Is She or Isn't She?

Once in a while, where I work, we get a customer who goes through the store picking out items that they are going to buy "tomorrow".

"Please put this on hold for me, I'll be back tomorrow."
"Of course. What's your name?"

There is one woman who does this about every six months. I know she isn't going to be back tomorrow, or for another six months probably. It's no bother to say yes and put the suit, or dress, or hat, or shoes in the closet and take them out the next day.

Today, a woman came in at 6pm--we close at 6. A few stragglers were just leaving and she was walking in and, well, what are you going to do? If the door had been locked and she stood outside it, I wouldn't have let her in. But, well, the door was open. She had a very hyper energy, and if I knew what people on speed or coke or whatever were like, I might have compared her to one of those drugs. However, I am naive in that department, so I'm stuck with hyper. Like a squirrel gathering nuts. First thing she said was "I love this hat. How much is it?" "$975". "That's cheap! I love hats. I'll pay anything for a hat. My husband's going to buy that Halston for me, tomorrow, but I might get the hat." And then she's on to a designer skirt and a 60's suit. (A suit that I covet and was hoping to borrow for a wedding, next month.) It was the way she said "tomorrow", however, that pricked my ears. She was talking so fast and kept dropping names of designer collections that she had bought this fall season. The whole line of YSL suits, "you know, with the pencil skirts" and then she went into this mile a minute explanation about how she'd just spent $35,000 in shoes, boots primarily. "You know Hermes boots, this year? Well, they can't import kangaroo leather into the United States anymore, so I had to fly overseas to buy the boots I wanted. They'll go perfectly with that suit." She then squealed, no kidding, and HUGGED me. I'm suspicious of too much information in the name dropping realm. And I'm REALLY put on my guard when total strangers hug me. Even if they are in my shop and excited about a 1960's grey pinstrip Jacques Heim suit with large grey and pink swirly buttons. It's just plain weird. So, yes, I put the suit on hold for her. She'll be back Sunday, she just lives around the corner by Etta's, blah, blah, blah. Alright. See you tomorrow.

The question is this: Is this woman manic? Crazy? A pathological liar? Or is she for real? Well, obviously she is for real. She can be really crazy, really manic, a real big liar or really legit in her intention to come back and purchase the Halston, the suit, the hat and any number of other items. I am looking forward to seeing whether or not she comes back tomorrow, or any day. It's not that I doubt the money. I work in a place where we can't possibly judge whether or not a person has the means to buy the items in our shop. I don't want to get into that kind of sizing up, anyway. It's not fun and it's un kind. We don't even care if people can afford the store, or not. None of us that work there can. The point is not whether or not she can afford the clothes, it is whether or not she is cuckoo for cocoa puffs, or what. I just wanna know. She was wearing a wedding ring, which also made me wonder. If she is a bit screwy, what must that be like in the marriage? Does he know? Is this like one of those stories where the husband is slowly watching the mental demise of his beloved wife and is powerless to stop it. She won't take her meds, or forgot them, or hasn't been prescribed them yet? Not exactly like "A Beautiful Mind", but that idea. Very curious...

Not Party Potential

It never ends. This jaunt down memory lane. My pal, Adam, and I have been e-mailing back and forth impressions of our impressions. But what, dear reader, are the impressions of those that you thought you knew, or didn't know at all and yet they knew you? Hmmmm...it is probably better not to know, that is what I think. I am afraid that I'd be told I was some kind of snooty snob. In college, friends told me that when they first met me, they thought I was aloof. Ouch. I wasn't aloof. I was quiet and shy. Once I get to know someone, I am easygoing--I think--and silly and friendly. I don't strke that person as a shy gal, but I am. In social settings, if I don't know you, I feel too awkward to extend the hand and say, "Hello. I'm Linnet. What's your name?" And then the flow of what do you do, are you from Seattle questions. I'd prefer to stand at the food table and munch on chips and dip, if they're available. Otherwise, you might find me standing in front a the bookshelf reading all the titles and making mental notes of the ones I've read, or that I haven't read and want to. Or the ones I wouldn't read, unless they were the last books on earth. Who am I kidding? I don't even go to parties. What does this have to do with the start of this entry? I don't know. I don't care.

Well, I did go to one, recently. Shawn was in Oregon, surfing, and I'd already told the hostess that I was planning on going. I wanted to go. Really. Only, when it came time to get out of the house and into the cab, I was having my doubts. Would I know anyone there? Would I have a good time if I didn't? Could I bust out of my shell and make some new friends? Ugh. It's times like these that I suddenly feel so small and exposed. The party was quite the happening spot. All kinds of hipsters and yogsters and a mixture of both. (Housewarming for my favorite yoga teacher, and it was very sweet of her to invite me.) A band was getting ready to play just as I arrived, phew!, no need to make conversation now. Said my hello to Jenny and then looked at a bunch of faces that I did not know. Unfortunately, the band only played for about 20 minutes. It was time to mingle. Looked at the books. Hmmm...some good reads there. O. Always wanted to read that one. Self guided tour of the living room, kitchen and hallway. Goody. Pictures. Huge back yard. A table with some food that I couldn't eat (I was in the midst of that liver cleanse. Still a few weeks away from coffee, in case you were wondering.), a badmitton game being played, fire pit and vegetable garden. HUGE back yard! Back into the house. Okay...outside for some sparkling water. Another turn around the garden and I have cell phone in hand to call a cab. "Hi, I'm Alvin. You look like you need some people to talk to." A hand extends, I shake it, give a nervous laugh and am introduced to the other guys standing around in a little circle of welcome. Now, that wasn't that hard, was it? We are soon joined by the girlfriend of one of the guys and having a merry conversation. I stay for another 45 minutes, and then leave, thanking them for including me. Mental note to try that whole "Hi, I'm Linnet" thing on someone next time I'm at a party and I see others, like me, who don't seem to know anyone.

I suppose that the other party goers could have seen me wandering around, hands in pockets, not talking to anyone and view me as some kind of unapproachable. My fear of introducing myself--heck, of saying my name and playing the pronunciation game--might look like something completely different to an onlooker. I don't know.

Correction

Thanks to my good friend, Adam Brooks, for pointing out that Ken Ober was the host of Remote Control, not Colin Quinn. Yes. Very true. Quin was the announcer. Memory slipping with age...

Music Memory Lane

Still thinking about music that brings me back to a certain place, person and other memories. I've got a list in my head, right now, and I'm ready to share. It's not in any particular order. Why not start off with the song that prompted it all...

"All I Want", Toad the Wet Sprocket: Wade Myers, Moon Valley High School, class of 1992. Boo hoo hoo, and all that jazz.

The Smiths: John Moreau, Mike Lynch, Tom Walsh (was that his last name?), Ben Brittain....but mostly John, who was my first "serious" boyfriend. And in particular, "Still Ill", as he sang that sort of to himself while we walked around a park on our first date. "Under the iron bridge we kissed..." is the line I think he was specifically hoping I'd hear. No go. Too nervous to kiss anyone on the first date. I was but an itty bitty freshman at MVHS.

"Shout", Tears for Fears: 5th grade, Bountiful, Utah. My oldest sister was on the swim team at Bountiful High, and the boy swimmers listened to the modern music station, (underground, college-type radio, new wave, whatever you happened to call it before it became "alternative" or "indie). She wanted to impress them, though she didn't actually like the music. But me, wowza, it opened up a whole new world of music for me. This was several months before the song was played on what I liked to call mainstream radio. Such a trend setter, har, har, har.

"With or Without You", U2: Awkward pre-teen yearning for, I knew not what...something more...While still living in Bountiful, I was suffering from insomnia at the ripe old age of 12. The modern music station had gone off the air, due to unpopularity and was relegated to broadcasting late nights from 10pm until 1am, or something. Thank god for insomnia, huh? I have such a clear memory of sitting on the floor of my bedroom, holding onto this crappy radio/tape deck that played tapes at a super fast speed and often ate said tapes, hearing that song come on. So haunting, so late at night, so restless. So wishing to know if any boy would ever like me, if I would ever be pretty, or have nice things. So not knowing.

Oingo Boingo, Depeche Mode (pre 1987): University of Utah's Theatre School For Youth program. Salt Lake City, Utah. Finally, a group of people that not only understood and appreciated my music tastes, but many of them had tapes or records by these groups and made me copies!!! The first music that I owned. 1984 was probably my favorite Boingo album, still is, if I had to choose. Hmmm...another iTunes foray? You can throw some Dead Milkman (not Punk Rock Girl, before that song) into the mix along with some Thompson Twins and Erasure.

"Killing an Arab", The Cure: Courtney--holy crap, batman, I forgot her last name. How strange...Anyway, 8th grade at Palo Verde Jr. High in Phoenix, AZ. Courtney loved The Cure and supplied me with copies of many albums. (You see a trend, I never had any money to buy my own music.) We used to go to her house after school and watch 120 minutes, recorded the night before, and that MTV game show "Remote Control", when Colin Quinn hosted it. Loved it. We'd eat tomato and miracle whip sandwiches on wheat bread. Yum. We lost touch during high school, lived in different zones. Randomly met up with her again, though. She was friends with a girl who was pursuing my boyfriend, John--yes, The Smiths guy--and Courtney gave me all the dirty details. Gotta love loyalty. By then she was known as Coco, which I was never able to call her. She was ditzy as Coco. She knew a lot about the people I hung out with during my first two years of high school. Told me all kinds of horrible truths that had been kept from me.

"One Voice", Barry Manilow: Ahhh....the album of the same name was my first record, EVER. Got it for Christmas when I was 6. We lived in southern Idaho, in case anyone is keeping track. I loved Barry Manilow. Would sing his songs at the top of my lungs, so my mom says. And I believe her. He still holds a soft spot in my heart, Barry does. "We're just two ships that pass in the night, we both smile, when we say it's alright..." Sigh.

