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Innovative Fashion Choices

1/5/2022

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A friend posted this meme, and it made me laugh. Out loud, even.
Then…
 
-You must admire the resourcefulness, though. Reuse, reduce, recycle Mama! Just rip that bad boy crotch right outta there and you got yourself a sport’s bra! Depending on how far down that new opening (insert “ripped him a new one” joke here) goes down in front. Of this design. Because obviously the back of the original item is now the front. Showing a little cleavage makes this a (w)hole new ballgame! Or a no-ball game, as it were.
 
-Joe doesn’t wear these kinds of undies. (Thank goodness! These have been my dad’s choice his entire life, or at least his life after I was around and was forced to encounter his undies in the laundry, and the thought of my husband wearing the same type of tighty-whities my father does petrifies me with a repulsive horror I didn’t know I was capable of. Like, if I ever find myself needing to summon this type of emotion for a dramatic role, this is what I will imagine. And I’d get an Oscar.) Otherwise, I’d be running back to Joe’s undie drawer with some scissors and experimenting.
 
-Don’t you want to know what is in her right hand? First, I thought it was a marker, then zoomed in and now think it’s a bottle with a dropper in it. Is she going to poison her friend? Returning a potion? I’m assuming they’re friends because they both have tattoos and denim skirts, little purses like it’s just a jaunt in the park. Is that a natural assumption? Should I assume they’re even women? I try to be all-inclusive.
 
-Now, if people in a fantasy apocalyptic/dystopian world were authentic, they’d be coming up with handy hacks like this all the time, because you’d think at some point, they’re going to need some new clothes, and chances are sizes are limited and they’re going to have to improvise. If survivors just use what they come by there would be some interesting outfits, yes? Theoretically, a band of survivors could come across a box that never got delivered, say abandoned somewhere weird in a post office, and their clothes are all dirty and shredded, “Zombie stains up to here, I tell ya!”  and they open the box to reveal several different sizes of Santa suits. You’d have this little band of Santa Survivors. There’d be one 13-year-old boy who cut the legs of his Santa pants off so he could wear shorts all the time, like the kid I saw yesterday walking home from school through the slushy, dirty snow. What gives, kid? I imagine his poor parents at home: “Well, you have to pick your battles…”
 
It irks me sometimes on shows like The Walking Dead where they all have these jeans that fit so perfect, clothes that are so flattering, showing your biceps or boobs off just right (and are all the women wearing bras??  If I ever find myself in a world where I must fend off zombies or die, I’m not caring about the bra no more, honey!) don’t need any adjustments, sewing. All the tee-shirts are plain, you don’t see anyone like Darrell wearing a woman’s sweatshirt with glittery cats on them, nothing clashes. But who wouldn’t want to see the beautiful, strong and powerful Michonne running around in a sexy tighty-whities-turned-sports-top? That would be more realistic. And ironic because I found, according to the Urban Dictionary (oh where were you when I was in junior high?!)  that tighty-whities also now refers metaphorically to racist Caucasians and/or the Alt-right. Aren’t people creative?
 
-Of course, braless, loose, and swinging boobs would be easier for zombies to grab onto, I suppose. I’d go with a sport’s bra. If I could find one that fit. Or, make one with some tighty-whities with my superior meme knowledge from the past. Which is now.
 
-You know, my dad would not even miss a pair of undies, come to think of it, what with the dementia, and I’ll be up there next week…
 
-I wonder, do you get those undies when you join the military? I mean, is it part of the uniform, or do you have a choice? Is the choice between tighty-whiteys or those thin cotton boxers? Can you have print?
 
-This kind of tongue-in-cheek ingenuity reminds me of a time years ago when I was in a women’s writing class. We met at an artful, comfortable ‘skinny’ house on Green Lake and we always started with some “free writing” where we each found a cozy spot according to our personalities (I was always on the floor), and wrote whatever chatter was in our head. (Or peace, I suppose, but mine was always chatter.) One time I glanced up from my page a second to help dislodge a thought and my eyes lit upon my neighbor’s shoes, simple flats abandoned by her feet she’d curled up under her loose dress on her cushy chair. White and so puffy! I’m about to write a note to self to ask her what kind they are during the break, they look so cozy, and I was in a stage of my life where I wore those black cotton Chinese Mary Janes with everything, (OMG! I just checked the Googleverse to see how to describe these shoes without being offensive – and I’m not sure if I did or not, so let me know if this is insulting or racist, but it best describes what I wore through the 80s – but they still make these and they’re still so cute to me! Sigh.), and though they’re inexpensive and go with everything I like to wear, there is absolutely no support for my feet which have arches like McDonald’s, so yeah, thinking inserts at 20-something. Where was I? Writing a note to self to ask her where she got her shoe inserts, when my mind does a herky-jerky double-take and I look back and see that she’s used menstrual pads to line her shoes. In a matter of seconds, I flush from embarrassment for her, to compassion because I know some of her story from writings she has shared, and finally admiration for her innovation, and carefree attitude. Cheers to inventive souls!
 
-I only had one thing on my To-Do List today: to dust. Then I see one picture and I have some funny thoughts I write down, and I go on-line to check the commonly accepted spelling of tighty-whities, and next thing you know I see there’s a gang in Potomac called the Tighty-Whities, and that they were invented in 1934 (the undies, not the gang), and this married couple’s blog about spanking is…
 
-One never knows what will inspire.
 
-It only feels like hours have gone by since I jumped onto my page, but, it was a mere blip. Now I must dust.

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Mugs Galore

2/15/2021

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A while ago I decided to refresh our kitchen by switching to a simple, classic white for plates and bowls, and decided for mugs only white and black, or a combination of both, were acceptable. I found these funky boho super-sized ones, in white with artistic graphics in black and different encouraging quotes on them: “Live the life you imagine” on the inner edge of the cup so it can hypnotize you with its message all the way to where it hits you in the forehead when you sip that last bit. A mermaid in swirling waves wraps around the outside, seductive and free. It’s whimsical, a comfort, a joy.
 
But before I could start living the life I imagined for my housewares, I had to get to the business of decluttering the existing shelves, shedding multiple surplus mugs that have accumulated over the years. You know, the ones that we never use because we have our favorites? The ones from that bowling tournament fundraiser where it was Halloween and we were the only ones to dress up and we didn’t bowl so great, but our Mardi Gras costumes with paper mâché masks we made complete with indigo and green seaweed color dreads of waxed grass were the talk of the alley! A good memory, but who needs the name of a bank you don't even use on the side of a mug? The one that someone gave me as a gift because they thought it was “So you!!!” and I agreed, with false (only to me, I'm sure) enthusiasm, and later every time I would see it shoved back there on the Infinite Shelf of Mugs, I’d cringe a bit, and was filled with a mix of horror and fascination that this mug was how they saw me. 
 
Or the Guilt Mug picked up randomly at the gift shop in the airport before a friend or relative got on the plane to come home from their vacation, where they had nothing to do but complain of sunscreen in a half-hearted dreamy voice, soothed by gently lapping waves on the beach they were sitting on, cold umbrella drink perspiring against their naked thigh, coconut rum on their breath. Passing the gift shop they remember you for the first time in a week, pale-faced you, back in the cold and dreary city you both live in, and to ease the guilt their tanned hand picks up a mug with classic multi-pics of popular tourist spots all crooked and ‘randomly’ arranged in an artistic, pleasing visual way, dancing around the outside, the name of whichever warm, wonderful place they were outlined in thick yellow. Like, thanks for this mug of somewhere I’ve never been! You know the one.
 
But there are a few mugs I didn’t get rid of. The white porcelain one painted with denim-blue flowers that a friend had delivered with violets in it 24 years ago. It was given as a ‘get well’ gift when I was recovering from a surgery, a significant, painful loss, and Joe was too sick to pick me up from the hospital. We sat around for days huddled together on the love seat, and one of Joe’s brothers set us up with a tv, which we didn’t own at the time, and we binged on Mr. Bean, as the mug-o-violets sat silent and pretty on the windowsill in the kitchen. And the handle-less Japanese mugs that are clay colored with squiggles and Kanji in indigo (that seems pretty Zen, but how do I know? For all I know it might say “I like my tea the way I like my women: green and weak.” and the joke's on me). But they’re perfect for wrapping chilly hands around, and the best for a crackers and milk snack like my paternal grandfather used to make to help me go to sleep. And the thick, heavy coffee cup that my dad made for the whole family, personalized with each of our names, that proudly displayed his Naval Intelligence division logo which he designed, when we lived in Japan. He worked in a vault at the top of an impressive three-story ivy-covered brick building across from the main gate at the base, and up a steep hill, overlooking all. (The building overlooked – not my dad in the vault. Dad in a Vault; get yours today!) We would go up the grand, wide staircase to the third floor, and tentatively poke the buzzer and someone would open the inner door to the space between, close it behind them, then slide back a peephole slot on the outer door to see who was there. Those ones and a few choice others remain on the hard-to-reach shelf, because: sentiment. Sentiment galore.

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But the thing is, you don’t have to put all the mugs together in a mishmash on your shelves. You don’t have to use them just for beverages. Plant some flowers in them, use them to brighten up your office area with pens, like the one pictured above I just bought from my friend Kitty’s business Nothing New. (She’s clever, talented, creative and fun. Check her out.) Use a mug to store bathroom items like cotton swabs, make up, ointments, whatever. I have a big Mini Cooper mug that the dealer gave us when we bought our car almost 10 years ago filled with string cheese in the fridge. I challenge you to think of creative ways to use those Mugs of Sentiment! Spread that love around.
 
What’s in my mermaid mug right now? White Thistle tea, which is quite mild, though pleasant. It’s supposed to be good for livers. Though a minute ago I caught myself wondering what a little liqueur would do to spice things up. It’s all about balance.

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Stormy Day Opera at Snuggledown

2/5/2021

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Last week the cat was not amused by my operatic alto (sometimes sliding into soprano, sometimes a gravely bass) recounting of our stormy day as it progressed:

“Ohhhh!! Django, Djangooooooh! Why are your earrrrrrrs back?!?!?! Your eyezzzzzz are wide and greeeeeeeeeen!!!!!”   

“It’s cold and windy. kindascary  It’s cold and windy. kindascary” [soft and low, warning of potential excitement.] 

Django meows. Heads out the door, turning his head to look at me. Stares. Meows. Stares.

“Pleeeeeeeezzooooohpleeeeeeeeezzzooooohvstay inside or go owwwwwwwwwwwwwT!!!!!!”  (This is obviously a Big-Exclamation Moment in the opera.)

“Please find the moh-llllllluh! Please find the moh-lllllllllluh! Please findthe, please findthe, findthefindthefindthe  MOLE!!”

Brava! Brava, Lady and Mistress of Snuggledown! Brava!

(Please note that no violence was meant to be implied or condoned in this opera.) 

I exit off stage, where you see me outside placing the long stick Django and I play games with, upright in a freshly-dug pile of dirt. The circle of light broadens so the audience slowly sees I am surrounded by similar piles of dirt. As far as the eye can see.

Intermission includes a brief encounter with Good Lady Snuggledown vs Bad Lady Snuggledown debating what to eat for a snack: make some kale chips, or a sweet treat of basically the unbaked version of the streusel topping on a muffin, which is really the same as kale chips nutritionally, because of the oatmeal. 

Scene II: Let’s Water the Plants!!! 

Cut, as I realize it’s only Tuesday, not Thirsty Thursday, the day I actually water the plants. 

Scene II, Rev.: Let’s Multitask!! 

