he loves me...he loves me not...where is he?

I am looking for a man.
This is not an all-encompassing search that occupies the fullness of my being. It does not define who I am. It is as innocuous as my red hoop earrings. Yes, they are big and perhaps they do draw your eye at first. However, after awhile you stop noticing them. They never cease to exist. They do not turn to vapor on my earlobes, but their noteworthiness diminishes—like a dandelion in a steady breeze. Much like the dandelion, though my spores are often blown about leaving me with nothing to show, my presence means the planting of love all around me. I am the fertilizer of love. The seed, the bud, the promise, the hope.
Today, I saw a dapper man crossing the street. He is the kind of man who sends out his shirts for cleaning. His collar smacked of starch. He has a medicine cabinet full of grooming supplies. His nails are clean. He has crisp edges. He is a well-presented package.

He is of no interest to me.

Just as I am of no interest to him. My image made no reflection on his pupils. I felt him pass right through me. It looked like he felt a chill, but perhaps I flatter myself. I am his inverse. We don’t even exist on the same plane.

I am not looking for him.

My someone has dirty nails and nasal sprays. His socks are mismatched and his hair is unkempt. He is rough around the edges and soft to the core. He has become a bit desperate. He is not desperate in the way that causes him to long for a woman—any woman. He is desperate in the way that causes him to let go of pretenses and allow himself to freely give and receive love.

My heart is big. My heart is full. My heart longs share the bounty of its riches.

My someone knows he is worth more than his current appraisal. He has taken his lumps and, at the end of the day when the sun sets on his troubles, he finds solace in the act of his fingers interlacing and commingling with my mine. He is comforted by the compression of our palms.
When we collapse into bed, my head fits perfectly in the crook between his shoulder blades and the rhythmic beating of our hearts combined creates a symphonic opus. It is the sound of one million butterflies fluttering their wings in unison. All the while we sleep and dream of our gravest fears that otherwise have no power to burden us for during waking hours of togetherness, they are pushed to the inarticulate corners of our consciousness. They come in passing and, on their best days, are vaguely remembered in passing.
As we breathe, the rise and fall of our lungs in like the rising and setting of the sun. So, when we finally awake, it feels as though we have shared countless sunrises and sunsets in the span of 7 hours.
When we meet on the street in the dead of winter, we embrace and the warmth of his breath fogs my glasses. When this happens, he traces the shape of a heart on my lenses with his finger. His love clouds my vision.

Our love is like the sweetest Popsicle and the most quenching lemonade on the hottest of days. It is the moment, when holding your breath, right before you are forced to pass out or let go.

It is a head rush and I want it.

i'm just a coaster, but my wheels won't go

You had something to say. You told me it had nothing to do with me, as if that would make me feel any better. You said something about an awkward situation with another person. I have to admit that I stopped listening and slipped inside my head somewhere around these words.
As I got ready, I had a feeling there was someone else. I had the opportunity to back out on our plans and spend time with someone else. Would that have made those words go away or would it just prolong the feeling of hanging on a wire, inevitably fated to fall without a net?
Am I being overly dramatic? I would say that in relation to the emotions coursing through my small frame and oversize glasses, that my drama level is barely a blip on the radar—least of all yours.
What does awkward situation mean anyway? Is it a situation that brings you intense sadness or happiness? I imagine difficulty. Difficult words cruising down difficult roads. Choosing bumpy terrain in an attempt to avoid dead-end turns. It turns out one of those bumps was me.
You said you enjoy my company and there was nothing I did wrong. It apparently wasn’t enough either.
We had an amazing time on our last encounter. The air seemed sweeter that evening. We exchanged warmth as we lay in embrace. Then, one soft sweet kiss passed from your lips to mine. Bliss.
Now, I am faced with awkward situations and I find myself awfully confused. If I am the one who is constant and kind, why am I the one being pushed away?
I may not have clean fingernails or be soft around the edges. However, I have an enduring spirit. I will rejoice in your success and wipe away your tears when the world pummels you. I will take pleasure in in your whimsy and squeal with delight when the occasions present themselves. I will be steadfast. I will hold you close when the world forsakes you and hold you up when everyone wants to know whom you are and shake your hand.
Constant.
But, somehow, this is not what you want. You want to keep me close enough to lay eyes on, to watch over, but not so close that I feel a sense of ownership. A carrot that dangles never to be eaten.
This is my path, perhaps chosen from the beginning. Perhaps continually stumbled upon by accident like an end table that is perpetually bumped into when the lights are off.
Fate. Happenstance. Semantics. Trivial.
I hope your path leads to happiness, but even more than that, I hope it leads back to me. I can’t wait, but I can hope.
Goodnight.

