It's a Festivius Miracle!

As bad luck would have it, my darling Hapa Boy had to travel the week before Christmas, when outside the house, not a creature was stirring except oh, an unexpected Seattle blizzard dropping twelve inches of snow over our sleeping heads.

Are you getting this? A blizzard. In Seattle. It doesn't snow here. It snows in Santa Fe, which is, as a matter of fact, one of the reasons I moved away. Yes, it's all white and fluffy and Santa's Coming and reindeer and jingle-jingle until there's a pound of the stuff on your windshield every morning and tracking in the house, and making you slip slide out of every side street. Dear Readers, I do not like snow. I do not like shoveling it. I do not like removing the tiny snow balls that embed themselves in my dog's paws. I do not like the icy pathways. I do not like not wearing my suede boots from November through March. I have never and will never ski or snowboard, as it combines the two things I am most afraid of - height and speed - into one terrifying package. I don't get snowboarding. You go up, you go down. In between, you're cold and wet and scared. It's all fun and games until someone gets decapitated.

But I digress.

Here, a major storm, in Los Angeles and then San Francisco, my darling Hapa Boy. It would seem that the Seattle-Tacoma Airport did not have much in the way of cleared runways or de-icing equipment. Shocker, huh? You wouldn't believe the irritated population of Seattle, complaining that Seattle was not prepared for a snow storm. We're also not prepared for serpents to fall from the sky. Both are equally likely, people.

Overbooked flights were delayed and delayed and then canceled. (It would have been much worse to have been stranded at Sea-tac. Trust me on this one.) His Sunday arrival looked like it would be Boxer Day (also, his birthday.) More snow was coming. And Christmas! (I know, I know. I'm Jewish. Shut up. ;)

But I am nothing if not determined. I am dogged by nature, unless it is about digging out my car from a foot of snow, in which case I am content to give up. Moments before Hapa Boy was trying to decide whether to bunk down in San Francisco or the Oakland La Quinta Motel, I decided to re-check the flights on Orbitz/Expedia/Zippydodo if anything had opened up. And lo and behold, a space on a 9:30pm flight out of San Francisco. Yay!

So I should have my Hapa Boy back tonight, making the cold a little warmer. The moral of this story is never let your boyfriend out of your sight.

Wait, that's not the moral.

The moral of this story is all's well that ends well. Except when it costs you an extra $500 and a mad dash from airport to airport and another mad dash down the LA freeways on the Sunday before Christmas and a lot of assorted aggravation and bad food and whining from your girlfriend capped by an icy I-5 drive home at midnight.

Still, it's not every guy that would do the above to come home as quickly as possible - because he missed me. I feel pretty lucky, all in all.

Happy Holidays and God bless everyone. No exceptions. *

UPDATE: Hapa Boy has landed in Seattle. We will skip the Airing of Grievances, and progress to Feats of Strength - including trudging through the sludgy snow.

*Not even Alaska Airlines.

Let's Get Her Barefoot and See If She Likes it Then.

Click here to see the book cover "What to Do When Your Daughter Hates Being in the Kitchen."

Yes, "this is a great little e-book for parents that need fresh ideas to help their daughter realize the impact of serving others with our time and skills from the kitchen."

There are those that believe the impact of my serving others with my skills in the kitchen is equal to that of a comet hitting Manhattan. But don't you love the look on that girl's face? I'm totally ordering this. Come on, what a great stocking stuffer for the rebellious female adolescent on your gift list. (And who doesn't know one of those?) This will learn her.

Now I personally think buying this ebook is too easy. What you should do with a daughter like that is put that traitor to her gender in the stocks for a few hours, throw old tomatoes at her head, and let the preacher try to fire and brimstone her out of being a FEMALE not interested in COOKING. Yeah, then she'll go whip up some fudge like a good girl.

But that's me. ;)

I Hate My Hair (Salon)

I may be a girly-girl, but I have always hated being fussed at. I hate massage, manicures, pedicures over twenty minutes and featuring older issues of People magazine. I hate facials, shopping at big department stores with obsequious sales people, and haircuts. I can't get my head around anything beyond a morning shower and a little strategic lip gloss. I mean, consider the inexplicable appeal of the brazilian wax. Wait - you're asking me to pour molten lava over my most tender areas so that I can be the girl of Humbert Humbert's dreams? And I have to pay for that experience? Oh hay-ell no.

But because I've been cursed with hair that is both fine and thick, hair that looks best in layers, hair that I let grow long, even though every magazine has urged me to cut it off, hair that refuses to do anything I ask it to do, well, every few months I have to get myself to someone who can wiggle the old Scissorhands over me.

I hate that.

First of all, I don't like the salon experience. It makes me feel like I'm desperately fiddling while Rome is burning. People are losing their jobs and the polar bears are eating each other, so the angle of a razor cut seems a little less earth-shaking. I mean, my hair isn't that interesting to me, so don't pretend like you're all up in my grill about it too. You know, this kind of thing:

What are we going to do with your hair today?
Well, I imagine you'll cut it. Right?
Have you thought about going any shorter?
I'm 5'3" - there really isn't that much shorter to go...oh my hair. Let's just say the last time someone whacked it to my neck, I cried for three days and considered joining the Peace Corps - Congo region.
A bob would really draw attention to your face.
I don't want to draw attention to my face! I want to hide my face!
Let's cut it to here and see what you think.
Please put down the scissors and back away from the hair. That's right....nice and slow. Put your hands where I can see them.

Here in Seattle, there are at least many many tattooed and pierced young men and women who cut and clip and trim. Every salon seems equally outfitted with blue-streaked cutters and small Asian girls who wash your hair so carefully, it seems to be happening strand by strand. You wait amidst all the overpriced shampoos for your turn in the Chair of Transformation. It is a long wait at times. I don't like this, because I also hate woman's magazines. I hate walking around with wet hair in a stupid looking plastic bib. These bibs are always eggplant-colored. I don't know why that is.

I hold out as long as I can, but then I fall to the seductive siren call of the Expensive Haircut. Here's how it ended up a couple of days ago, cut by Erika at Vain (I know, right?)



Fluffy: check.
Wavy: check.
No maintenance: check.
No blowdrying required: check.
Long suffering expression on my face: check.
Ungodly amount of money paid: check.

Here are some other things I hate about my super-pricey cut:

I hate spending so much money.
I hate going to a place called Vain.
I hate noting that I have the same haircut my sister had in 1978, for which she paid $12 at SuperCuts.
I hate the way the cashier at Vain, after giving him the equivalent of the down payment on my first car, asks me "how much I'd like to tip Erika today." At this rate, my house sale is going to go directly to my head.

Yes, I keep thinking I will not go back, I will find something less annoying and expensive, and then I remember how truly bad my hair is capable of looking, and I cave.

Hair junkies are sad people, dear readers. We need your compassion, not your judgment.

Speaking of dear readers - I'm sure you're wondering if I always take such terrible pictures. I'm sure you're thinking, "why was I so hard on her when the issue is not her relationship with God - it is clearly her inability to take a decent photo. I mean, she can't always look so...so...you know." But yes. Yes I do. The moment a camera hits me, I shut my eyes, squint, or start to look like someone with a cardboard sign by the end of freeway. Compare me, if you will, to my cluelessly handsome Hapa Boy (a man with no idea how good-looking he is, you understand), who sat in front of my Mac and took this on the first try - in an attempt to look like a mug shot. Are you getting this? Here he is trying to look as pathetic as I look without trying, at his worst:



I know. I know. You see the issue.
Clearly, we must never be photographed together.