"Red Headed Stranger", Willie Nelson: Young Idaho years...As a family, we did not listen to a lot of music together, but my mom or dad had bought this Willie Nelson tape and we all loved to hear it. That song was really fascinating to me, it told a complete story. I loved the sad ending and the gunslinger aspects of it. Marty Robbins, too. We had the album, "Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs" with that picture of him dressed all in black, ready to draw his pistol and shoot the other guy. Very powerful image for me. Heck, let's add "Rhinestone Cowboy" to this family nostalgia mix. I wanted to be a cowboy, when I was little. NOT a cowgirl. They didn't look like they had as much fun. I wanted to be a girl who was as tough and cool and slick as a cowboy. Like the one on the cover of that Marty Robbin's album.

"Two Princes", Spin Doctors: Michael Cruz (formerly Sullivan). His sr. year of college at ASU and my freshman. I was doing makeup for "The Doctor in Spite of Himself" and he was Sganarelle. In the dressing room we would listen to that song and Michael really liked it. It's not one of my favorite, but whenever I hear it I think of him and how much I love him. What a great, long friendship we have had. My oldest friend, I tell people. I truly have known him longer than any of my friends (excluding family, of course).

"Perfect From Now On", Built to Spill: 2000, Seattle. Leaving my last relationship. Desperately unhappy and wanting to get back on track with myself. I listened to the live album and this song felt so good to blast in my car. (I used to have a car, can you believe it? That was another life time ago.) Even when I hear it, now, I have a sense of freedom and breaking out of something that was truly stifling my soul.

Canon in D Major, Johann Pachabel: Dana Marie Blumenthal. When she was in grade school, my parents gave her some Pachabel for Christmas. She was crazy about that piece. Played it all the time. Of course, it is a timeless classic and now it's completely over used in wedding ceremonies and commercials and movies. But Dana loved it. We played it at her funeral and it took me a very long time to be able to listen to it.

Adagio for Strings, Samuel Barber: Sneaking into "Platoon" at the dollar theatre--it really was $1 back then--when we lived in Bountiful. My sister Gina took Holly and me to see it, though we had to lie to my mom. She didn't want us going, but we just had to go, we just had to. I don't even know why, except maybe because Charlie Sheen was in it and I had a little leftover crush on him from his sympathetic jock portrayal in "Lukas". Well, my mother found out that we'd gone to see that and she was very displeased. It was worth it, whatever kind of punishment happened. I don't even remember. Because I fell in love with Willem Dafoe (his acting more than anything) and that music. Very moving. Big impression.

"Then He Kissed Me", The Crystals: 8th grade and the bad radio in my life. Despite having some tapes made by friends, it wasn't enough to get me through every morning of getting ready for school. I hated the top 40 stations and refused to listen to them. Instead, I listened to golden oldies radio. I had recently seen "Adventures in Babysitting", which opens with this song, and I loved it. Fortunately, it was often on the rotation. For some reason, it was always so dark when I got up to get ready for school. I think it had something to do with wanting to make sure I got some hot water for my shower and having to be at the bus stop by 7-ish.

I could go on and on. Who couldn't? Every time I write about one song, a dozen more pop into my head. I can't write about each one fast enough. Perhaps I'll just have to revisit this topic from time to time. Make it a feature, of sorts. This weeks stroll down music memory lane....and the like.

Googlosity #2

Why is curiosity sometimes so disatisfying? No need to answer. Curiosity killed the cat, I know. It's like a disease, in some ways. Here I am, minding my own business and I hear the tail end of a song that I remember liking when I was in high school. A song, mind you, that I wouldn't have necessarily admitted to liking, since it wasn't in my canon of cool. "All I Want" reminds me of liking a boy who liked me for awhile, and then gave up when a friend explained that I'd mentioned I wasn't interested in seeing anyone. Very nice, wasn't she? So, I hear this song and...ahhhh...the days of high school heartache. I download the song from iTunes. It's as pop-ee and sentimental as I remembered it to be and I still dig it! What happens next? O, the cursed google. Do I find information on this old crush who I only got to make out with once, to learn, a few days later, that he had already moved beyond his crush on me and was in process of pursuing another girl? (Did this stop him from the kissy kissy tongue gymnastics? No. Typical.) Wade Myers, for that is the boy, is mentioned in someone else's blog. A list of friends' (belonging to that blogger) picks for flawless albums. Wade lists this band's album as one of his. Zowie! Now I'm in google obsession mode. It's so easy to fall into that. I go from Wade (for whom I find nothing on except the aforementioned blog) to general curiosity about peeps from my past. I'm back to my Sarah Combs monomania, only now it's not her. It's a category, rather than a person. And I am as likely to satisfy my curiosity regarding the latter as I am to learn about her. What is this? My version of the annual late summer cold? What is important to note is that I don't necessarily want to contact these folks, I just want to know what they're doing. Where they are. What they look like. Basically, I'm a coward. I'm secretly searching, afraid to admit that I'm curious. Do they wonder about me? The "I was just a dork in high school" side of me is certain that no one gives a rat's ass about my current doings. But maybe there is a song that plays and they, too, start to google. How would I ever know?

I'd like to read this book, based on the review. I heard that durn song, and suddenly, just as the reviewer says, the movie in my mind of that particular moment of my life is playing. In fact, I might even blame that review for sparking this whole new found goofiness--googleness. Because reading that article is what reminded me that I wanted to buy that song from iTunes. Yeah. That's how it all started! And I wax nostalgic and even have dreams starring these people, looking exactly as they did 14 years ago. Though I, lucky me, look like I do now. Phew.

And I'd like to say, just in case Wade happens to stumble upon this, that I hope you're doing well. I wonder, do you still have that copy of Leaves of Grass I gave you?

Paigerella is Cool

My littlest sister, Paige, sent me an e-mail a few weeks ago asking me if I'd ever heard of a site called pandora.com? No. It's a radio station, of sorts. You enter a song or an artist and the internet elves line up your own personal play list based on that one band or song. For half an hour. THEN they tell you that to continue listening, you must create an account. Create an account. Those internet elves sure are clever. They hook you and then they gotcha. It's not really a big deal. All it wanted was the basics and not any of that pleaselistyourinterestsandhobbies crap. But then. I am listening to a song that I like. I don't know who it is and I it is behind the web page that I am reading, so I click on it but accidentally close it. I don't get to find out who or what it was. boo hoo hoo me.

All of that is to say that Paige is cool. I mean, REALLY cool. Paige spent most of her school life in Southern Idaho. Went to Jr. and High School in a rural area called Filer. Close to the big city of Twin Falls. Population 25,000-ish. Perhaps more, by now. But not by much. Lots of corporate chain fast food joints. Big excitement when the Olive Garden opened. Love it, though. Twin, not the Olive Garden. It's just a small town, really. And I love to visit my mom and Paige and have a truly relaxing time with them. Anyhoo. This is all leading to Paige's musical tastes. Being in a small community with not much in the way of choice when it came to music, she had what I would describe as fairly bad taste in music. According to me and my o-so-vast knowledge in the music world. heh heh heh. Really, though. She went through a phase where she listened to what is called country music but sounds like so-so rock and roll with a twang and more lyrics about crying into a bottle a' Bud. Not the Patsy Cline, Hank Williams, Willie Nelson, Whalen' Jennings kind. I thought she was lost, for sure.

From no where, a couple of years ago, I get an e-mail from my baby sis asking me if I like a band called Bright Eyes? And how about The Decemberists? Have I ever heard of Death Cab for Cutie?

Truth. Tim McGraw to Death Cab. Just like that. Suddenly, she's making mix cd's for me with all of these great bands. Many that I've never heard of. SHE'S the one introducing ME to music. She's laughing at the mainstream radio stations playing Modest Mouse. Paige is cool.

Read the Directions

Remember that day in grade school when your teacher handed you a pop quiz and says, very explicitly, to read and follow the directions? So you sit at your desk, see that there are directions, but proceed to write your name, the date and then speed through the quiz because it's kind of easy. And you are a little surprised, but, what the hey? Easy A. You notice a couple of kids get up right away and hand in the quiz, which is a bit disconcerting. Are they so fast? Or, are was it--and how could it be--too hard? Never mind. Finish in record time, proudly walk the test up to the teacher's desk where she gives you an "F" and asks you to take it back to your seat and go over the directions again. She didn't even LOOK at the answers. Back at your seat, you take the time to actually read the directions. They say, "Write your name in the space provided and return to Mrs. Soandsos desk."

DUH!!!!

Last night, I came home from work and, after a little snack of brown rice styrofoam cakes with almond butter, I began to prepare my dinner. So glad that I didn't have to go to the store. I was even being creative. Chicken breast that I'd taken out of the freezer to thaw, fennel, yellow pepper, shalots and a nectarine. Yum. Beautiful red rice on the stove to boil (it's this gorgeous brick red color and really nutty. I believe it comes from Thailand. Love it.) and soon, I have a pretty nice dinner all ready to eat. Yum. Even remembered to drink my mediclear apperitif. Still better, leftovers for lunch, tomorrow.

This morning I am looking over my mediclear instructions, because I like to refresh my memory now and again. CRAP!!! Yesterday was the start of the week where I eliminate ALL meat. I'd had it in my head, for some reason that it was just fish that I wasn't allowed to eat. NO MEAT. crap. Then, ready to eat my gluten free, wheat free waffle with almond butter, I take a gander at the list of ingredients. Double crap. Made with soy flour, though it is last on the list of ingredients...as if that makes it alright. I ate them all last week. This cleanse is a no soy in your diet kinda cleanse. Well, I think, at least it was only a few days during the first week. Four days of it, to be exact.

I'm not starting over or calling myself a failure with it. But here I am, back in grade school thinking I've done so well, and really, I didn't get it at all. Didn't read the directions closely. Assumed I knew what was going on and what ingredients were in my food.

I have been told, by some people I know who have done a detox or this mediclear cleanse, that they'd experienced some heightened emotional breakdowns during the process. Was it something that I found happening to me? Well, not in a strict sense. And I have had a couple of instances of what I like to call "Mediclear Meltdown" when faced with no prospects in the food world. Sandwich counter episode, eating there with a friend, where they only had a spoonful of the lentil soup and charged $4 for a couple of slices of turkey--since that was all I could have after the lentil soup was nonexistent. The stuffed grape leaf that was supposed to have ONLY rice and herbs and really had rice, herbs and bulgar wheat. This morning, when I realized I'll be eating styrofoam cakes for lunch. Yeah. I've wanted to cry. I've felt emotionally vulnerable and forlorn. Is that what they mean?