TRIBUTARIES

Jodie Marie Johnson: "Ahh,Valentines Day. The anniversary of the day I met the man I thought was the love of my life. Boy was I wrong. Today I reflect on my past and thank him for all my beautiful children and the lessons I learned. I am so glad I was finally able to get me and my kids out of that life and am so grateful for all the people ...that have come into my life and helped me to start over. Life is good!"

Samantha Klasinski: "nothing like spending valentines day watching a marathon of stories about people who snapped and killed their lovers. gotta love cable"

Megan Penny Wright: "My valentines present today: plenty of sleep and an hour at home alone, not even the dogs are here. So nice."

Gabe Garcia: "makin love to my skateboard for valentines day. shes so pretty"

wax on, wax off

I must admit that I find the ritual of waxing quite peculiar. Don’t get me wrong. It is a ritual I engage in, but a peculiar one all the same. In the days of trapping, one would pay a handsome price for a pelt. Now we pay someone to take ours. The other sensation I find peculiar is being in a room with a stranger, completely naked from the waist down but completely clothed from the waist up. It is like the sort of juvenile, wham-bam-thank you ma’am love that happens in the back seat of a car. I would almost feel more comfortable if I were completely naked. There is more of a feeling of continuity there.
My appointment was for an extended bikini wax. I choose this service because, in my mind, it is the perfect balance between matron and porno crotch. I do not find the idea of having either very appealing. The extension takes enough away so that I feel the vestibule is accessible without taking so much away that I need to use the terminology “bacon strip” while referencing it. Perfect, no?
I walked in and went through the usual motions: discarded bottom vestiges, laid on table and placed the ceremonial towel that is yanked away almost as soon as it is set. The woman began as she does, asking me how life was, pillow talk of sorts. Then, she asks if I “wanted to follow the same lines or try a shape?”
“like what?”
“A heart.”
“A heart?”
“For Valentine’s Day.”
“Really?!”
I am still a bit befuddled by the exchange, but happy to be hairless again.

the mattress mistress

Love hurts. In fact, it literally kills people some people. I do not believe this happens is because love is bad, or evil. Love is pure, like salt. Love also knows no boundaries. This can be dangerous in the wrong person’s hands. The motives of one pursuing love must be as pure as the driven snow, because of love’s all-encompassing elements. When this reverence is not observed the result is devastating. Love will buck and break itself much like a poorly trained pit bull. The ensuing disaster can be fatal. The 1990s brought on such a tragedy for one unlucky man.
He was in his 50s and his quest for love was driven my vanity. He took a young girl to be his beautiful trophy. I thing to dote over and look sweet on his increasingly-aged arm.
I imagine the events to have transpired like this:
He surprised her with a jet-setting trip for a few days, because she loved spontaneity. It reminded him of his younger days and he felt young by proxy. As they wandered through the bustling airport to their departure gate, he got very light-headed and needed to sit down for a spell. He chalked it up to dehydration and did not want to upset his sweet Juliet before their romantic get away.
They had dinner reservations and a night of painting the town red on the agenda. As she primped herself in the suite’s vanity mirror, he presented her with a bejeweled necklace. It resembled a strand of twinkling raindrops resting serenely on her emaciated and protruding collarbone. She loved it!
They enjoyed a four-course meal and the finest of champagne. The bubbles tickled their noses ever so slightly and buoyed their spirits to a state of effervescence. They danced until they believed they could not dance anymore. Then, they danced all the way home.
The intensity of their evening came to a head on the 400-thread count, Egyptian cotton sheets. He loved the moistness of her young, supple skin pressed against the thread-bare dregs of his life-atrophied body while he thrust and thrashed on top of her. She often had a glassy, distant look in her eyes when he exploded and shuddered in the briefest of deaths. He would tell her he often saw a light at the end of the tunnel at the moment he was cumming inside of her. He was preparing himself for the sweet surrender. The flash of bright, vivid colors that flooded his plane of vision and the dancing of the hairs all down his spine. This time instead of color, he saw the best moments of his life and then black.
He was found in an Accra hotel room. The body he left behind was completely void of dress, his mouth brimming with the foam of a rabid dog trying desperately to control an infectious disease. For this man, it was love. He could not keep up with his Juliet and his heart gave out. The young woman left the hotel without declaration and her identity may never be known.
Urban legend has it that the events of his death transpired on Valentine’s Day. Incidentally, no one has ever died on Single’s Awareness Day.

