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.

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.