I remember I was supposed to taste-test the red kraut I’ve been fermenting in the pantry, so decide to make that my snack. It’s delish! I poke a salad fork into the fragrant jar, nod my head and grin, spin into a wild, passionate Fork Dance. During the last spin, the wide hem of my yoga pants flaring out, it is revealed that Bad Lady Snuggledown is really……
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Excitable Veg

2/5/2021

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A few weeks ago I joined a cookbook author interview on Zoom through my favorite local All Things Cooking bookstore in the Seattle area, The Book Larder. I have loved this place for years. In the Before Times I attended author readings, taken cooking classes around their huge kitchen island, went to a decadent candle-light Secret Supper with Joe and 10 others after hours, I’ve browsed the small, sunny space in a happy daze, fondling the hardcovers glowing with stories, inspiration and potential delicious food for my belly. 
 
The author was Alissa Timoshkina, and she talked from London about her new cookbook, Salt and Time, a beautiful book with crisp pictures of her homeland Siberia, and traditional recipes from the region, as well as those with her own modern twist. It was dreamy. So, I bought it, with a gift card no less! I was intrigued by the borsch (no ‘t’ at the end for her version), but had to make some red sauerkraut beforehand. It was a great way to get some pent-up existential angst out of my system. 

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​Red Sauerkraut with Garlic & Chili
-from Salt & Time,  by Alissa Timoshkina

(Footnotes by me)
 
Makes a quart-sized (1 liter) jar




​
 
1 red cabbage, core removed
Salt (the desired ratio is 1 tablespoon for every 2 ¼ lb cabbage, so the exact amount depends on the weight of your cabbage)
2-4 large garlic cloves, grated (I increased garlic from her suggested 2 cloves, because I always do)
2 teaspoons red pepper flakes, or 1 small Habanero pepper, finely chopped 
 
Before you do anything put on some food gloves!*
 
Thinly slice the cabbage into long strips, preferably on a mandolin or using a food processor.  Place in a large mixing bowl, add the salt, and massage it into the cabbage quite aggressively for about 5 minutes.** This process is quite physically demanding and oddly therapeutic at the same time. You know the cabbage has surrendered when lots of juice comes out and the flesh becomes very soft, yet still crunchy.*** Add the garlic and chili pepper, and massage for another minute. 
 
Pack the cabbage tightly into a sterilized quart-size preserving jar (putting it through a hot dishwasher should do the job) **** in layers, making sure there are no air bubbles or gaps as you pack down each layer; you can use a special wooden tamper for fermentation or simply use your fist to do this. Continue until the jar is almost full and the cabbage is submerged in its own juice. Weigh it down with a glass ramekin. Make sure you leave a 2-inch (5 cm) gap at the top or the jar will overflow once the process of fermentation begins.
 
Close the jar tightly and set aside out of direct sunlight at room temperature for 10-14 days so the salt and time can do their magic (naturally, things ferment a lot faster in the summer).***** It’s best to stand the jar inside a bowl in case of spillage. Make sure to check it every day, opening the jar to let the cabbage “burp” or release its gases, and pressing the cabbage down into the brine.******
 
Taste the cabbage after 10 days and leave to ferment for longer if needed.  Once you are happy with the taste, transfer the jar to the refrigerator to slow down the fermentation process. It will keep in the fridge for up to 6 months.
 
 
Notes from Shorelandia:
 
*Pay attention to this, the author uses an exclamation point for a reason: put on some food gloves! Then make a clean-room, like Dexter. Only you’re not going to kill anything, in fact you're practically a necromancer! Listen to this after 5 minutes of aggressive love – It’s alive!***
 
**Try to contain your production area to one space, or you’ll find little bits of red cabbage all over your kitchen, leaving behind a kiss of blue-purple. And why isn’t it called purple cabbage? It’s not red at all! I wonder if I could cut a shape out of the cabbage, like a star, and leave it on my forearm to make a temporary tattoo...

***Sound up! 

**** I don’t care how organized you are in your kitchen, there are never enough jars. Make sure you have one before you start. I weighed my cabbage out and  her suggested 2 ¼-lb. weight was about perfect for a quart-sized jar. And our dishwasher is on the fritz, so a hot soapy wash followed by a kettle of boiling water gently dumped into the jar did the trick for me. Hot water is your friend. Always.
 
*****Then clean your kitchen if you didn’t manage to contain the cabbage in your workspace like I suggested earlier. I fear I’m going to be finding dried bits of purple for years to come, unexpectedly. Like the bits of shining greenish-blue tinsel from the sexy mermaid’s tail we kept finding for about a dozen years after she attended one of our first Halloween parties. 
 
******Don’t forget to burp! If you are self-aware enough to know you’ll forget, leave the jar in a place you’ll see it daily, leave Post-Its to remind yourself to “Burp the kraut!” because it’s funny. Whatever you do, burp that baby! And Alissa is not kidding about setting the jar in a bowl. It’s an excitable boy. 
 
PS:
Possible future cookbook title: “Fermentation: It’s Not What You Stink it Is”
 
 
 
 
 

 
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Dear Lori of Mid-March 2020:

3/19/2020

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I know you’ve recently resumed vigor on your quest to lose weight, (after the last time you resumed when you got back from Costa Rica after all the vacation drinking), watching what you eat and exercising, but…look around! The world is not what it was even a week ago! But more immediate to you, you just spent the day in an assisted-living facility holding the hand of a dying elderly friend, (not Coronavirus-related, just a body too-damned-tired to try anymore), dabbing her flaming forehead and cheeks with a cool, damp washcloth mirroring some heartbreaking scene in a movie, after lying about your relationship with her to breach the walls, saying you were a daughter-in-law, so they let you in after taking your temperature, making you sanitize your hands, and pluck a mask out of the full, pristine box. But while you were there, you worried about the lie, and being found out that in fact you are just a friend of the family, because indeed, you’ve told that to several of the staff you’ve met since you started visiting a few years ago. So, as you sat and watched the slow rise and fall of her thin chest, dripping water from the swab into the corner of her gaping, dry mouth, tracing the white, dolphin-shaped scar from a past melanoma on her forearm, you crafted a plausible story in your head about how you and her son were married in college, before realizing that you were better suited as friends, and divorced, amicably. So, you were technically a former, ex-daughter-in-law, but still very much a friend of the family. 
 
The few moments she seems lucid, you pull down your mask, so she can see who you are—who wants to die looking up at strange masked faces? Her eyes focus on you, and she smiles, and you feel touched by grace: She knows me! The med-tech comes in to tend to something, and she sees you, and bursts into tears; you break protocol to hold her in a hug filled with love and tenderness, hiding your empathetic tears in her luscious dark hair. 
 
Thoughts turn dark in the hours alone with her. You make whispered bargains that prove your doubts and suspicions about the existence of God. Selfishly, you secretly hope she’ll pass while you’re there, to stop her pain, her constant frustration with the world wrought upon her when she had a stroke some 15 years ago and became paralyzed on her left side, wheel-chair bound, living in a room where she has a view of the parking lot, a bitter reminder of her inability to drive ever again. You want to spare her real family the image, the pain, of seeing that last breath. When her son, your faux ex, comes to relieve you for the next shift of the vigil, you lean in and whisper a goodbye to her, thank her for all her stories.
 
So, that, up there, your current reality, is why you ate the chips, the cookie(s), the bread, any kind of sweetness you wanted to cram into your mouth until you felt it at the back of your grief-stricken throat; the evil carbs. Why your back has spasmed into pain from stress, and you were content to lie on the couch and read rather than exercising as you should. I wish you could react to stress like a healthy person, take a walk instead of searching out the easy-quick fix, but apparently today is not the day. I forgive you.
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Cat Burglar in the Kitchen

10/12/2019

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I was up earlier than the rest of the household today. Something that only happens on the weekends. Before I made a cup of tea so I could snuggle with the cat and read my book, I put away the stack of dishes in the drainer, shining and clean, happy evidence of last night’s dinner. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, blinking the blur away to peer at all the different angles poking in every direction from the sink, like the Iron Throne of Westeros, I cautiously put a hand out towards the tangled puzzle before me. Like a cat burglar I carefully extracted long metal skewers, a metal pot lid balanced on a glass, cutting board, bowls, plates, barbeque tongs, forks, and put them in their proper places in complete silence so as not to disturb anyone’s rest. 
 
As I performed my task I thought of my mother. To this day when I stay at my folks’ I am roused by the clattering sound of her emptying the dishwasher and moving about the kitchen on the opposite end of the house from my old bedroom/now guestroom, accompanied by the gurgle of the ancient yellowed Mr. Coffee slowly dribbling out black gold, tentacles of fumes slithering under the closed door to tickle me awake. No notions of cat burglars for her. These days she sounds more like an old bear shuffling around with abandon. 
 
My first hangover I woke to those same sounds. I was in high school, about this time of year, and there was a kegger in a huge barn, ironically right across the street from the Navy base. Kids I knew from school were strewn about the place, hay, beer, and hormones everywhere. There was a bathroom in the house a short walk from the barn where two or three adults, maybe grandparents by the looks of them, watched TV in a darkened room and assessed me with polite indifference as I asked for the bathroom. It was a bit surreal for me. I didn’t realize I was actually drunk until I was walking, with perfect posture, down the hall, my hand on a wall beneath framed family photos to steady myself. 
 
I repeated this in my own hallway the next morning, barely making it to the golden velour couch in our living room after the Summons of the Dishes that signaled the house it was time to get up. I lay like death while the claxon sounds of my mother pulling pans out assaulted me. Next came a fleet of nauseating smells: the fat-popping of bacon cooking, followed by hissing eggs sliding into the pan. My parents knew I was hung-over, though our family dynamics were never such that they actually asked, nor did I offer. They just carried on like the Cunninghams on Happy Days, torturing me by bringing me a plate of glistening bacon and slick eggs and a sad looking piece of toast with flavorless margarine.
 
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Tibetan Prayer Flags

6/24/2019

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What it means when you hang Tibetan prayer flags in your yard:

-you are a Hippie Peacenik. Namaste.

-you are a Tibetan monk and are sending prayers out to everyone, in all the nooks and crannies and in-betweens the wind will blow them to

-you are a Buddhist, or one with a love for some of the concepts, and like incense and flags

-you’re a New Bohemian/millenial and thought they were colorful/cute, or mmm kinda boho.

-you’re #fiftysevendontcare

-you thought they'd look nice above your husband's hops, but also #fifysevendontcare. Namaste.


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Notes from Courtlandia

5/28/2019

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Day 1, the Bus Ride: 
 
I approach the bus stop with my husband’s bus pass clutched in my hand inside my pocket. Yes, I’m that person who waited in the checkout line with her check all filled out except for the amount. When we still used checks. Now when someone takes out their checkbook in a line and starts flipping to the check, asking for a pen to write, it’s all I can do not to groan. What, are you from the 20th century or something?
 
Upon entering the bus I promptly trip over a guy’s leg, apologize, then have to come back to sit next to him because there are no other open seats. Turns out I tripped over his leg because his thigh is taking up half the neighboring seat and the rest of the leg is in the aisle. I understand this is the dread ‘manspread’ I’ve heard about from regular, seasoned bus riders. I sprightly say, “Excuse me!” and plop myself down next to him guilt-free. 
 
I soon become aware that I’m sitting in the handicap area, and do some side-eye surveillance at the other riders I’ve been trying not to look at. (Not that anyone would notice; since I stepped onto the bus it’s been as quiet as death, and every head is bowed down to the god that is their phone.) I still feel like a fraud of a bus-rider, like I just don’t belong here and it’s glaringly obvious I don’t know what’s going on. It’s like any Catholic service I ever attended with my Catholic-raised husband, after my entire row gets up and queues up for crackers and wine at mass, and a sunbeam singles me out in the empty row, hair gleaming like a copper fire, mouth no doubt painted Harlot Red. Stomach slightly piqued because it’s missing crackers and wine.
 
