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

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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

Prerogative

Yes, I have been adding and deleting photos in former posts. It keeps me amused.

Let it rain

Planet Soap

It's a peppermint-scented world.

Killing Me Loudly

Roberta Flack's Killing Me Softly was a popular song when I was in 7th grade. I thought it was boring and melancholy. Ick. Nope. Didn't like it. When it came on I'd twist the dial of my Tootaloop radio hoping for Three Dog Night.

Years later I learned what the song was about, and I got it in no uncertain terms. It remains a favorite to this day.

Tt's about the singer's experience at a Don McClean concert. As she sat in the front row listening to him sing one of his ballads, she fell in love with him. That others didn't consider McClean a sex symbol, or that she didn't know him is completely irrelevant. What her heart knew was profound and absolute.

This part of the song gives me chills, especially her delivery: He sang as if he knew me, in all my dark despair. And then he looked right through me as if I wasn't there.

Yes, I've been there and felt that.

But perhaps because I like roller coasters and spicy food and other exciting things, I don't get killed softly. I get killed fiercely and loudly and it's agonizing and I love it.

I experienced this at the Beat Farmers concerts I fervently attended in my thirties. When Country Dick was fully in the zone, totally living the moment, larger than life, I wanted him. I wanted him badly, as though he were a breath I'd die without taking. But I also wanted his zone. I wanted to be him, to connect immaculately with the music, the energy, the fury, the can't-go-any-farther-than-this. I'd get close- forbidingly close, going-toward-the-light close, a step away from where he lived, a chance away from being with him, and it was wretched and delicious.

I had a moment like that last night.

I know the singer personally. He's a sweet guy. But for one moment when the band had the whole audience in the zone in a hard-driving classic rock song, he was singing with such joy, such talent, and such power, I knew more about him than I ever expected to know and he killed me.

It felt great to be that alive.

Kaleidoscope II

I think I like this one better.

Just Your Everyday Balloon Man

Confession

I joined Rhapsody a few weeks ago. $14.95 a month for all the tunes you care to gorge on. It's the musical equivalent of brunch at the Rio.

All that music...every genre you can think of. A music guide to help you discover new music. 'Similar Artists' choices to connect you with additional choices you might like. All that, and the last song I downloaded was Fool for the City by Foghat.

Uh huh.

In my defense, is it possible to not be happy while listening to Fool for the City?

Of course it's not. The song demands a response of drooly, inane, imbicilic happiness.

Ok, don't look. I'm going to download Slow Ride.

If I mention The Bay City Rollers, you're welcomed to become concerned.

Going Places

I'm going to go to Portland and the Oregon coast sometime this summer.

Sometime in late July or early August I'm going to Denver for a memorial service for Adam. It's turning out to also be a reunion of the Jewish singles crowd Adam and I were part of in the early to mid 90s. I think it's good that the memorial service will be combined with a happy event. Why not?

By September (in a perfect world July) I'm going to be in another job. It's time for me to move on from my current position. Actually, it's been time for a long time. If you have any ideas for me, and / or know anyone who might want to be dazzled by me, please let me know.

I Love Coming Home to a Pink Mountain

It was a cotton candy pink; a very becoming shade for a 14,000 foot stratovolcano.

Was it Voters in Florida...?

I'm not a Kris Allen fan. Who is Kris Allen? He barely made it onto my radar screen. Talented, sure, but in a way that many thousands of other singers are talented. He didn't particularly impress me as a musician, but I have to say he was likeable when he won. I loved that he admitted Adam Lambert deserved the win.

I know most people put a premium on technical perfection. I tend to gravitate more toward originality. Adam Lambert is one of those rare performers who has both. He's the only American Idol contestant it would even occur to me to see in concert. The guy is an incredibly exciting performer. I love people who do what others can't or won't.

I'm not going to cry into my chocolate milk over the results (And no, I don't drink chocolate milk. If I did it would be soy). It was an interesting season. I'm looking forward to seeing more of Adam Lambert, and Allison Iraheta too.

Abstract Thinking

Grammar Martyr

I was not in a good mood as I walked to work today. I passed a young pregnant woman who was smoking a cigarette and ranting on her cell phone. "I don't got it!" I heard her wail as she spewed out a fresh cloud of poison. I furiously batted away the smoke, walked a few steps, then turned in her direction.

"I don't HAVE it." I barked at her. Not "I don't GOT it."

I quickened my pace, then threw it over my shoulder one more time: "I don't HAVE it"

This took place in downtown Tacoma. I'm lucky I didn't get shot.

Seven Seconds of Saturday

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7j8iCAIOqA&feature=channel_page

Dumbcation All I Ever Wanted

Life been demanding too much of you lately? Tired of all those original thoughts? Saddled with a high IQ?

You need a dumbcation. Dumb + vacation = dumbca...wait that involves thinking. Don't do it!

Do some of these instead:

1. Watch American Idol

2. Care about American Idol

3. Go to the OPI website and try on virtual nail polish: http://www.opi.com/ Don't stop until you've sampled at least 20.

4. Take as many Facebook quizzes as you can in 15 minutes.
Love the results from the 'What is your Princess Name' quiz ('Wendy the Merry, Princess of Mondeburgh!').Consider the 'What Color Crayon are You' quiz result to be cause for introspection ("Am I really burnt orange...?")