Or I best give more thought to upkeep.

Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream

In February, Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique will have been published 45 years ago. I'm pretty sure that if you ask most women on the street what The Feminine Mystique is about, she'll probably guess it's about picking out sexy underwear for your boyfriend. It isn't. Here's the introduction:

Over and over women heard in voices of tradition and of Freudian sophistication that they could desire--no greater destiny than to glory in their own femininity. Experts told them how to catch a man and keep him, how to breastfeed children and handle their toilet training, how to cope with sibling rivalry and adolescent rebellion; how to buy a dishwasher, bake bread, cook gourmet snails, and build a swimming pool with their own hands; how to dress, look, and act more feminine and make marriage more exciting; how to keep their husbands from dying young and their sons from growing into delinquents. They were taught to pity the neurotic, unfeminine, unhappy women who wanted to be poets or physicists or presidents. They learned that truly feminine women do not want careers, higher education, political rights--the independence and the opportunities that the old-fashioned feminists fought for. Some women, in their forties and fifties, still remembered painfully giving up those dreams, but most of the younger women no longer even thought about them. A thousand expert voices applauded their femininity, their adjustment, their new maturity. All they had to do was devote their lives from earliest girlhood to finding a husband and bearing children. (You can read the entire excerpt- if you're interested- here. )

Yes, feminism started as a way to approach the "problem with no name," the fact that women were not only unhappy, they felt invisible in their homes. They felt becoming a doctor was less "feminine" than choosing to be a nurse, and math was something boys needed to do. They went off to college for an M.R.S, and hoped for a nice husband to support the 2.5 offspring when they went to live in a big house where the grass was so much better really for the children. It was monumental and revolutionary when Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem pointed out that maybe women could have other choices. If you know, they wanted them.

It started from such a benign place I'm puzzled exactly when it became a dirty word. Back when I was teaching in Arkansas, I never had a female student make a single comment about their lives without looking around nervously and mumbling, "I'm not a feminist or anything but..."

I mean, there they were, in their little skirts, drinking their Big Gulps of Diet Coke, beaming with artfully rendered makeup and tiny diamond earrings and long blonde locks wrapped around their freshly tanned fingers, earnestly declaring that Lawd, the last thing they would ever ever ever ever ever want to be as a card-carrying University of Arkansas co-ed is a feminist. What if that got out around the campus? I know, that would just be like you know so uncool! OMG! But let me ask you now: Why? What horrible thing did Betty Friedan do by suggesting that maybe maybe some women wanted to do something else? Be a physicist? Become Sally Ride? Run for office? That maybe biology wasn't destiny?

To my memory, there were no police raids at that time forcing women into taking jobs outside the home. No one dragged anyone kicking and screaming from the washer-dryer. No one said, for heaven's sakes, give those pesky children of yours up for adoption and be a realtor! Hey, there's no doubt there's been a huge backlash from 60's style feminism, but it wasn't from what the feminists were asking for. They were just asking for more choices. It was from a kind of media hysteria which happily proclaimed that well, if you're more powerful than men, no man will want you! You'll be alone! But that wasn't true. Most of my friends married very nice men who liked that they were strong and interesting and diverse. So why, as Susan Faludi once wrote, is "fear and loathing of feminism is a sort of perpetual viral condition in our culture?" Check out this newly minted thought from Generation Cedar:

One of the feminist lies is that a woman can only be truly free in a career outside her home.

Wait - what? Who said a woman can only be free that way? Betty Friedan didn't. Gloria Steinem didn't. I know I didn't. Why is this crusading judgement suddenly ascribed to feminists, who I'm sure appear in their nightmares with dirty hair and unshaved armpits? At what point did anyone tell anyone this?

As far as I can tell, some of my friends with young children stopped working for awhile to be home with them. They didn't hire a baby nurse and go back to the office on the Tuesday after labor. They like being moms. And the ones that did get back to the office after awhile because they take pride in what they do in the world seem to be raising very nice little beasties. I mean, having a mom that has priorities in addition to mothering isn't a death sentence - say what you will, but clearly Hilary Clinton was a terrific mother. She and Chelsea are very close, and unlike *cough* certain presidential *cough Bush* children, she has yet to have one embarassing drinking binge in public.

Nothing is perfect, and we haven't worked out all the kinks - but do we really want to throw the baby out with the bathwater after all that? Look, I shave my legs. I even wear mascara when I remember to which isn't terribly often, but still. I like to buy clothes. I've read the entire Jane Austen. Three times. I'm kind of a girly-girl, in fact. Ask anyone. The fact that I want to hold on to the idea that I can choose a thousand different ways to live from finishing a book to finding a great job to trying to make Hapa Boy a happy camper and that I equally admire the job that Michelle Obama and Hilary Clinton have done with their families as much as I admire their fire and intelligence and place in the working world doesn't make me someone who argues with anyone else's choice to stay home and raise children or learn to bake or make fancy dinners.

It just makes me a feminist. That's all.

The Heart of the Matter

So recently I've had some visitors of the, shall we say, fundamentalist Christian mindset. Most have been extremely nice and engaging, and I kind of welcome their different sensibility. As I've said, sometimes Liberals can be a might heavy-handed. However, some of you might wonder - why exactly is a nice Jewish girl getting traffic from Christians? Well. This is mainly because I've felt compelled - at times foolishly - to comment on a very Hyper Christian blog. (Say what you will, the woman gets a lot of hits. )

Here a homeschooling mother of seven lets forth on such riveting subjects as why public schools are like the Nazi regime for Christian children, how birth control is against God's plan, why homosexuals are sinners and how homosexuality should be illegal and - thereisnosuchthingasevolutionhowdareyoumentionityounastyliberal. She is a firm proponent of something called Biblical Womanhood. Here's a little tutorial:



Should women submit to men? Apparently, they should (I want to point out that the very smart and devout Terry @ Breathing Grace explains that most Christians believe that women should submit to their husbands, and not to ALL men. Fair enough. Not having a husband, this hasn't come up exactly. Thank G-D):



Yes Kelly over at Generation Cedar just f'loves this guy's preaching. Oh, and don't send your children to public schools! They are a breeding ground for Marxism:



I know, right?

But I think in general I've been a little unfair. You don't get overnight to the point where you tell a stranger that homosexuals should spend their lives celibate and safe from sin. That's a long indoctrination. I wasn't raised by Fundamentalist Christians - I wasn't raised by Christians at all. And curiously, all my years of Hebrew School didn't have much to do with, well, God's Wrath. Let's face it, fear of Brimstone is not the primary motivator in my life, because as I've pointed out, I was more afraid of my mother - and she was a lot scarier than Brimstone. In fact, I'm sure the Archangels are asking her right now how she inspired so much respect from us.

But I digress.

Remember that famous passage where Anne Frank - living in an attic and soon to die in a Concentration Camp - said that she still believes people are basically good? I've always thought that if she can think it, I can think it. And so I do believe people are basically good. With a few bad apples, of course. I believe that being nice to each other is kind of what every religion is getting at. I believe that faith is a personal matter, and you have to find your own way. I believe that everyone is in charge of their own destiny because if there is a Deity up there, She's kind of busy, you know? I believe in forgiveness, although I often fail to be forgiving.

Mostly I believe if we let go for even a moment of why everyone should have the same rights to love, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, we will lose those rights.