Day 1, Jury Assembly Room, Seattle:
 
  • I settle down in my chair and let the waiting begin.
 
  • I was the only one who laughed at something in the informational video.
 
  • Nearly dropped my juror badge in the toilet when I leaned over to flush. I laugh in relief that I catch it in time.
 
  • The peanut butter and chocolate protein bar in my purse is melting. And lunch is still a couple hours away. I start to nibble on it and wrap the melted part in the remainder of my jury notice.
 
  • I’m reading David Sedaris’s diaries today, and have been laughing, out loud, all day. And this doesn’t even include the info-vid or the toilet. 
 
  • They called out Tonya Harding when assigning juror numbers earlier! It wasn’t her. Well, it was, but not the skater.  I’d change my name to Tonya Not-the-Skater Harding if that were my name. 
 
  • Later they call my ex-brother-in-law’s name. But it wasn’t him, either.
 
  • My eyes are totally blood shot from allergies today, and I look like I’m baked. Like a potato. Juror material, baby!
 
  • Just read one of David’s diary entries and he mentions Tonya Harding! What?!?
 
  • A woman has been coughing all day somewhere behind me, and while I should be feeling sorry for her, I can tell she’s not covering her mouth properly.  She should be excused for hardship. Right now. I make a note to put anti-bacterial gel in my purse if I have to come back tomorrow.
 
  • The guy seated next to me told me he paid $44 for two hours of parking. He said if he has to come back he’ll take You-ber. I don’t correct him.
 
  • I rest my eyes from reading and take a quiet-as-can-be inventory of my purse. I’m that bored.
 
  • There’s a guy sitting not far from me who looks like my ex-husband. Same haircut, glasses, button-down shirt, gray Levi’s. Only a bit taller, and more…swollen. Of course, I haven’t seen him in almost a year…Maybe I conjured him because of the guy who was called who shared my ex-bro-in-law’s name. He’s snoring.
 
  • Places I could have flown to in the time I’ve been sitting in the Juror Assembly Room. Hawaii! New York! London!
 
Day 2
  • I fear I’ve become one of those women (i.e. my mom) who says “How can these women wear those heels downtown all day?!” Feeling comfortable but frumpy. Frumptable.
 
  • My quads are sore from keeping my balance on the bus yesterday and today, actively trying not to touch anyone.
 
  • I’m going through the metal detector after lunch, and the woman scanning my purse makes this loud exclamation and frantically beckons the wand woman over behind the scanner machine.  My heart starts to pound. Did that guy who held the elevator door for me slip something in there? Turns out she was so moved by admiration of my Japanese purse she felt she had to share her joy with Wander Woman. “Is that embroidered?! Japanese?!?”
 
  • There’s a fellow potential juror here, a woman whom I’ve never seen before, who keeps staring at me. I was just in the bathroom so know I don’t have anything weird going on; no streaked mascara, paper on shoe, or dress tucked into the back of my panties action. It’s unnerving.
 
  • A reflection just passed over my plastic badge holder I have clipped to the neckline of my dress, giving the appearance of a dark bug scrambling across it. Naturally I panicked and swatted at it before realizing it was a shadow. 
 
  • Half-way through the day we make it into a courtroom. On the elevator up the Staring Woman stands right next to me. She can’t take her eyes off of the guy who presses the button. I’m relieved I’ve been replaced in her creepy attention.
 
  • The first two men in the juror box are wearing identical button-down shirts. I’m mesmerized. And maybe slightly obsessed with trying to figure out if they really are identical.
 
  • Spent some time thinking about how I appear to the attorneys: artistic, funky, liberal, and, if they see my allergy-reddened eyes: stoned little earth mama. At least today’s outfit said that.
 
  • During voir dire (I can’t get enough of them saying this), the state questions a potential juror on a hypothetical situation, and the gentleman started his response by quoting sixteenth-century poet John Donne on love. I can only see the back of his tonsured-head, but want to find him and hug him during break. 
 
  • At one point we’re asked to state our juror number and race we most closely identify with, if comfortable. I’m surprised when several say they are White instead of Caucasian, and every time they do I cringe a little. I don’t know why. Have I become hyper-sensitized thinking if you claim to be of the White race you’re a White Supremacist or something? [I’ve since researched this a little (fell down the Google rabbit hole, really) and found that while the two are used somewhat interchangeably, there are more objections to the use of Caucasians, particularly those from Europe, though some, like me, feel like we’re being rude using white. This has been a moment of self-discovery for me.] I wonder out loud, softly, why they didn’t say Caucasian, to the Latina next to me who tilted her head down to hide a smile when the first person said White, and she flipped her lovely dark tresses back and whispers “They’re probably afraid to say ‘cock!” To which I promptly say “I’m going to stutter when it comes to me: Juror No. 80, Cock-cock-cock-asian.” We snicker together in the next-to-last row. I should have warned her I’m trouble. A regular court jester. 
 
  • When we finally get to the peremptory challenge, the first one selected to leave the jury box is Staring Woman. No one is surprised. They tell her to wait in the adjoining room where we had our break, but she just continues out the door. The bailiff decides to let her go. An almost comedic selection unfolds, as one empty jury box seat is filled from the first bench of those of us waiting, only to be plucked out by the defense attorney. At one point the next seat-filler crept like a cartoon burglar toward the box, eyes turned on the attorney waiting for the dreaded or wished-for thumbs down. Even the judge laughs.
 
  • With such a high number I don’t even come close to being selected for the final 14, so I’m released. I exit with the others with a sense of relief, though I know I would have performed my jury duties fairly if chosen. 
 
  • I use my phone to figure out which bus to take, and where it will pick me up, and wait with the throngs of downtown Seattle worker bees in the sun. Every 20-30 seconds my hand slides into my bomb-free, embroidered Japanese purse to check on the safe whereabouts of my bus card. My bus soon approaches and I breathe easy as I slide into a non-handicap seat and relax as I start my journey home to Shorelandia. The bus is not full, so I don’t even have to flex my thighs.

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Typical Monday Messages

5/13/2019

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Impishly Raw

1/9/2019

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​I’m posting this un-proofed, raw. To me this is the equivalent of taking a close-up picture of myself without make-up. Only worse.
 
On my list today: Organize Notes
 
This means collecting all the bits of paper and receipts I've written ideas, thoughts, etc. on, Notes from my phone, documents I’ve created or added to on my laptop, and compiling them digitally into a either designated folder, or my Writer’s Mission Control Center Excel doc. 
 
The first Note from my phone I open up says: “Incense. Kingdome.” I get up and go to the little jewelry chest that holds the incense I was intending to offer up on Buy Nothing Shoreline with a little blurb about how I can’t burn incense when Joe’s in the house anymore because of the Kingdome Implosion Incident. [expand on incident here in one sentence]. But on my way there decide I need to dry my hair. I dry my hair and admire the result, which I know will never look this good again all day, so linger in the mirror. And think, dammit! I need to exercise, and take better care of myself! Take a Selfie for Joe regardless, delete it because my eyes don’t know where to look when I do a full-length mirror picture. Sexy, flowing-confident look today, but goofy eyes ruin it all. Back to incense. Decide there’s not a hoarder amount, I’ll keep it after all. Then on the way back to collected notes, I get hungry so stop for pizza leftover from last night. Delete first note about incense. Go to the sink to wash my empty coffee cup, but need to put away dishes in drainer before putting the cup in, including returning a metal straw to the side bar, which is where the junk drawer is that I’ve been organizing going on three days because there’s one thing I need to acquire first for the coup de grace of tidying, you know, before I feel I’m clever enough to post on Instagram/Facebook, but that would mean leaving the house to go to a store, in the rain, and I’d have to put shoes and a coat on, and I don’t absolutely have to leave the house until 6 tonight for a haircut, so turn back to the office nook to see the second slice of pizza on the kitchen island. It’s good, but the crust doesn’t compare to Joe’s, so I don’t eat the last bit like the skinny girls don’t, and voila! I’m on my way to a healthier new year just like that. Unless I lied about not eating the last bit of dry crust so I would sound like a better person, which maybe I did, you’ll never know, will you? Though, if Joe happens to look in the countertop compost pail he would see the bragged-about crust remains. Or not. And if not, would no doubt post a comment under this with a simple “No crusts were to be found.” And you’d all know I lied. Exaggerated. Embellished. Pour myself the last of the ginger ale from a couple days ago, that Joe brought home for my dizzy spells, into a stem-less wine glass from a wine festival we went to with my brother and his lovely then-girlfriend now-wife a few years ago, and think that if you’re thinking nice, summery white wine as you look at the liquid in the glass and take that first swallow of pretty-much flat ginger ale you’d swear you were drinking wine. (But wait, this glass is from a chocolate and wine Valentine's festival, entirely different from the Prosser Whiskey one!)
Was thinking about something I wrote a while ago on FB about how some days the only exercise I get is when I’m retracing my steps because I forgot what I was doing…went to FB to see what I actually did write, and was gone for a minute or so, then realized that I’d lost the original train, so decided to just sway my shoulders to the playlist I’m listening to, and type with my eys closed so it feels like I’m  making the music with my finers typing. And then I realize: I’m stoned. I forgot about the edible I ate, or edded, a good new word for eating an edible, after the weight of the world, or rather my world with The World thrown in the background, wrapped around my neck and shoulders like an infinity scarf (I’ve been wanting to use that in a sentence for a while), post breakfast and shower, before I sat down to look at my Daily List.
 
And now here I am. Tingling hands floating in front of me a little farther away than they usually seem. And as I corrected my misspelling of ‘farther’ as ‘furhter’ I thought wouldn’t a ‘live-typed’ story, like you’d see what was originally typed and it’s progression, and the edit-as-you-go fashion I engage in, in real-time (or as ‘real’ as real in quotation marks could be real, because that implies it’s not real, you know? You do.) in certain cases be interesting to watch? I’m enjoying it as I’m dong it right now.
 
Write. At least I can check that off the list. As well as using the infinity scarf simile, though that’s not written on today’s list, just a general mental list. Having ‘use infinity scraf simile’ on a daily list would be odd. Maybe. TO you.O no. Cobweb I just saw when I tilted my head back to laugh. I’m going to get the duster, arean’t I? And then, as I see the words an sentences rapidly ineriorating detioriating, deteriorating, as I have to type slower and slower and I’m kinda swimming in beautiful sound and temperature, like a picture of a backlit hippie girl straddling some guy’s shoulders, sunlight in back, joyful and well, groovy. Dharma is meowing at me urgently, like some kind of Service Cat for stoned writers. “Get out! Get out” she’s telling me,  claxon whiskers aquiver. “Stop writing now, because I know you need to write but you’d said you’d publish this raw, as it’s happening, and you can’t seem to stop, but please do. I’m Common Sense, I’m the Cat Who Knows. Trust me.” Swirling hyptonic cartoon eyes like the snake in the Jungle Book. Hip Tonic would be a great home brew name, or a band. The cat went away, seeing I was a lost cause. But the stale ginger ale is gone and I’m feeling thirsty, and I’m grateful for that thirst because I’m hoping it will break me away from this spell of free form writing, because I’m exposing myself. But who should really care except for me? I’m I trying to ommunicate comuic m communicate. I’m sorry I was laughing really hard as I was not able to COMMUNICATE what I was trying to say because I couldn’t spell that word. 
 
