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Silver Hair Blues

9/13/2018

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

These creepy guys are watching over the piano, too.

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.

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.

A) Turn off water supply. B) Flush to drain water. C) Place bucket/mixing bowl. Check.
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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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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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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