What can I say? I was raised by Heathen Liberals. :)

The No, Thanks Post

And....Thanksgiving, that celebration of gluttony and killing a whole bunch of Native Peoples (sadly without writing down any recipe that doesn't involve dry turkey.) Why do we celebrate this again? And don't even get me started on the two years I watched S. baste his Tofurky, an eating experience that can only be likened to toasting cardboard and dipping in butter. I'm still repulsed by the pleasure he took in woofing down those tasteless brown pieces of vegetarian goo.

But Blogger that I am, I am duly sucked into the blogosphere of The Thankful Post where unknown people offer up a list of unfamiliar items and/or people for which they give thanks. Mothers thank Diaper Genies (and despite my long list of child-bearing friends, I still don't know what a Diaper Genie is), wipeables, and toddlers that finally take to toilet-training, students thank teachers for that easy class, and partners gush about each other. I've always had a problem with those sappy dedications in books to wives and husbands. I happen to know that not every writer has an astounding, completely supportive marriage/relationship so why all the "And finally, to my husband Earl WhippedCream, without whom I would not only not have written this book, I'd have stopped breathing and walked into a river with heavy stones in my pockets." I'll go with "Once Again to Zelda" if only because sweet old F. Scott copped to plagarizing from her.

But I digress.

Anyway, forgive me for grousing, but I thought a list of what I wasn't thankful for might change things up a bit. So here are a few things I'd like to offer my No, Thanks for:

• Employers that have laid off friends.
• Employers that haven't hired friends.
• The s**t Obama is about to have to deal with.
• Tiny Seattle parking lots.
• Dog hair explosions.
• Moths in my best cashmere sweater.
• People who still believe they get to say who gets to marry.
• People who don't get that playing an Ipod really loud on a bus means that I get to hear frackin' Justin Timberlake along with them.
• All those women on the View who seem to think yelling is entertaining.

Ahhhh. Can't we do this at Thanksgiving dinner? I think we'd all feel better to have a day when we're invited to complain. But then I'm Jewish. It's practically a sport in my family.

In all fairness, I do have a lot to be thankful for, particularly this year. I'm grateful that Obama is in office, that Michelle Obama can dress with mad skillz, that my dog(s) are healthy and happy and poop regularly, that I live in this wonderful city with great friends, that I still have work, and that I spent a month in Wyoming. Oh and that I bought a Kara Janx dress for $20 on Ebay.

Of course I'm very thankful for my lovely, sexy Hapa Boy and all his many kindnesses. I'm thankful every day I wake up next to him that he is such a good man, and that I am lucky enough to have such a good man in my life.

I hope he's thankful for me.

The Ghost of Relationships Past

You know how in Dicken's The Christmas Carol the Ghost of Christmas Past comes down and scares Scrooge straight with what can only be called Pre-1900's Talk Therapy? You remember. Scrooge realizes - with the help of some slightly iffy tactics that would not meet with approval in today's psychiatric community - that if he doesn't shape up, he's going to be the miserable old codger that he is through eternity. Cut to lonely grave, hellfire, damnation, all that sort of thing that Dickens doesn't spell out, but hey, it's the 1800's, right?

But Dickens is an old softie because Scrooge gets a second chance to buy a big ham and some fixings, serve it up and maybe get a good doctor to look at Tiny Tim, who I've read, most likely had rickets. God Bless Us, Everyone. That Tiny Tim is an optimistic little guy, because I've always suspected that Scrooge went back to his old miserable codgerness once the bills came in on his AMEX. Fear, while a great motivator, may not be the most reliable source of generosity.

Now it goes without saying that I do not believe I'm going to burn through eternity. I didn't get that sort of programming from the rabbi at Oneg Shalom when I was a kid because essentially Jews don't believe in hell, or as I like to say, we believe hell is two weeks with your parents in South Florida. (Seriously, that is close enough people. If a Ghost of Hanukah Past threatened me with two weeks at my father's assisted living facility in Boynton Beach, I'd shape up faster than Scrooge.) In fact, we don't really have a rollicking view of heaven either. When my mother was dying (this is a true story), my sister and I asked the rabbi at the hospital if there's heaven in Judiasm. All the poor guy could come up with was that we "all become energy." I'm sure if my sister had already had my nephew the rabbi would have said added something about how my mother would live on through him. (And I do wonder what my mother would have said about how often he skips bedtime. She ran a tight ship, my mother. So there could be truth to the idea she lives on through him.) Still, all of those lovely sentiments don't suggest that she might be peeking down from the clouds smiling beautifically now does it? So I'm not going to debate the theology of heaven and hell, I'm just going to say - I don't buy it. Maybe, like a taste for Vegemite, you have to be raised with it.

But I digress.

The point is that I kind of believe that most people make their heaven and hell right here on earth. I've noticed most women do this via relationships that tend to be hellish more often than heavenly. I've worshipped at that particular church you know. I've cried, I've ranted, I've been supportive. I've helped boyfriends get jobs or get out of jobs, I've rented cabins and made reservations, I've flown across the country to meet them, I've even arranged nebulous meetings at the airports themselves - once missing a flight and spending Christmas eve in Dallas where I was forced to listen to endless renditions of What Child Is This by a group of sadistically tone-deaf carolers.

Yes, it was hell. But upon moving to Seattle, I was - like old Scrooge - scared straight by the Ghost of Relationships Past. It came to me, albeit slightly belatedly, that I was doing all this to myself. I was going to have to change or spend the rest of my days a miserable old codger - and that Dear Readers is possibly a worse fate than eternal damnation, because there is only so much reality television you can watch, and ANTM and Project Runway won't be on forever you know.

I bring all this up because I woke up this morning with a funny feeling and I couldn't place it. It wasn't anxiety or sadness or sleepiness or regret. Oh, I thought when we were sitting at Grateful Bread, sharing a sesame bagel and some tomato soup, I'm happy.

You know, maybe that was what Scrooge felt. Although let's face it, it's hard to be sure because no one had yet invented the Ipod.

What I Believe: A Reader's Guide

So I've come to terms with the fact that people have the bizarre tendency to *gasp* disagree with me. I know, shocking, since I'm pretty much always right about everything. :) Look, I do have some unshakable beliefs, like nothing is more delicious than a bowl of tomato soup at the Latona Pub, sushi is the perfect food, and Vaseline is the world's best moisturizer. However, these are clearly not all empirically true. But when it comes to the sort of thing that other people are perpetually pondering what side of the issue they fall on, ponder no more. I'm just well, I'm right. That's all. For example:

1. Feminism is good. Why is it good? Because it's valuable to have choices, and taking away choice, while less confusing, is inherently a bad idea. Choice develops critical thinking, which is far more important than opposable thumbs. I respect my friends who want to stay home with their children - and I respect the ones that like to work and give their daughters different role models. I don't think there's anything inherently bad about choosing whatever path works for you. I never saw myself as a mother, in part because my own mother was miserable. It was not a time when she could have put her considerable intelligence and mad skillz to other tasks then say, wiping up our little handprints from the refrigerator. Also, let's consider that women who are appalled at the idea of feminism on their blogs are missing the fact that feminists made it possible for them to HAVE blogs - namely by ensuring that women would learn to read and write. Oh, and the ones extolling Biblical Womanhood and what have you? I salute your right to have a different opinion, but frankly, you're wrong. Because you know why you CAN vote? And read all those Graceful Womanhood books. That's right. Feminism.