After I got the cobweb I whapped the feather duster outside against the Buddha belly of our rain barrel, and he is tickled. 

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OMG this is like drunk-dialling The World! AKA Facebook. You’re welcome, Facebook. How does one get paid for doing something like this? Am I entertaining? I’M laughing! But, you know. This water is leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. 
I imagine as I go on here I’ll be starting to normalize soon. Oh hi, Dharma.
Such an excellent Guide Cat. That would be a good job, to train Guide Cats for people who get carried away. 
 
On my list today: Organize Notes
 
This is going great!
 
Seriously. I can’t make this tshi up. I’m going to go see if there’s any of that kettle corn left. Dang. What if my alter edo, my uninhibited self, is the real writer. Not me. But that self is really me, too, yes? When did I start doing that, I wonder: ending a sentence in ‘yes’ or ‘yeah?’ or ‘no?’ instead of  the old school ‘isn’t it? or ‘right?’ Slangologists get on that, will ya? 
Maybe this water should be tea. It’s cilly, chilly here in the office nook (ooo! What if I called this place eht Writer’s Nook! no that’s a group I’m in) Silly and CHilly. The light outside has changed since I first sat down here to type, innocently, I do have to say and did, I’m so sorry real, and fellow, writers; I know you are cringing as you ride with me, ‘Get that sad mess off the stage, she’s making us look bad!’ or ‘ She’s revealing our secret: that all writers are using their alter egos – and now I remember with a not-unpleasant (…I recall a book I just read that used that sort of phrase a lot, to a point of irritation because you have to stop and think exactly what that feeling is: not unpleasant, but not pleasant enough to not have that not. Anyway, there you go),  I remember with a not-unpleasant shudder that I used alter ‘edo’ up there and saw it was wrong and just. Left. It. And I still might. I need Dharma, Guide Cat to come back and lead me to a fur nap. 
 
I was hoping this would be short enough to simply post on the Notes From Shorelandia Facebook page, but I’ve gone on for a surprisingly (so sorry, wide-and-rolling-eyed writers) long time, and I fear I’m going to go one ugly step further and post it on my actual NFS website, that does exist on its own, accessible from a web search, I imagine, or stumbled-upon, more likely, but nonetheless there. Don’t know why I would fear. Why have a blog if I don’t want people to share in my writing. That’s what reading is, right? (You saw that, right? Oh no I’m in a redundant loop.)
 
I could freakin’ roll in this chair to make myself tea, but I haven’t yet. The water is still bitter. I think about the turns-out-to-be-vegan dinner I’m making tonight. Forget why I thought that. And I thought I was getting better. Where are those purple cashmere (why is it called cashmere? is it like baby wool?) I’m not Googling it on purpose. You do it and tell me. Cashmere fingerless gloves, with the little velvet strip and button?. Because my hands are still cold. Which is not-entirely pleasant. So. Just pleasant enough not to do anything about it. So not dangerous. The song I’m listening to said “black eye” but it sounded like “black guy” and it worked either way in the song. I wonder if I’ll read this over before I let it loose. Do I trust myself? And if I do, do I trust my self that would naturally do at least a mild, off-handed looksee, or my self that would be true to myself (sigh), and do as promised: exposed, unedited. 
 
Had a pee, made some tea. Retrieved gloves. (If you left out the tea, I’d sound like a smart dog.) Remembered it is harder to type when you wear gloves without fingers. Ha, ha! I mean, not like you don’t have any fingers and you’re wearing gloves, which would be I’m going to risk saying, nearly impossible, but fingerless gloves, which I would have said in the first place but I was tired of using hyphens, so worded it differently. 
Seeing this picture I just took of my hand I am bitterly reminded [insert story about internship and the hand model]. 
 
Impishly raw: I think that might be a definition of my writing style. A New York Times Book Review blurb on the back of my first book. Or…wait for it…. a band name! Or a drink. That tricky trio. Drunken Sailor? A drink, a writing style, or band playing at the Tractor? Dirty Divorcee Up Against the Wall? Drink (and style of drink, Up against the wall, like shaken not stirred.) writing style, or band? I need a more positive drink example, but Neil Young is on my stream right now and that might not happen. Crzy Horse: Band name, drink, or writing sytle? Dharma just walked by, slowly, shaking her head. Not stirred. 
 
Let’s see. It takes about 50 minutes to make the Cuban Quinoa Buddha Bowl, – I’m a little nervous about the avocado being too far gone (poor lass), though – but I have leftover quinoa I can use, so that’s got to shave off (which should just be shave, because how could one shave ‘on?’) some time, so if I want dinner to be ready by, say, 6 o’clock, or 5:45 so I have time to eat, when do I have to start making it, that’s a different time than now?
 
I’d buy, even at the age of 57, a tee-shirt printed with Impishly Raw. As long as the fabric was in black. And a woman’s tee, not a man’s tee. Nothing against the men, but the woman’s one just looks better on this woman’s body. All I’m saying.
 
Right.
 
Nearing 60, stay-at-home mom, (though the kid is 37 and not currently living with me, but has an uncertain future, which brings me full tilt around – which is gyroscopic, I think – to why the weight of my world was on these linebacker shoulders, way back this morning an hour or so before I opened this up to write), budding, late-blooming, whatever might happen or be happening…. I don’t remember where I wanted this to go, but I don’t want to just delete it because there has got to be something in there that is important to me. 
 
I was just noting that I could make an em-dash with no problem in the paragraph above, yet my fingers struggled to recall where the parentheses keys were. Traitors, these fingers, I tell ya.
 
Yesterday I had so many of the boxes on my list filled. A nice sense of accomplishment. Today, the boxes are mostly gaping and empty, but I feel like I had a transformative massage; one of those that lifts you out of your self, your physical pains and mental worries, and let’s you float, warm, safe, not-unhappy, and free. Of course, unless the massage is at home you’ll always have to redress, and get home somehow, which will break the spell at one point. It always does. It’ll happen here too, but much more gradually. 
 
As I sieve my way through the kettle corn dregs at the bottom of the bag I wonder will those un-popped kernels, the misogynistically named Old Maids of the vegetable world, really compost? 
 
I keep sneaking over to Facebook to see if I’ve been selected as a giftee in my Buy Nothing group for this gorgeous little set of wooden and leather library stairs, so exciting to me I’d purposely shelve books higher just to use it. Not yet. Still hope, though. Then I got distracted by the first post I saw. And realized I do have a little mouse life right now, and am so grateful. I know it can’t last much longer, money is such a handy thing, but I am extremely appreciative to the one that’s keeping us going, in financial ways, and oh so much more. Thank you, Joe.

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About the dinner: Turns out Joe threw out the questionable avocado this morning, so to replace the basic guacamole I mixed up Roasted red pepper, garlic, lemon juice, tahini, cilantro, blistered olives, lime. Still missing something. White sharp cheddar for some umami and a thickener, making it not vegan anymore, but still vegetarian. Salt. It does the trick.

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Missing Tina

11/13/2018

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Joe and I listened to some Jimmy Buffet while we ate Mexican food for dinner, (semi – there were black beans and cotija cheese). I’m a little bit high, I’m a little tipsy. It’s the one-year anniversary of my sister-in-law Tina’s sudden death, and these seemed a worthy tribute. Though, those who knew her would probably counter that with a sweet, loving, snarky “Only a little high?” eyebrow raised like the Rock.
 
I had a long, intensely-focused, 10-hours at work today, grateful for the necessary distraction. This included working at hyper-speed and accuracy with my main partner before and after break, being used as a training tool for at least a dozen new trainees, then switching to training a helper, taking a half-hour lunch, switching to a new newbie, who could only work until 5:30, and is abruptly swapped-out mid-task for a new freshly-trained human, or an FTH. Who happened to smell, sound and act in the manner of Tina. For the last 1-½ hours I sat shoulder-to-shoulder next to a woman whose clothes and hair smelled like Tina. Her brunette hair was the same length and tousled style. She wore similar clothes. Her voice held the heavy, familiar accent of the smoker, also Tina’s, at once nasal and husky. She plowed over a couple mispronunciations without shame or care, self-deprecating, non-apologetic, (FTH told me bluntly she was tired and hungry), and laughing. We bonded in moments.
 
I held on until we were through with our work, 3 minutes ahead of a hard deadline of 7PM. Then I told her about Tina’s death anniversary, and she hugged me. She cared and let me know she did, from her core; the way the really good humans do. The way Tina did.
 
As I was saying goodbye to one of our runners, I explained the hug. Her face grew furrowed in compassion and she conveyed her empathy. She then told me, “I don’t know how religious or spiritual you are, but she was placed with you for a reason. Your sister-in-law wanted to let you know she was here with you today.” I get goose bumps typing it even now, as I did when she spoke in her warm, Sunday school-teacher voice.
 
Now is not the time to share my beliefs and/or disbeliefs. But I like the thought of Tina hanging out with all of us who knew and loved her today.

“It's those changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes
Nothing remains quite the same
With all of our running and all of our cunning
If we couldn't laugh, we would all go insane”

                                                   Jimmy Buffett

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Notes from Election Land

11/7/2018

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Day 1, about two weeks before Election Day.

My first day as a temporary election worker I’m shocked to find upon leaving the house at 7 in the morning for my commute that it’s still dark outside. Who knew?

I arrive at work with time to spare, and make a trip to the bathroom. There’s a sign in the stall telling me that if the toilet paper is still in the bowl when I’m done to flush again, using the silver button. It takes five times to get my dainty wad of paper down, – What is she doingin there? I imagine my incredulous neighbors thinking – but by golly I followed instructions! I now know to fling towards the back of the toilet after wiping. I’m learning new things already. I will soon discover the stalls in the upstairs restroom have instructions to push the blackbutton if the paper isn’t gone, though the toilets are identical to the ones downstairs. There is also a typo on the signs in the upstairs stalls that will taunt me daily, causing me to fantasize about smuggling (we can’t bring our purses into that area, or it would have been done Day 2) in some White-out and fixing it, the fear of punishment for defacing government property the only thing stopping me. Barely.

After I receive my security badge I’m told to ‘badge’ my way in to the lunchroom and await further directions. I stand in front of the door pondering about what to do with my badge, – Do I swipe? Do I stick it in something like a credit card reader? Is ‘badge’ really a verb? – when an old timer takes pity, and shows me, the Noob, how it’s done. This will become a common occurrence the next couple of days. Huzzah to the jaded, yet kind, old timers!

Day 2

In amongst the corporate-speak, which I remained silent about and figured out for myself, embarrassed as I had never been privy to such jargon (NEO, for instance is not referring to the character in the Matrix, but is instead New Employee Orientation), my favorite words of wisdom today were "Nothing forges heroes like the fire of battle." Apparently I’m training to be a hero! My Ballot Review department lead also used the word ‘fungible,’ and my nerdy word soul swooned.

Ballot Review is the final stop of all the problem-child ballots where we resolve, among other things, ‘overvotes,’ which is where you may have filled out a bubble and realized you really meant the otherbubble, so crossed it out and filled in the right one. However, the computer scanned them both, and because we’re still slightly smarter than the computer (but don’t tell it!) we fix it so you get the vote you intended. Or, say you voted on the kitchen table and spilled your coffee on your ballot making it difficult for the computer to scan, or your little precious helped you vote by coloring in all the bubbles you didn’t fill, or you foolishly used a yellow highlighter to vote, (which is the only color the computer can’t read; what were you thinking?!), or you voted then tore up your ballot in little pieces and mailed it in because you’re an ass, so someone in Opening has to tape it up, but the computer can’t suck up your ballot to read so we have to make it all right. We do other super important things too with great speed and accuracy, but I sense you’re zoning out thinking about Netflix around now, so let’s move on, shall we?

We Ballot Reviewers are also ‘Agiles’ which sounds pretty cool to me (and apparently ‘agiling’ is also a verb here in the gov’mint) – why, yes I am nimble, thank you very much –but really means we get yanked out of where we’re supposed to be getting things done, and placed wherever they’re getting backlogged in other parts of the system, like opening the ballots. Or Cig Bear, which turns out not to be a blue scruffy bear with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, rasping out orders while wearing a teller’s visor like a newspaper editor from back in the day, but Signature Verification; Sig Ver. My lead talks auctioneer-fast, what can I say?
 
Day 3
 
I discover that since rejoining the workforce, even temporarily, my body has (kindly) adjusted to being around others, and has miraculously refrained from passing gas, at all, all day long. However, when I get in the car to go home at the end of the day, I buckle up quickly, as otherwise my body would go flying around the car like a taut balloon deflating.
 
Day….. I-don’t-really-know, but it’s the day after election and I worked 11 hours in Sig Ver the day before as every procrastinating soul in our county drove up, skirting the media hordes, and taking selfies as they dropped their envelopes they received two weeks before into the ballot box filled with hope, and to show what good citizens they are, of course. As I took a break that night, I watched the train of white, gray and black SUVs that reign in Seattle, my right shoulder twitching in pain, soon to become a muscled, misshapen hump I’m sure, from click, click, clicking, ensuring every one of their signatures is valid.
 
Today the media is gone, blessed be, and I’m in Sig Ver again, busy as ever helping the department from drowning in the Bonzai pipeline wave of ballot signatures, judging all the horrible ones that require my attention in my head, but sometimes out loud. If they made a time-lapse of my face reactions to some of the crazy-ass pictograms that pass for signatures it would be akin to the over-exaggerated acting of a silent film star. Some are works of art, but some look like the voter broke both arms and signed with their feet. (An aside here, as I wonder what my signature would look like if I used my foot, then stop a moment as it sounds like something I may have tried once before.) Just so you know, the County keeps the signatures from voter registration so we have an original to compare the one that gets signed on the ballot, and if they’re somewhat off we can request a signature update, where they send you a little form to sign and it gets scanned and stored in the history file so we can check to see if the latest matches any of those. Some people have multiple, like more than four signature variations, and are obviously still trying to figure out who they are; I mean, I’m happy you grew out of dotting your ‘i’s with butterflies, but settle on something already! And don’t get me going on ‘Voter Fatigue,’ which is where you got sooooo tired from filling in your bubbles that you can barely sign your own friggin’ name. Patience is not my virtue, but you probably already figured that out.
 
The next week I’ll still be working long hours, jumping from department to department, helping anyone, anywhere, anytime to appease the politician wolves at the door, waiting for the final, official counts. I’m glad you all voted, and I thank you. It’s important, and empowering to vote. It’s exciting to be a part of it all, and truly fascinating to know how many eyes actually see your vote, and ensure that it counts. If you happen to see me in the next couple of weeks, stop and give me a pat on the back. Literally. On the right hand side, if you would. To push down that nasty dowager hump I’m growing.

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Weeping Tiger

9/26/2018

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I was visiting my 84-year old friend recently at her assisted living place, looking over the menu with her, and we saw that the evening's special entrée was Weeping Tiger Steak.

Now, she's a sharp one, plays a mean game of dominoes (with an evil gleam in her eye when she beats me, which is more often than not), reads the entire newspaper every day, and is, sadly, more informed on current events than I am. But, like I said she's 84 and she's showing signs of her age, repeating stories, forgetting things, and such. She complains about the food at the facility often, getting all het up when her excitement over something that promised to be good, like say tacos, turns out to be disappointingly bland, or mysteriously, incredulously, without salsa – egads! –  relishing when they have comment cards to give to the kitchen and she can tell the chef that "If you don't know how to cook Mexican and Chinese food, just don't do it!" (Not to be outdone, her friend in the dining room was said to have suggested: "Fire the chef!" on at least one occasion.) They can be a feisty bunch of octogenarians!
 
She's a country girl at heart, growing up on a farm in California during the depression, then on to Southwestern Washington and a meat-and-potatoes lifestyle, and I've had to interpret certain culinary terms for her before, like, well... du jour. You can imagine her perplexity over Weeping Tiger Steak! “You don’t think….” I explained it was probably some type of thin-sliced beef in a Thai-spiced marinade, and that she'd most likely enjoy it. She promised me she'd roll down to dinner that night, and see for herself to give me a report. I could see she was excited, that fire sparking in her eyes, at the prospect of the whole dining hall abuzz about what the heck a Tiger Steak was going to be. I hope for the chef's sake it was good.
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Our friend Paula made this for our dinner club when the theme was Thai several years ago, and it was delish!

Crying Tiger Salad

 
Dressing
½ cup lime juice
¼ cup Thai fish sauce
1 Tbsp. crushed red pepper
1 Tbsp. soy sauce
 2 cloves garlic, minced
½-1 tsp. fresh ginger, minced
¼ tsp. sugar

Salad
 2 cups Thai basil, coarsely chopped
1 cup cilantro, coarsely chopped
1 red onion, thinly sliced
green leaf lettuce leaves, whole
1 ½ pounds of steak*, thickly sliced
Salt & pepper
Vegetable oil

Plating
Green cabbage cut into wedges
Tomatoes sliced into wedges
2 cucumbers, sliced thick
                                                                                         
Whisk dressing ingredients together.
 
Salt & pepper the steak.  Heat a little vegetable oil in a skillet over high heat & brown the steak, 2-3 minutes a side.
Combine steak with basil, cilantro, onion & dressing.
Serve on a leaf of green lettuce with cabbage, tomatoes & cucumber. 
 
Serves 8-10 as a side salad, or 4-5 as an entrée.
 
Can be served hot or room temperature.
 
*Tenderloin, sirloin, top loin work best. 
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Silver Hair Blues

9/13/2018

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On this eve before my 57th birthday, I trail my fingers across the flat area of my chest, contemplating what the next year will bring, and searching for signs of The Return of the Silver Hair.
 
A couple of months ago I was in my bathroom sprucing myself up before leaving for dinner with some friends, when something happened that caused me to gasp. Out loud; GOL (Is that a thing?). Positioned in natural light, with the sun coming in through the window, I caught a glint of silver on my chest near the strap of my tank top. I picked at it with my fingers, thinking it was a thread, but it was too fine, and slipped away. I pinched at it again. But wait. Did I feel a faint pull on my skin? Was it one of Joe’s silver fox hairs stuck to me with hair product, perhaps, just above my heart? I thought with a whiff of romance. With dawning horror, twisting my chest this way and that in the mirror, I found it again in the sunlight. I grabbed it with my sturdy (red and fun!) tweezers and pulled. A tiny tent of skin appeared below. It was indeed a silver hair, but it was mine. A good two-inches long.
​Growing. Out. Of. My. Chest. GOL!

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Now, I’m no stranger to errant hairs sprouting up in various places on my aging body. I am riddled with moles, after all. The moles on my face require diligent maintenance, lest I become like that sweet old lady friend of my grandma’s who had wispy white hairs flowing from her chin beneath her dentured-smile, distracting my 6-year-old self to no end. The once stiff, black hairs poking out of the ‘beauty marks’ above my lip and on my pointy chin are now softer, and a beautiful, shining silvery white, not unfriendly, even (and I have to admit upon my begrudging acceptance of their appearance one winter morn, inspired a potential holiday card idea: ‘Silver Hairs. Silver Hairs. It’s Christmas time on the chinny.’ Sing it with me!). Still, the constant fear of waking one morning and encountering Cthulhu in the bathroom mirror is real.
 
But back to the singular silver chest hair. My breasts are somewhat far apart, but I've found the wide flat expanse of chest between is perfect for displaying, say, jewelry statement pieces, which also serve as a pleasant distraction from one of the other ravishes of time displayed on my body, the wrinkles and scars running down my chest like rivulet patterns in the sand. (Here, I am behooved to share a brief PSA about the importance of using sunscreen, or covering up your damn chest when you go to a Renaissance Faire and are feeling free and wild in the Land of Bosoms and Cleavage on a hot August day when the mead is flowing and you don’t possess the sense to buy a parasol until you start to feel the burn.) It seemed cruel of nature to plant, and successfully grow, something on this already blemished, yet heretofore hairless field!
 
Anyway, a couple weeks ago I found another single glistening hair had replaced the other. It turns out that it was not a freak, one-time event, but the cave’s mouth to a silver mine. Understandably, since then I’ve developed a sly habit of sliding my hand over my skin in a Braille search of the portal so I can nip it in the bud this time around. So far, so good. But, as I said, I wonder what my new year will bring?

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Lechaim! To Life, and to Love.

7/26/2018

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Union, Washington: Home of Rudy the Truck-Driving Goat, according to a brochure in our cabin, (and not to be confused with Prudence the Boat-Driving Stoat, which is not a real thing, unless you’re driving along making up songs after you heard about Rudy). The area is located along the deep saltwater fjord of Hood Canal, known for its abundance of shellfish, and where on a hot day in mid-July the one beach not covered in discarded oyster shells is packed with sun-seekers, and colorful umbrellas sprout from the sand like giant mushrooms in Wonderland. It is also the location of my first Jewish wedding.
 
The marriage ceremony was in the afternoon, held outside near the water on the lawn of the beautiful Alderbrook resort, the view of the Olympic Mountains and Hood Canal almost as stunning as the bride and groom. (Almost. I need to mention the bride is my husband’s little sister, and her dimples-to-die-for inherited from their father could be seen by all as they stood and faced each other.) As the besotted couple engaged in their marriage ceremony in the bower of the chuppah, (the traditional Jewish wedding canopy) the guests sat baking in the sun in their formal wear – lots of blacks, and tuxes and woolen suits, and all the men in yamakas (or yarmulkes, but I’m going with the no-doubt bastardization just so the non-Jews know how to pronounce it). The bright orange hand fans provided were flitting like butterflies (or as the bride used to say when she was about 4, ‘flutterbys’) in various degrees of flight; some frantic, some loopy and lazy, some barely moving in a daze from the heat, Zen-like. Wasps were attracted to our saltiness, and I secretly hoped one would land on a neck or bare shoulder in front of me so I could stun it with a flick of my fan, an amazing ninja move that would make me The Heroine of Aisle Two. If we weren’t actually crying from being moved by the rabbi’s sincere tenor intonations, or the way the groom’s eyes never left his bride, or the amazing, intimate essays they wrote for one another further professing their love, we looked as if we were, as we all lifted our sunglasses to wipe away the rivulets of sweat streaking down our faces. At one point I felt a large dollop of moisture on my spine where I was amazed there was enough space in my dress for it to be able to move. As I concentrated on the lovely words the rabbi was reading I multi-tasked, following the drip’s progress down my back where it slipped over a particularly itchy mosquito bite I’d received the previous evening before being absorbed by my dress somewhere around my tailbone. The backs of my knees were gushing, and I was sure there was a pool forming beneath my chair, so that when I stood I would sink into a quicksand of Lori-sweat and sandy grass.
 
After the I-do’s were declared  – followed perfectly by the husband and wife’s Corgi’s joyous bark of approval – and the glass was smashed (which I heard, rather than saw, as the photographer knelt in front to capture it, blocking the view for the bride’s side; not to complain, but oy vey!), I peeled my thighs from my chair and scrambled for the shade. Drinks followed, and then a delicious dinner sprinkled with heartfelt toasts, and heartier Mazel Tovs and Lechaims. The groom’s grandfather was quoted as saying “I feel like a rich man tonight,” and indeed, I believe we were all feeling that way. There were tears of the sincere variety, there was laughter, and afterwards there was dancing.
 