5. Vow to ask other people how they choose to spend their dumbcations.

Yep, It's the American Idol Post

Why do we have to suffer through countless warbly and mediocre renditions of You are the Sunshine of My LIfe when the show should be comprised entirely of high-octane, consistenly exciting talent like Adam Lambert?

Where I Live

I want to go back to Las Vegas sometime soon. I'm seriously in need of thrill rides and mind-altering visual stimuli.

First 30 seconds or so of this Fremont Street Experience video are boring; you might want to forward a little bit.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WItitCzX-B4&feature=related

I know, when you see these next two clips you're going to think 'It's just a ride; get over it'. I can't. The first few seconds was one of the most interesting experiences of my life. The physical experience was so jarring my mind couldn't catch up to it. Where was I during that time?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6g0K5Gq1eFg&NR=1

Next time I want to go at night:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5iy1KuCKNQ

This is an insane roller coaster. I'm dying to ride it again.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lxHHPPjmg5k&feature=related

And while I'm providing links, here's another. It's Bollywood, not Las Vegas but whatever. It's great in so many ways.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZA1NoOOoaNw

Who is this man?

Sometimes its the little things that drive home how much I miss Adam.

Whenever I was interested in a new guy from an online dating site, I'd copy over his picture to Adam and title the e-mail "Who is this man?"

Adam loved playing Who is this man? He was often amazingly accurate on the basic parameters of age, profession, and hobbies. Of course from there we'd often get quite silly, speculating on all matters of the individual's private life and desires.

There is a new guy I'm interested in.

I really need to send Adam a "Who is this man?" e-mail.

Damn.

I miss him.

I like this

"You have to take yourself seriously. So what I did was concentrate on the song."

- Susan Boyle

We all know her story by now. Unforgivably old Scottish woman comes out onto the stage, looks and sounds like Shrek when she talks, and then launches into the most angelic vocal performance of all time. When asked in a talk show interview later how she felt when people initially laughted at her, her answer was the quote above.

We are but conduits for what we can deliver.

Oy. That sounded cheesy.

Let me try again: She focused on the song, not herself.

When you start getting close to 50 -if you've made any kind of spiritual progress at all- you start to realize the song matters more than you do.

There's talk on the internet of Susan Boyle needing a makeover. Yes, her eyebrows could use a little work (perhaps with the help of a lawnmower), but other than that I really hope she continues to be herself. She's a great reminder that the plain people can be more beautiful than the beautiful people. And it's just kind of cool knowing she could kick Paris Hilton's ass.

Savon

I crave color so I make soap.

I have no idea why I'm posting this

As mentioned in my last post, when I lived in Denver I often used to take Pearl for long walks. Washington Park was one of our favorite places. One day we ran into my friend's 12 year old son. He asked what the dog's name was and I told him Pearl. He looked at me and said "Are you serious??!"

An hour later my friend called me, laughing. "Louie told me you have a dog named HURL!"

A Happy Memory

A strong bond in my friendship with Adam was our love of dogs. Around 1994 I briefly dated a massage therapist named Andrew. Andrew had a black lab named Pearl. Snicker if you must, but Pearl was a spiritually evolved dog. She was intuitive and emotionally expressive to a level I'd never seen in a canine. Andrew and I only lasted a few months; no big whoop. But my bond with Pearl was so strong I continued to see her. I lived close by, so I took her for long walks several times a week. Sometimes Adam and I would walk her in a park halfway between where we both lived.

Adam loved Pearl and Pearl loved Adam. Pearl was a friendly dog, but the way she responded to Adam was amazing. Her face would light up when she saw him. She would radiate pure joy. I could practically hear her say "ADAM!!!!!"

One time Adam and I agreed to meet in the park. Pearl and I got there a few minutes before him. Pearl hadn't seen Adam for a few months, so when he pulled into the parking lot she went beserk. I let her run to the car. Adam had rolled the passenger window down to say hello. I thought Pearl was going to put her paws up on the ledge to better see him. Her love for him was too strong to settle for that. In a bizarre, miracle-of-science manner she manuvered her fat body up the side of the car and through the window until she next to the object of her adoration. I'll never forget what she looked like when she was halfway up. I thought she'd never make it, but she did. We're talking some serious love here.

Dogs know who the nice people are.

A Culture of Two

Do you know what it means for a person to be "too hey mommy"? Do you ever look at your called ID and then answer your phone "Whyeeee?" If you hear the word round do you immediately feel compelled to say "rounded and sexy"?

No, of course you don't. Those things were shared by Adam and me alone. I could explain each one, and the many more we had in our lexicon but they still wouldn't make sense to you. They made sense to us. Adam and I had a culture of two.

In Phoenix, an email circulated around to the women in my office. It asked all kinds of questions designed to give coworkers new insights into each other. One of the questions was "Are you strong?" My answer was "Is there a choice?"

It seemed like a dumb question. Of course we're strong. Life is tough, and we're getting through it aren't we?

It's possible that Adam was able to make the decision he did because he was strong. It's more likely that he made the decision because he wasn't. Regardless, he was a beautiful soul. He was warm, generous, sensitive, brilliant, creative, funny,and very unique.

