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.

Pt. Defiance Park

Shark Chasing a Seagull

Where I've Been

On November 15th I participated in a volunteer event. We planted trees and mulched (isn't that a great verb?) the Duwamish Riverbed area. In the photo below, several of my coworkers are throwing themselves into their planting.


I rearranged the furniture, and subsequently the energy, in my apartment. The very end of October / early November was one of the worst times of my life, so making changes feels good. I've lost 18 pounds in the last year. Not exactly rapid weight loss, but I'm pleased. I've become addicted to climbing hills. Photos of that soon.

Michael Crichton

I was surprised and saddened by the news of Michael Crichton's death. While I certainly appreciate his more famous works (Jurassic Park, Andromeda Strain), my personal favorite is his autobiography, Travels. I also love Timeline, although the storytelling is so three-dimensionally vivid, I felt queasy when reading some of the scenes set in the Middle Ages.

World's Best-Trained Dog

My nephew Jeff, an officer in the Marines, and his wife Taylor, a cop have their much-loved dogs very well trained. Allow the adorable Brooklyn to demonstrate:

I Love This Time of Year

A Heart Shaped Pendant from the Shane Company

I once asked a couple who'd been married about a year how they knew the other was 'the one'. George explained that he saw Deborah sitting two rows ahead of him in a crowded venue. As he looked at her a halo of light surrounded her. When it was "still there an hour later", he knew the universe was telling him he had found his soul mate. Fair enough. I turned to Deborah. She shrugged and said "I was 35, it was time to get married. George is a great guy so I just figured why not?"

Why not indeed. The fact that I will be 49 next month and never married seems to indicate that I would have found a reason to negate that 'why not'. My obsession with personal freedom has been one reason for my singledom. My thousand and one quirks brings the total to one thousand and two. But yes, there are other reasons. As in, you know, not-so-good men. I don’t ever want to be one of those women whose dating angst causes them to bellow “I’m going to write a book!”. I know of one leathery specimen whose man-hating rant is tentatively titled “Three Strikes and You’re Out!” Scary. I honestly do not subscribe to the belief that there are no good men. Of course there are good men out there. But…

I can think of two women I know who are in wonderful, loving relationships. Their boyfriends are smokers. That’s a deal killer for me. Another deal killer? Abject, childish silliness. This is not to be confused with a quick wit, a twisted view of the world, the ability to let go and enjoy life or other similarly wonderful qualities. It's men who try to compensate for their lack of wit with 'funny' (funny as is annoying as hell) voices. Last year I dated a man who was very nice in ways, but who left me phone messages that sounded something like this (Hear this as a 1970s game show host voice) "Hey Wendy, Iiiiiiiiiiit's NICK! Sometimes he also treated me to accompanying dreadful 70s-era sexual innuendoes. Next.

Along came, uh let’s call him Pames, who was 42 going on 12. He embarrassed me repeatedly at a dinner out with coworkers, not only by escalating his voice two octaves into a dreadful girly affectation whenever he was trying to be funny, but...well, by doing some really peculiar things as well. He recently tried to win himself back into my good graces by sending me an Instant Message beginning with "Wanna compare pay stubs from the past six months?" (His tacky way of boasting that he was doing well financially). He then went on to type a monologue so bizarre and socially inappropriate that I copied it and sent it to a friend. A wonderful friend, who responded with "Oh Wens, you deserve so much better." Indeed I do. And I'm glad my loser radar is improving, allowing me to quickly move on when it is obvious a man is not right for me. I’m happy to report that within a month I had divested myself of, er, Pames.

There have been some good men in recent years. I even loved a couple of them. One, let’s call him Schmeter, was a Nordic beekeeper type who loved to love me baby, but when asked, in a romantic cabin by the North sea, if he, you know loved me, gave me that pained, movie of the week Prince Charles to Princess Diana 'What is love?" soliloquy. This of course translates to "I know what love is, dumb ass, it's just not something I feel for you." Said aloof Nordic man is now involved with some local bee keeper-ette. Mazel Tov. The other man I loved was Dave (real name!), who actually loved me back. I wouldn’t say we were deeply in love- maybe more like love lite- but it was happy and good. We're not really in touch anymore. I was quickly replaced when I left Phoenix, but I wrote to him recently to tell him that I appreciated how good he was to me. I'm glad I did that, because he really was very kind and caring and took me on wonderful dates. He wrote a nice note back. After that it was kind of like "Ok, we were into each other at that point in time but now it's a new point in time and that's that." So it is. I’ve made peace with that.

However I'm still in the mood to be pathetic, so I'll share this: What the hell am I going to do with the rest of my life? I am honestly starting to toss around thoughts of moving to a whaling village in the Arctic Circle when I turn 60. Well, maybe the Oregon coast. Or Denmark.

I haven’t given up. I’m well aware that I haven’t always gone about my search in the most conventional ways, and until recent years I haven’t been entirely ready. But now I am So I need to become more proactive. There’s really not much more to say than that. Other than the fact that I don't require cheesey tokens of affection like heart shaped pendants from the Shane Company -although I do confess to a perverse enjoyment of their radio advertising.

Pt. Defiance Rose Gardens

Now that I have a little more patience (thank you Strattera), I've been exploring some of my camera's nuances. I experimented with the macro feature at Pt. Defiance Rose Gardens on Sunday.

Ten Years

I left Denver 10 years ago. I miss it about as much as Tina misses Ike. If you are a fan of Denver's bone-snapping parched air and sludge-brown skies, all I can say is it's all yours. I may have complained about the heat, but in my two stints in Phoenix ('83 and '06), Arizona became part of my soul. South Florida too will always be part of my soul. I doubt I will ever live in either place again, but I will always be happy to visit.

I like Tacoma better than Seattle. It's got more character, it's more affordable, and I love being less than two miles from a stretch of waterfront that rivals anything in Seattle. I spent the better part of yesterday at said waterfront with a new friend. We had lunch on the patio of Katy Down's where we watched a seagull land on an abandoned plate, loop an onion ring around its beak and fly away (awesome!). We watched parasailers make their journey from boat to platform to sky. Parasailing is now on my list of things I want to do before I die.

As we walked along the waterfront, we came to a fishing pier. Three or four people were fishing, but one guy had the look and demeanor of a true fisherman (which I suppose is to say he looked like he wouldn't care about Nordstrom's semi-annual sale). When we first encountered him his fishing pole was arched in half like he was catching a small whale. A minute later he announced that whatever it was, it had stolen his hook. I asked him what kind of fish could be caught from this pier. As he cast out his line again he said "Everything". Within seconds I was finding his answer wholly unsatisfactory. "Everything?"
Everything?<em> What is that supposed to mean? Tuna? Turtles? Eels? Jars of Manischewitz gefilte fish? Daring to be annoying, I asked for a few examples. The payoff was better than I expected: snapper (ok, not that exciting) and squid. Squid. I had no idea people fished for such things. As gross as i think it would be, I'd love to see someone catch a squid- although my commentary would probably consist simply of "Ew!! Ew! Look at it! Ewwwwwwww!"

The weather this weekend has been that perfect sunny and 70s combination. I don't mind the rainy months here at all, but the Northwest on days like this is just extravagantly gorgeous. May I say again that I don't miss Denver at all?

I don't miss Denver at all.

Can't See This From The Highway

But you can from the window of Amtrak starting north of Seattle all the way to Bellingham.

Candidly Cryptic

I spent last weekend with someone I like and haven't seen since the year I made a big change. We started at 2,000 then went to 8,000. Forty five minutes north we gazed upon an awe-inspiring sweeping vista that may one day be a lake. I rediscovered with joy a state I had previously accepted with resignation.