11 Days and I'm Still Alive

Yup. This would be day number eleven. No caffeine. No wheat. No dairy. No sugar (of the refined type. Natural fruit sugar is okay. Thank goodness the peaches and nectarines are in season!). It was tough, I didn't know if I could do it, and then, suddenly I was. I am. Even getting used to the taste of green tea and, dare I say, LIKING it. Crazy, no? But enough about that.

Also getting everything in place to begin applying to graduate schools. I have found 5 programs that seem like a good match. (And not just because I won't have to take the GRE.) They all cost about the same--too much, and I'm not going to worry about that--have 100% online programs and have been highly regarded by the ALA. (That's the American Library Association, kiddies.) Can you believe it? Me, a librarian. Who, hopefully, can continue to work as an actor, even if it is for fringe productions of HIGH quality--please, please, please--from time to time. Not quite ready to give that up. Though, definitely ready to do something with me brains and school.

Having announced to just about everyone I know that these are my plans, I sure hope I don't have to announce to same everyones that I was not accepted into any of the schools. I know it's lame to care, but I care. About getting into a school, yes. AND about having to admit that I failed. That I wasn't distance learning grad school material. (Yes, it is true. I am putting restricitions on how I will go to school. But I don't want to move. I like it here.) There is a part of me that wishes I hadn't said anything to most people and then I could surprise them with the news of "I'm going to grad school!". However, I find that I feel more motivated to get my ducks in a row in a timely manner BECAUSE I have been so free with the sharing of my plans. See? Goods and Bads.

Day One

For the next few weeks, I am to go off of caffeine, dairy and wheat. I am trying to ease the angry skin on my face. Rosacea, it is called. Somedays you'd hardly notice it, and others my cheeks are so red and enflamed that I can't believe people don't turn away in horror. Well, according to those around me, it is not as bad as I think it is. Still, it is that bad, and worse, in my head. So, I have started acupuncture. Never done it before. Along with the needles, I get some Chinese herbs. While taking these herbs, I am to refrain from endulging in the three types of food that I like best. Coffee is a type of food, yes?

Today is day one. Let's just say that I am having trouble typing. I look like someone punched me in the eyes--though, to be fair, that could be attributed to my late night movie watching and early morning rising. Regardless, I am experiencing the painful withdrawls of caffeine and it ain't purty. Plus, someone's LOUD cell phone ring just went off and I am at the LIBRARY! She is at the table behind me. And she is TALKING on her phone! Excuse me, where are the librarians with the big "SHHHHHH", glowering above her with finger to lips? I want some coffee.

Does decaf count? Part of loving coffee is the taste, the smell, the feel of the warm cup in my hands. It is comfort. It is relaxation.

I am dull. Heavy. Green tea does not cut it.

Parades & Lint Traps

What could they possibly have in common, parades and lint traps? Well, let me tell 'ya. They both remind me of why I sometimes find people SO irritating and selfish! Inconsiderate? Yes. That is probably a better word choice. In general, I believe that I like general hoi poli that run around this planet. This city. But once in a while...o boy do I want to punch somebody. I want to shove out of the fold out canvas chair the rotund man wearing a bandana around his head, a black harley t-shirt, shorts, white socks and black reebok sneakers was sitting in, on the edge of the sidewalk in anticipation of the Sea Fair parade that was 2 1/2 hours from crossing 4th and Pine. Him and all the other curb hogging, parade gawking out of towners making a wall out of their bodies and chairs and coolers of soda pop and subway sandwiches making it next to impossible for us simple folks who are just trying to cross the street to get HOME!

Me: Could I please squeeze by you, sir?

Seated Gawker with leg swung up on 2nd chair: No. Sorry. I been doin' that for an hour and i'm not gonna anymore.

Me: Well, what do you expect? You're BLOCKING the sidewalk! (harumph! stomp, stomp, stomp.)

He didn't move. I thought of a dozen other things to yell at him as I walked along the curb in the OPPOSITE direction I wanted to go, looking for an opening. Trying to catch the eye of these people, who would not acknowledge any of us poor stranded pedestrians, for fear that eye contact would mean they'd have to get up off of their lazy parade watching asses to let some of us through!

Is this what all parade audiences are like? I don't think so. This was the first year that the Gay Pride parade was held downtown. It followed the route that I assume the Sea Fair parade does. I had to walk to work through the actual parade and it was a breeze to get through. No one stubbornly stood their ground, afraid of claim jumpers. People respectfully, POLITELY let passers by PASS BY. Now, I don't want to make any generalizations, I will let the reader draw his/her own conclusions. And, if you had to pick teams and you had to choose between the Gay Pride Parade audience versus Sea Fair Parade audience...who would YOU want going to bat for you? Huh? Bring on the divas!

Which brings me to the lint traps. I know, you've been reading this entry in giddy anticipation at the possible parallel. Rest assured, they are connected. Connected in my day, which was yesterday, which is why I will ask this next question. How many of you, as second nature, clean the lint trap after you've taken your clothes out of the dryer? I'm talking to you who live in apartment buildings where the laundry room is a shared space. You do this with out thinking about it. It's habit? How many of you do it with the small hope that it will start a revolution and EVERYONE in the building will begin to do the same? How many of you don't even consider that someone else is going to be responsible for cleaning out YOUR lint? Perhaps you feel justified because you had to clean out someone else's?

I did laundry last night. I cleaned out someone else's lint. Later. I took my clothes out of the dryer. I cleaned out my lint. I thought a quick prayer, "maybe this will start a revolution." I know it won't. I know that I will have to continue to deal with imoveable parade stumps and clean out lint traps and it will annoy me because I want people to be thoughtlessly considerate of others. And that I will be annoyed with myself for being annoyed, because what good does that do me or anyone else? Because I have a hint of the idealist chromosome. (Not infallible, by any means. I hope these things for myself, too; I don't count me out.) I have hope for humankind and believe that even the seemingly innocuous task of scooching over when asked can be a start.

Tree Death

I passed the first Seattle apartment building that I lived in, on my way to the library, today. It is, in fact, right next to the library. Terribly convenient those many years ago when I lived at the Fireside Manor. Well, where several birch looking trees once stood, there are now several stumps and leaf and branch detritus instead. And a big green industrial dumpster. No trees. I can't see why it was necessary to cut them down, they weren't in the way, insinuating themselves onto the sidewalk and impeding pedestrians. Kept that side of the buidling shaded, which, from my memory would have been a good thing. Huge windows with a western exposure can make for a very warm summer afternoon, especially when we have our mini heat waves. It was just an odd sight and I hope there is a reasonable explanation. Though, the cynic in me suspects that some tenant got their panties in a wad about leaves and branches blocking their view of the houses across the street. The year I moved out of the good ole' Fireside, a new apartment complex was being built to block the once coveted views of downtown Seattle, including the Space Needle. Very little view is left, unless you live on the 5th floor, south east corner unit. Not within sight of the now sawed off stumps.

Future Distress

As mentioned, once or twice, I have been toying with the idea of grad school. Library and information science. Accredited distance learning programs exist, many do, in fact, and SOME of them do not require the GRE if your undergrad gpa was not below a particular number. That's me, baby!!! An essay, some official transcripts, application and a three letters of recommendation. But from whom? I graduated from college 10 years ago. I haven't had an academic encounter in ten years. Well, two years ago I took an online creative writing class through the community college. Does that count? I wasn't worried about my non-academic life until I spoke to my sister, this morning. She has several degrees. She had no problem with letters from professors. This is the first full year that she hasn't been in school since she was six. (She's a year older than I am.) I asked her advice. She gave it. Best to have letters from teachers or others who have some experience with your learning/work abilities. I cried. She told me that maybe it didn't matter. What about someone who directed a show I was in? They can talk about my work ethic. I cried some more. Thank goodness it was sunny on my walk to work, because crying in public, while talking on a cell phone is not a good look. She meant well, dear Holly.

WHY was I so easily deflated? I need to talk to someone who has been out of school for a length of time and has recently gone back, in a graduate kind of way...I think I want to cry again.

I don't want to live in a studio apartment for the rest of my life! I don't want to become the kind of girl who hopes that her boyfriend will decide to support me by living together or getting married. Hoping that our finances become one. Maybe I don't want to live with anyone or get married. When I think about planning for my future, reliance on another isn't what I mean. I want to know that I can support myself no matter where I am in life. In a relationship or not. A mother or not. I don't want to be forty years old, worrying whether or not I can afford to buy groceries.

And, I am petrified that this MLIS degree isn't going to work out. Haven't even begun to compile the application needs, and I've already imagined my failure. Have I imagined my success? Pshaw! That would be rather new age of me, no?

So, if you are reading this blog, and you have any experience with people with a similar tale to tell--30-something applying to graduate school after being out of school for a LONG ASS TIME--then, please, share. Encourage me. Pep talk to me. (or write, as the case may be.)

Graduation Day is Far Away...

I love popsicles. Ice cream. Ice cream bars. Your basic frozen treat. Love 'em. I love them in summer. I love them in winter. Especially after a yoga class. Wow. How good a popsicle, tastes. I tend to bite mine, not suck on them until they are little slivered points, working my way down. No. I chomp. Bat the frozen chunk around in my mouth as I chew, trying not to upset the little cavities that I now know I posses after my recent trip to the sliding scale community dentist. The cool, sugary liquid sliding down my esophagus. I can feel it all the way down to my chest. Yum. What a disappointment, then, to know that I live in a constant state of crappy freezer-hood. Anyone who has lived in an apartment with a tiny refrigerator that has one of those built in freezers, the kind that have the plastic door and the freezer tray and the door doesn't shut all the way, not really. And you have to defrost at LEAST twice a year, but might only manage it once a year. And then, only because the milk in the 'fridge is lukewarm due to the ice field in the freezer blocking any cold from happening throughout the rest of the appliance. At the same time it isn't actually FREEZING anything, either. Except that bag of chicken stock you made 6 months ago and haven't used because you'd need to excavate it from the frozen walls that engulf it.