It's entirely too trite to say he was one of the best friends I've ever had. He and I could have written each other's biography. For the majority of our 18 year friendship we inhabited a mental space together that was separate from the rest of the world. For a long period of time it was like an addicition. When we both lived in Denver, we saw each other maybe once a month. But for many years, in Denver and then all the other places our lives took us, we'd talk on the phone every day. Often for hours.

We had always shared the goings on in our lives. I was the first person he called when his daughter was born. We vented our frustrations and often confided in each other. But the singular defining feature of our friendship was this strange, playful mind space we shared. When we were there we were where we really lived -in a land of almost frenetic imagination, inspiration and joy. It was a place where we routinely laughed so hard we gasped to get out our next thoughts. The fact that it sheltered us from the harsher realities of life, which neither of us could tolerate well, was an added benefit.

Looking back on it now, I realize Adam was even more sensitive than me. Loud noises distressed him. Urban energy with its chaos and crime was like being in a jungle for him. He always sensed the predators might get too close and pounce. Mean people were incomprehensible to him. He breathed oxygen and they breathed poison. When they got too close and exhaled their fumes, they made him sick. I've learned that there were some very mean people at the end of his life.

In the past seven or eight years, Adam and I both had increased responsibilites and pressures in our lives. We didn't have as much time to be in our space together. We got there at times, which made me believe we'd always have it when we wanted it. That space is still there. It was there for so long, and had so much energy in it I plan to keep it alive. Everytime I think of or see or hear something interesting, absurd, or hilarious I'll tell him about it. In January I left a message for Adam "Todd and I were coming up with titles for Goth songs like 'Shattered Roses' and 'Withered Sunset'. Call me! Let's make some up!"

Every once in a while, in our space, I'd pitch an idea and he'd say "Nah. It's not grabbing me. Let's do this instead." and we'd go on a roll with that. Maybe the goth songs thing didn't grab him. But his not responding to it at all was a red flag I didn't want to see. Nor did I want to put it together that I hadn't heard any joy in his voice for six months. Our final conversations were about how depressed we both were, and how alone and unstable we felt in the world. The vicissitudes in our lives tended to align. I thought we were commiserating together and would soon both be in a happier time.

At the time I thought I was listening. I begged Adam to get away from his narcissitic, selfish wife. When he kept saying he's always catered to other people's needs (like his wife's need to do fairy paintings instead of earn money to support their high expenses) I told him it was because he had a good heart. But I practically yelled at him that he had to start standing up for himself and getting what he needed. It was my fear talking. It was born of compassion, but I was talking when I should have been listening. I wanted solutions. I wanted him to wake up and realize he needed to make big changes in his life; even if the process would be challenging. I should have just shut up and listened more.

Yep, I'm dealing with a lot of stuff. The worst part is that life got to be too much for a kind, sensitive man and he chose a permanent solution to a temporary problem. I'm in shock that he had to go that far. I'm in mourning over losing someone so central to my life; one of the few people I thought would always be there. I love him (as in always will) and miss him.

I'm all over the map emotionally. I have fits of sobbing, followed by strange, detached periods of calm. Sometimes I go through rounds of the two within minutes. I went into work on Thursday about two hours after finding out Adam had died. Staying at home wasn't going to accomplish anything. I had an appointment with a new student and put my full attention into it. I spent a lot of the rest of that day away from my desk, taking phone calls from his friends and / or crying. Robert, another kind sensitive soul (he and Adam would have liked each other) offered to walk me home. He asked me how I would get through the evening. Did I want to go to Doyle's? I thought about it for a minute and shook my head no. Doyle's has a corned beef sandwich on their menu. That's one of the foods that most reminds me of Adam. I used to tease him that he wasn't a real Jew because he ate his corned beef sandwiches with mayonniase, lettuce and tomato.

Robert and I went to The Hub instead. It's a popular new restaurant I hadn't been to yet. We ordered a pizza. Shortly after it arrived, another wave of grief hit me and I told him I might need to go home. He said whatever I needed to do was fine. I decided to stay. When the waitress asked if we wanted to see the dessert menu I said no. I looked at Robert and said "With my luck there's probably a dessert on there called Chocolate Suicide."

Adam would have loved that joke. It's exactly the kind of reality-deflecting joke we would have made together. We didn't make jokes like that because we didn't care. We made them to cope- and because our space beckoned. A space where we could be happy and free and on the joyous, not insuffurably harsh, side of life.

Please tell the people in your life that you love them. They may need to hear it more often than you think.

New Vistas

The sun came out today. If you are not local, I should clarify that that's kind of a big deal here. Last night we had yet another freakish snow shower. Today it's something like 70 degrees.

As griped about when I lived there, the sun in Phoenix is obnoxious. It's like wanting to take a nice warm shower and having boiling water come out of the tap. People there are like "Yeah, it's great! I love boiling water!" and that's all very nice, but I prefer the more gentle experience of a spring day in the Northwest.

No, I have not been abducted by aliens. I really am extolling the virtues of sunny spring days.

I'm tired of my usual walks, especially the uphill one I sometimes do on my lunch hour. The slope is obnoxiously steep which of course makes it a good workout, but it's not a pretty walk and I sometimes end up near Crazy Angry Man. Crazy Angry Man spends his days roaming Tacoma's streets, shouting obscenities. He has the loudest voice I've ever heard. When you're on the same street as him it's like there's a concert-sized speaker transmitting a broadcast from hell.