cavaties and paper cuts

That is what results from faux-romance driven holidays that focus on consumerism, candy, and card stock.
So, this is February. The time of the year when all the couples in the world pair up and forget the existence of all other human life. In actuality, my truthiness statistic indicates that approximately 90% of all couples break up on or around Valentine's Day. If you have not experienced this phenomenon, then you're dodging a bullet that surely cannot be dodged for very long.
Suitable alternative? Have no fear; I've found one. I find it better to celebrate a different holiday than the violent, fat, naked baby holiday pushed by greeting card and chocolate companies. What's the holiday you ask? Why it's Single's Awareness Day! On this day you will find me in neither pink nor red, for the colours of S.A.D are navy and chartreuse.
How do you celebrate this wonderful holiday? Another good question. Thanks for asking, readership.

My suggestions include:
1. Make and name a piñata after a past lover. The difference between the piñata and your former love is that it's ok to beat a piñata with a stick until you are able to get the sweetness to come pouring out.
2. For every nice thing you say to a single person, say 5 not-so-nice things to that obnoxious couple ahead of you in line for [insert tedious errand required of most grown ups here]. you know who they are: "no i love you more, schmoopy." Or just go out of your way to do something really nice. (For instance, when you're buying your local homeless-run newspaper, like i know you were already planning on doing anyway, give them an extra dollar.)
3. Fly a kite and/or catch raindrops on your tongue (these are climate-based suggestions).
4. Pamper yourself. Get a foot and/or hand massage. Regardless of your gender, your hands and feet work hard for you and deserve a reward from time-to-time.
5. Replace one green vegetable in your meals with dessert all day, and if you were already planning on eating dessert--double dessert!
6. Just get rid of that box of letters and move on already!
7. Part your hair on the opposite side, so you can see how you look to other people.
8. Learn how to count and say your A,B,Cs in another language (or learn the alphabet of your native tongue).
9. Try a new food you always thought you would hate, but this time do it pretending you've always thought you'd love it. (this is especially good for people IN relationships to do w/o their significant other. This is good because there isn't anyone there to say "i knew you'd like it!" it can be your little secret).
10. Get ridiculously dressed up and go to the grocery store. You'll feel like a celebrity--everyone will stop and look at you (not that they don't already).

The wonderful thing about this holiday is that you don't actually need to be single to celebrate it. Much like you don't need to be African American to celebrate Black History Month, which I might add is this month as well. You just need to be willing to spend a consumer holiday not being a consumer whore! Instead, grab a pal (your Single Awareness Partner) and do whatever satisfies your flights of fancy--you know you want to!
Let me know if you want me to be your S.A.P., I'll be learning a new alphabet.
xo

Bah Humbug!

This marks the beginning of my favorite anti-ritual. I do not fancy myself a Scrooge. I can find the good in most things. However, there are some things that I can neither justify nor abide. February is the home to one of these such things—Valentine’s Day. I occurred to me that I don’t know a thing about the holiday that I despise so much. So, this year we are going to start off with a history lesson.

Saint Valentine's Day is an annual holiday held on February 14 celebrating love and affection between intimate companions. [barf] The holiday is named after one or more early Christian martyrs named Valentine and was established by Pope Gelasius I in 496 AD. It is traditionally a day on which lovers express their love for each other by presenting flowers, offering confectionery, and sending greeting cards (known as "valentines"). The holiday first became associated with romantic love in the circle of Geoffrey Chaucer in the High Middle Ages, when the tradition of courtly love flourished.
Numerous early Christian martyrs were named Valentine. The Valentines honored on February 14 are Valentine of Rome (Valentinus presb. m. Romae) and Valentine of Terni (Valentinus ep. Interamnensis m. Romae). Valentine of Rome was a priest in Rome who was martyred about AD 269 and was buried on the Via Flaminia. His relics are at the Church of Saint Praxed in Rome. and at Whitefriar Street Carmelite Church in Dublin, Ireland.
Valentine of Terni became bishop of Interamna (modern Terni) about AD 197 and is said to have been martyred during the persecution under Emperor Aurelian. He is also buried on the Via Flaminia, but in a different location than Valentine of Rome. His relics are at the Basilica of Saint Valentine in Terni (Basilica di San Valentino)
No romantic elements are present in the original early medieval biographies of either of these martyrs. By the time a Saint Valentine became linked to romance in the fourteenth century, distinctions between Valentine of Rome and Valentine of Terni were utterly lost.