Well, popsicles and ice cream and ice cream bars don't freeze in that kind of freezer. I should say "freezer", since I don't know that it really classifies as the same thing as the appliance that actually is a separate unit, in its own way, from the refrigerator south of it, (or north, if you have one of those fancy sub zero doohickies.) Oh sure, they're attached. It's as though it were one machine. But the doors. That's key. Grown up freezers have their very own door. A completely independent section that is free to freeze. Might even have their own temperature setting. Fake freezers, the "freezer" type that I am forever saddled with, those contraptions--well, I don't even know what to rightly call 'em. I used to think that owning my own car would be the true show of my entry into responsible adulthood. More so than having my own apartment and paying my bills and working and all that. That kind of responsibility is, at some point, for most people, just necessary. But a car. Now that was special. Above and beyond the normal adult markers. Well, I had a car for awhile. And between the car payment, the gas and the insurance, it wasn't worth it. There are places in this world where cars are just a peripheral in people's lives. Some places, one does not even NEED a car to get through life. Besides, it is easy enough to rent one, if I truly need one. Pshaw to the car.

No. I realize, now, what it is that I lack. The true entry into this adult world that I am excluded from. A proper freezer. The day I graduate from the "freezer" that doesn't freeze (it has something to do with the sugar content of the frozen treats, I've been told) to the refrigerator equipped with two outside doors, one for the cold stuff and one for the frozen...Well, my friends, that is the day I'll know that I've arrived.

Summer Time Blues

Summer gives me a slight case of melancholia. (Yes, I believe that to be a word. And if it's not, it should be.) I think of having a "summer read", of "summer activities" and even "summer vacation". Are these things really applicable? When I was a student, o so many years ago, summer reading meant something! It meant, I don't have to read anything that is required. I get to read what I want to read. I get to read Agatha Christie mysteries for three months straight, if I feel like it, dammit! But how is summer any different from winter or fall, other than temperature and the amount of daylight? I still have to get up and go to work at the same time everyday. Still have to clean my apartment and do laundry and think about what I'm making for dinner. I did take a vacation, but it is only a coincidence that it happened to be during the "summer" months.

Yet, every year, I feel it. That tingle of excitement and expectation of SUMMER BREAK!! Somewhere in the back of my sense memory I think I'm supposed to be doing something ELSE, because it is summer, and that I'm not supposed to stick to my regular routine. I have a summer reading list. Heck. My local library has a summer reading program for adults. Read three books by August 15, write a little blurb about each one and recieve a free $4 Starbucks coffee card. It's not just me, EVERYONE thinks there is supposed to be a difference to our routines because of the season. But the work thing! It just kills me. How do I find time to devote hours of unhurried ease to reading or laying around in the sun or napping when I have to keep to my daily obligations? Ridiculous.

Melancholia. That's what I have, baby.

I know you through your blog

Since I got back from Maui on Saturday, I've been catching up on two of my friends' lives via their blogs and just itching to write something on mine. Composing lovely stories of our time in Hawaii, books I've read. Music I've heard. And today, I got nothin'. I do think it's wacky that I know more about Deron and Michael because they publish these blogs than from actually talking with them face to face--e-mail to e-mail, what have you. Is this the next step in keeping in touch? I admit that I really enjoy knowing I can read their online musings to hear about daily life...it's not as good as getting to see them, but it is better than nothing. And then, when I say to another friend "Oh yes, my friend Michael's daughter is 10 1/2 pounds now!" I sound like I am in close contact with him. Gosh. That sort of sounds sad, now that I think of it. Because I'm not. And since I live in the lazy correspondence age, I wouldn't necessarily have know that about Vivien if I hadn't read the blog. Not to say that I don't on occasion e-mail Michael. I do. We do. ON OCCASION.

Feels like every few months I have an attack of lack of pen pal blues. Looks like I'm into that, right now. In fact, I bet if I read back on these here blog entries, I'd even see another entry that mentions this very thing. Poor Heidi has a letter started way back in May that is still in the notebook it was composed in. How is she to know that I have very good intentions, unless I follow through with them?

How does anyone know that thousands, or hundreds, or even twenty miles away that they are in your thoughts? I claim to dislike talking on the phone, and I do, to some extent. A lot of it is that I have crappy phone reception at home and I can't seem to hear half of what is being said to me. Then there is my I'm on the west coast and lots of my friends are on the east coast excuse. So, when my "free" minutes are activated, it is already midnight out there. I work on weekends, so talking during those days (also known as "free") are spent talking to LOTS of people which makes the thought of talking to more people, (people I actually know and love) not very enticing. Sorry kids.

Long ago, the last time I visited New York, Micheal and I talked about how we used to write letters to one another when he was living in Seattle and I was still in Phoenix. (Gosh. Another life time ago...) Why not start up again? And I think we tried. But it feels so much easier to do nothing and to check in on his blog.

A long time ago, when I would write in a journal, I wrote about a man that Shawn and I met on a sidewalk in Fremont, across from Lladro. He called himself Benny, and made balanced rock sculptures on the sidewalk. Talked philosophy. Talked a blue streak--does that mean he swears a lot, or just talks a lot?--, as they say. This was a couple of years ago. He talked about his art and how, for the most part, people seemed to respect it. Sometimes those drunks from the bars would knock them over, but not often. I'd have to go back to the journal entry to rememer, specifically what else we talked about with him. (I have self-shame surrounding my journal, so I don't like to look at it. Don't like to be reminded that I haven't written in it since last June; an entry that I vividly recall and viscerally dislike. Afraid of my own ghosts, so human am I.)

Benny. So, he's got this accent that sounds rather continentally, generically European. Obviously educated--talks a mile a minute, half of which I don't understand it is so much smarter than I am--probably homeless. At some point, we have to end our talk of rocks and we part ways. I was very struck by him, though, since I wrote about him and I don't write about most of the people that I meet. Once in awhile Shawn and I would see him out there, on the sidewalk with his rock towers--they got bigger and bigger and more sidewalk invasive over the past two-ish years.

This week's Stranger has a one page story about him. I guess Benny's rock sculpture days are over. At least on that particular sidewalk. Something about a permit, which he can't pay for. Some sadness expressed by local patrons of his art/coffee drinkers. Some relief by business owners who have had to call the police on more than one occasion due to his sometimes inebriated rants and possible violent tendencies. As in much of life's stories, it's a mixed emotional quagmire.

I can tell I'm getting old. Older. My initial thought was "well, that's probably for the best. Those sculptures were making it difficult to navigate the sidewalk." At the same time, I sure do love expressions of public, non-sanctioned art. Most of the time. I admit to wanting it to fit in with my own artistic sensibilities; though, in my defense, I'd say that's a pretty loose criteria. Often, it's just as much the spirit of the thing as the value it may carry as art. I see the corner qwik-ee mart across from my apartment tagged as fast as the owner can paint over the last one. He gets fined if the graffiti stays on his property.
I also see the cartoonish line spraying of a nude girl, long stringy hair, her arm outstretched in the universal sign for "stop" and the words "I just don't feel it" sprayed above her head. I LOVE that picture. It's graffiti, too. But it's GOOD graffiti. Sprayed on an abandoned building. (Only, I think that it's gone now.) So the old lady in me says, "No tagging. That's vandalism." And the not quite so old lady in me says "But if you spray a smart, funny social comment and it's on an abandoned building, then it's ok with me!".

I'm old.

wowie zowie maui!

Acknowledgements to Pavement for their kicky album title that lent itself so seamlessly to the title of this post.

So. Shawn and I are going to Maui. I've never been to Hawaii. Didn't even know I would want to go until I'd lived in Seattle for a few years. I get it. Or at least, I think I get it. As I mentioned, never been. What with it all rainy, cool and your typical June here, Hawaii is looking real good right about now. We'll be staying at a friend's beachfront condo. Her family has owned it for a very long time. I think she is the sole owner, now, but it's a primo spot and I am so touched at her generosity.

In other news...Michael and Calvin are DADS!!!! Their daughter was born this morning, Vivien Stella Cruz. Her due date was May 24. Pretty durn close, huh? Congratulations to them. Of all the people in this world that I know, I truly believe them to be two of the best candidates for parenthood. Which is not to say that others I know are not...they are just in the top percentile. O geez...am I going to get angry fan mail? (Ha. As if to imply that I already get some? Ha.) Really, many of my friends are now parents. Or are trying to become parents. Or do not have any desire to be parents. We're all loving, capable, good people who can/would/will make great moms and dads. I don't know what I'm trying to say. I'm happy for them. I know that Vivien is going to be raised in a wonderful environment where she will not doubt that she is loved and supported. (Allowances for teenage angst, hormones and the occasional "You never let me do what I want to do!" "You don't understand me!" episodes.) She's a lucky lady....

Watched "The Fog of War", this morning. Ummmm...watch it, if you haven't. Mesmerizing.

I just thought it would be better

I saw "Pippin", earlier this week. A musical that I have always held dear, having something to do with performing a selection from it when I was a wee tyke at the University of Utah's Theatre School For Youth, program. We sang "Magic for You" for our final showing. And then, there is the quintessential Ben Vereen and William Kat (Yes, the Greatest American Hero") slightlly truncated version. Believing that I was destined to be a dancer on broadway--in "Cats", no less--I loved musicals that featured LOTS and LOTS of jazzy choreography. As I got older and no longer took dance classes with the hopes of Chita Rivera fame, I found musicals to be fun to listen to, too expensive to see, and most had a significant lack of any real dancing, beyond asking the chorus to move across the stage one way, in time to the music, before heading back the other direction. Much like the chorus does in historical greek theatre--didn't they sing one argument on one side and then dance over to the other side to sing the next argument? My interest in musical theatre has waned, somewhat, though not completely, in the ensuing years. Once, I even signed up for a season audition for a company that does mostly musicals. I cancelled it, as the time drew nearer. What was I thinking? Still, I'm fairly nostalgic and love those old Rogers and Hammerstein musicals, as well as just about anything Sondheim. Lately, there have even been some shows that I do want to hear, "Urinetown", "Avenue Q" among them. I think I'll pass on "Lestat", though. Even though I went through my phase of loving those books when I was 14. Gave those up by the third one. Ugh.