On the other side of the spectrum, University Place is one of the nicest areas in Tacoma. Nice as in beautiful views, happy suburban children and no Crazy Angry Man. It was a great place for a long walk today.

I wouldn't mind living in this neighborhood:

2.8

I went back. I knew if I didn't go back exactly one week later I'd never go again. I lost 2.8 pounds. Whee, I'm an Olsen twin!

The lecturer asked how Weight Watchers helped me last week. I told her I wasn't going to lie- I didn't write a thing down. What helped was just developing more awareness. Not calculating every point and recording it (which I don't have the patience for), but keeping a running tab in my head and making decisions: I can have either this or that but not both. The night before I'd been at Bahama Breeze, the type of cheezy theme restaurant I'll admit to loving. My coworker and I ordered two appetizers: hot spinach & artichoke dip with tortilla chips and a chicken quesadilla. I decided that since I was having that- in moderation of course- I couldn't also have the sugary ice-creamy pina colada I usually order there. So I'm not only tiny, I'm a paragon of virtue.

I'm trying to learn how 'normal' people eat. A thin former coworker and I often went to lunch at the nearby Thai or Mexican restaurants. I, and any other diet-attempting types at the table would carefully eat only half of the large portion and get a box for the rest. The 120 pounder would routinely demolish her entire platter of food. One day I asked her, as we were heading back from lunch at 2:00 pm, what she would eat that evening. She shrugged and said "Nothing. I'm done for the day."

Here's what that sounded like to me: "I can stay underwater for seven minutes." or "I jumped over the Grand Canyon on my motorcycle." or "I learned Portugese in three days."

To just stop eating for the day at 2 pm seems like a super-human feat to me. I can't do it. I don't want to do it Please may I never have to do it.

My mother lost about 30 pounds in her early 40s and has kept it off ever since. Her afternoon snack is ten almonds. Not nine, not twelve, but ten. Always ten. Once a week she has a cinnamon raisin bagel for breakfast. Just once a week. Never twice.

I don't think I'm ever going to be her either.

What I think is going to work for me on a long-term basis is not having the mentality of "I'm going to have this fattening thing today, because tomorrow I'm starting a diet and will never be able to have it again...". 'Fattening' things are no longer forbidden fruit and are somewhat less seductive as a result.

In other news, I'm going to a career counselor on Tuesday. Figuring out what I'm going to do next is both daunting and exciting. Mostly daunting. And pleeeeeeze don't give me the "No one is hiring in this economy" spiel. The unemployment rate is significantly lower for college graduates. My having a masters may improve my odds a little more. And the attitude I'm taking is that if I can't get through a door I'll break a window.

Now I just need to find a rock.

WW and Q

I went to my first Weight Watchers meeting when I was ten. Here's what I remember: "Good evening Weight Watchers! Today we're going to learn to make chocolate cake!" There was cautious excitment on the women's faces. The big 'treat' back then was the Weight Watchers milkshake: one cup of milk, three ice cubes and the extract of your choice. Blend until frothy. So yeah, you can understand why these women were nervous.

What the lecturer had to say next was cruel: "To make chocolate cake start with one pound of crookneck squash..."

Appropriately enough, the response was "Ugh!!!" and / or a chagrined "Oh...."

Zucchini in chocolate cake can be delicious when shrouded with butter and sugar, but crookneck squash with chocolate extract? Not so much. Weight Watchers was pretty rigid back then. Your sweet tooth was allowed only sacchrine and extract. Foods were grouped into 'legal' and 'illegal'. To make matters worse, the only diet soft drink back then was Tab which tasted like rat poison.

Over the years as I've struggled with my weight, people have suggested Weight Watchers. I tried to be receptive, but my subconscious mind could not let go visions of foamy milk with that stupid, **cking extract. Instead I tried Jenny Craig where, as previously shared, I ate my week's supply of miniature candy bars in ten minutes. I also tried Atkins, which I lost a lot of weight on when I was 15. But then you eat a piece of toast and gain back 30 pounds.

At times I've managed to keep my weight down. I really liked how I looked three years ago. Now? Well, you don't see many pictures of me here do you? I don't have X's in my clothing size (although I was perilously close a year ago). I'm not morbidly obese. But our society is disdainful of anything other than thin. Thinner than nature intended. Thinner, for many of us, than our genetics dictate. When men have told me "I love your body. You look great just the way you are" I beleive them (well, I try to beleive them), but the last time I heard that was 15 - 20 pounds ago. Ok, once since then but I'm writing it off as a fluke. Fluke being, appropriately enough, a whale-related word.

I went to a Weight Watchers meeting yesterday morning. The format is better now. Less rigid, no extract, yay. I liked the meeting's topic: Feeding your Soul. Each person was given an index card with a letter on it. The objective was to think of something beginning with that letter (other than food) that 'feeds your soul'.

The letter I got was Q. My response of "Go on a Quest for things that excite you." was well received.

Not so well received: Another activity consisted of listing reasons why we eat. After the lecturer wrote all the yesh, duh, haven't we been through this before? responses (boredom, stress, etc)on the board she started to put the cap back on her dry erase marker. I raised my hand: "I think all of those things can be secondary to the fear of being thin."

Silence. Crickets. The bubbly lecturer composed herself, wrote it down, and informed me that actually that wasn't anything new. I shrugged to myself. I wasn't trying to be creative; I was being honest. In her levity! We're all about levity! manner she asked if anyone else could relate to 'fear of being thin'. Nothing. Finally one woman raised her hand, but she didn't speak. "I can relate!" said the lecturer. "Most of us have lost weight before and when we're thin we're scared we're going to gain it back."

Wrong, but thanks for playing. I nodded politely.

The new system involves points. It kind of amounts to "Don't spend it all in one place." Fattening foods are no longer illegal, but you have to budget for them. The system emulates reality pretty well. I like that its a permanent reconditioning approach.

I'll go again next Saturday. We'll see what happens.

Backtracking

A few posts back I mentioned hot chocolate, the Sorrento Hotel, Tromso, and one other thing I can't remember at the moment, and one I can but don't want to follow up on.

Let's start with the easy: Hot chocolate.




Last Saturday was not a good diet day. The too-rich-and-sugary-even-for-me peppermint hot chocolate was preceded by lunch at a Mexican restaurant in Pacific Place. Said lunch included a pomegranate margarita. Some people do the red meat disclaimer when ordering: "I never eat red meat..." Yep, we care. I choose to bore you with a different disclaimer: "I never drink, especially during the day..."

I accept your apathy.

Non-caloric activities in my Seattle day with Dee included Nordstroms, little funky stores in Pike Place market, and lots of walking.

After that I met with a wonderful new friend, who gave me a tour of Seattle nightspots. My favorite was the Sorrento Hotel, which is 100 years old. I normally dislike old buildings. I know this is freakish and wrong and you're going 'I looooooove old buildings...", but I tend to gravitate to modern, contemporary, futuristic, zen, whatever. In fact, my aversion to the opposite is typically so strong that if you want to see me shudder mention some combination of 'quaint', 'old' and 'bed-and-breakfast' in a sentence. Ugh! . This hotel though is gorgeous. It was weird, as we walked up to it I fell in love with it. It was almost a feeling of Deja Vu. Here's a link if you want to see what I'm talking about http://www.hotelsorrento.com/.

Ok, Tromso, Norway. The last letter of Tromso is supposed to have a strike through it...ok, yes, I can Google that, hold on: Tromsø. A 'Random Article' Wikipedia search had dictated I set my next story in Sweden. Been there and done that, so I migrated it to Norway. Tromso. Whoops, Tromsø. Tromsø is the northern-most college town in the world. It's well within the Arctic Circle. Factor in that it's one of the best places to see the northern lights, and it makes perfect sense that I want to write about it. While I'm generously providing links, here's one to Tromsø: http://www2.uit.no/www/inenglish. My story's setting is mainly at the university, so that's why that particular link.

The story I'm writing is a happy one. Yes, happy. In graphology (handwriting analysis) there is a practice called Graphotherapeutics. If you lack self esteem and / or ambition it's likely that when you cross the letter t, the bar is low across the stem. If you want to increase your self esteem and / or ambition, according to graphotherapeutics, cross your t's higher. I'm writing a happy story in order to similarly reprogram my subconscious. I'm also writing it simply because it came to me and I'm having fun with it. I'm not quitting my day job, so fun is what it's all about, right?

Because this is Minneapolis, Right?

Snowflakes the size of small cookies are falling...

New Title

Wendy's Continuing Adventures needs to be retitled. My first blog was titled Wendy's Adventures in Sweden. No award-winning creativity there either, but I was all excited about my upcoming journey to Sweden and I didn't put much thought into the name. What can I say, I'm careless that way.

Wendy's Continuing Adventures has got to go. It makes me sound like I'm either a 22 year old hipster dashing around the world in size two jeans screwing rock stars or like I'm a middle-aged woman with posts titled "My Trip to the Grand Canyon". Ouch. I think I just hurt my feelings.

A while back I dabbled with the idea of renaming the blog Wendy's Pathetically Futile Quest for Happiness but that's a bit of a bummer, no? Ok, how about Neurosis Can be Fun or Neurosis Can be Fun! Old Maid Isn't Just a Card Game? I'd Kill Myself But You Might Miss Me? I could go ironic- Sunshine and Kittens - with corresponding smarmy clip art...

I'll keep working on it.

Choose Your Mood

We who do not Whoo

Yesterday I was in Metropolitan Market, a Whole Foods-like grocery store. You know the type of place- $18 a pound chicken salad, dairy-free cheese, varities of exotic produce you won't admit to being afraid of but secretly are.

As one does, I greeted the person behind the register with something to the effect of "How're you doing?" The cashier looked to be in her early 30s. She paused for a moment, then shrugged. "Eh" she said. "I'm here." She wasn't surly or rude. Just forthright.

I told her I loved her honesty. We commiserated that there are days one simply gets through. I told her about the aggressive Whoo! culture in er, some companies. "I'd die" she said simply.

Yeah.

Having a fellow genuine person in her midst seemed to perk her up. We talked about the value of expressing enthusiasm sincerely. Of being polite and doing one's job well, but not being phony. Mark Twain beamed at us from the heavens. Diogenes danced with joy.

As she keyed in the code for my cilatro, I asked where she'd like to be right now. She said she'd been working too hard, and would like to just be at home, watching TV. I shared my fantasy of consuming a six-serving box of smoked gruyere macaroni and cheese while watching Fresh Prince of Bel Air reruns. Her version was a giant Wolfgang Puck pizza and Titanic.

As I was leaving I did not tell her to have a nice day. Nor did she say it to me. Is it ironic that both of our days were now just a little bit nicer? I don't think so.

Sound and Vision

Yarn

I couldn't bring myself to use 'Hooked' as the title of a post about crocheting. Too corny. Even for me.

The last time I'd crocheted was at a Girl Scout weekend campout in 5th grade.

This time around I started off practicing slip knots and chain stiches. Then I found the repetitive motion of the basic chain stitch to be very relaxing. So now there's this demented picture of me in the Guiness Book of World Records, next to the crochet chain I made that stretches from Seattle to Redding, California.



No, not really.

In other hobby news, I joined a writers group a few weeks ago. The meeting started with prompts: Pieces of paper with random words. Popsicle-stick thingies with faded lime green lettering I couldn't read. Color sheets, such as one would find in a Benjamin Moore paint store. We were given half an hour, 45 minutes, something like that to write. I wrote. I knew I wouldn't share anything the first meeting, and who am I to let myself down? I also knew I wouldn't write anything good. Again, I did not disappoint.

Here are some things I found interesting: The deep, tortured, arty stuff people shared was responded to with murmurs of "Mmm, nice..." It was like the writer had served each person a whole trout. Good quality fish in some cases, but too much work to pick through all the bones.

You know what type of writing is always appreciated? The literary equivalent of potato chips. One woman shared a poem about the things she did in college to avoid studying for her statistics exam. She referenced specific dialogue from the Cosby Show episode she watched when she should have been studying. It was light and cute, and most of the people in the room could relate to it. Everyone crunched along happily and rewarded her with sincere burps of laughter.

In all fairness, not all the 'heavy' writing was trout-like. The organizer of the group shared a poem about divorce that had that "Damn!..." final line slam dunk that only the most talented writers can produce.

A lanky, laid-back looking guy in his 20s introduced himself to the group and said he was willing to share what he'd written. He came in late so he’d only written one word:

"Simone"

Well, wasn’t that minimalist but mighty? Seriously.

The group meets again tomorrow night. This time we are to show up with a finished piece. I think mine is good, and I plan to share it. I don't care if I'm told it's terrible. I don't care if people slump over in their seats, loudly snoring midway through my reading. If someone wants to extract a small, pearl-handled pistol from their purse and shoot me in the head, that's fine. I just want to start putting my writing out there.

I'm pretty sure I won't get shot. I probably won't even be harshly criticized. There may not even be time for me to read my damn story. But I finished it, and I'm willing to share it (Not with you. Let's not get carried away) and I feel good about that.

Oh

As mentioned, last Sunday my car had an apres Super Bowl meltdown. Today I called to have it towed in to be repaired. The driver looked at the floor of my car, picked up something that looked like a key chain, and asked if I knew what it was. He fit it into a space below the dashboard and, yep, vroom, that was it. Somehow the thingy that controls the car's entire system had fallen out. It's an anti-theft device, he explained. I can just take that part out and not have to worry about my car being stolen. Oh. Feeling very blonde, I thanked him profusely and was not on my way.

I was not on my way because last Sunday's tow truck driver had emergency braked my car in an over-zealous manner. I'll admit I'm a disgrace to modern women everywhere. I know nothing about cars. But I know that to release an emergency brake, you press in the spring-loaded button and start pushing the lever down. And if that doesn't work after three attempts and several curses, you get out, slam the door, and stomp down the street to the auto repair shop.

The owner of the shop told me to stop pushing down and to pull up- pull it tighter- and then it would release. Oh, ok. *snicker*

With promises to bring my car there for my next oil change -and I will, I'm nice that way- I walked back to my car and freed the brake.

Years ago I took an Aikido class. The instructor was a big guy, probably 6'3 and 250 pounds. He picked a tiny woman from the group- that's correct, not me- and showed how she could use his power for her own gain. In other words, instead of fighting her attacker, she could leverage his strength to push up against him and deftly slip away. His name was Terry Dobson. He'd written a book called Giving in to Get Your Way. The class and the book stayed with me. However, I too often forget to apply the core concept which pretty much is 'No, stupid, do the opposite.'

If pushing doesn't work, pull. If pulling doesn't work, push.

Excuse me, I'm off to apply this concept to my whole life.

A Moment in Time

When I was in first grade, our teacher had us make jewelry boxes for our mothers as a class project. We used the following materials to fashion these earnest, Rococo-esque works of art: Cigar boxes, gold spray paint, dried macaroni, and glue. At our desks we glued the macaroni to the top of the cigar box. Then we headed outdoors for the spray painting- you know, gang sign grafitti all over public property.

Ok, so much for that attempt at humor.

I went to Bayshore Academy that year, and if I remember right the school was indeed on the shore of Biscayne Bay. It was a nice Miami spring day, not obnoxiously hot, and it felt good to be outside. One at a time a child would hold out his or her box and Mrs...Mrs.... I remember all my other teacher's names...something like Mrs. Goyette (ok, let's go with that) spray-painted the entire creation in gold. Lovely.

I was one of the last kids she got to, so my mind wandered. I made the decision that I would film everything going on around me, in my mind, like a movie. These were the exact words I said to myself: "I am going to choose to remember this the rest of my life." So far so good.