Oh the dancing! We were summoned inside for the first dance, which morphed into a hora, (which is not quite like this, but how cool, yes?), all with traditional Jewish wedding music, and I suddenly found myself clasping hands in a group encircling the bride and groom, and we were off! Around and around we went, rushing forward arms raised, and back, breaking the circle to add more revelers, or shake off the tired or thirsty ones like a friendly crack-the-whip game. Soon, there were the chair rides, as I liked to call them, but officially part of the hora as well, and really a chair ‘dance,’ where first the bride, then the groom were hoisted into the air by assorted virile young men, yamakas still in place, suit jackets long stripped off, and bobbed up and down to cheers and more dancing. Next came the bride’s mother, then father, then the groom’s mother, then father, then my husband’s oldest brother who walked the bride down the aisle; all bucking in the air! I loved it all! This was how weddings are supposed to be! A raucous celebration of love and joy; all smiles and laughter. I was hoping I could have a ride, but saw the men were tired, and rightfully so, so I gave them a break and suppressed my desire of a Jewish rodeo fantasy. Look ma, no hands!
 
There was a moment where the groom dropped to the ground and started to do the Hopak, what I always thought of as the Cossack Dance, where you cross your arms and kick your legs out in front of you while squatting, Fiddler on the Roof-style, or like the soldiers in the Nutcracker. I used to pride myself on being able to do this rather athletic dance as a kid, and even recall a quick version in my kitchen not many years ago, and my dancing soul was piqued as I stomped and clapped and the groom kicked away. I wanted to join in. But just as the thought entered my slightly drunken head, I rolled my ankle. Simply standing there, in my retro 40s-look chunky heels. I tried to shake it off, and limped out of the room to a quieter zone, where the guest book lay open next to a pile of the shining white guest yamakas. I may have been saved from the embarrassment of my wee, thick, late-fifties legs kicking out from beneath my Calvin Klein dress like a dwarf Cossack before I fell back on my chastened butt, but there was nothing stopping me from clipping a couple yamakas onto said dress over my breasts like a perfect-fitting bra, posing for a couple pictures, and dashing about secretively on my swollen ankle (can that really be done?) showing them to select people to make them laugh while avoiding the groom’s very Jewish mother. As I like to say, I haven’t been struck by lightening yet.
 
In the last year I’ve been to three different weddings/commitment ceremonies: A church wedding, a pagan hand-fasting ceremony (also a first!), and this last weekend the Jewish wedding. All were beautiful, and different in certain ways, but there was one common denominator: that look exchanged between the bride and groom as they faced each other, holding hands. We, the friends and family, didn’t exist to them. There was no minister, spiritual priestess, or rabbi near them, leading them through the ritual. Just each other, and a deep, pure love that was almost too intimate to observe. Thank you my friends, for sharing your moments. Mazel Tov!
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Disaster Nipped in the Bud

5/11/2018

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Our master bath has this horrible shower door, one of those things that’s been broken so long you just get used to it being the way it is, Gerry rigging it with whatever is to-hand, because the only way to fix it is to do a total renovation.
 
It’s one of those folding doors where you push on the center and it opens – which the cat has figured out and gives her happy access to the “special” shower water that is left behind for her personal sipping pleasure. When you’re in the shower, you simply push the middle again, from the inside, and it shuts, theoretically, for the duration of your shower.
 
However, our door is missing a brace that straddled the top of the bending portion of the door, so that it doesn’t stay closed. Who knows where the missing piece went; maybe it was never there. We used a sturdy rubber band from a bunch of asparagus for a while, which disappeared while I was away for a couple of weeks recently, and was replaced by my ever-resourceful/creative husband, Joe, with a wooden chopstick, which when slammed into the door slot provides enough of a seal for the door to remain closed. Unless, that is, you put any sort of pressure on the inner shower wall, like say, when you lean your back against it to shave your legs – admittedly, not that often; it is barely spring after all – and you brace your leg on the opposite wall for easy access for shaving. Then the bloody door pops open abruptly, bashing your leg, and sending the chopstick flying, almost certainly outside the shower where you have to step out to retrieve it, dripping all over the floor. But still, it’s mostly just an annoyance, nothing life-threatening. And typically, the second you step out of the shower, your curses washing down the drain behind you, the irritation is forgotten until the next time.
 
Until today. It’s supposed to be sunny this weekend in the Pacific Northwest, so I decided to shave my hairy Hobbit legs, anticipating modest exposure. And of course, the door buckled open when I assumed my desired shaving pose. I carefully repositioned the chopstick and leaned my body in to slam the door shut, aware at the last second that one of my fresh pencil eraser-sized nipples was brushing against the closing jaws of the middle portion of the door, barely escaping being pinched off. Whereupon I immediately played out a “What if?” scenario in my head, where the door did nip it off, I quickly bandage my blood-spouting breast, recover the nipple  and wisely, calmly fill a container with ice to carry it to the ER, where I’m hoping they can reattach the little bugger, like a toe or finger. If they can’t, I think of alternatives: a prosthetic silicone nipple, a shiny studded piercing, or a bionic one that glows. And changes colors. Maybe a large X tattooed over the missing protuberance? Anything, really, to avoid the inevitable song-in-the-making I can hear Joe working on, something upbeat, toe-tapping, with a banjo, along the lines of “Lori, my love, my one-nippled gal…” 
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Shorelandia's Popping-up With Pianos

8/18/2017

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​Yesterday I ventured out from my cozy niche of Shorelandia on a quest to visit and photograph all the pianos in this year’s outdoor Pop-up Piano exhibit. It was a classic Pacific NW summer day, in the mid-seventies, and (sorry, have to do it), the bluest skies you've ever seen!
​The first I hunted down was in a sort of Asian enclave, near a great little Banh Mi shop I know. The greens and blues of this piano piece have a distinct local feel about it; from lily ponds to the Puget Sound, a ferry, and the looming Olympic mountains.
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​Not a piano, but a sweet little scooter nearby, and my heart felt a jerk of sadness and longing from my own scooter days of yore.
The second piano I tracked down was within walking distance in front of a pho restaurant, but somehow it was easier to do a couple of creative U-turns to get across the street. I asked permission to take this woman’s picture, who didn’t speak a word of English and I assumed was Vietnamese, and since the only Vietnamese I know is a) nearly non-existent, and b) questionable (my dad taught us kids a couple of slang words when he got back from being stationed in Vietnam, and I’m skeptical if what he interpreted as “Good grief!” is really as benign as it sounds…), but through a few simple gestures we got through it. She’s not smiling in the picture, but she was the rest of the time. 
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I’m rather fond of the walrussy-squid, who reminds me of Harry Potter’s Uncle Vernon.

I have to say this one didn’t do much for me. Don’t paint me unpatriotic, but I’m not a huge fan of red, white and blue together, commemorative plates, or stars and stripes Americana stuff, unless it’s music. That said….Mark Twain plate! And I confess that the Navy blue with red stars brought to mind a satiny material I begged my mother to make into a long, apron-like dress for me when I was about 11, and I had plans to wear it and form a folk-rock duo with my best friend; her on piano, me on guitar. At least I got the dress.
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I worked close to this neighborhood, Sunset Community Garden, for over 10 years yet didn’t know about it. There was a fabulous view from where I parked, and a lush, fertile, well-tended community garden I waded through with my camera on the way to the piano. The sky, after nearly two weeks of smoke from the forest fires in BC, was blessedly blue, and an ideal background for sunflowers. I’m all about masks, Harlequins and theater, so found this piano light-hearted and fun. It also expressed the sense of community I felt in the park.
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This piano outside Richmond Beach Library was being played, so before I asked the young man if it was okay to take his picture I walked around, taking in the view, and snapped some shots of the orca sculptures. 
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This one at Sky Nursery seemed like it was in an appropriate location. I really liked the patina, but thought it a shame there weren’t real chickens in there. (Not really!) Well, maybe a little.
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Now that I think about it, this Oz piano located along a portion of the Interurban Trail is also quite apropos. Look, there's red brick behind it!
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I'm pretty sure this flying monkey is dancing in the air to Uptown Funk.

This beautiful grand piano was the only one indoors for this outdoor exhibit. It was warm-looking and lovely, but obviously lacked the spontaneous I-just-happened-upon-a-funky-piano vibe. 
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These creepy guys are watching over the piano, too.
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Wonderland was the last of the nine on my circuit, closest to my home, and my favorite. So playful! There was other creative art there, too.
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The last picture I shot was of this sign, nestled in amongst the art here in Ridgecrest. Perfect ending to my safari, I'd say.  Which piano is your favorite?
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Hail Britannia!

8/7/2017

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​I’ve officially psychologically entered the Realm of Middle Age. The turning point? A couple months ago I was visiting my parents, and my mother fetches this dress. Now, wandering off innocently and returning with some random item she would like to give me (like a cat might do, now that I think about it) is nothing new – for years now she’ll disappear and come out with say, a bean crock with matching bowls that belonged to her mother that she’d like me to have. It’s cute, it’s sentimental, and I believe a sneaky, be it slow, way of getting rid of over 60 years of the accumulated detritus of life. I imagine every time she got into the passenger side of the Caddy in the garage as she reached for her seatbelt she saw the bean pot sitting on the shelf, squat, brown and toad-like, and wondered when she last made baked beans from scratch, instead of simply ‘doctoring-up’ a can of Bush’s by adding ketchup, brown sugar, and garlic powder. (I’ve long suspected my parents have been sticking Post-It notes on the backs of and under items throughout the house with my brother’s, sister’s and my names on them. Next time I visit I need to check, and maybe switch some around to my advantage.)
 
I’m not adverse to hand-me-downs. When I was in middle-school my mother would get clothes from her friend that her daughter out-grew. The daughter was Alice, a year ahead of me in school, tall, with easy confidence, thick black hair that was past her slender waist, a smile that dazzled in contrast to her dark brown Guamanian skin, and clothes that were the epitome of teenage cool in the early Seventies. She was the opposite of my chubby, freckled, matted blonde-haired self, and I longed to be like her. So, when I was handed a stack of her shirts, or a pair of soft, purple bell-bottoms with multi-colored braided trim on the bottom, it was like I was being given the garments from a goddess. Celestial choirs sang! And with a little creative hemming on my mother’s part, I could wear the pants! At this time we were living on a Navy base in Japan where my father was stationed, and I spent many hours devouring the JC Penney’s and Sears catalogs we would get to see what kids back in the States were wearing. The jeans I was usually forced to wear were from these catalogs, in a maroon denim material, that was rough and unfriendly, and in the humiliating size of Husky, the Plus-size equivalent for chubby pre-pubescent girls, thank you very much.
 
When I was in high school in Oak Harbor, Washington, I “slimmed-down” as my mother put it, and I was finally old enough to receive hand-me-downs from my sister, eight years older than I, and also someone I looked up to as a glamorous thin goddess, and sometimes-radical role model. I remember with fondness a light pink tee-shirt with an embroidered white rose placed just above my heart she gave me, that hugged all the right places and showed off my lately-bloomed breasts, and looked totally sweet with the one pair of jeans I owned that weren’t generic from the Navy Exchange, but Britannia’s – just like the enviable kids in Seattle were wearing. The pants were so tight it was hard to get my hand in the pocket for my pink-tinted cherry-flavored Chapstick, and the hem just barely skimmed the ground when I wore my fake leather and wooden clogs. I was foxy!
 
My sister moved out of the area when I was in college, so that clothing source was lost for a while, but my grandmother lived with my parents at that time, and she was a hoarder of the first degree, saving dresses and shoes she wore from as far back as the 1940’s. With her permission I pawed through her boxes and unearthed some lovely vintage pieces, already hemmed because we were pretty much the same height, and only needing a few simple tucks at the waist for alteration. She had also kept all of my grandfather’s ties, and I plucked out a few skinny ones to wear with my button-downs and vests for my preppy-look days. There were glorious high-heeled shoes, too, of the 40’s Starlet variety, but positively dainty at size 5½, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t cram my 6½ foot into them. They were left to languish in their original shoeboxes, never to dance again.
 
But back to the dress my mother brought out. It was a floor-length formal, with a layered look to it, in a royal blue shining polyester material, tags still on it, and shoulder pads. (My eyelids slowly folded up into a skeptical squint just typing “shoulder pads.”) She said she bought it back when she and my father were thinking of going on a cruise with their friends, which never happened, and I figure must have been 15 years previously, if I’m being generous, so maybe 20 years ago? You have to understand, my mother has never offered me clothing of hers because, a) she’s half-a-foot taller than I am, and b) until the last year I wasn’t….husssssssky enough. But this was in a size my mother hasn’t worn in, as I said, at least 20 years, and a size I’ve recently discovered is, if sometimes a bit loose, admittedly quite comfortable…to my jaw-clenching chagrin. So, I humor her, and my new sister-in-law who is sitting on the sofa and looks like a Hollywood housewife – a perfect doll of a woman no matter what time of day or night – and encouraging me to “just try it on” (is she smirking?) as I gracefully try to extract myself from doing just that, and go and try it on.
 
It fit like a dream, like I was on America’s Short Husky Top Model and it was made for me. The blue offset my red hair and fair skin like a Renoir painting, and it wasn’t even dragging on the floor, no doubt due to the height of the shoulder pads, but still! So, I took it. And it now hangs in my closet, sans shoulder pads, reminding me that I’ve checked my ticket on the Middle Age Train, and, well, I’m rolling with it. In style.

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Adventures in Toiletland

1/16/2017

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For the last month the toilet in the main bathroom has been hissing like an angry snake. I’ve asked Joe a couple times to take a look, but he has a bad case of Tinnitus and can’t even hear it, so forgets. So, since I'm home alone all day I decided to fix it myself.
 
First I remove the top of the tank and see it is indeed an angry snake in the form of a defective valve, spitting water at the lid of the tank, and also my face as I peer in to see where the source is. And even though it’s not toilet bowl water, it is water from the toilet, so, yeah, TOILET WATER IN MY FACE!
 
I venture to one of our fix-it-yourself box-stores and purchase what I need to replace. I return home and heat up a cup of coffee, and add some Bailey’s as a treat to make up for the TOILET WATER IN MY FACE, and read the instructions, or ‘directives’ as they say in Britain, or ‘destructions’ as we sometimes say in our house. There are only six steps, but I notice there are multiple steps under each number, a) b) c), so really there are…21 steps. I take a sip of my Bailey’s coffee. The paper says I will need a bucket, but it’s too cold to go outside to get one, so I grab a plastic mixing bowl and head for the bathroom, instructions and coffee in hand.


  1. A) Turn off water supply. B) Flush to drain water. C) Place bucket/mixing bowl. Check.
  2. A) Disconnect water supply.
I try loosening the…thing…with my fingers, then sigh because I was hoping to skip “May need: Wrench” – it’s like they knew! I go to the junk drawer and rustle about for a wrench. Pliers, pliers, and more pliers. Rubber bands so old they disintegrate in my fingers when I pick them up. Bags of silver and blue Stars of David leftover from the Hanukkah dinner I made for friends distract me with their dazzle for a moment or two. I decide to move them to the craft area of a closet, then brace myself for the trek to the shed. It’s dank and messy, and hard to maneuver past the half-finished projects, and a Mobile Bloody Mary cart. Really. I hold my breath as I listen for animal squatters. After my eyes adjust to the dimness, I stare at the pegboard wall and see all manner of rusty, sinister looking tools, a pile of pliers –needle nose, snub-nose shark, pliers that could snip your finger off, we have them all – half-hidden amongst discarded sandpaper and such, but no wrenches. But wait! What’s that hiding behind a bag of wood chips? An impressive specimen of a wrench! I grab that big boy and skeedadle the heck out of that horror show!
 
Back in the bathroom, I roll up my sleeves, kneel on the floor and take the wrench to the…nut, that’s what it is. I murmur the Universal Loosening Incantation: Left is loose, right is tight.  But I’m sort of upside down, so is this really right? Correct? After some experimentation, leverage proves to be my friend, and victory is mine! The hose is disconnected! I stand to stretch and give myself a congratulatory sip of Bailey’s coffee and realize a) the hose must have uncoiled and popped its head out of the not-bucket-but-the-mixing bowl and b) the water must not have been all the way off, because there is a pool of water on the other side of the toilet rapidly spreading to the hallway, toward the Kleenex box I moved off the top of the tank, and the notebook I write in for times such as these when I think something half-way interesting might just happen. I jump to the linen closet in the hall for a trashy towel reserved for disasters large and small, and throw it down onto the lake like I’m smothering a fire, and move the sneaky leaking hose to the bowl. I move the tissue box and my partially-damp notebook into another room to spread its smudged pages over a heating vent.
 
The rest of the process goes without a hitch, and I’m happy to say that unless the toilet is flushing, or filling up afterward, it’s blessedly quiet. I clean up and think they do need to add a couple of suggestions to the ‘May Need’ line on their instructions, though: Towels, and a stiff cup of coffee.
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Viva Velveeta

1/3/2017

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New Year’s Eve we went to a party hosted by our friend who is a pastry chef. He and his wife went all-out. They had a bar set up with specialty New Year’s drinks, handmade fancy chocolates labeled and displayed in multi-tiered serving dishes, pulled pork mole sliders, expensive stinky cheeses, pastries and cookies, and shot glasses filled with tapioca topped with apricot sauce and an elaborate decorative chocolate swirl. But the most popular item on the table was hands-down the cheese dip on the corner next to the Lay’s potato chips. The chef’s wife kept disclaiming it; she was embarrassed: “It’s not real cheese! It was popular in Hawaii when we were there last week, so I wanted to try it…” But to a child of the 60’s and 70’s such as myself, I instantly recognized the shiny melted goodness of Velveeta. It was something my brother, sister or I would have snuck out of our bedrooms for during one of our parents' parties, competing with the French onion dip. I was thinking of taking a picture of the entire lavish table, but my hand was busy dipping chips into that pot of glistening golden goo. All labels of being a Foodie were left at the door that night as we warmed our hands by the pool of nostalgia that was the Velveeta Ro Tel dip. I felt no shame.
 
While I was growing up our fridge shelf was never empty of that infamous yellow box of Velveeta (though I’ve since learned it is shelf-stable – you don’t need to refrigerate until opened; part of that “cheese product” feature; preservatives, preservatives and more preservatives), and we were taught a very specific way to treat the loaf. My OCD Daddy instructed us to cut the protective foil about two-inches from the end to form a T, with a thin, sharp bladed knife, so one could fold down the two sides neatly. Then, using the special cheese cutter with the roller and thin wire, that lives in my 83-year-old mother's kitchen drawer to this day, we would slice straight down, applying even pressure all the way. The orange color was so sunny, the jiggly-but-firm slice so melty and satisfying the way it stuck to your teeth like peanut butter. We ate it with sandwiches of all kinds; one of my dad’s specialties being fried Spam on white bread with Velveeta and ketchup. (I also remember being very young and my dad feeding me a white bread, margarine and sugar sandwich as a snack before my mom got home from work…I think even at 5 I inherently knew it was a bad thing to eat, the sugar crunching between my baby teeth like sand. Years later I saw a Peanuts cartoon where Linus eats a bowl of cereal but realizes it’s just sugar, and his face is priceless, with circles around his eyes and his mouth a jagged EKG line of shocked disgust).
 
One of my favorite things about Velveeta, however, was the box it came in. The top fit so nicely over the bottom, whooshing out a gentle farting puff of air as it settled down. When I was about 9 and my parakeet, Pete, died, the box was the perfect coffin. I was no doubt disproportionately excited to see how nicely my bird fit, but then, you may recall the OCD Daddy and not be surprised. To this day whenever I see any form of Velveeta I fondly recall Pete.
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Holiday Hijinks

12/21/2016

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This is a cheater post, as the event was actually two years ago, and I orginally posted on Facebook. Now, I'm about to attend the same party in two days time, so I thought it might be fun to reminisce.

While attending a Christmas party at an internationally-known nature photographer’s showcase home, filled with his friends, other celebrities, associates and other work-related folk, and quite well-off patrons of the arts:
 
-It’s crowded and I gently place my hand on a stranger’s shoulder and softly say excuse me as I slide around him, but am halted by the heavenly softness of cashmere beneath my palm. Being of the Heavily Tactile Tribe I turn back and pet the sleeve of his sweater, swaying happily, eyes closed, purring that it’s soooo soft, calming endorphins filling me, until I see he’s not appreciating my attention, nor is the classily-clad woman talking to him, and their coldness attacks me as I stumble my apologies, backing away in confusion, never encountering this type of reaction, as in my opinion if you’re going to wear something furry, or soft like cashmere, it’s an open invitation to be touched. By lil’ ol’ non-threatening me.
 
-Joe’s talking photography to another guest we’ve just met, and I step over to get some Chex Mix, because no Christmas party is complete without it, and I pop some in my mouth and face in to the conversation just as one of the little salty squares drops into my cleavage. Neither notices, but for the next five minutes while nodding and participating all I can think about is if the greasy little toasted treat is leaving a stain on my bitchin’ shantung silk-looking (Praise Polyester!) party dress. As soon as we’re left alone I embrace Joe while darting my hand down into the void and retrieve the rogue snack. I eat it, no one else the wiser.
 
-If you’re going to stand in front of me and load your plate up with four (4) brownies, and I flash a warm and charming smile at you and teasingly ask you Mae West-style how many of those you’re planning to eat, I expect playful banter back. Not a deadpan, dead-face “Four.” Grumpy old man. What’s a girl gotta do for a smile around here?
 
-When a picture of an endless sea of Japanese men clad only in loincloths pops up in the slide show, our host tells us they’re in a mad competition to find two phallic objects hidden in the arena so they’ll have good luck the rest of the year. I say under my breath “Been there, done that” and the woman next to me bursts-out laughing. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
 
-I’m on the outskirts of a circle of people, and Joe’s feeding me a bite of something fancy and delicious and I realize I’ve placed the spike of my heel into the heating grate. I pull up my foot and the grate comes. Out. Of. The. Floor. Hilarity ensues as Joe uses his foot to push the grate back and I wiggle my foot free. Sometimes my life is like an I Love Lucy episode…
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Catalina Noir

11/30/2016

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For an indulgent treat yesterday I ate a couple of servings, maybe a few, of Chili Cheese Fritos, which resulted in having heartburn so bad that when I got into bed I couldn’t sleep. As I rolled around uncomfortably, I was reminded of how I shouldn’t eat that kind of stuff, and should be getting more exercise, and maybe lay off the ice tea after 7, but you know, it tasted so good! I finally got up for an antacid, placing the calcium communion disc on my tongue where it began to dissolve, accompanied by the curious echoing sound of dwarves chipping away in the mines – the antacid was clicking loudly against my night guard, apparently of its own accord. Meanwhile, Joe twitched and snored away next to me, content as Old Yeller. I started thinking of calling him Old Silver. (Uncharitably, as I love Joe’s silver hair – he’s a damn handsome man! Which always leads me to that X-files episode where Michael McKean/Fletcher Freaky-Friday’s – I know! I used a movie title as a verb! – Mulder’s body and looks in the mirror and says, “You’re a damn handsome man!”) But just in my head. At night, when I can’t sleep, and he can.
 
I felt like maybe I’d be slipping into dreamtime soon when the name of a salad dressing that was escaping both of us during a dinnertime discussion of the iceberg lettuce salads our mothers used to make regularly when we were young popped into my head. I rose from bed and tiptoed into the bathroom where I did a slow motion, super sneaky quiet ninja search for the dry erase marker I use to write on the mirror sometimes. I wanted to let Joe know I had remembered the name, and that I had been wrong at my insistence earlier that it was simply French dressing. It was a futile search. I tried several different items at hand, including a peachy lip liner, green eyeliner, and mood-lipstick that changes colors when you put it on that I won as a prize for winning a costume contest at a long-ago spy party, but none was showing up legibly on the mirror. Finally my eyes dropped to the soap in front of me. I scrawled “Catalina” on the mirror at what I guessed was eye-level for Joe. As I donned a robe and headed for the living room to read until I got sufficiently tired, I hope he realizes what I mean when he sees it, and isn’t thinking of a scary movie moment, discordant knife-wielding music soaring as he squints at the ghostly word in his sleepy state, and believes that when he found my spot in bed empty I was abducted and this was my last desperate clue. Because that’s the obvious conclusion I would jump to at 6 in the morning. Oh, what Chili Cheese Fritos will do…
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The Green Lanyard

11/11/2016

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I suited-up Monday morning by tying on a bright orange Home Depot-style apron with a picture of Martin Luther King, Jr. and King County Elections printed on it over my jacket.  This was topped off with a huge and boxy one-size-fits-most-but-I’m-swimming-in-this-thing fluorescent green traffic vest, and a green lanyard dangling my name on a badge. I was perhaps overly happy that I had orange tennis shoes and earrings to match my outfit. Suddenly, I was transformed from pasty little desk troll to The Green Lanyard! AKA Customer Service Specialist I, trained to help you with all your voting questions, ready to guide you to the Ballot Box with a friendly non-partisan smile! Step right up, ladies and gents, democracy this way! Thank you, thank you, and have a great day!
 
Some post voting observations:
 
-After two grievous gender-identity mishaps I persuaded my ballot-gathering partner to drop his cheerful “Thank you, Lady!” and “Thank you, Sir!” and just go with a simple Thank you!
 
-The process of democracy would be much speedier if people refrained from taking selfies in front of the ballot box, shoving the ballot through the slot, because simply telling people you voted is not enough proof.
 
-That said, selfies were totally understandable for the first-time voters. And the woman who came dressed up as Wonder Woman. I should have had my picture taken with her, come to think of it…
 
-Most of Tuesday I wore a square bag with a ballot slot on top, so I could take ballots from folks driving up. The bag was HUGE! I walked, pranced and danced around like a blue SpongeBob, the weight of the ballots bouncing against my shins. Sometimes I pounded it like a drum. It was a very long day.
 
-I saw one person kissing their envelope before dropping it in the box, and another praying.
 
-I developed a little OCD habit of double-tapping the top of my ballot bag after I dropped in someone’s envelope; a little visual reassurance that their vote was cast. “Ballots? Thank you!” (tap tap) After I first started doing it I had to do it every time. Quirky much?
 
-I was surprised at how many adults asked for “I Voted” stickers. We were not supplied with any to give out, however I improvised and provided hugs if they wanted them. They were well received.

-Best drive-up drop: King County Metro Bus. By the driver. 
 
-There were several people who were skeptical of the safety of their ballot in the (thick steel, locally-made) box: “There’s not a shredder inside, is there?” “What if someone took a hose and filled the box?” “Or shoved ice cream into the slot?” “It’s going to be guarded over night, right?”
 
-Midday on Tuesday a Sheriff came to join our crew of four and one State Trooper, just in case we needed help with traffic and such. I couldn’t help sauntering up and greeting him with a hearty “Howdy, Sheriff!” I’ve always wanted to do that.
 
-As we neared 8PM on Tuesday, I was getting a little punch-drunk from smiling and being helpful all day. I asked the Sheriff if I could use his Taser the next time someone asked me if the voting was rigged. I got a nice smile from him, but no Taser. I could tell he admired my initiative and wished he had me on the Force. One can read a lot in a smile.
 
-The location of our box was within smelling distance of Dick’s, Seattle’s famous burger joint. Their exhaust fans were wafting the alternately tantalizing and nauseous odor of French fries directly our way.
 
-There was also a pervasive skunky odor in the general neighborhood. Ah, Washington!
 
-My favorite question?  When a twenty-something man came up to me with a puzzled look on his face and asked “What’s going on here?” Since I was wearing that bright orange King County Elections apron, and a giant blue bag that said the same, people were walking by to deposit their envelopes in a clearly marked Ballot Box in several languages, and it was, you know, November 8th, you can perhaps forgive me for pausing a moment while I looked into his face for signs of trickery. I may have squinted my eyes. I may have sniffed him a little for skunky traces.
 
-Bucket List item fulfilled: When the ballot box was locked up and sealed, and we were all hugging and saying goodbye, I asked Tom the State Trooper if I could give him a hug. He complied and I couldn’t help but say “Is that a pistol, or are you just glad to see me?” It was a pistol.
​
 


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Slow Mo Nanowrimo

11/2/2016

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Day 2 of Nanowrimo: National Novel Writing Month.
 
When I woke up this morning I decided to put aside the fresh new novel I started to write yesterday, and return to one I started a couple of years ago. So after breakfast, coffee mug in hand, full of fresh Writerly Resolve, I go to sit at my desk in the office nook with my laptop and realize the big and bulky computer is taking up too much room, yet I have to decide where to put it. I think the closet in the guest room might be a great place, so I go in and see the pirate costumery from Saturday’s Halloween party piled on the steamer trunk at the end of the bed, which needs to be swept up and taken to the basement, so I do. Then when I dump the pirate items on a bench to be put in with all the costume stuff later (in bins that are stashed too high for me to reach safely) I notice a long-neglected lamp on the floor, that looks so sad – damn that cute animated Pixar lamp! I feel sorry that we have no use for it anymore, and I decide I need to gift it on Buy Nothing Shoreline where it can have new, more loving owners, so I bring it upstairs, clean it up so the brass and marble shine, and take a picture so I can post it later. After all my writing, you know?
 
I go back into the guest room where I’m still planning to put the old computer, and I notice a decidedly crooked painting on the wall, so I reach to straighten it, whereupon it falls behind the dresser. I realize that the mysterious shifting sound we heard last night when we were in the living room but were too lazy to investigate, buried as we were in pillows and S.H.I.E.L.D, must have been this little painting pulling itself off the sticky-mount on the wall! I pull the dresser out to retrieve the painting and it’s all dusty from its descent, so I get the flashlight and see it's scarier than shit back there, like it’s seriously Shelob’s vacation lair, and now I have to vacuum behind the dresser, holding a small flashlight in my teeth like a detective, trying not to gag and jabbing the long extension in like a weapon.
 
Next I rearrange the closet so I can drag the chest (that had all the pirate gear on it, remember?) in and see that the foot of the bed is now looking kind of empty and cold, so I move the little sheepskin rug there. Now it looks good in the guestroom except for my son’s sleeping bag I took out of the closet and put on top of the bed. Nicely folded, but still. I go back to the office nook and write a note that I need to call him to see if he wants it. I record some notes on my phone to myself at how ridiculous this morning is going, and I notice the big computer is still sitting there on the desk, mocking me. After all that I decide the computer shouldn't be going into the closet in the guestroom to most likely die, but instead should go to the basement where it can possibly be used. I go back downstairs to ponder location. I scoop the cat box. I come back up, disconnect the computer and place it next to the pirate loot on the bench.
 
Now some untidy papers and such are visible on the desk, so I sort through and file some, recycle some others. The recycle bin needs emptying so I take it to the big bin outside and on the way back one of the few valiant dahlias that graced us with their presence this year attracts my eye with a flash of red in the gray rain, and I think it would look lovely in the stone vase on my desk, so I come back in and get the snippers. After the flower is in the vase, I decide the crudely-welded cube that holds the Sharpies and fat pens I separated a while ago from the normal pens because I didn’t want them intermingling, is bad Feng shui and search around for a suitable replacement. I drag the step stool out of the pantry and retrieve a beautiful enameled red Chinese mug from above the kitchen cupboards. Now, with everything to my liking I sit upon my velvet cushion in my vintage wooden rocking office chair, turn on my laptop, rock back, and…my stomach growls!
 
Despite the setbacks of the day I did get some notes organized, re-acquainted myself with my story, did some editing, and used some previously written material for today’s word count. Plus, I wrote a post for the blog. And the house looks great!

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The "That Day We Were Finally Going to Have My Sister’s Retirement Party Storm"

10/15/2016

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​Survival. Since the first whispered storm forecasts for the Pacific NW I’ve been bulking up on carbs, throwing cautionary calories to the pending wind. The instinct kicks in every time the weather gets threatening; like a squirrel I’ve been running around stuffing my cheeks with popcorn, that bit of leftover bread I used for making croutons for the French Onion soup I made on Monday, dipping into the bag of chips I got as a treat for Joe, but he keeps forgetting about. If things get truly dire, I’ll be able to survive for weeks on fat reserves alone.

The other night we roamed the grocery aisles foraging for non-perishable goods to stock our pantry. It was no easy task for someone who makes most things from scratch, who shops the perimeters of the store – produce, dairy and meat – scooping happily away in the bulk section for dried lentils, grains and the like. Joe turned his nose up at canned chili and stew. Instead, we’ll make hummus from garbanzo or black beans, (we have tahini and lemons, right?!) using the new food mill (I recently got with my Amazon gift certificate – insert fist pump here) instead of the food processor. We patted ourselves on the back at how resourceful we were. We stared at a mind-numbing variety of boxes of granola bars alongside a woman doing the same thing. “Shopping for the storm?” she said. When we dumbly nodded she laughed. “I think it’s just an excuse to get chocolate!”
 
We bought fudgy bite-sized brownies. They were mostly gone before the first phase of the storm was over.
 
We bought 20 cans of cat food. For the cat. It was a really great deal, what can I say? I was self-conscious the cashier might think it was for us, though. If she saw how I gag every time I open a can she’d think differently. Of course, if it really were an apocalypse? Maybe she thought we were planning to fatten the cat for future roasting! Maybe I watch and read too many dystopian movies and novels.
 
I hear there’s no name for this storm, as it’s really three converging together, so I’m dubbing it That Day We Were Finally Going to Have My Sister’s Retirement Party Storm. If the power is out for any significant length of time, we’ve got 30 fat brats (bratwurst sausages, not disagreeable children) in the beer fridge downstairs meant for above-mentioned once-postponed, once-canceled party that will have to be cooked. Our corner of Shorelandia will be smelling delicious!
In the meantime, as I sit safe, cozy, and warm in my faux-fur vest, and the rain steadily increases, I think there’s another brownie around here with my name on it.

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    Hi, I'm Lori, a lover of feeding people. Be it with words, whimsy, or some tasty food, I want to warm your belly or your heart.  Or at the very least tease out a little smile.

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