Also - if one more woman starts a sentence with "I'm not a Feminist or anything, but..." I'm going to belt her one. It's not like saying you're a child molester, you know. You can own it.

2. Man's Relationship to Man is Far More Important Than His/Her Relationship to God: So be nice. Pick up your dog's poo. Don't yell into your cell phone on the bus. Stop cutting people off in the Trader Joe's parking lot. Oh and when someone says hello, smile. It won't kill you.

3. Dogs Make Everything Better: Except for sex. But really, can you think of any other experiences where having a dog with you doesn't improve it? Win-win, people.

4. It's Useless to Fight With Your Family: You won't get anywhere. I know this for a fact. My sister and I have had the same fight for over 30 years. Neither of us have budged.

5. Clothes Make You Feel Better: The right outfit at the right time on the right person? Priceless.

6. It's Better to Love Fruits and Vegetables: They're here. They're good for you. Get used to it.

7. It's a Waste of Time Trying to Figure Out Why Someone Broke Up With You: You'll never know. It doesn't matter. But believe me ladies, it wasn't because he was intimidated by your strength and purpose and womanliness. If it was, you were not dating a man.

8. Other People's Children are Important, Too: I always vote for school budgets because those children are going to grow up and populate my neighborhood, and if I put a Keep Off the Grass sign up, golly darn it, I'd like them to be able to read it.

9. Gay People Should Have the Right to Marry: Why? I'll tell you why. Because it isn't your business, and I don't care what your [Insert Deity/Belief System] tells you. There is no marriage in the Bible. Marriage began as a way to join property and that's that. If you want to put ribbons around it, then add the Rainbow colored ones, please. And if for some reason you think it is your business, what say we all get to vote on every Patty Ann Klumper and Ralph Nicknack that gets engaged in Ferris Puke, Idaho? Wouldn't that be more fair? I mean, are Patty Ann and Ralph going to be the best parents? Raise them in the [InsertDeity/Belief System] you follow? Homeschool? No? It's a slippery slope, isn't it? My only quibble with gay marriage is that it means I get invited to more weddings with more bridal showers and more gifts to buy and more What to Wear questions, but you know, for less bigotry and hatred all the way around, I guess I can buy one more Williams & Sonoma Silver Plated Toaster Slice Remover Fork Set.

10. I Own the World's Most Adorable Dog: Fact, people. See below as he cuddles up to Hapa Boy.

In other news, it is cold in Seattle. It is gray. It is dark at 4pm. Thanks for asking. :)

We Thought We Could.

Last night I felt I was not only seeing history - I had made it. A perfect storm of underwhelming campaign, ill-advised choices, eight years of limping presidency, an inspired candidate and a fed-up constituency swept a new rule over the land. I mean, even John McCain behaved with dignity, and the crowd in Chicago had me weeping a lot harder than Sarah Palin.

Because we could.

We could elect a smart, educated man.

We could decide that things do not have to continue to get worse.

We could have a First Lady with moxie and fashion sense.

We could be proud of our country and our choices.

But in this great future, you can't forget your past as Bob Marley once eloquently put it. I hope we'll be gracious winners and try not to berate those who disagree with us. Hey, some people think abortion is a sin. Some people have this weird notion that gay marriage is an abomination (although those are not the people that witness the strong and abiding love that J. and J. have for each other, because if they did I'm sure they'd be moved by it.) But surely we're not going to change their minds by calling them idiots. I mean, when has that ever helped anyone's cause?

By moving to Seattle this year, I've learned that I'm more flexible than I thought I was but I've also learned that forgiveness is not my strong suit. I've learned that making a change is not nearly as hard as committing to changing in general. I've learned that a boyfriend doesn't have to be problematic and difficult - he can be cute and kind and funny and supportive without being a pushover (thanks, Hapa Boy.)

Am I staying here? Yes. Because I can.

Other Voices, Other Rooms

Four years ago, my then boyfriend S. and I went out to vote on a cheerful, sunny, cold New Mexico morning. We dropped our ballots for Kerry, and went home to celebrate with a pancake breakfast and fake bacon. As bad luck would have it, Casey (and Kerry) struck out - and the celebration turned into six months of gloom for Then Boyfriend, relieved only by the occasional destruction of the plastic yard chairs when his Fantasy Football team also struck out. He was soon my ex-boyfriend and good riddance, but my point is that he took the whole thing rather personally. Because, you know, we were right (uh, left). He was, in short (and he was that too), your prototypical "I'm shouting you down because I can yell louder than you" liberal, and even a Red Diaper Grandbaby like me had to admit that he could be obnoxious about it all.

This time around I tried - God knows I tried - to consider other viewpoints. I mean, hell - I was a Hilary supporter. Obamatics shouted me down from the beginning when I dared to suggest *gasp* that maybe she was a great woman and maybe a victim of a certain kind of misogynist idea that she should have kicked Clinton out on his keester instead of patching up her marriage and staying with him because of course everyone should get to judge that action, that's not her private life, is it? Really, how dare she decide that she loved her husband, warts and all? That horrible hussy! And if in fact she did stay with him for political reasons, well, no man has ever done that, have they? And if she voted yes on Iraq, my my, didn't Joe Biden do that with no fanfare and gnashing of teeth?

Anyway, the fact that my friends acted as if voting for Hilary was akin to signing a petition that supported W to be named dictator did not make me reconsider Hilary. (Although yes, yes I voted Obama.) It just made me mad. Which is why I spent some of the year reading conservative blogs and hyperchristian websites. I wanted to understand why people disagreed with me, instead of shouting them down like Then Boyfriend S. What I discovered is this:

The separation between Church and State does not exist for some of us. Look here for example. This is a blog from a woman who home-schools, believes that Sarah Palin is not right-wing enough because she has a career (if hiring makeup artists and dressing moose is actually a career, you understand), and feels that the only issue in the presidential race is morality. Namely, hers. She is not alone. Check it out, there's a fascinating group called Ladies Against Feminism - happily ignoring that the fact that they can vote at all as a direct result of uh, feminism. And mind you, these are the Liberals of this group. I disagree with many of their values and beliefs but I defend their right to have them. These are not bad people. I bet they never cut anyone off in traffic. Also, they can make cakes from scratch. I can't.

Whatever happens today, I'm proud to be American. I'm the child of a French woman who recalled taking citizenship in a country where she was never persecuted for being a Jew with tears in her eyes, and my mother was not sentimental. My grandparents on my father's side emigrated from Russia with the clothes on their backs, and saw my father and his siblings all graduate from college. And if the cake bakers and the hawks think Obama is too liberal, too pro-choice, too weak - isn't it great that they can feel that way?

I think it is.

A Novel Idea

So when we last left our hapless (and newly Hapa'd) girlfriend, she had just been to a posh writing residency in Wyoming where she had inexplicably written 100 pages of a fresh novel and felt pretty damn good about herself.

And that's all she wrote. Literally. In other words (no pun intended), life has kicked in and made sitting down to write a might less easy than it had been when she was in Wyoming, and the only thing she had to worry about was how much chicken it took to feed six.

Happily I no longer have to consider how much chicken to buy, but I do have to write that damn novel. As you all know, I have turned over a more proactive leaf in my life, and I've decided not to muddle along forever. Besides, if short stories are dates and novels are serious boyfriends (and god knows you spend enough time with them), then I just wasn't that into my first book - but find myself falling in love with this second one. Chemistry doesn't just apply to human involvement apparently. My second book and I have a good thing going. (And by the way, Hapa Boy returned from a business trip with a swollen face from a random allergic reaction, and he is still indescribably hot. So there you go. Chemistry.)