The photo below is one of the first times I decided to use a camera for that same reason: simply to freeze a random moment in time. I knew then that years later it would contain all kind of information. And it does- I recall the tiniest of details about 7th grade at Gulliver Academy from this one photo. In the foreground is Alma Lurz, who was my math teacher. She was a soft-spoken former nun (wait...former nun? Did she kick the habit? Wha ha) who had a musty, powdery smell. I'm smelling it right now. I've never known anyone else with that scent. She had infinite patience and once offered to buy my friend Laurie and me ice cream when we ran into her at the mall. Further back in the image is a raspy-voiced teacher named Mr. Brown. I was never in one of his classes, but my sister was. I remember she went to his funeral several years later. Also in the background is Lori Ryder who was a somewhat renowed competitive swimmer. I remember she got cool Peter Max glasses in 8th grade. She and I got together twice outside of school: One time we went bowling, another time she came over to my house and we went swimming. No, she did not compete against me. She was very easy going actually; nice girl. Now i'm remembering other things about her, and that's what I mean- photos open files we thought were closed.

Photos like this also offer evidence of the surreal: Kids really did dress like the Brady Bunch. We wore uniforms at Gulliver, so this photo is not the best evidence of that. But if you look really carefully, you'll see knee socks...

Not Sure About the Second Part

"Man is the only animal that blushes - or needs to." Mark Twain

My name is Wendy and I'm a blusher. Hi Wendy, welcome! Why thank you.

I'm so lucky my blushing is but a gentle flush, the sweet palest pink of a delicate tea rose. I'm even luckier that I blush only under extreme circumstances. You know, like when I laugh. Or talk.

I think I sometimes make it entire days- maybe even weeks- ok, days, without my face going from 0 to burgundy within 5 seconds. How fortunate I am that when my visage assumes its Lapplander-in-the-noonday-equatorial-sun hue, I always have someone kind enough to loudly point it out to me. Because, you know, the fact that I feel like it's 300 degrees in the room isn't enough. And for those keeping score at home, this has happened to me all my life. It isn't a *hushed whisper* perimenopause thing
.

When workers are locked up in tight confines for long hours (such as today's 12 hour funapalooza), they are going to get a bit silly at times. Especially if I'm around. Although I'm pride myself on my ability to generate sophisticated witticisms at lightning-fast speed, sometimes that's just too much work. At such times, it feels great- like staggering to the refrigerator for first swig of cold diet coke in the morning great- to lapse into abject stupidity.

Cutting to chase: During break in 2 1/2 hour meeting, two coworkers and I somehow end up engaging in puns. Food puns. Pizza more specifically. "Do you dough any more?" Tee hee. "We're being so cheesy" Bwa ha! And then this (in best mafia don accent) "You wanna pizza me?"

Even though I was the one who said it, I'm still entitled to laugh as hard as the others, which is to say much harder than should have been laughed at all because, as you are judgementally thinking (fy), it's not that funny. Except it was.

And yes my face turned the color of pepperoni (what lovely imagery). And yes, this was loudly pointed out to me from across the room, or across the state line, or whatever, because- if you haven't gotten the point by now- when I blush I radiate in a thermonuclear manner, possibly one day necessitating the hiring of a Hazmat crew to restore a room to safety after I leave.

What am I supposed to say to someone when they are rude enough to brazenly gape at the freak of nature that is me? Today I contemplated quietly and sadly whispering that my face gets red when my heart condition (no, I don't have one) is acting up. It would be great fun to watch the pointee try to backpeddle their way out of that one.

When I was in training for my current position, the trainer handed out copies that she admitted were of poor quality. I squinted at mine and informed her I couldn't read it. With an exasperated sigh she ripped it out of my hands, 'Blah blah blahed' her way through the first few sentences and announced that SHE could read it. I looked up at her forlornly: "Yes, but you're not blind in your left eye." She didn't turn merlot like me, but she stammered and blushed and was very, very nice to me after that.

My vision in my left eye is 20/40, but, whatever. It was an effective comeback.

I'm honestly not that motivated to think of a zinger-like retort to the next person who points out my blushing. Really.

Maybe I have no shame. Or less than I used to.

How fabulous is that?

Happy New Year!

I wonder if there is someone out there, a corporate middle manager type perhaps, who greets people in the morning with "Happy New Day!"

It can't be denied that this is possible.

It's both a terrifying thought and a not-bad-now-that-I-think-of-it idea. Terrifying if one were assaulted with it a 8 am each weekday. Not a bad idea, however, to greet each day with the hope and conviction one feels at the start of a new year.

No I'm not in a hangover induced stupor.

Last night worked out fine. At the last minute I answered a Craigslist post from someone wanting company for First Night. The post was simple and non desperate. He asked for music preferences, not photos. After a brief phone conversation in which I deemed him articulate and polite, I decided to meet him downtown. What could be safer than meeting someone in a crowded public place? And no, that's not ironic foreshadowing for a closing of "I'm glad I escaped with my life..."

It was a pleasant evening. Tacoma's First Night was exactly what the doctor ordered: a festive, all ages crowd, music and dance performances in all the cool old theaters, very few drunk people (I don't like being around falling down drunk people. The last time I was drunk was at a Beat Farmers concert when I was 30), and a sense of supporting and being supported by my community.

The guy (Tom) and I got along fine. No fireworks between us, but that was not the intention of the evening. He was very knowledgeable about music and was, as I'd sensed from the phone call, articulate, intelligent and polite. How refreshing.