So, "Pippin". Produced locally, by a company that appears to have a lot of money to spend. Some shows are cast in town, with a few parts cast out of town. They also have a few shows that are brought here completely made up of out of towners. I'd never been to a show at this theatre, the ticket is just too much. But when I saw that they were doing "PIPPIN", I really wanted to go. A friend who also wanted to see the show, found a twofer deal, which made it a bit more palatable. Still expensive, though.

We go. The theatre itself was GORGEOUS! Art Deco Chinoise motif and compeltely restored. Best part of the show. Truth. Not that it was bad. No. There were some enjoyable elements. I just expected more. When the nosebleed seats still cost $60, I sort of imagined that the production would really knock my socks off. Lots of money obviously spent on costumes (which, though sparkly and pretty, looked like the various Las Vegas shows exploded and threw out one performer each, to make a new show.) The woman playing Festrada was eh. She wasn't particularly a great singer or dancer (though I bet she used to be a very good dancer...) and she lacked presence. Supposed to be so sexy and vivacious. Like I said, eh. Pippin was good. As was Catherine--an import from Broadway. She was the original Belle in "Beauty and the Beast". She really was in a league of her own in the singing department. The leading player, though not a dancer had great presence and singing ability. The dancers/chorus were fun, despite the schizophrenia of the costuming, and did an admirable job. Now, I know that many productions of this show do have the carnival like costume theme. I don't care for it. I prefered the one available on video. Flesh colored base costumes that are added to with various clown face paint and more subtle carnival type elements. Who am I, though? What do I know? My companion noted that she was thinking that her high school production was better than this, and then she thought, "Wait. It's more like I'm watching a high school production than a professional one."

A couple nights later, another friend asked how I'd liked the show. "Eh". "Yeah, he said. They have so much money, you'd think their shows would be outstanding."

Precisely.

My Library Rocks

Taking advantage of the my friendly neighborhood library and the free wireless. I'm much too caffeinated to sit at a coffee shop and drink more coffee (or tea or chai or sugary Italian soda) so what the heck? And, yes, it is a beautiful day and I'm sitting inside. But at this library, one whole wall is made up of windows so it's almost like being outside, except that I can easily see the computer screen and, well, I'm not. There is simply too much pressure to be outside on a day like today. The kind where it's sunny and warm, and you have the opportunity to NOT be at work. Sometimes, I don't want to be anywhere but indoors. Maybe even spending untold hours trying to get past the pesky Spiderman II challenge that has nothing to do with saving mugees, armored cars, or heist victims. Nonetheless, the challenge must be won or my game doesn't advance and I'm stuck crawling on an ever shifting obstacle course, trying to avoid being hit by some wacko's laser beam. Or, I'd rather spend the day holed up at the library, checking e-mail, writing this here entry and catching up on silly internet related activities. The sort that are much more pleasant when done on a fast connection, as opposed to that archaic one I refuse to give up.

A pack of munchkins recently arrived to take over an entire corner of the library. (So, what do you call a group of kiddies? Is there one of those pride of, flock of, school of, murder of classifications? i'm sticking with pack, until I can think of something else.) The Capitol Hill Branch--formerly known as the Henry--is one floor of books, not very many by a library standard, and enough for the 'hood. It is so easy to request whatever book, cd, dvd, etc. that you want and have it transferred here to pick up. It just takes a little longer. Which leaves this lovely space so cozy; perfect on any day. REAL climbing plants live inside, creeping across the metal grating that was made for that express purpose, it's sort of like a solarium, only it's full of books. A solarium of books. Dig it.

But in one corner, probably 700 sq. feet, is the youth section. Kids books, you know. Very inviting. All of the shelves are short, easily accessible. Picture books line the tops, covers vibrant and enticing. All of these kids are wearing their library cards on cords around their necks. Cute. I watched one boy negotiate with his teacher over the selection of a collection of comic books. Looked like Lulu (isn't that the girl with black hair and the red dress?), or something. The best part wasn't the earnestness with which he explained how this was, indeed, acceptable reading material, but that he's wearing this backwards newsboy cap that is just enough too big for his 4ft. frame to look adorable, AND he has a purple wildflower tucked behind one ear. Be still my heart.

Boo-hoo-hoo

My favorite comic book store closed on April 29th. Yesterday, walking to work I reminisced with myself about the different Believer magazines I'd bought, the Optic Nerves, and the birthday present I have yet to send to my little brother. I will miss the wave hello relationship I'd established with Brad, the owner, over the couple years that he was open on Pine. It started as a simple nod. You know the nod...subtle, yet universally acknowledged as a form of cool greeting. (hee hee hee, cool. me. hee hee hee.) From the nod came a wave. I was nervous the first time I did that one. What if he doesn't wave back? And then, one night, walking home from work and hearing my name called as I pass by the shop. A woman I'd met through a reading calls me in and introduces me, officially, to Brad. Sings his artistic praises. Suddenly, passing by the shop, Brad sitting behind his commerce counter, feet propped up, generally reading something, the wave is accompanied with a big grin and a mouthed "hello". Sometimes he would be standing outside, smoking, and the niceties of "how are you", etc. are exchanged. I finally get the courage to go into the shop. Silly, I know. But I felt like such a poseur. I wanted to learn more about this graphic novel, modern comic book world, but didn't want to go in all goofy and ask "well, what's good?" So that's when I started buying The Believer from him, and not the record store.

Ultimately, I didn't buy enough. When I went in to wish him well in his new adventures, and to buy my last Confounded Books book, I apologized for not being a more frequent customer. Laughing a little, so as not to appear too serious. Really, though, comic books look like a dangerous habit forming expense. One I do not need to begin indulging in. I did get to buy a new portable Dorothy Parker, published by Viking, for my farewell purchase. Cover illustrations by Seth. My eyes went to it immediately upon surveying the leftovers of the week's sale. Brad had put it in the front window, a couple of weeks ago, and I would gaze, wistfully, at it, as I passed the shop. He complimented my choice and then said that Viking was coming out with a whole series of portables with great comic illustrations. He was so glad that Seth had done the Parker, because he really liked her, and Seth is his favorite. Then he said if I liked Seth, I'd like _____, and _______, and ________, and_______....I just nodded and smiled and said, yeah. Oh, yes. Him. Of course, I had no clue.

Yesterday, I could see the yellow "BOOKS" on the window, from the crosswalk corner. The light changes, I cross, I take a right, I get closer and see the yellow flakes that were "CONFOUNDED" on the window seat where the display shelf used to sit, proudly advertising the yummies within. I stand for a moment and Brad walks out from the back of the shop. I wave. I make a sad face. He makes a sad face and uses his finger to illustrate tears streaming. I mouth, "good luck", wave, and go on down the hill to work.

Waiting for my Phoenix friends to arrive. It's a gorgeous day in Seattle, sunny, warm and o-so-cheery. We all get so perky when the sun shows up. It's funny to observe in others, and I can only imagine what I must look like. Some kind of giddy geek, I'm sure. When the weather is like this, in the early days of spring--a month old, maybe, but this is Seattle, and sometimes it doesn't feel very spring-like until well into May--yes, well, anyway. It's days like these that remind me of my first spring in Seattle. I had moved from Phoenix, where spring weather is warmer than most summers in this city. Probably sitting outside on a day, much like today, and trying so hard to not stick out by wearing warm clothing. No, I had to be tough and just lounge about in my short sleeve t-shirt and jeans. Ha! And now, here I sit, perfectly comfortable in virtually the same outfit--it's a different t-shirt. I'm sure the other is well worn out and gone the way of the dust cloth--thinking about my girlfriends who might really be cold, poor things. Scintillating, isn't it?

These Phoenicians have come to visit to see the play that I'm in. I'll have to buy them a really nice breakfast to make up for the lack of substance in the script. I wish it were better. It isn't.

No, I haven't, and I've moved on...

In case you were wondering about the previous entry. I lost interest in exploring whether or not to call; and, quite frankly, I find it easier to do nothing. eeeewwww...that's icky. I recognize that this may point to the need for me to spend some more time addressing this with myself. I should just call her. As my uncle says, she's an old lady. How many more years can she possibly have? Ugh. It is so hard to make a first step, when it's been so much easier to ignore it. Courage. That's what it takes and that's what I feel I lack. Don't worry, I recognize the previous statement as another ploy to take the smooth path I've been a-travelin' already. I'll get back with y'all, in a while, about this. (But not too long a while, since...see a few sentences back regarding longevity of the afore mentioned grandma.)

Well, my dearies, what else has been keeping me away for so long? Important acting challenges. That's what! Yes indeedy, I actually went to an audition, waaaaaaaaaay back in January, and was cast in a show. It's true. I kid you not. We began rehearsals in March and we open this coming Friday. Yowza! I get to play a 33 year old woman who is having an affair with a 15 year old girl and BELIEVES with all her might that there is nothing wrong with their relationship. Does Linnet think there is? Perhaps. And therein lies the challenge. Throw out my own judgements and find where this woman's story connects to me. We're in LOVE, baby. We can't help that there's almost a 20 year gap in our ages. Sex. Scandal. Cute girls making out. This show should be a sell out. I know at least two people who will be coming, and all the way from Phoenix, Arizona, too! Three cheers to Joanna and Elisabeth for making the trip out, next week. Though, I told my mom to save her money and visit when I'm in a show that...well...I shouldn't say anything. When it closes. Ah, who am I kidding. The story is interesting. The directing and acting are worth seeing, but the script? sigh. What are ya' gonna do? Take what you get and hopefully do the work necessary to bring the audience on the journey with you. And did I mention cute girls making out?

To Call or Not to Call...

I've rekindled a correspondence with my Uncle Paul. Sort of. I think. Now that I look at this opening sentence, written so matter of factly, I begin to wonder. Is this going to work out? We haven't spoken--via e-mail--for at least six years, and I doubt we've spoken on the phone since I was in high school. Our infrequent cyber letters came to an abrupt halt when he asked why I didn't speak with my grandparents and I replied, "Why don't they speak to me?". He said he didn't know what I meant and I proceeded to explain my version of events, which was that I had tried to keep some kind of relationship with them after my parents separated for good, calling from time to time, cards, etc. They had no replies for any of them. Nada. Zip. Silence. I took that to mean they weren't interested. He was perplexed that I would take their silence to mean they didn't want to speak with me.