Before Chaucer began his flowery writing, romance and Valentine’s were not even mention in the same room let alone the same breath. I am left to marvel at how the connection was ever made? The martyrs weren’t even two lovers. That makes for epic tradition.

I’ll leave you all to ponder this history lesson and I will let the seething begin tomorrow.

Gullible's Travels: Pt 3

I was only away for a day and a half. However, by the end of my trip, I was quite ready to return home. I find it funny that I rarely identify as a Seattleite in most travel situations, but in some instances I am keenly aware of the ways in which I cling to Pacific Northwest culture. I will use Los Angeles as an example. I hate driving. Being strapped behind the wheel in this particular city really makes me appreciate the luxury of being a pedestrian in Seattle. In SLC, I was thankful for fashion and a culture of fitness. When I begin to think fondly of the place I am only marginally enamored by, I know it’s time to leave.
When preparing for the trip home, I decided to plan for the inconveniences that I did not plan for on the first leg of my journey. My flight was scheduled at 7:45am. My plan was to wake up at 5:00am, leave by 6:00am, and arrive to the airport no later than 6:45am. This would allow plenty of time for any heartache that the John Wayne International Airport might want to throw my way. I woke up at 5:00am, as planned and was ready to leave by 5:30am—ahead of schedule. There was not a single car on the freeway. I arrived to the airport at 6:00am. I checked in and breezed through security. By 6:25am, I had breakfast and coffee in hand. Everything was going my way. I looked up at the flight monitor and saw that my flight was delayed by one hour—SONOFABITCH!!! This sort of thing perfectly fits with my track record of always arriving to things early or late, never on time. I ate, pouted a bit, and napped until it was time to board my tardy plane.
The flight was empty, which enabled me to have an entire row to myself. After take off, I kicked up my legs and slept until it was time to sit up and begin our descent. At that point, I slept sitting up and woke up as we hit the tarmack. It was a beautiful, dream-filled sleep.
I stepped off the plane, acquired coffee with ease and got lunch. I often wonder why airline food must be completely void of quality? I sat down at what seemed like a real restaurant and ordered a club sandwich. This club sandwich was comprised of Jenny-O lunch meat and Hormel pre-cooked bacon, yellowing shredded lettuce, a single tomato seed and a pound of mayonnaise all stuffed between two stale pieces of Wonderbread that they were calling “sour” dough. I paid $10.00 for this delicacy. Again, my appetite was discouraged by an overwhelming number of big-boned people crowding around me and engaging in worrisome food ritual. I only ate half of my sandwich.
The Vikings/Cowboys game was on the TV monitors at my gate. There was a woman intently watching when a jumbo ginger man sidled up to her asking why she would to pretend to be interested in something that was clearly a “man’s” thing? I was passing the time by texting with an old friend when this went down. I joked that I was going to ask that man to make an honest woman of me and set my roots in Salt Lake. That I would have a wardrobe full of floor-length, floral dresses and have my uterus ripped to shreds by a plethora of freakish gingers, clawing their way out of my previously pristine body. I’d be “living the dream.”
As we boarded the plane, we walked down a long corridor and came dangerously close to twin propeller planes. I nearly fainted. To be truthful, I was not terribly pleased to see that we would be flying on a very small jet, but I am relieved it is a jet all the same. We settled into our seats, fastened our seat belts, made sure our tray tables were up and that our seats were locked in the upright position. Then, a god-like voice came of the PA. “I am really sorry folks, we just found out about a last minute plane swap. So, we’ll need you to de-board and change gates. Again, I am sorry about the inconvenience.”
Seriously?

Gullible's Travels: Pt 2

I woke up to the plane screeching to a halt on the runway of the Salt Lake City airport. I was looking at a two-hour lay over and the only thing on my mind was the timely acquisition of coffee. Much to my chagrin, I have become one of those pre-coffee, fire-breathing, people-hating monsters and post-coffee peach. For some reason (you know the reason) being in SLC put me on heightened alert. This made finding that first cup of the day all the more urgent as I felt monster me bubbling up to the surface. I walked around for what seemed like an eternity. In this time, I found countless fountain soda machines, three bars, and candy shop, Cinnabon, and a fast food mega-plex before stumbling a lonely Starbucks. As I took inventory of my surroundings, I noticed a majority of the people around me were obese. It was a sea of large and in charge people in sweat pants. My general feeling is that caffeine is a victimless crime. Certainly, not a deadly sin. Gluttony, however, is. So, wouldn’t one figure that in a religious city shouldn’t the need to over stuff oneself with non-nutritive foods be harder to sate than my need to caffeinate? Another general observation, if someone were to set off on a journey around the United States in search of the city that is Mecca to attractive people, I would strongly urge this person to skip over SLC. It’s all pock marks, halitosis, and front butt syndrome here.
My cup of coffee helped me relax and come to terms with the fact that my first meal of the day would be burger king. No sooner than I had convinced myself to be at peace with my reality, did a quite enormous man sit down next to me with enough food to feed a vastly small village and commence cramming. … Coffee was going to have to be good enough for me.
The flight into Orange County was uneventful. I will say that I have never been on a plane with so many people reading the Bible. I was not sure whether I found this observation to be comforting or terrifying. The landing was more bouncy than I would typically prefer. It felt as if we would bounce right off the jet way. We did not and I am relieved for small miracles.
Upon my arrival, I was faced with a choice between diving head long into my social circles, as a diversion, and only see my family in passing; and taking the time to face the music. One was an emotionally stunted path, the other an emotionally present. I decided that for what it was worth, I made the trip and that I shouldn’t be anything other than ok with my actions from there out. Incidentally, I opted for a happy medium.

Gullible's Travels: Pt 1

What a nightmare. …
There are many varieties of bad dream. The one I encounter most is one where I find myself in what I imagine to be in the most terrible situation. I stop and tell myself that there is no way any of what is happening can be real. It is only a dream. It can’t hurt me. This is much like when a movie hero encounters a monster of her own invention and announces: “You can’t hurt me. I am your righteous creator and protagonist of this plot!”
The exposition of this dramatic nightmare was a last-minute trip, conceived of and planned under duress. The catalyst: the impending death of my grandfather. I did not want to process what seeing my grandfather in the hospital meant, let alone what it would be like to see the sad, fatigued, and stressed faces of my family. Over the years, Samuel Baca García has had a string of heart attacks, each one leaving him with diminished function of his heart.. The most recent attack has left him with a feeble 15%. I imagine that if abuela were still alive, she would quip that Sammy has lived his entire life without using much of his heart. Why should it matter how little is left now? There are of course extenuating circumstances. There is kidney failure needing dialysis and an infection interrupting dialysis. Essentially, what sounds like a lot of bad news to me. It was a bit much for me to handle. So, I did what any well-adjusted and rational person would do—I put off packing until 6 hours before my flight: midnight.
Packing actually went off without a hitch. I travel often enough that almost all of my liquids are TSA approved. I am also shameless about using other people’s shower supplies. I have gotten over my urge to dress by mood and only bring the bare essentials. I had everything assembled for my pilgrimage and was off to my brief, but necessary slumber.
Like most nightmares, the bad began with sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night convinced that I had not turned on my alarm clock. Without investigating the situations, I flipped over the switch. I woke up an hour later mortified, because I realized I had actually switched the alarm clock OFF! Ultimately, I woke myself up at 3:30am and discovered that I had turned the alarm volume completely off while I was asleep. How I manage these things, I will never know. …
Quickly, I took care of the matters of hygiene and set my sights on online check-in—the greatest invention ever created by man. After 15 minutes of clunking around a website without an iota of success, I was utterly exasperated and felt like a dunce, outwitted by the Internet. There was no time to fret. I had a bus to catch!
I ran. I don’t know why, and this will quickly become the one thing I did right that day, but I ran all the way to the metro tunnel and arrived with a handful of minutes to spare. No sooner than I entered that tunnel did I begin receiving suspicious looks from metro security. “This can’t be good.” It took me all of a minute to realize that the tunnel was closed and my bus was operating on the surface streets. SHIT! I fled my subterranean trap and emerged onto the street panicked. By some strange miracle, I knew exactly where to go. However, I had to be quite firm with the street urchins in my frantic hustle to catch that bus!
I caught it without a moment to spare. The bus ride to the airport was mostly uneventful, save the fact that people on downtown originating buses at 4:30am are operating in a non-cohesive mental state. Thank goodness there were enough of the less mentally cohesive on the bus keep themselves entertained, much like a plexi-room filled with plastic balls and toddlers.
Once I disembarked from the bus, I raced to the self-check kiosk. The clock was ticking; the race was on; [insert relevant quip about being in a frenzied hurry here]. I was momentarily thwarted by a set of rogue automatic doors. They persistently opened and closed becoming the airport equivalent of a mutinous miniature golf hazard and I the ill-fated golf ball. I had not time for the game and had to keep moving.
Next obstacle: check-in. The electronic kiosk was being, pardon my French, a little bitch. Attempt one: fail. Attempt two: same. Attempt three: SHANNON SMASH! After speaking with a Delta representative, we figured out that somehow I got booked on two return flights. Hence, all of my thwarted attempts at checking in. F.U. Priceline! Boarding pass in hand, I headed toward security.
My apprehensions toward security lines at the airport are similar to my apprehensions about getting behind the wheel at two in the morning. It’s not me I’m worried about, but everyone else around me. I travel light. I always have my travel documents out and at the ready. As well, my liquids are always in the proper receptacle and ready for whatever the XRAY machine might throw at them. What threw me for a loop was the presence of two check in lines: the one for the casual, some might say unprepared, traveler; the other for people like me—the expert traveler. This promised to be the smoothest part of my day. As it happens, the express traveler line is a veritable grocery express lane with no one monitoring the item limits and, therefore, no one adhering to them. If I were the line monitor on this particular day, you might here me say: Yes, a small carry on bag IS traveling light, congratulations. You, lady in front of the expert traveler, exceeding carry-on limits does not count as traveling light. And you, gender non-specified person burdened with numerous miniature people, express lines are more express when they are not clogged up by your progeny. I would make an example of these two people and send all non-compliant persons to the proper line. I ended up that the casual travelers made it through the line much faster, because everyone fancies themselves an expert. VANITY, old friend, you got me this time. …
At this point in my tale of woe, I need you to invoke an inner Home Alone-esque montage chalk full of running, confusion, aftershave and screaming. Finally, I arrive at the gate. I am the last person to board the plane and as I roll in the gate agent informed me that they were about to shut the doors and that I was “lucky.” Incidentally, lucky is not the word I would use to describe my morning, but to this person I just seem like a tardy schlemiel. So, fair enough. I muster a blank look, offer up no explanation and quickly board the plane where people are still standing in the aisle, cramming their personal effects into overhead bins. I am confident that I slowed no one down. I took my seat without incident and fell into a deep slumber. I had an exhausting morning.