But I digress.

Here's what I did: I signed up for NaNoRiNo - National Novel Writing Month. Mind you, I'm cheating. I'm supposed to start the book on November 1, and obviously I'm not. But I'm hoping this will get me writing 2000 words a day, rain or shine. I'm guessing rain.

Your cheerful "You can do it, Tiger!" good wishes are welcome.

It's All Good & Not Perfect

My greatest fear for the upcoming election is not that Obama will lose (not going to happen), but that he will choose a song as geeky as "Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow" when the results come in. I'm old enough to remember Tipper Gore dancing to that onstage, and there isn't enough soap in the world to wash that image out of my mind.

I think Bob Dylan singing Simple Twist of Fate would work well this time. Especially if McCain doesn't just lose, he and Sarah "I'm a farm girl, they done stuck these fancy duds on me" Palin are forced to spend the rest of their lives on a deserted island somewhere off Timbuktu that will never have enough satellite for the Internets. On the plus side, they could take along the entire Bush clan for company.

I think that's a reasonable solution, really. Sarah won't have to dress up in designer clothes or wear makeup, and McCain won't have to talk to the press. Also, I'd be happy to drop in frozen turkeys for Thanksgiving - particularly if one could land on W's head.

Halloween. Boo.

When did Halloween become like Christmas with bad makeup? Seriously, I don't understand how this happened. One day, I was a 12 year old walking around my suburban neighborhood in a sailor suit, and the next day adults were pondering "what to do for Halloween."

Here's what adults should do for Halloween: They should give out candy. The end.

It must be said that I hate dressing up in stupid costumes. I really hate having to come up with one, I hate being uncomfortable, I hate having to admire other people's stupid costumes, and I generally don't like Halloween parties because they feature two things I hate: Tortilla chips and women wearing bunny ears or whiskers painted on their faces. Fifty years of feminism, friends. Anyway, years ago, I went to a Halloween party where I used to live - lovely Inverness, California. I was a sexy bar girl, wearing a cast-off $2000 dress of my sister's. I met a guy there who was dressed as - remember this was a long time ago - as the wounded guy in The English Patient, completely wrapped in bandages.

I talked to him for about three hours, never saw him again (I think), and I still don't know what he looked like. Would you give your number to a man whose face was completely bandaged? I didn't.

So there you go. I hate Halloween.

It's All Perfect & Other Harbingers of Doom

Years ago - roughly one half-grown child ago - my friend S. from graduate school (that's University of Arkansas to the uninitiated) met The Love of Her Life, an Arkansas boy named B.

B. was a sweet, long-haired boy with the open manner and wide smile of Bodhi, the golden retriever that keeps stealing shoes and dumping them in the yard. In fact, now that I think about it, B. had a lot in common with our Bodhi. At any rate, S. and B. fell into mad, passionate union, a sweet joining that could not be contained by say, a public movie theater or a bench with students passing around them. This beautiful love was hampered by only one smallish problem: He was already married. To his junior high sweetheart.

Yes, our friend B. had a wife that he'd been with rather happily ever since the freshman prom in HatchChili, Arkansas. But, as he charmingly put it to me one day, he felt he had traded up with the pampered daughter of an LA heart surgeon. As S. put it, "B. is perfect. He's perfect to me. We're perfect. It's all perfect."

Cut to: B.'s wife in agony.
Divorce. Proposal. Engagement.

After an elaborate $75,000 wedding wherein I was a bridesmaid wearing a hideous pee-colored dress with a giant back bow, S. got pregnant. Baby arrived, followed by divorce. B, you see, a high school teacher, behaved like that old man in that book by Nabokov. Although it must be admitted that he is still with his former student, for what it's worth. At any rate, the relationship that began as "perfect" ended in a semi-Greek tragedy, proving two points: If they do it to someone else, they'll do it to you, and it's all perfect is a terrifying statement, and might give God an excellent reason to look down and say Spinal Bifida.

Which is possibly why I tend to distrust the sentiment. But why do I bring this up? Because at the moment my own B., Hapa Boy, is perfect, and treating me perfectly and it makes me slightly anxious.

On the other hand, Hapa Boy. did not leave his junior high sweetheart for me. Because you know, if you're looking for red flags, that's practically Nascar, isn't it?

Ch-ch-Changes

As some of you know, I recently spent last month in the comfy confines of lovely Jentel - an arts residency in Wyoming.

For the uninitiated, an arts residency is what God gives you to make up for the other 299 days of the year when being a writer or an artist is a complete pain in the a**. Depending on the residence, you get a room or a house and food or money for food and a studio and a great big reminder that you are up to Important Things in that studio. Or, you know, not - but it feels that way.

Jentel supplies a room that would shame most Bed and Breakfasts, a $100 a week stipend for food that other residents cook five days a week so it's a given that I eat better than at home, 1000 acres to hike within, two squee-dorable dogs to pet, a wonderful studio with a mini gas fireplace and a chair that leans back into practically a bed, and the fellowship of four artists and one other writer (my friend J.)

I loved it. The best part? I didn't even have to apply, I was awarded the residence because of my O. Henry Award in last year's O Henry Prize Collection. Thank you, God! Now could you do something about Obama getting elected?












In other news, while I was in Wyoming, Happa Boy (whom I started dating just days before leaving town) sent emails and phone messages to my non-working cell phone (we're in the mountains up there), plus a printed dinner invitation, among other awesomeness. When I got back, he made me seared tuna - and get this - remembered my love of frozen grapes for dessert. For reals. He remembered what I said in passing about frozen grapes and had them on hand - stunning non-male behavior. But I was not used to a man being so well, nice to me. And so I resisted his adorable inroads. This is a sad commentary on my previous relationships, particularly with S. Especially with S.

But there you have it, Beloved Readers, resistance is futile. I seem to have a *gasp* boyfriend. I know, who'd have thunk it? Certainly not me at this time last year - which just goes to show you that if you go to a big city and leave your house occasionally - you might meet someone.

The object of my affections - he sent me this picture at Jentel. See, nice. I feel guilty God is concentrating more on my happiness right now than say, global warming. I'm good, God. You can move on.










(By the way, I turned off comments due to a weird blip of them being saved half a dozen times. It seems to be resolved but if they disappear again, that's why.)

The Blogger Stumbles....Again

Yes, yes, haven't posted in months apology-cakes. Here's a wrap-up of what I've been doing:

1. Working. Gah.
2. Dog walking.
3. Noting that the summer, she is gone, and it is now raining.
4. Going to a writing residency at Jentel in Wyoming. Gloriousness.
5. Writing nearly 100 pages of a new novel. (RIP, old novel).
6. Acquiring a Gentleman Caller. (I've moved from terminally single to singleish. More on this as it develops.)

So I've been busy. But final word is that I'm staying in Seattle, I like it here, all is well, it rains a lot, Brutto is happy, Wyoming rocked, my guy is so incredibly sweet and lovely it scares me. Which tells you how neurotic I am. As if you doubted it.