Fast forward to three weeks ago. Out of the blue I wondered about this Uncle of mine. Brother to the father who isn't a part of our lives, any more (hence the incommudicado from the grandparents.) The seemingly rational, more open-minded product of a conservative, tight-lipped, the-father-is-god-in-the-house-regardless-of-his-actions, East Coast, Jewish upbringing. He was the artist. The rebel. The one who went to Canada and then emigrated to Germany in the early 70's. He's lived there almost my whole life, except for a brief stint in Portland, Maine, while I was in high school. He's a writer for a German magazine. He's married with two teenage boys, wee babes last time I saw them. I googled him. I found him. I contacted the magazine that he writes for and sent an e-mail, asking to be put in touch with him. I half expected to hear nothing, but the very next day I opened up the gmail, and there was an e-mail from Paul. All excitement and glad tidings. He, too, had wondered about me and what I'd been doing with myself, had also googled me. Pleased to see my name pop up in association with theatre. Well isn't this swell, I respond. So nice to hear from you, etc., etc. A reply to my reply. And that's where it comes out. The same old song. Why have you never spoken with, or written to your grandparents? Now, just grandma, as grandpa died a few years ago. Was he kidding? Hadn't we gone over this before?

I am not one to air the dirty laundry of my family and spend hours talking about what a jerk this person is, or how destroyed I was by actions of my father or what a rotten childhood I had. I had some good times and some bad and I certainly don't feel like my past life has had negative consequences on the choices I make now. I haven't chosen to wallow in the distresses of those years gone by, and I don't expect to start. However, it is clear to me that I can obviously hold a grudge. When my parents split--for reasons that are no one's business but ours--my grandparents appeared to have CHOSEN not to interact with those children who, in their mind, had taken the side of my mom. My two little sisters, Dana and Paige, were in grade school when this upheaval occurred; and they all moved back to Southern Idaho to have a bit of a new start. Others of us were already out of the house, and my other two younger siblings (Jess and Jaime) chose to live with my dad, though they claimed to hate it. Better that than move to a ho-dunk town. My grandparents NEVER, not ONE TIME talked to Paige and Dana again. No birthday cards, no phone calls, nothing. Those two girls were LITTLE KIDS! I admit, I took offense to their actions by inaction. And once they made it clear, to my mind, that they weren't interested in me, either, then I stopped bothering. Making the choice not to try to contact them. Apparently, their version of events is not the same as mine, as expressed by my uncle. Grandma cannot understand why I never called when grandpa died, or before he died, or even now that he's been gone.

Paul's argument sounds a lot like something my grandpa, or even my dad, would have lectured us on as kids. It is my duty, as the grandchild to make the effort. Not theirs, or hers as it stands now. If grandma never picked up the phone to call me or even answered when I called, it is still my obligation to try to get her on the phone or send her letters. I am the young generation. Her age affords her status as some kind of matriarch who is to be waited upon and showered with adulation. Ok. He didn't actually say that last part. But the first part, about me being the one obligated to make the effort. He did say that.

I can see his point. She comes from a different generation. Sure. But how does he explain their treatment of two young girls who don't understand why their grandparents suddenly aren't a part of their lives? Not that it was such a huge loss. They weren't exactly the most exciting people. Lots of rules surrounding behavior when you were with them. Don't forget to show proper respect and gratitude--to the point that the meaning of both is lost since it is artificially forced upon you, rather than occurring spontaneously, out of true gratitude.

He hasn't written me back, since I wrote that I have been and will continue to think about his views. I told him I wasn't ready to just pick up the phone but one never knew...I wanted to mull it over some more. Thank you for your thoughts. Well. I meant it. I DON'T know what I want to do. If I call her, I don't want to tell Paul, because I don't want him to think I'm doing it because he was so wise in his advice. I had been thinking about making that step long before Paul told me I had to; and his opinion has actually sparked that very stubborn streak in me that makes me want to do nothing out of defiance. Dammit. This is all sounding very childish. I'm almost embarrassed to publish this entry, and I think it would be good for me. Ah, crap. I'll probably call her. I'm nervous. What the heck do I say? And what good is it going to do? Who am I doing this for?

Crap.

I know that I am pretty slow when it comes to pop culture current events and I have only recently begun reading all of the hullabaloo concerning a couple of outed (I'm not talking sexual orientation) writers that have made the big news over the past few months. As I haven't ever read anything by JT LeRoy or James Frey, I didn't realize that a controversy had been brewing. Now that I'm caught up, I don't know how I COULD read their books. Fiction or no, I've been severely put off by the notion that it's ok to out and out LIE about yourself in order to sell books. No wonder we elected a liar to a second term and seemly have no problem when confronted with his lies. We love to be lied to.

Now, don't get your panties in a bunch. I know that most of the people that are in my smaller and radiated circles of acquaintance don't actually like to be lied to. I'm talking middle America, here. At election time, back in November, around 50% of the voting public (which certainly does not encompass 50% of the qualified voting public) were happy to elect a liar. And we continue to put liars in office in every state, on all levels. We ignore the liars that run big companies and give 'em a slap on the wrist when they run amok with our 401k's, stocks, electric bills, whatever they can ruin for personal financial gain. We have created an environment where this is simply "OK". If it wasn't alright, wouldn't we scream louder and more forcefully until those wrongs were righted? Ahhhh...Utopia.....

No wonder I read comments that actually shrug off Frey's lies as being the folly of writer's license. Huh. Interesting. It's still a powerful story of triumph over addiction. Well, is it? Like I said, I didn't read the book. I've only read excerpts and plot summaries. Maybe it isn't that big of a deal. No, that doesn't sit well with me; it IS a big deal. Would we be reading that book if he told the truth about his struggles? And would anyone have been as interested in the stories of a child hustler with HIV written by a then 30-something now 40 year old woman? Apparently the publishing companies didn't think so, and they think they know what people will read.

"There is some question as to the identity of this mysterious writer. She has been referred to as "America's best known, unknown playwright". The name Jane Martin is widely believed to be a pseudonym. She has never made any public appearances or spoken" (from the website www.doollee.com).

Is writing under a pseudonym lying? JT LeRoy was a persona, complete with a tragic upbringing and beating the odds to become a successful writer pedigree. That's a story Americans love. If JT LeRoy was simply a name, with no story attached, would it have mattered? Jane Martin is a playwright. She's successful. But we don't really know who she is. Only a name. No back story was created to make us sympathetic to her plight which, in turn, made us want to read, publish and produce her plays. The mystery is kind of fun. Theories abound. Is she really a man? Perhaps the director, Jon Jory? Not knowing who she is bares, I've always felt--though I could be mistaken--little on whether or not her work is produced. Our heart strings and compassionate natures weren't played in order to sell books.


I asked a girlfriend of mine if she'd heard about the whole Frey controversy, thinking we might enter into a discussion on writing ethics. She shrugged it off saying it's a book. You don't have to tell the truth when you write a book. But it's supposed to be a memoir, not fiction. She didn't seem to think the delineation mattered, much. Taking liberties is part of writing. I might have agreed with her, at some point in my life, but today? No. I don't want to be lied to anymore. We all lie, even when we think we don't, or when we think it'll lessen some hurt or get someone off our back. Little white lies are pretty much accepted by one and all. Take a look around and see what that's done to our world. I'm reminded of that anti-drug message where they say one day it's marijuana and the next it's heroin and then an overdose. (Whether that's true or not, I couldn't tell you.) But with the lies, well, maybe it's not so far off. If we live in a culture that accepts the little lie now and again, what's to stop those lies from getting bigger and bigger? Pinocchio's nose looks like a cute little button next to many of our "respected" leaders and those controversial authors.

I'm a part of a fledgling theatre company that has managed to stay together for...wellllll...if you count our previous incarnation, for about 5 years. Roughly. We haven't a following, not really, and we manage to put on one to two shows a year. Every year that we've been together, I'd say that we lose at least one member. Last Sunday, we lost another. There are a couple of members that appear to be on the edge, as well. HOW DO PEOPLE DO IT?!!! It takes us a bazillion months to mount one production and we never find all the help we need, have lucked out with our meager budgets and enjoyed a small amount of audience appreciation. We don't get reviewed and barely have 1/4 of the house filled during any one production.

We are producing "'night Mother", to open in March. It's not my favorite play, and it's one of those plays that you see so often in scene study classes that you're sure you've seen it a hundred times by the time you're out of college. And then you take classes at acting studios, to continue with the honing of your skills and you see it another hundred times. But have you actually seen it? The whole play? Only the filmed version with Sissy Spacek and Anne Bancroft, (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0090556/--how old fashioned, cut and paste.) I realized, the other day. And, according to our sources, it hasn't been produced in Seattle since the 80's. Of course, another fledgling company could have done it and just not received any press about it...At this point, I don't care. I have a renewed interest in the show, this could be a great production! The company members involved in the directing and acting aspects absolutely LOVE this play and therefore have the necessary passion to infuse it with love and excitement and desire and honesty. Maybe the entire county of King will realize, as I did, that they haven't actually seen this play and by gum and by golly they need to get to the theatre this March! Perhaps this production is the one that will give us that little nudge putting us in the public consciousness? I think it might. I hope it does. I want it to.

So, that's what Sight Nine is doing now. What's next? Well, we'll know that by the time we open "'night Mother". Stay tuned. In the reading phase, right now. And since we lost our last male actor on Sunday, our casting focus has changed. A play with four great roles for women--3 in their 30's, able to play mid-late 20's and one in her 70's, able to play 60's--know any? Know any that AREN'T "Crimes of the Heart" type plays? ugh. Men are allowed, just not as the main roles. There are plenty of plays for men. Why is that? 5M, 2W. 4M, 1W. 8M. 3M. 16M, 3W. Really. I have a stack of about 30 plays sitting on the floor and MOST of the casts are light on the female presence. I know this isn't some kind of breaking news, but it frustrates me no less. How many auditions do I have to go to for plays that are looking for one woman and ten men? 20 men audition and 100 women do. You think I'm exaggerating? HA! ok. Maybe just a little. But it's not far from the truth!!!