my room

Every once in awhile, I stop and take a look at my surroundings and the image of that moment is a perfect summation of my life at that point—regardless of whether or not I know what that summation might imply. I first thought to notice these passing moments after seeing Demetri Martin perform at the Moore Theatre. He recalled a time when he was frantically tearing through his apartment and suddenly let’s out, “where the fuck is my tambourine?!” The above photo illustrates my version of one of these priceless moments.
Description:
- a red eye mask and peach, satin robe hung on rogue nails left in place by a previous tenant. (the nails, not the eye mask and robe)
- Catholic art and paraphernalia on the facing wall.
- current reading material and my alarm clock on my unmade bed.
- cotton candy pink wig hanging on the lamp on my nightstand.
I am unsure as to what exactly this signifies about my current situation. I just know that it does and that those assumptions are best left up to a higher power—you! All I am fit to offer is a cursory explanation of the aforementioned items.
Explanation:
- eye mask: I am often prone to bouts of insomnia. What I notice most during these periods is that my eyes simply refuse to remain shut and I am often caught spending quality sleep hours staring at the ceiling. Having a shroud over my eyes removes this urge and, ultimately, helps me fall asleep in a timelier manner. (a side note, it also helps keep me from waking up when I am lodging at a hostel and people—assumption, tourists—are keeping any number of competing hours to see the city in each of their respective ways.)
- robe: I had many an instance while living in a dormitory in Denmark when the inspector would pound on the door as he was entering my unit—without any previous warning that he might be coming. The nights in this dormitory where often very wild and my state of dress at night was not always appropriate for public consumption. Having a robe nearby means I can quickly be covered regardless of my previous clothing state. This is important when you know someone spontaneous is also the holder of your keys.
- evidence of the Catholic within: no matter how far I have come from my Catholic upbringing, there is enough of it that still remains—the guilt. If not for that, that fact still remains that Mary is awesome, even if she is a virgin.
- the book: I read before the “see-no-evil” eye masks cloaks my eyes from the world around me. I helps turn my brain off and keeps me from being up all night scribbling in my journal. I mean literally just scratching random, non-cohesive hatch marks into my journal. It’s a terrible habit.
- alarm clock: I am an public radio news junky. The middle of my bed, left unmade because I do not believe in the practice of perfectly setting sheets to be mussed the very same day, happened to be the place that I received the best reception. It also functioned as a reminder that absolutely under no circumstances could I lie back down. Tired Shannon often tries to sabotage responsible, punctual Shannon. Tired Shannon must be stopped at all costs!!!
- wig on nightstand: I wish I had an elaborate story about sexy role play and spicing up “our” love life. That my partner gets all worked up when I tart up like Lady GaGa and show him my p-p-p-p-poker face. Or, perhaps, that I am having an affair so secret that I am hiding my identity from both the world and my lover alike. Not that I am currently striking out in the virtual and actual dating realms and am currently in drought season. Not that I bought it for a New Year’s Eve party, which I left before midnight to go home alone. Regardless, this year is new. I have plenty of time to the stuff previously mentioned. I had to work super early anyway. …
As previously stated, I am not sure what exactly this all implies about me, but it is something isn’t it?

2009 recap!

In 2009, I reemerged and re-acclimated to American living. Since then, I go back and forth between loving and hating my little American life and several times have kicked around the idea of moving to España.
I saved my pennies.
I broke up with my boyfriend.
I took a trip to Roma/Venezia and Paris/Bordeaux. Then, took a 2 week road trip around España. It was a mega blast. I reconnected with my old friends from RUC and re-fell in love with Europe.
I came home with my bank account overdrawn and little-to-no work to speak of. I floundered financially and just was not able to make it work at Hilltop Yarn. So, I found a job at Starbucks. This was not an immediate fix, as my training store only gave me 20 hrs/week and was paying me nearly $2/hr less than my agreed upon wage. For another month, I struggled.
Now, here I am. I cashed out a 401K I had to get back on my feet financially. I am paying my rent w/o over drafting my account.
All-in-all, life is good. I have friends. I have food. I have comfort. I can't complain.

Be well. Do good work. Keep in touch.

bad date(s)

there are many reasons why i am not ready to reemerge into the dating world. the ones at the forefront are:
the fact that i am recently out of a long-term relationship with a person with whom i still keep close contact--in fact, he is probably reading this right now. that makes for uncomfortable feelings around meeting a future ex-boyfriend. and...
the fact that i don't know what i want in my very near future. it is hard to anchor yourself to someone if you think you might be about to shuffle your life about.
however, in an effort to pass the time, i have signed up for an online dating site. this is my okcupid profile. you can go to it and tell me how datable i am, a perfect 10--really?!
what i have found so far, dating is hazardous to my health. First off, dating makes me stay up far too late on nights that i know i have to wake up early the next day and run the 1st starbucks. Second, bees. Third, apparently, dates make me catch a cold.
I had a brunch date with a man I met at a party. Indi, was nice enough at the party to warrant the release of my precious contact information. upon contact, he invited me to lunch at the B&O Espresso. I thought wonderful! I have history at this place. It is where I spent a good portion of my time upon landing in Seattle. I imagined being rushed with favorable memories.
I arrived a few minutes early--i shocked even myself be this fete. i ordered an espresso, as I had not yet had my morning cup of coffee and did not want to come across as a fiend, and read my book. As i watched a fly do what it does--fly--i thought quietly to myself, "gross." then, when i saw it land i was petrified and screamed silently in my head, "BEE!" I looked up for a friendly face on the wait staff to come and rescue me from my bee woes. i made eye contact with a familiar face, smiled out of habit, then scanned my brain for the file this face was in. i found it in the "short-term romantic stints with messy endings" file.
"FUCK!" Now I was trapped in my seat because, i'd rather get stung than have to force polite discussion with this guy. it didn't occur to me that a place with history might also have some residual baggage.
i read my book until i felt like i would burst, flinging the table over while frenetically shouting, "BEE! BEE! BEE!" then, i got up and urgently flagged down a waiter in the most low-key, casual manner i could muster.
The waiter gallantly squished him with his wet bar towel and announced, "dead." as he pulled the towel away, much to our chagrin, we realized not in fact dead. try #2 was also a failed attempt. then, he got more frantic. it turns out that he is allergic to bees. finally, the bees met its maker and i could safely return to my seat.
to make matters worse, i was sitting in the least enjoyable spot from an ambient perspective. the sun was looming just over my head. this made reading a dream. however, anyone who looked at me would immediately scrunch their face into a pained squint and quickly look away. it made me feel as though I looked like rocky dennis and my face resembled a lion.
After much ado, Indi showed up and we had a nice brunch. afterward, we wandered around volunteer park (including the green house and the Seattle Asian Art Museum). It was all good and dandy, but I suddenly became very tired.
The next day I awoke with a heinous cold. i blame dating. i don't think anything but stress and sickness will come out of venturing into date land, but am willing to be proven wrong.

