Under the Sea

I used the underwater macro setting on these shots. There is an ocean of visual elights in these balls. I may buy a third one; probably purple.

Weft to My Own Devices

Clip in hair extensions are called wefts.

Just getting that out of the way.

Here is a bag of hair with only one weft, I mean left. Actually I mean both because one weft is left.



I bought this bag o' hair because sometimes my hair looks ok short (as in photo below, taken Saturday night. That's me on the left). But...it's too layered and too short and not growing fast enough. That's why I coiffed up $84 for said bag o' hair, which I have not yet worn.



I've haven't worn it because I found out that wefts of long, straight hair look sadly mullet-like with short, layered hair.

The only thing weft to do was bring the hair into work and drape it on anything resembling an animate object:

Peace on Earth and Goodwill

We are having an ugly Christmas sweater contest at our All Staff meeting tomorrow.

Do I love spending 90 minutes to drive the 25 miles home from Tukwila on a Friday evening? Do I love sitting through boring meetings? Do I love the inevitable "Fun!!!!" group activities? Am I irrationally happy about the ugly sweater contest?

No, No, Usually not, and Absolutely.

I didn't own an ugly Christmas sweater, but $6 and a trip to Goodwill fixed that:



Yes I know the picture is sideways. Am rushing off to work, and will fix later. Trust me, it's no less tacky right side up.

Femtio

Femtio is Swedish for 50. I know I should be learning Spanish, but I find Swedish more interesting. It's interesting, absurd, and somewhat horrible to be 50.

I spent my birthday (Monday) in Portland with a short trip to Seaside on the Oregon coast.

The Oregon coast remains an 'it' spot for me. I can think of few places I love more.



My friend Mike was also nice enough to take me to lunch at McMenamin's. There are few restaurants I love more than McMenamin's. When I moved to Oregon in 1998, McMenamn's pubs felt good to me right away. We went to the one at Murray and Allen, right down the street from where I lived in Beaverton.
Mike is a computer and electronics genius and has applications on his Ipod Touch that I didn't know were possible.



More later and *note to self* pictures from Argosy cruise on Lake Union.

Nice Hoobies

I've been perusing Scandinavian singles ads. Why? Who cares why. The point of this post is best expressed by this 43 year old gentleman from Reykjavik:

"I’m Icelandic and lived 15 years in the Sweden’s. I write some and read and talk in Icelandic and Swedish, but I promise you ,you will laugh sometimes for some words come out wrong, but hey, its good to laugh."

Ja, it is. So I present the following Icelandic dating site gems:

"I am 6 feet tall and i have a brown eye ball,and also a round face."

"I'm mechanic and have always work wery mush"

"I grew up in Reykjavik. I spend my time with my son and at the jim and studien."

"I'm just looking for the right girl. I want to spend the life with her."

"My hoobies is camping cykling and ATV and snowcross "

i dont what to write here, is this enough? i dont know man!"


I love that last one.

And 'hoobies' is my new favorite word.

Time and Weather

Tonight's time and weather is brought to you by...Perimenopause!

The time is 1:45 AM. The weather is cloudy with intermittent 300 degree hot flashes.

The forecast calls for continued memory loss "His last name was....um... um... hold on...OMG, I can't believe I forgot this.... um...oh yeah! Berndtson!"

We recommend a time travel vacation to a 1980s destination, preferably at a time when you were reasonably thin.

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming (a phrase no one under 35 would understand- but that's ok because you're a decade and a half older than that, and before you know it you'll be getting discounts when you go to the zoo!)

Good night and sleep well.

The Unicorn Flu

Overheard by brusque, manly-man type: "I'm not feeling good. Maybe I got the pig flu."

Sorry to hear it manly man, but pig flu? Eww.

Not to hog (wha ha) too much space with this, but here's another non-kosher snippet:

Coworker #1: My boyfriend is home sick with the flu
Coworker #2: "Oh no. Regular or....oink oink?"

"Regular or oink oink?" Don't get me started on how many ways that is not an ok sentence. Not ok. Soooo not ok, Ugh! . Ok, I'll get over it.
In a few years. I hope.

Let's face it, Swine flu is simply a disgusting name for a disease. And while -to it's credit- it may not conjure nasty, rabid hog-like imagery, H1N1 doesn't exactly trip lightly off the tongue.

Enough Swine flu. Enough H1N1. More than enough (even though it was only one instance "Oink o... No, I'm not even going to finish that one.

I hereby propose a new name: The Unicorn flu.

If one is fortunate enough to contract Unicorn flu, gentle white mythical steeds with gossamer wings will transport them through rainbow-filled skies to utopian destinations. Where everyone is healthy. And no one says "Regular or..?"

Unicorn flu.

Admit it. It's better.

Space Flower

Remember all the photos I took a while back of my beloved fiber optic nightlight? I'm at it again.

Happy Halloween

As in I actually had a happy one.