It's a jelly belly day. I'm craving them, now, and there are none to be found...

I belong to what I believe is a jaded movie watching society. My experience with film benefits from the age that I live and the progress in story telling techniques, acting, cameras, ideology...I take it for granted. Didn't even consider it until yesterday, quite frankly. We watched "Last Tango in Paris". No, I hadn't seen it before, which I admit freely. One of THOSE movies, you know, the ones that everyone who truly loves film and art and acting, blah blah blah, has seen and studied and can expound on the necessity of its creation and brilliance of its art. I haven't seen all of THOSE movies. There are a lot of them and I can't spend every free moment only watching that type of film. Sometimes, i just want to watch "Some Kind of Wonderful" for the umpteenth time because I really like it. I digress.

"Last Tango..." carried with it, for me, great weight and I had extrememly high expectations going in. You who read this are preparing yourselves for me to say that I was disappointed, or something. That's what this lead in implies, right? Well, I was on the fence. I couldn't say I didn't like it and I couldn't say that "omigosh that was the greatest film ever!!!!!" Brando, yes, was incredible. And I liked the young French woman's--Maria something--ease and unpretentiousness in front of the camera. I'd heard that this was a sexy movie. Highly erotic. Errrrr, erotic? Cruel is more like it. Sexy? Painful in my mind. Cruelty and it dominance in sex do not strike me as erotic, they strike me as the typical male fantasy: domination of sexy young nymph. The film ends and Shawn and I are looking at each other with wide eyes and moderately stunned mouths agape. Neither of us says much. Am I too naive, have too much of the puritan anscestry circulating through my veins, to appreciate the film? Perhaps. Then I got this brilliant idea to check out the original film review in The New Yorker, using my handy dandy Christmas gift extraordinaire, "The Complete New Yorker" (thank you Santa Shawn). Well, bells and whistles disco balls and enormous follow spots! Pauline Kael reviewed "Last Tango" after she saw it at the NY film festival, prior to its release in the United States in 1973. If you have the opportunity to read this review, and have any questions about why this movie is placed on the film making pedestal, I promise she has a pretty convincing argument. EVEN if you don't agree with it. (The mac, though ultra cool, isn't blogger friendlly and I can't figure out how to create links. If anyone can...do tell.) Here is where I realize that I'm jaded. As Kael describes it, this is the first movie she has seen to portray sex in such a realistic context. It's a huge departure from the norm. And how many years ago was this film made? How many years have gone by where other filmmakers can use it as a leaping off point to remind them of the harsh reality that they, too, want to express? It wasn't new to me. I've had the good fortune to live in a time where many films capture the depth, anguish, sorrow, joy, cruelty, kindness, etc., etc., etc. of love and sex and relationships and life. So. Do I like this bit of pioneering cinema? More so after reading P.K.'s review. I get it, now. It matters little whether or not I liked the characters, as characters. I cared about them, even if it meant caring that they got away from one another because they weren't a good match. I believed the cruelty and the desperation. That's the point, I think, to get involved and desire some kind of outcome. Sure, there were some scenes that were confusing and probably even unnecessary--big deal. As a whole I determine that, for me, it IS great cinema. I would much rather watch that story unfold on the screen--that kind of story telling, be it sad or happily ever after-- than a thousand Peter Jackson digitalized dinosaurs and King Kongs. (Look, I like fluff as much as the next person, but if I had to choose, give me "Brokeback Mountain" over "King Kong", without hesitation.)

Last night, American Experience aired a biography of Ronald Reagan and I was captivated by it. I missed the first 1/2 hour, where they talked about his childhood, his football years, his Hollywood years and his governor of California years. I barely missed the election against Jimmy Carter. Tuned in just in time to catch the falling our between his daughter, Patti, and himself due to completely differing views on the world. Reagan's presidency was the first one that I remember occurring during my lifetime. Sure, I parroted my parents' views on his win against Carter ( I was only 7), I didn't know any better. When I was young, what I knew about Reagan was that he made some expensive gourmet jelly bean very popular and desirable since it cost a lot and my mom wasn't about to shell out multiple dollars for a few teeny chewy candies. But oh, the mystique. The myriad of flavors. The exclusivity. The jelly belly club that I couldn't get into. Nope. I was stuck with Brach's. I also knew that there was this scary possibility of war with the USSR called Nuclear war and that he had the power to push some red button (was it really as simple as an oversized cartoony red button?) that would make these hidden missiles destroy the world. He pushed our red button, the communists pushed theirs, what was the point? We'd all be dead. Right? 8 years old, 10 years old...during both terms it was as simple as that in my under politically developed brain. Yes, there were treaties and promises to disarm. With my savvy (hah) 32 year old perspective on my 12 year old self, I can claim that treaties gave me no ease as politicians were not to be trusted and just because Reagan and Gorby signed something that said they'd stop threatening each other with the bomb, didn't mean they truly would. I mean, come on! Who are they trying to kid? Not this kid. Realistically, I don't know what I thought. That was a long time ago. Fear of death by Nuclear bomb, that I remember. Especially because I'd read some book in jr. high, that was about the aftermath of a nuclear war and some of the people that managed to survive. (The title escapes me so if any of you 2 or 3 people who read this remembers a book like that, will you tell me?)

I remember the Iran-Contra hearings and Ollie North, though I also remember not knowing what the heck anyone was talking about. It's when I learned what the 5th Amendment was and how to use it. If you take the 5th, then you must not want to tell the truth because it could be damning, right? Right. Most things were that easy to translate, way back then...ahhh...youth. I was in a theatre program at the University of Utah that summer, and the older kids would make fun of the hearings by re-enacting them. We younger tykes would laugh along and pretend we understood the jokes. Any question posed by a fellow TSFY (Theatre School for Youth) student could be responded to with an "I take the fifth," followed by fits of guffawing laughter because weren't we so clever? That was a fun summer.

In my memory, Reagan wasn't a great president or a disaster. He was THE PRESIDENT. If you held that office, then didn't you, by default, have to be good at your job? I mean, you are responsible for this country. (You can't see me, but I am experiencing some fits of that guffawing laughter again.) What I appreciate about this biography, is that I feel like I have a better understanding of what actually happened during his 2 terms. Not so much a black and white issue of good president or bad. There were some pretty amazing accomplishments during his time. Whether he is wholly responsible or not, I couldn't say. Objective perspective is a better place to weigh those debates, and I can too easily get caught up in dismissing a political figure soley based on his/her political party affiliations. I should know better. I DO know better.

Today is finally a full day off where I have no obligations to anyone but myself. Phew! KEXP's 90.3 listener voted albums of the year plays in my ears (M83, right now.) Enjoying the amenities of wireless service at my neighborhood coffee shop and sipping something warm on this cold, wet Seattle winter day. I was thinking about my blog, this morning. Thinking about what topic I could investigate, on this lovely free day. Two percolate in my brain; dreams about Dana and giveaways on talk shows. Unrelated and vying for brain attention...

I woke up from a dream starring my sisters and my mom. Not all dreams stay with me after getting out of bed, but ones that involve Dana usually do; especially since I rarely have any dreams that involve her. I don't know how often she visits my dreaming life; since I recall so few times. She is always the same, though; frozen in time as an 18 year old. Her hair (which was long and thick dark brown--the kind I wished for as a child) is down, and she never speaks. I can speak to her, whomever else is in the dream can speak to her, and her response is always a quiet smile. She looks so happy to just be with us--I can see it in her eyes. They're sparkling and all this positive energy comes off of her. But we can't touch her.

I'm no dream interpreter, but even I can figure this one (and the others I've had like it) out. She's dead, so she can't participate, and she is in our hearts and minds, so we can see her and feel her presence, if not her physical self. Pretty much spend the rest of the day feeling blue and missing her after a dream like that.

So the talk show giveaways...you know what I'm referring to, right? All those Ellen, Oprah, Tyra, Tony and--I don't know of anymore talk show hosts--it's become a given that at some point during the hour long program, someone is going to get something. Don't let this list of shows fool you, I don't actually watch them all of the time. Rarely. Just often enough to get the gist of the spiel. Oh, yeah!!! And Martha does it, too. It's pure bazillion dollar craziness. I actually catch myself drifting into the day dream of "What if I went to a taping of ________'s show? What would she/he be giving away then? Could I be lucky enough to be there on the day of the great car giveaway? The spa package? The shopping spree?" This really happens inside my head. And, truth, I haven't any real interest in spending a vacation in Chicago, or LA, or New York and waiting in line to watch a taping of any one of those shows. Now, if I could get a ticket to see David Letterman, well that would be worth it. I would LOVE to get one of those big boxes of beef and the explodapop microwave popping corn (even though I don't own a microwave). But that's where I draw the line. Dave, yes. Oprah, no. Not that I have anything against the divine miss O. She's fine. She's obviously generous.

What I would like to know, is how much of this showering of free stuff is because the host wants to be generous and lovely to all those audience members who aren't multi-millionaires, and how much of it is pure publicity plugging? Some of both, I assume...but how MUCH of both? I caught an episode of the Tyra talk show and it must have been near some awards show because she was talking about all of the free stuff celebrities get when they go to these things. (Ahhhhh...The Shins representing the Live at KEXP album, number 35 on the countdown....number one--both the band and the radio station--in my heart....sigh....) She gives her gift bags of expensive perfumes, ipods, diamonds and watches away to her non-celeb family and friends. Well, today Tyra is going to give the audience a taste of the celeb life!!!!! Everyone gets a gift bag of goodies!!! Crappy silver earrings, an xm radio thingy bob that they have to buy a subscription to so that they can listen to Tyra's satellite broadcast, some kind of lotion (I think) and some socks? I don't really remember all of the "goodies" she gave away to her audience, but it was all about what she wanted to plug. Which, again, is the mixed message of generosity and self-serving promotion. Eh. Who am I to talk? I can barely manage to give a dollar to the countless homeless people I walk by every day.

Shawn had turned on Ellen's show, this morning, and that's what sparked the thought, because she was in the process of giving away Mariah Carey's new cd. And the audience goes wild! They can't believe their luck!