Seattle When it Sizzles

So it was hot this weekend. Around here, this is an event on the level of a Pope visit. The nightly news leads off with Record Heat and ends with chuckled about kids and labs in wading pools, sprinkled with the sort of banal advice ("Get out of the sun if you're feeling faint") that must be truly revolutionary to anyone that hasn't exited the bomb shelter in the last thirty years. I went to Golden Gardens with R, who is still making half-hearted seduction attempts involving bottles of very good rose and lines I haven't heard since my last visit to a San Francisco fern bar. On the other hand, it's fun to tool around on Vespie, his Vespa. This is Golden Gardens. You can mentally add hundreds of people: R. is a character, with dozens of stories of women that throw themselves at him weekly. How does this happen exactly? Is there some sort of Desperation Flu out there on the order of that Will Smith zombie movie? I mean, he's a guy in his 40's who is a little pudgy with a nipple ring. (Yes, I know what you're thinking. Simmer down. He took off his shirt.) I'd say that R. meant well, but if any of you have been reading my previous posts, I know you'll agree when I say, no, not so much. He told me this evening that he was waiting for a weak moment when I would agree to have sex for him. Quite frankly, Dear Readers, I can't imagine that weak moment. It would have to come after a nuclear attack, the end of the planet as we know it, and the last shred of hope to repopulate the Earth and...nope. Not even then.

Bad Habits

Yesterday I went to the Fremont Solstice Parade with about 100 million other people. Yeah, it was roughly that, because moving around would probably be easier in a crowd where someone had dropped $1000 bills from a plane. It was about that crowded. There were many naked people painted blue and green and yellow. I have no idea why they ride bikes naked and paint themselves. It kind of made me itch looking at them though. Later, I went out with my lovely friend in Queen Anne. Here's the bar: So Solstice is here, and I've been thinking about how to change my bad habits and embrace the idea of a *gasp* life partner. Yes, dear friends and readers, it has not escaped me that I'm the one who tends to screw things up. Blame, she is a fickle friend. I thought of this the other day when I was out with my friend I., who said - with some satisfaction - that his ex had finally admitted that (let me paraphrase this) she was wrong about everything. Can this be, I pondered? Aren't there always two people mucking up the works? Although I have nothing but disdain for S., I'm forced to admit that I was in there too. Certainly if mistakes were made, I made 50% of them. In the interest of not making more mistakes, I've decided not speak with anyone I've ever had sex with for the duration - and not to have any more sex until I sort We'll call it a Sexual Solstice. Happily, at the moment, I'm only speaking with one man-boy in that category, and he is easily crossed off the contact list. It's a new (longer) day.

The Runner Stumbles

My indescribably talented friend D. once wrote a story called, "I Run Every Day." It was the very disturbing tale of a poorly socialized rapist (although to call D. the sweetest man on the planet would be a vast understatement) and it eventually got published in Harpers because when it comes to writing, D. is a bad a**. I bring it up because when your friend shows you his new first-person story about a date rapist who thinks he's misunderstood, your reaction is usually not a shocked and disgusted: "Wait - do you RUN?" Yes. It was worse contemplating him as a runner than a date rapist.

I'd hoped to keep at least a couple of my friends as couch potatoes with me, but no - they keep getting picked off, one by one, as if physical fitness was a newly devised form of Body Snatching (and it might well be.) And now as I've pointed out, I live across from the epicenter of running in Seattle: Green Lake.

I decided one day, watching as the f**king runners made yet another show-offy loop dragging their labs/retrievers/labadoodles/boston terriers/shepards behind them in big bursts of canine eagerness, that I could not be the last able-bodied woman in Seattle to at least try running. So I signed up for Boot Camp, where the receptionist (who even sounded super-fit) told me that we would run 3 to 5 miles every class in sprints and laps. Soon I would be able to take my fearless terrier mutt to join the pedigree darlings. Or so I thought.

But here's the thing. I hate running. Also, I'm very bad at running. I'm low to the ground. I have short legs. I am voluptuous to the tune of D cups. I pronate. It would not surprise you, Dear Readers, to learn that I'm the slowest runner in the group. I'm so slow that tonight the only fat woman in the class (and perhaps in Seattle) managed to smoke me by half a lap. That's how slow I am. I can't propell 110 pounds past 210.

I'm not good at the other parts of the class either. I can't do push-ups, I can't do sit-ups, and there's something called a "power hop" that had to be designed by Satan himself. There are people who aren't athletic. I'm in another category: I'm sub-athletic. I seem to repel all forms of exercise. About the only thing I can do is hold the water bottle.

It's an interesting twist that I've always been drawn to sporty men. Now I don't mean the kind of guys like my friend N. from Outside who always seems to be riding his bike 200 miles and then taking a 30 mile hike to cool down. Bicycles and roller blades are kind of a deal breaker for me - I don't need to see a guy in his bike shorts EVER. I mean men who like to play and talk boy sports. Baseball, soccer, basketball - with the kind of lean torso you get from having played team sports all through school. That kind of guy.

There's a lot of them in Seattle, and hopefully I'll meet one someday that won't say: "Baby, it's a gorgeous day. Let's go for a run."

Seattle: A Love Song

After my fit of the mean reds on Friday, I'm happy to say that the weekend improved. I worked all day on Saturday, true, but I did it at Cafe Zoka, where I watched the world go by and said hello to some lovely dogs. It was warm enough for Iced Cappucino, and Brutto and I went around the Lake (where I learned that he has a lot of schnauzer in him - so said a breeder walking with HER brood, and it was true they did "Arooooo" from happiness like him.)

Today though was the kind of day that makes residents of this murky city look a coming winter in the eye with a brave smile. It was sunny and 70 perfect degrees, and I decided to take the lovely B. - recently arrived from Paris, where she is the bestest friend of one of my bestest friends C - downtown to Le Pichet for brunch. It is the most Parisian spot in Seattle, serving a brunch that doesn't include weighty eggs or heavy pancakes. Ah! Mon Dieu! C'est formidable!


I love Le Pichet and I rediscovered my love for B, my favorite person from C's list of friends in Paris. We sipped Evian, but admired those sipping wine in the afternoon. Dear readers, I wish I was the sort of person who could sip wine in the afternoon without tumbling down a flight of stairs as a result of two sips. Alas, you all know I am not.

We took our sober selves to the Market where we were trampled by what appeared to a group of unleashed Real Housewives of Dallas or some such. (Ladies, when you apply your make-up, consider putting down the trowel and backing away. And if you gasp when you walk, your clothes are too tight or your shoes are pinching. Neither is attractive.) Finally we walked to the Olympic Sculpture Park, one of Seattle's loveliest vistas.



And now...guess what? I'm working again. Still - it was an awfully nice day.

Table for One

If you consider that I'm the daughter of a Holocaust survivor and an Asberger's depressive, I'm actually a pretty happy person. But after returning from my trip to St. Louis a couple of days ago, I was hit by what Breakfast at Tiffany's Holly Golightly memorably referred to as the "mean reds": The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of.
You know, I could have the blues, after all. The only things I'm currently afraid of is driving down I-5 in rush hour and paying my quarterly taxes.

But I digress.

I was in a funk that I'm sure being Audrey Hepburn would have taken care of, but I couldn't turn into Audrey Hepburn because I don't have the step up that say, Natalie Portman does. Why the funk? Well, I've been deluged by work on a grand scale so taking a quick vacation isn't an option, and oh yeah, I'm about to be broke. (See: Quarterly taxes). So tonight I decided to cancel my plans to go downtown to a couple of art openings, mostly because the effort to meet my friend A. and talk pretty with the art mongers seemed a task so Herculean I might well have morphed into Holly Golightly whose evenings involved conning gentlemen out of $50 bills for the powder room. (By the way, my young friend T. was throughly perplexed by what Holly needed with money in the bathroom. She wondered if perhaps Holly was buying drugs. Fifty dollars would be roughly $200 today.  That would buy a lot of 1950's crack, now wouldn't it?  T. was rather fascinated to hear that once upon a time, women actually worked as attendants in the ladies room and expected tips - although they would have been more in the range of 50 cents. Ah those bygone pre-fast food days!)

In short, I wanted to be alone, but alone in a crowd. I was in a funky mood and being a superior human being I didn't want to bring anyone down with me. So I decided to put into practice a certain bold evening plan that my friend N and I had been discussing recently - how hard should it be to dine out/have a drink alone in a bar on a weekend "date" night? I chose my neighborhood pub - the Latona.  I chose it because I was in such a bad mood the very idea of getting on a bus or in a car made me feel vaguely postal.  Also - I like the Latona.
 They play jazz on the weekend, which was rather nice, and the wait staff is understated and adorable if you like them shaggy.

I tried to go all the way and sit at the bar surrounded by men of various stages of Green Lake grubby. No seats available. So I managed to snag the tiny, last corner table where I had my glass and a half of wine, before ordering this for dinner:

Mmm. Chicken sandwich.  One of the best things about the Latona is that they don't even serve french fries. Just salad.  So it means I don't have to make that Sophie's Choice every time I go in.

 

Don't Meet Me in St. Louis

I'm already home, you see. By way (in that routing weirdness that Southwest specializes in) of Las Vegas, NV. This gave me a couple of hours to gawk at the fake breasts, the hanks of hair weaves and the pointy heels that seem so incredibly uncomfortable that the thought of wearing them as far as Tukwila, Washington makes my feet ache in sympathy. Also I won $3.50 in the airport slot machines. My luck is clearly changing. ;)

If you've never been to Vegas, there's no way to describe the bizarre sight of slot machines everywhere. Grocery stores. Laundromats (that one makes sense, it's a good way to rid yourself of extra quarters.) I've often wondered if they rig the parking machines to mimic Wheel of Fortune. But when one has a long layover, it's the absolute perfect timewaster. Thank you, Las Vegas! I hope to be sent through your pearly gates again one day soon.

The fact that I wound up winning nearly four dollars and was absolutely gleeful about it says something depressing about me - I don't dream big. Also, it never occurred to me to keep FEEDING the beast. Next to me, another woman won big on the nickel slots. I believe it was up to $35. She was rather blase about it, all in all.

Now there's been some groundswell about my last post on Sex and the City. While I'm not ashamed to relinquish my keys to the City of Women because I didn't care much for the movie I should point out that I suffer from a faulty memory on some of the finer points of the television show. That is to say, my good friends, the Ms, seem to feel I have misrepresented Carrie and company. Fair enough. I stand corrected, Lady M! (One should never argue with a sexy mouthed woman.) However, my point is the same: there is something astringent about the way they approached relationships and I felt sad after seeing it. After all the many episodes of love and dating and wonder and fabulous sex and penis sizings and untold breakfast meetings which seemed - for reasons that defy understanding - to have taken place in the shoddiest diner in Manhattan, only Charlotte (who always seemed slightly addled) ended happy and grounded. (Mind you, with the typical "babies make you self-actualized!" tagline that is beginning to irk the hell out of me.) The others felt as scattered as at the beginning. (Yes, yes - I know the movie gives us happy endings. I just didn't feel them.) Maybe it's hard for movies to dramatize steady contentment. Interestingly, the Ms are both in happy contented relationships. I think either of them would make a good movie.

However, I have not checked their closets for Manolos. So there's that.

Weighing in on Sex

What have I been doing more important than updating this blog? I've been going to Boot Camp, a hellish hour and a half of sprints and push ups and every other demonic physical exercise I verily hate hate hate. For the next eight weeks. Pray for me, friends. I've gone to the SIFF Film Festival (where I saw Cecil B. Demented and the almost unbearably funny John Waters), I've been exploring my new Target (which seems to be modeled on selling clothes in the Moscow train station), I've been eating sushi from the International District to Ballard. I've been volunteering for Seattle Works Day - which netted me a t-shirt and an afternoon of clearing blackberry bushes from Judkins Park. Blackberry bushes do not enjoy being cleared. Trust me on this.

Also, like all the other people with ovaries - I went to see Sex and the City this week. Unsurprisingly, the theater was jam-packed with females. The one guy who walked in looked as guilty and out of place as a lone man at a matinee of the Care Bears movie. My friend A and I were wearing well, jeans and not Manolos. I would guess that A. does not own Manolos. (It should not surprise you, Dear Readers, that I do own Manolos - compliments of my fashionista sister.) A few of the women around us were dressed in their Carrie digs, as if this was an estrogen-driven form of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. This proved a particularly bad choice I fear, as the day's sole spot of sunshine had given way into damp cold by the time the movie was over and the over-dressed observers wandered forth in their T-bags summer minis. But I digress.

I had to go see SATC - it's like the siren call that diverted Odysseus. I just couldn't help it, although I knew perfectly well I was going to hate it. And I kind of did. In all honesty, the show has always sort of depressed me. Now certainly I watched it (they may be aging, but I have those ovaries). Yes, yes, the clothes on tiny Carrie's tiny tiny body, the shoes, oh god, the shoes - yes, she cries like Molly Bloom, yes yes yes - me lovesssss the shoeses. But the women always seemed to mirror a kind of deep contemporary unhappiness, endlessly denying that the only thing that made them happy was the love of a man - or rather, the admiration of a man. Really, think back. What else was there beyond swinging Gucci bags and finding the right guy? Miranda's work stressed her out, Charlotte never evidenced any understanding or passion for the art world, Carrie wasn't a very good writer at all, and Samantha - well. I really think the less said about Samantha the better.

So fine, they wanted to be in love. But once they were, they were bitchy and demanding and whiny and needy and manipulative and aggressive and nasty and demeaning. Remember that memorable moment when Carrie threw a bag of McD's french fries at Big because he didn't invite her to Paris? When she nearly cold-cocked Alexsander Petrovsky for daring to care more about his opening than her? When Miranda threw Steve out of the house because he got a puppy? When Carrie demanded Aiden get back together with her, remodel her apartment, find her a second engagement ring after the first wasn't "Carrie" enough, and then proceeded to stomp on his heart for the second time in two years? Is it my imagination or are these women beyond the Diva zone?

The movie: two hours and 25 minutes of the same thing in endless loop. The most depressing thing about SATC is the way it seems to make sex nothing more than a sporting event - the one having the most fun wins. Not only is it reductive, it makes every sexual experience a virtual contest of virility which, in my opinion, is sure to take the fun right out of it. (And I actually had a talk with P. tonight that made me consider yet again how much this stupid show really has influenced the way I look at sex - and maybe not in a good way.) When at one point Miranda dares to suggest that she wants it quick because she's a law firm partner and a mom and she's tired, the movie acts as if she asked Steve to slice off his penis and saute it for her. That bitch!

Also, everyone looks kind of rode hard and put up wet. And the actor who plays Smith Jerrod, once the sexiest man ever born if you remove Johnny Depp from the running, has aged in the most pinched and red-faced way.

Here's when he was on the show:



And here he is recently (since I couldn't find a clip from the movie):




I strongly suspect that Kim Cattrall did not drop the demanded ten pounds needed to be all pilate'd for the movie, and the film treats her and her teensy little stomach as if she'd succumbed to obesity. My god! She'd gained (gasp) 15 pounds! Get the mumu, stat! She was clearly eating for two - she and Sarah Jessica Parker who doesn't seem to have eaten a full meal since Footloose. Sweetie, when you start telling magazines about your high metabolism and how you have to eat and eat and eat to keep weight on your skinny ass, please keep in mind: there are pictures of you before and after. What, did someone do a metabolism transplant on you at 25? There used to be meat on your bones. Ah well. Let's all take heart that we are unlikely to be stranded with her in the Andes. Because she wouldn't even make a decent sandwich.


In other news, I also went to see Billy Bragg at the old and lovely Moore Theater in downtown Seattle. Here's Billy:



Dang he's a fantastic musician. Dare I add, smoking hot at 50? (and there, I've found my theme).

He looks like he's gained 15 pounds too, but happily it didn't seem to bug him at all.

The Sporting Life

Just like recreational drugs, I'm not so much against playing sports as I've never found one that really agreed with me. After all, I despise running, and team sports snap me back to the Apocalypse Now style horror of grade school dodgeball. So who could have guessed that at this late age I'd finally find a sport that truly suited my athletic ability and temperament? Well, friends, I did. Cardboard tube fighting is the kind of thing I can really get behind. I was lucky enough to score a totally free space on the practically empty grass field at Gasworks park for the Cardboard Tube Fighting Tournament.

I'm not making this up. Have a look:




In the interest of veracity, I have yet to pick up a tube and whack at someone. I arrived too late to compete. However, my friend M - who possesses not only the sexiest mouth ever placed in a woman's face but also the moxie that only a 5' 10" native Ohioan can muster in the face of all the smack talked about Ohio - challenged her friend to a duel that ended in his, uh, limp tubing.

It's the kind of sport that can only end with beers and tequila shots purchased for the intrepid M. by a band of jovial lesbian rugby players (one of whom informed us that she was a DJ for Bar Mitzvahs on the weekends). Mind you, despite my having not yet picked up the sport or puzzled out the particulars (such as, where do you actually get the cardboard tubes to work out with on the daily basis that mastery would require?), I feel sure that my future as a champion is ensured. Because not only did I practice quite a bit as a child, but I've also fantasized for years about whacking jerks who drive straight through crosswalks with a cardboard tube. Going pro is just not that much of a leap.

Here's M's Flickr reel, complete with a picture of me with MKH (a lovely man who graciously accepted defeated by the hands of M, and no, we're not together or dating despite the faux snuggling born of my appreciation for allowing me to steal his chips) as well as with the beautiful A, my roommate, (my meals in Seattle have contained Fried as one of the major food groups) , and watching M's victory (she's in red) wearing my new favorite t-shirt "Brunettes Have More Fun:"

http://www.flickr.com/photos/halfmad/sets/72157604901981154/

Now here's another sporting event I attended last weekend, and let me add that I'm considerably less willing to participate in this one:



Although it wasn't quite as salacious as the above video, I did manage to attend a female rugby players Lube Wrestling Night at the Kangaroo-Kiwi Pub last Saturday. I know you'll agree that just like climbing Everest, going to see lube wrestling is the kind of a thing you should do once and then decide it isn't comfortable enough to repeat. I'll just say this about the event:

• It was a fundraiser for the Mudhens. Their motto on the back of their t-shirts: Pound Me.
• Lube is probably not designed to be used by the gallon, even if it is water-soluble.
• Just like at a cut-rate Mardi Gras, the one woman destined to flash is probably the one woman you sort of hoped would leave her top on.

In the interest of not resembling a female rugby player (not that there's anything wrong with it) I decided to spring for a haircut. Ten Pachi Modern Salon on the Ave gave me the finest haircut I've ever had for all of $20 and a tip. You can see below through the magic of iPhoto (and at some point I'll borrow A's good camera for a photo tour of the neighborhood, I promise) not only the cheap goodness of Seattle but also the way I always look slightly deranged in photos:



After a week of gloomy gray and 50 degree shivers, we finally had a day of sunshine. It's amazing how the moods pick up around here - it's practically a Disney set, pretty soon you can imagine the squirrels will start humming and bursting into song. It definitely called for a glass of wine at the Greenlake Bar & Grill, where A. and I sat in perfect contentment watching the puggles and boston terriers and golden retriever puppies walk by with their well-heeled owners.

I can't think of any downside to Seattle, except that the neighborhood might be a bit upscale for Brutto.

Proud to Be From...Uh, You Know Where

The other day someone forwarded me a t-shirt collection so that I could, if so inspired, purchase the shirt that proclaimed, "Proud To Be From Long Island."

Proud to be from...Long Island? Was this post modern irony? But no, the model in the ad stood there in the classic t-shirt model pose (boobs thrust out, delighted smile on her face - the "it's such fun to wear t-shirts!" expression), and I could find no speck of irony anywhere on the site. Apparently there really are people who are proud to be from My Own Private Suburban Hell. Startling.

Now I might wear a t-shirt that says: Reluctantly Admits to Being From Long Island. Although I probably wouldn't, since it actually took me 20 years to say the words "Long Island" without swallowing them and wincing at the inevitable You mean Longuuuuuyland that would come in return. Most people from Youknowwhere seem to feel the same way I do, at least in my experience. In fact - and this is a true story - when I met my long term boyfriend P. in San Francisco and we talked about where we were from we both said that we grew up "outside the city." When pressed, I admitted to Bellmore, Long Island (home of Amy Fisher, Long Island Lolita, who actually attended my high school). P. claimed to have been "born and raised in the Bronx." Infinite cool points over LI, you see. It was not until we had been living together for six months and I went home with him for Christmas that I discovered that he had been taken from the hospital in Long Island directly to his parent's house in Levittown. About all P. had ever seen of the Bronx, according to his parents, was the zoo on a field trip. Are you getting this, dear readers? P. was so ashamed to be from LI, he lied about it to someone who was also from LI. That's about how embarrassing it is for us natives.

Even when I was young, LI was crowded and characterless and stuffed with pissy attitudes and shopping malls. It wasn't a place to settle in, it was a place raise the children to give them that all important grass so essential to a happy childhood. What's up with that grass? I don't know anyone raised in a suburb who didn't secretly yearn to have learned the mysteries of the subway system at 11. On Long Island, you have to be ferried from one place to the next by your mother. And this was before kids enjoyed a schedule of activities so intensive it makes Paris Hilton look like she doesn't get out much, you understand. My sister and I were yanked from the car to dance classes and sleepovers and piano lessons. What fun for everyone! (Inexplicably, my parents would take us on vacation to numerous educational places - forcing us to spend countless more hours in the car. I didn't know people went on vacation to have fun until I left home.)

I envy people who got to grow up in Seattle. You can tell how nice a place is by the number of people who stay there after they're raised without being forced to because of family obligations. What's not to like about a city with the greenest grass, great dive bars, and amazing fries anywhere you go. And by the way, the sun hasn't been out in two days.  So there's that.

The one plus to LI - it's a grid. I'm so directionally challenged, that if I was in school now, they'd slap me with a learning disability and put me in special classes for it. I actually have fantasies about dropping breadcrumbs in my path.

Of course, Seattle has a lot of birds too.

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.