That's not all I have to say.

The Crab Pot

A few months ago Faauu suggested that dinner one night this summer at The Crab Pot would be fun. With summer rapidly dwindling (and taking its 90+ degree days with it, thank God), off we went. We as in me, Christy and Faauu. Have you noticed you tend to hear the same names over and over in this blog? Coming attraction: More names.

The Crab Pot, as one may or may not discern from this blurry, taken-without-a-flash evening photo, is on the downtown Seattle waterfront
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Do you enjoy having creepy crustaceans dumped on your table? If so, you'll love The Crab Pot!

Crab legs, when consumed with multiple glasses of wine, have been known to cause temporary dementia.


Ok, yes, this is what I had. I picture the waiter saying to the chef "Some lady just ordered the Sesame Chicken Salad. At The Crab Pot " The chef makes a disgusted guffawing sound- perhaps "Pffffffttttt", rolls his eyes and mutters a sarcastic "Ooooooh k." Then he dumps a soup ladle full of dressing into a bowl, throws in some lettuce and chicken, tosses in the requisite sesame seeds (after possibly wiping his nose) and sends the waiter off to deliver the concoction to the stupid-enough-to-order-a-salad-in-one-of-the-most-seafoody-restaurants-on-the-planet victim. I know it doesn't look that bad in the photo, but it wasn't good. Honestly.
Why, you ask was my king crab, shrimp, and mussels experience limited to pounding the hell (sheesh, I had no idea it was so hard) out of a crab leg that I didn't even consume? Because, seafood gives me primal dread. Imagine how you would feel if a waiter upended a giant bowl of snakes and rats on your table. I'm not quite that grossed out by seafood, by close...
It was, however, a very fun evening. It felt great to sit outside and to talk about the things women like to talk about (mostly sex). We went to the Emerald Queen casino afterwards for about an hour, where I did some serious high stakes gambling- starting with $20, winning my way up to $32, then cashing out at $19.76.

By the way, there is a cute picture of Christy, Faauu and I at The Crab Pot. I came close to posting it here, but decided that my outside arm looked too fat and too white (I know...) I am, however, getting closer to posting pictures of myself again. I've lost 12 pounds and have a sassy new hair color- kind of a strawberry blonde but more vibrant. I've done exceptionally well at work this week, prompting one of my more intuitive coworkers to half joke that it's because of my new hair. I think that may well be true.

Have a Rainbow Day (But only if you want to)

I Do ??

One of my students (in a grateful tone of voice) said to me today "Wendy, you have the patience of a saint."

A number of other students have given me similar feedback.

It's a huge compliment for me, because I am not naturally patient. I'm glad my professionalism and compassion allow me to appear as though I am.

Farmers Market

Who's That Beautiful Dog?

Entrance to my Apartment Building

Moon and Mountain

4th of July

Happy 30th of June. I saw fireworks all week from my living room window, compliments of Cheney Stadium who ended each evening's baseball game with them.

Lots of boats on Commencement Bay on the 4th.

As in any city, there is no parking anywhere near a major 4th of July event. Since I live only 2 miles from the Ruston Way waterfront, I walked there and back. I had a fair amount of people around me on the way there (pictured, on McCarver St.), and a huge, interesting mix of people on the way back (interesting as in nice young families with babies in strollers and drunken troglodytes whose vocabulary consisted of approximately three words, two of which were fuck and fuckin') Christy and I met up at the waterfront then walked to The Ram to join her friends who had procured a table on the patio. There was a good band playing before the fireworks started. The fireworks included some beautiful, glittery effects, but it was one of the shortest fireworks shows I've ever seen. The whole thing lasted about eight minutes at the most.

This is a firework with a lamp in the way. I prefer to think of it as an interesting idea for a street lamp. A whole city block with color pulsing firework-like lamps could produce a Fremont Street Experience-like effect. I'm not going to hold my breath for it to happen in Tacoma.