I avoid writing on this blog just like I avoid writing in my journal or finishing some writings that I started. Did I mention letters, too? Yeah. Easy to avoid them. I am a writing avoider. My excuses are vast and lame, and are interchangeable among the aforementioned creative outlets.

1. I don't have time.
2. I'm not really that interested in writing.
3. I don't have any talent for writing.
4. I'm too tired.
5. I don't have anything to say.
6. I'm boring.
7. Who would want to read what I write, anyway?
8. It's my life. I can waste it with Seinfeld reruns if I want.
9. I don't care about it.
10. I don't want to.

Wow, sort of my own Top Ten List, huh? Top ten reasons why Linnet is inconsistent, at best, with the writing thing. Only, if Dave were reading this on his show, I think I'd have to reverse the order, put the "I don't want to." as number 1. Good ole' Dave.

While I wait for my squash to bake (yes, I did come home by way of the grocery store, tonight. And, even though I'll be eating late just so that I make sure I eat the food I bought to prepare, I will be getting some vegetables and good-for-you protein. Hurrah me.) I force myself to sit at my computer and type this here blog. What's with me, anyway? I WANTED to start this blog. I TOLD people, three people--no, FOUR people--about it. This means that on a very obvious level, I have a desire to blah blah on my blog blog and for these words to be read and, possibly, enjoyed. It's supposed to be practice, in some way, to keep me active, creatively. At least, that's what I've been telling myself. hmmmmm...what is it really?

Is it, perhaps, ego? I've been on a where-is-my-ego-in-me? kick for a few days, now. An episode at work--poor decision making on my part--has prompted me to ask the question, "Why would I act in such a way, knowing that it was not in my best interest?". Occurred to me that the pervasive "I" and "mine" ruled over any other thoughts, at the precise moment the words "Of course we can do that for you." left my mouth. I KNEW that I hadn't the right to make that decision without first asking my boss. It was a gross trespass of her trust and respect towards me. Ugh. (This seems like a random segue from the beginning of this entry, but this is free form, right? Besides, there's a connection. Truly. At least I think it's connected. Yeah. It's connected. I continue.) Up until the other day, I really think that I was egotistical enough to believe that my actions were not ruled by my ego. Omigosh, am I an egotistical ass for simply HAVING that thought, or am I? Well, no more. I accept that ego is a part of my every day, and not just when I'm in headstand and suddenly think, "Holy crap, I got it!" right before I tumble to the ground. It is everywhere. Sometimes stronger than others, but it's there.

So...what to do....ummm, well, I haven't gotten that far. I'm still in these early discoveries, see? And I admit, I find it a touch depressing. Having to look at myself and notice aspects that I'm not proud of, and wanting to address them so that, at the very least, I can begin to evolve. I guess this is what we do as we get older, huh? Confront the demons we've been ignoring for 31 years?

What's For Dinner?

A fantastic yoga class, preceded by a day full of holiday shoppers making careful and sometimes belabored decisions between THIS particular necklace or THAT particular necklace makes for a hungry Linnet. Add to that such a busy day that by the time I ate lunch, I was past the point of hunger and ate only half of the sandwich I hastily bought at the next door coffee shop. Then the yoga...ahhhhhhh...yoga......and now home. First to be consumed, cold basmati rice. Just as a snack while I look in on the sad contents of my refrigerator. Next, a small glass of Organic Valley Eggnog--to wash down the rice, naturally. I sniff the remains of some Trader Joe's pesto tortelloni. Smells slightly odd, but maybe it's just a strong cheese mixed in with the pesto? After all, the use or freeze by date is two weeks away. Put some water on to boil for the tortelloni and eat an orange. (The first piece of fresh fruit I've eaten in a week. Pathetic, aren't I?) Pasta cooks, finishes, is doused with olive oil and parm cheese and bite number one. Bite number two...bite number three is a little too pungent for me. Not like I remember the tortelloni tasting when I ate it last week. Or was that two weeks ago? Can't do it. Once I believe something to taste off or stale or rotten, there is no convincing my taste buds, nor my stomach, that it could possibly be alright. Even if it is. Blech. Two slices of Genoa salami to distinguish the bad tortelloni lingering on my tongue. WHAT TO EAT NEXT?!! A bowl of frosted mini wheats? Well, that choice is in the hands of the milk--is it, like the pasta, a little off? I'm afraid to try so I will continue to type, instead.

All of these odds and ends of food are trying to tell me something, I am beginning to suspect. GO TO THE GROCERY STORE, LINNET. Please. I'm sure that my body is simply dying for a little leafy green vegetable with some red antioxident vegetables thrown into the mix, instead of into the garbage because I was too lazy to make them into a salad so they lay, decomposing, in my "crisper". I actually like to eat healthfully and well. I even like to cook, from time to time. And, I can so easily fall into the food pit of despair. I don't wanna think about what to make. Let's order pizza. Let's get pho. Let's go to Muy Macho. If my girlfriends/coworkers didn't generously bring me leftover casseroles, lentils and what have you, well, I'd be in the poor house solely from spending all of my money on crappy lunches from various eateries in the Market. Thank goodness for those nice ladies!

I shudder to think what I'd be eating if Shawn and I didn't, occasionally, decide we should buy the kind of groceries that you have to couple with other groceries to make an actual meal. I'm even sick of pizza, and I do love the Hot Mama's; especially reheated in the oven the next day. mmmmmm....pizza....or if I were single and left to my own lazy food devices. No top raman for me, but are udon noodles, tossed with sesame oil and hot pepper/garlic sauce really any better?

I am still here....

I know this may be difficult to believe, but I actually AM still here. I didn't even go anywhere. Though I've been avoiding my own blog for reasons unknown but suspicioned, I have been keeping up with the reading of others. I can certainly point to November as a technically difficult month--my computer had a hard drive failure as well as a virus--and work has been busy enough for me to not want to head in earlier than normal to use the computer. Now, I have a repaired pc (which is looking for a new home) and a new computer that is sitting on my lap, at this very moment. I made the switch, you see, and I am definitely happy about it. I think I'm not quite used to--omigosh. What am I writing? Do any of the one or three people who might accidentally come across these musings really want to read the blah blah blah blah boring blah of why I like this computer above another?

Maybe this is why I haven't really been contributing to my blog. I haven't anything to say. Or what I DO have to say is not really that interesting.

I have blogger blues...

Boo!

I bought a new game for the Xbox…Fatal Frame II. This is a very scary game. No kidding. The lack of constant music and noise, the inability to control exactly what you look at, the ghosts…it’s simply spine tingling. The character can either walk or “run”—a dainty little runner she is—and wriggle free from the clutches of the ghost. It has the look and feel of Japanese horror films. I have to play with a light on.

I’m not someone who has a natural affinity for video games. It takes me a while to get the hang of the rules (mostly because I don’t want to bother reading the directions, I just plunge right in.) And even when I’ve started to get a feel for how the game works, I’m not a skillful player. I can be stuck on one section for days and days and days and days…which is probably a good way to save money.

So, I’m only on Chapter 2 of this game (which basically means that I’ve only accomplished one task.) and I’m good and stuck. And because I’m a little creeped out by it, I can’t seem to spend long hours attempting to pass this level. I’m a ‘fraidy cat. Yuppers, I am.

1995

I’ve been reading another Sarah Vowell book, Radio On.  A year’s worth of her radio observations.  

Does anyone remember what was happening in 1995?  A lot.  O.J. Simpson’s murder trial, the Unabomber, Oklahoma City, Waco hearings, Jerry Garcia died—and to read Ms. V’s comments on that, well it just made me smile to know that I wasn’t the only one who held such views regarding The Grateful Dead—Bosnia, we had an intelligent, articulate and seemingly interested in where THIS country was heading president, Newt Gingrich, Rush Limbaugh was having a heyday…And I’ve only gotten through September.

It’s been a succession of “Omigosh.  That happened that year?”  Followed by a visceral memory of where I was when I heard whichever news it was for that day.  A trip down 1995 lane...

The Birds is Coming, The Birds is coming!

Last night there was a free showing of The Birds at a large neighborhood theatre. The Egyptian. One of those exotic locale theme based theatres left over from the beginnings of Hollywood. I’m sure there’s one in almost every state. I think I’ll google that later on…just for kicks. There’s on in Boise, Idaho. Only it is not as big as this one. Not too long ago I saw a little extra on a DVD about an Egyptian theatre in Hollywood and that was a movie experience. Huge palm trees and elaborate décor on the outside. King Tuts and Egyptian maidens in bas relief . Very fancy. Someone was filming people coming and going in that slightly too fast jerky speed of the late teens/early 20’s.

Our palm treeless Egyptian is big, has been restored in the last 10 years, and plays midnight movies on the weekends, besides “Indie” films. (Are they really Indie when they still cost a lot of money to produce and are backed by major studios? Does it really matter, since they are are, generally speaking, better than the big studio releases?)

Back to the The Birds.

Tippi Hedren is supposed to be there, as well as Robert Osborne, the cheerful, knowledgeable host of Turner Classic Movies. And did I mention that this showing, hosted by the above mentioned folks, is free? Yes. Free.

I walk up the hill from downtown, where I work and arrive to see a not so bad line beginning to wrap around the theatre. The people in front of me are discussing whether or not they should be in this line or the other line. There’s another line? Yes. It’s for people who have a reservation. You had to make a reservation? I missed that instruction on the flier I’d seen. There is an hour before the program starts. I fast walk up to the entrance and see the other line and two signs. One pointing to those who have made the necessary call and checked in at the box office and the other for the likes of me. The “hopefuls”. I’m not kidding. That’s what they called my line. “The hopefuls” line. Sheesh. I get back in line, actually in the same spot I was in, go figure; plug into my static making mini ipod and wait.

I can't believe this. I lost the entry...I'd edited and rewritten and added links and everything. I thought I'd saved it. I haven't the energy to do it again...grrrrr...

Back to Seattle

Hola!  We have returned from Espana with sun tans.  No kidding.  I haven’t had a tan since I lived in Tempe, Arizona…ages and ages ago.  Perhaps if one of my digital camera toting friends e-mails me some photos, I will post some on the blog for all 3 readers to see.  Fantastic time was had by all.  We swam in the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean.