth walks everywhere and makes little organic snacks for Apple to save the earth, I promise you - someone is going to get hurt.

7. Loud cell phone talkers. You're not in an invisible phone booth, you know. We can hear you.

8. Trader Joe's Parking Lot. Obviously designed by a sado-masochist who came up with the plan after measuring every car in the world, and shrinking the spaces to be just slightly smaller than all of them.

Where No One Knows Your Name

Through a series of complicated interconnections, I had dinner tonight with three very nice people at what can only be called my neighborhood pub - the Latona - a welcome five blocks away.  Look Ma, no car!  I've never had a neighborhood pub before.  You might say I've never needed a neighborhood pub, given the fact that anything over a glass and a half of wine is a really big night of drinking in my world. Still, neigborhood pubs imply that you live in a neighborhood, the way "favorite coffee house" implies that there are a few to choose from (and there are.  But I'm going with Cafe Zoka.)  

In sleepy Greenlake, the Latona has been around for at least twenty years.  It's the kind of joint where you can pull out board games and pretend you're doing something other than gulping ale from giant glasses, and - I am not making this up - everyone turns around to check you out when you come in.

I don't mean check you out as in "nice ass" - I mean check you out as in "Hey, who are you?  Do I know you?  Will you buy me a drink?"  Thankfully, no one looks like Norm on Cheers.  I'm pretty sure that anyone with Norm's physique is quickly packed into a very large crate and sent postage due to Tacoma.  This is a city of healthy people.  Someone is always running around the damn lake in an endless loop - maybe it's all the coffee. 

Anyway, M. and her nice husband A. and another nice friend M2 and I all enjoyed our gourmet chicken sandwiches, side salads (no fries because undoubtedly they are harder to run off), and tall beers/white wine.  M. and A. have four dogs and no children and are transplanted San Franciscans.  A. works for Google.  I strongly suspect M. spends all of her time vacuuming up the dog hair. (Speaking of the Lake, tomorrow I'm going to walk it with another random group of people.  Having blind dates with potential friends is nearly as nerve-wracking as with potential lovers except that I'm not too concerned with what to wear - which is good since I haven't actually unpacked my clothing yet. I've only had one blind date in my life but I do remember thinking when it was finally over that I wished I hadn't worried so much about what to wear and more about suggesting a place with a back entrance.

I liked the Latona Pub so much I had a passing fantasy of working there like Diane on Cheers - an overeducated barmaid mingling with the common folk (except it never made any sense to me that she kept working there.  It was Boston. She couldn't have found anything else?), but I quickly shelved the idea.  It's just a little too upscale, with the arugula and all.  

Ten Things I Love

Given the grousing I've indulged in so far, I'm going to follow the lead of my friend and mentor, Tothie, who - being as how she isn't from New York or Jewish - believes in accentuating the positive. So here are ten things I love, all found in Seattle:

1. My dog's face. Brutto has a very cute, worried little face. With a small pink tongue that sticks out when he's sleeping. Also he howls when he's happy. It's hard to be depressed when your dog howls in joy at the sight of you.

2. Wicky-Wack cottages. The pinker and more trellis-y the better. Extra points for picket fences and extremely neat lawns. You just know the conversation at breakfast is about that lawn.

3. Sushi. Especially if someone else is paying.

4. Thrift stores where they price everything at $2.00 or less. I have to stop myself from throwing down a fifty and buying the entire store.

5. Old couples holding hands. Isn't that the bees knees?

6. Fish and chips. I don't even like to eat it very often. I just feel happy knowing it's waiting for me, down the street. Preferably wrapped in newspaper as it should be.

7. Paying all of 99 cents for my skincare line of choice while my sister pays $220 for her jar of Creme de Mer de Expense. (My skincare? Vaseline. YES. Vaseline. I'm telling you, it works.)

8. Misty, crisp days where you need a sweater under your jacket and a jaunty scarf around your neck.

9. My electric blanket, purchased at Hospice Thrift new in the package for $3.00. Ahh.

10. Watching three ducks stop rush hour traffic while they walk slowly across two lanes back to Green Lake.The look on the faces of the drivers waiting for the ducks to cross the road, a mix of disbelief, tension, rage, and affection.

This post was brought to you by the letter "L."