My mood was all over the map, partially due to what I've been through with men (yep, not just one) in recent weeks. I think I was a decent companion for the evening, but I was not at my best.

The best part of the evening was getting a badly-needed performing arts fix. We started the evening with strawberry margaritas at El Toro, and then wandered into a couple of the theaters: Pantages, Rialto and Pythian Temple. My favorite of the evening was a Tahitian dance / storytelling performance "And Hila drank of the fruit. And then the giant eel god..."

In the category of, er, interesting was a hurdy gurdy performance at the Pythian Temple. A bunch of rather dowdy musicians (hurdy gurdyists?) sat in a semi circle on the stage. From a distance it looked like each was just cranking the handle on a box, producing a droning 'reee reee reeee' sound kind of like a bagpipe. They just sat there and cranked their butts off. 1st song: 'Ree reeee reee' 2nd song: Reeee ree ree' 3rd song: 'Reeee-reeee reeee-reeeee'. At the end of the 4th song I turned to Tom and said "Um, I think I get the idea." and we left. As we were leaving Tom explained to me that a hurdy gurdy is sometimes referred to as a wheel fiddle and that the player uses his or her non-cranking hand to press keys to produce different pitches. His explaination was sufficiently interesting to inspire me to Google more info when I got home. But no, I'm not going to actively seek out upcoming hurdy gurdy performances.

Somewhere between 11 and 11:30 Tom mentioned that barring anything I still really wanted to do, he'd like to leave before midnight to beat the traffic. I had just starting thinking that I wanted to be on my couch at midnight, watching the Space Needle fireworks on TV, so it worked out perfectly. He gave me a ride home, we wished each other a Happy New Year and agreed to get together for a movie or concert sometime. A few minutes later I was happily on my couch watching the fireworks on TV as well as firework displays visible from my living room window. Around 12:30 I got into bed with a book: Home Front by Patti Davis, an autobiography very thinly veiled as fiction (and a good, indulgent read) and that was it.

I'm happy and excited about the new year.

I wish everyone a wonderful 2009.

Challenges

Some challenges are good. Today I climbed the 17 flights in my office building in 6 minutes. That was my goal and I made it. The fitness goals I meet in the coming year will far exceed that small accomplishment.

Some challenges are bad. I met a man at a singles event recently. We had plans for tomorrow night- you know, New Year's Eve. I sent him an email an hour ago explaining that I did not feel comfortable seeing him again. He was a nice man, but there were some very good reasons why the decision I made was the right one. I wish him well. I wish myself well too. Sometimes you do what you have to do.

Some challenges are easy. I'll keep busy tomorrow night. I'll spend some time at a neighbor's party, and may end up at downtown Tacoma's First Night for a while.

I hope everyone has a safe and wonderful New Year.

Fight or Flight

I once spent $350 on a gym visit. I paid for a year and went once. There are reasons why I hate LA Fitness, Bally's and the like. Here's a few of them: Men in little Richard Simmons-style shorts thundering on the treadmill next to me. Women vigorously soaping their private parts in the curtainless showers. Little lagoons of other people's sweat on the Nautilus machines....eww, eww, eww. Now that I look at these reasons, I not only feel guilt free about my lack of gym membership, I feel vindicated.

This is not to say that I'm lying on the couch watching Wheel of Fortune and plowing my way through bags of Jalapeno Cheetos. I just prefer more holistic forms of exercise. As mentioned, I walk the mile and a half to and from work most days. During my lunch hour I either walk the mini mountain that is downtown Tacoma's streets (from downtown to the appropriately named Hilltop), and / or I climb stairs.

There is something zen-like about climbing stairs. Real stairs, not hamster-cage machine stairs. My new trick is to pretend my building does not have an elevator.I did the 11 flights (12 actually, from the basement) twice today. Eleven or twelve flights at a time is my current comfort level. I have a moment of "Ugh, this sucks" after bounding up the first 6 or 7, but I push through it. Next week I am going to walk the 17 flights in my office building in less than 10 minutes. I'm pretty sure I can do it in about 6.

You. Yeah you, the one who's saying "Big deal. I run up and down my building's 47 flights of stairs two or three times before leaving for my 90 minute workout in which I run 13 miles in 11 minutes on the treadmill set at a 14% grade..." I'm not listening to you. Nor am I competing with you. I am competing with myself. And in a few more months, I am going to be looking fierce.

Here's what my ability to make decisions looks like

Snow Day

I was scheduled to work from 10:30 - 7:30 yesterday. At 9:45 am I assessed the weather: Cold and blowing snow but not icy. Perfect walking weather! Off I went. A mile and a half later I arrived at my office with my hat, coat and gloves covered in snow. Not a frequent Seattle-area occurence, so it was fun. At 4:30 pm it was announced that the campus was closing for the evening. I contemplated taking the bus home but it wasn't dark or even snowing, so I had a nice walk home. It's starting to occur to me that this is the most boring blog post I've ever written. I'll wrap it up: Today is a snow day from work. All day! Here's a view from one of my living room windows:

Night Light

One of my favorite musicians, drummer Mickey Hart, said that when he is 90 years old he'll still be drumming on different surfaces just to hear what they sound like. I think when I'm 90 I'll still be taking lots of photos, just to see what they look like.