Halloween last year? If you are seized with the desire to know how bad Halloween '08 in Jacksonville, NC was, ask me to tell you the vaguely-amusing fried pickle story.

You want to hear it now? Ok, basically a hot-out-of-the fryer, lightly-battered pickle wedge saved my life. I thought it was fried zucchini and then I bit into it and realized I was in the deep south and it was a pickle and it was just funny dammit, at a time when nothing was very funny at all.

I'm easily wounded emotionally, but all it takes is something like a fried pickle to bring me back.

Overall I'd say I'm lucky.

Halloween this year featured a fun party at work. The pic is of the orange and grape Kool-aid - made with half the sugar- and ginger ale punch I brought. That's white plastic bats frozen in a jello mold of Kool-aid in the middle. If I could spend my days doing things like freezing white plastic bats in Kool-Aid, I'd be a very happy woman.

I went to a party Halloween night with a pirates and princesses theme. I went as a JAP (Jewish American Pirate). Other than telling you the costume involved skull and crossbone stockings and a dollar store tiara, I'll leave it to your imagination.

Peninsula Highlights

Last week one of my coworkers came in with a new haircut and color. A magical, double-take, is-this-the-same-person cut and color. Said coworker lives in Bremerton, on the peninsula. Exotic territory to me. The hair salon she went to was even further out. After two and a half years in Tacoma, I'd only made it as far west as Gig Harbor, right over the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. It was time to see the peninsula, and it was time to get my magical cut and color. I'd had my hair dyed about three weeks ago. The shade of red approximated vomited-up tomato soup. I hadn't realized I hated it that much, but yeah, it was bad. The Asian stylist was not impressed with my cut either. "I hate your bang" she said, flicking at the thick, blunt-cut curtain over my forehead. "You look like eight year old." She shoved my bangs aside disdainfully. "Who do this, Super Cut?"

She was more charming than I'm making her out to be, and I trusted her. I shrugged and told her to do whatever she wanted. "I always do!" she laughed.

She worked faster than anyone at the more glamorous salons I usually frequent. After spending 20 minutes or so slapping thick purple goo onto my hair, I was sat under a dryer so hot it turned my face burgundy. Will suffer for good hair. When the timer went off she removed one of the foils and studied a strand. "Too yellow! I hate yellow!" Back under the helldryer I went.

When she was drying my hair, she held up a lock to show me the bold highlights. "You see this? Now you can see this, right?" I had to agree. It was like seeing a thick stripe of white paint on a red barn. From outer space. I knew I was going to love it.

She then went on to cut my hair. The aforementioned 'bang'? With one diagonal swoop with texturizing shears, a giant chunk of hair fell onto my lap. I picked it up with detached, morbid fascination. More volume got razored out, which was fine with me. My hair is more than thick enough, and less drying time sounds delightful.

The cut and color came out awesome. The peninsula was pretty cool too. I have pictures of neither for you. But I do have a map:

Driving Directions from 319 N Tacoma Ave, Tacoma, WA to 9222 Silverdale Way NW, Silverdale, WA

Stepping on it

I think I know why I've been photographing stairs lately. Stairs represent climbing toward something. Incremental but steady progression. Moving up toward a goal. Everything I've haven't been doing.

Career-wise, relationship-wise, everything-wise, I've been waiting for escalators - Yes, escalators! - to appear out of nowhere and with their gleaming pearl banisters transport me to my lofty, nebulous, extremely-unrealistic goals,

Should happen any minute now.

Autumn

Zen Autumn

"Where do I go from here?"

Get it? The puffin is on a cliff, overlooking the sea (Ok, a ledge at the zoo) and he's wondering if he can fly...and if he can't, then where is there for him to go? It's a metaphor for my turning 50 and...

I really shouldn't post such silly drivel on my blog.

I otter know better.

In My Element

Divided

Romance

Want to hear all about how depressed I am?

I didn't think so.

You get to anyway: I'm stuck in a holding pattern with my job and have no idea how to get out. I miss Adam. A lot. Ever gone two or even three nights without sleep? I don't recommend it.

Also not recommended: turning 50 when you still - after all this time- can't figure out what most have figured out by 30 (or certainly 40).

Some of the platitudes hurled at me regarding 50 have been vaguely amusing. Most have just underscored how odd I am. My 50 is not your 50.

I have two months and two weeks to go. A lot can happen in that time. Maybe my 50 will not be my 50.

Fair Assessment

<

Slalom

Wish I Had Brought Some Fish

Hello, I Must Be Going

How To Be Happy

Maybe they like Styx too

Phone being held out, music in the backgound:

"I'm at a Foreigner concert with your parents!"

More indiscernable music in the background.

"I know you're jealous!"

Voice mail from my 28 year old nephew, currently visiting my parents.

I guess I'll hear the story tomorrow.

Yes, that would be a good day

Online conversation last night with a pilot friend:

Me: What's the best thing that happened to you today?
Him: I made an equal number of take offs and landings.

Alert the Media

A student I recently enrolled writes a column for a small local paper. For this month's column, he chose to write about starting college at the age of 57. He wrote that he plans to continue his education until he has his doctorate at 65. Pretty cool, huh?

He also chose to write about the "beautiful lady" who enrolled him, and how great she was.

It's nice to be recognized and appreciated. Duh. Of course it is. Who doesn't like being recognized and / or appreciated? (Some capricorns seem to be able to live without it as long as they are acheiving world domination, but that's neither here nor there...)

I once read an article in a business magazine about 'Orchid letters' vs 'Onion letters'. Onion letters are the nastygrams people enjoy writing when they are petulant / pissed off/ not made the center of the universe / whatever. Far fewer letters of gratitude get sent. I hope I won't succumb to laziness,as I have in the past,the next time I'm motivated to write an orchid letter. I hope you won't either- especially if you're writing it about me.

Leaving

Educe

Asleep

That would be you. Not me.

Happy 2:23 AM.

I think there's a giant can of sugar-free Red Bull in my tomorrow.

Yes, I've tried everything to be able to sleep. I've tried Ambien several times over the years. If you ever receive an email from me that is unfathomably weird and ends in LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL, that's me on Ambien. If you walk into my kitchen in the morning and find a colander full of half-cooked spaghetti - which I have no recollection of making- that's me on Ambien. What would I do next on Ambien? It would likely be something freakish and wrong at 3 AM. It certainly wouldn't be sleep.

I may be lucky enough to fall asleep in the next hour. Then I get to get up 3 1/2 hours later. Good times.

Repreive

Friday morning lasted about 14 hours. Too long a week, too much pressure, too little sleep, and too stupidly hot outside.

Thankfully, right as I was going into bouncing off the walls, regailing everyone with dubiously funny stories mode, a repreive was given in the form of Pita Pit (baba ganoush and tziki as condiments? Hell yes) and a fountain.

Aaaaaahhhh. Fouuuuuntain. I love fountains. I especially love fountains on 90 degree days. I love them even more when someone gets the great idea that we should put our feet in the water while eating our sandwiches. I love them most of all when someone (that would be me) suggests we have the whole fountain to play in. And play we do.

Here are some fun pictures of my coworkers. The first one is Loni after successfully ducking under all three arcs of water (I made it through the first two. Yes there are pictures, but not here):

Not a Fan

I have four fans in my apartment. They're great for blowing around the hot air and making my home sound like LaGuardia.

Busy is Good

Twelve hour day today. Will be working Saturday too. I don't mind.

In planning Adam's memorial I've reconnected with two close friends from Denver. The friendships came back to life instantly, despite an 11 year absence. It's wonderful to have them back in my life.

Happy that everyone else in Tacoma hated the 95 degree day as much as I did. I'd rather be in my air conditioned office than in my indian sweat lodge of an apartment.
I could hold bikram yoga classes here.

Mock Three Times

There's something unnerving about walking into a Las Vegas hotel lobby at midnight and seeing some 60-ish guy in a tux singing Knock Three Times and wondering why anyone would choose to cover a Tony Orlando and Dawn song, then looking closer and seeing that it actually is Tony Orlando, and he's gyrating on a little circular stage, looking like a zoo exhibit.

This could be either funny or sad. I went with funny, and walked away snickering.

I know, I'm mean.

122

I went on a little vacation this weekend. My first stop was Laughlin, Nevada where it was 122 degrees. If you say "But it's a dry heat..." I'll deduct 20 points from your IQ.



122 degrees is fun as a new experience. However, it doesn't take long to feel one has had enough of such an experience. My friend suggested we head for a higher, cooler elevation, so I got the unexpected surprise of getting to spend the night in the kingdom of Sedona.

And no, it's not a village, town, or city. It's a kingdom.

Strand in the place where you live

Strawberry blonde. So mandated William, stylist and Mensa member, when I asked his suggestion for my most flattering hair color.

I'd walked into Sublime on my way home from work. I've been there before. When I asked for a consultation the receptionist said "I think we have someone you may be happy with. I know you've tried several others here..." Her tone implied I'd tried their patience as well.

William went to work and was thrilled with his results. "You look like an Irish lass!" he crowed. A neurotic, Jewish, not-happy-to-be-strawberry blonde Irish lass maybe.

When I got my hair cut at a different salon two weeks later, I decided to go for some highlights. A few blonde streaks to break up the strawberry monochrome.

Somewhere around the 150th foil, I fell asleep. Apres blow dry, microstrands of strawberry remained. The rest was bleachy blonde.

I'm going to go medium golden blonde. For anyone indulging their inner bimbo (or himbo) in this post, I want to be about a level 8. My natural blonde is about a 7. I could have just done it myself.

I so wish all my worries were this silly.

Evoke

Minimalism

Van Gogh Sky

Starts with an R