Sunday, March 15, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
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...
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...
Thursday, January 08, 2009
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?
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?
Thursday, January 01, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, December 22, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
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:
Monday, December 01, 2008
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.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
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.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
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:
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