Anti-Deodorant Dissertation

I am not willing to come out and say that I am explicitly against deodorant. Quite the contrary. In fact, I find the idea amazing. I often ponder the person who came up with the idea and how they pitched it in their head. (Light bulb enters stage right and pauses for a brief moment before pulling its own string and turns itself on. Simultaneously, Dr. Jules Bernard Montenier let's out an audible "EUREKA!") All one need do is rub this magic salve under your arms and smell like a rose all day long. Some are strong enough for a man, but pH balanced for a woman. Others claim that anything else would be uncivilized. This is all good stuff. What I don’t like is the idea of cramming aluminum into my pores and calling it a day. The idea terrifies me. I know that there is "evidence" that a lot of these adverse health "findings" are totally "bogus." Still, the idea gives me a serious case of the wiggins, which is why I am a soley deodorant wearer. No aluminum for moi.
Now, if you are a woman who does not wish to use anti-perspirant, the deodorant endeavor becomes even more interesting. It is impossible to walk into any drug store and find what you need. Also, when I did, it was always baby powder scent. Have you smelt righteous BO mixed with baby powder? It’s like baby diarrhea to the nth degree. It is terrible. I have tried the various hippy brands and don’t get me started, don't even get me started. Now, I know why hippies smell. It's not the patch pants or the disdain of contributing to a market economy—it’s the effing deodorant! My compromise is to buy men’s deodorant. Only a few scents do I find truly repulsive on me and, incidentally, they are also the scents I find repulsive on men. Musk is the number one turn off. If I smell a musky underarm I get to packing. Generally, I am a speed stick girl. However, lately, the original has been letting me down. So, in an attempt to reduce my stank factor, I decided to try the irish spring inspired scents. The first one was a hit. I smelled faintly of soap and water. It was awesome. Then, I got cocky. If one in this scent line was good they must all be, right? WRONG. The Speed Stick Irish Spring Icy Blast smells like leprechaun taint. Everytime I lift my arm I think I am smelling the sweaty under carriage of a lumberjack. I get someone else to smell me and they say they smell cologne. It is enough to drive a sistah crazy. Now, I am forced to wash shirts after every wear that I might otherwise wear 2-3 times between washes.
It is for this reason that I find myself in a frenetic state--head to the wall, fists pounding and cursing the man who started it all: Dr. Jules Bernard Montenier. Damn you straight to hell, mister.

i've got my spine, i've got my orange crush

Last night I had a dream. It was not a profound dream in the vein of the late, great Martin Luther King, Jr. It was not a dream to live on the lips of men for all of eternity. No one will call me noble or nominate me to a panel of experts for praise in my field. In fact, I cannot even think of a very good reason to share my dream with anyone. It borders on Mundane, the capitol city of Trite.
In the aforementioned dream, my family had disowned me--cast me out onto the streets. I didn't know where to go or what to do. So, I decided to walk to my uncle's house. A geographical impossibility because he lives in California. Also, an impossibility of vanity, because he lives in suburban Orange County--Placentia, CA to be exact.
On my walk, made impossible by vanity and logistics, I passed by a house with a yard full of cats about to be euthanized. Just then, the person who [suddenly] appeared as my travel accompaniment up until the present told the proprietor of the establishment that we would take one. We would? The woman grabbed a broken cat transporter and a collar with harness and I begrudgingly picked out a cat. I found the smallest, cutest, orangest one with the biggest eyes, most full of love. I brought her home, which was a fête because she kept slipping out of her broken carrier box and refused to be held. So, I walked her on the leash.
I got her to my uncle's house and my other cats were there waiting. Julia, of course, wanted nothing to do with her and Fernando, of course, seemed enamored by her orangeness. He kept walking next to her and stopping to roll over and lie down at her feet. This is what I expect Fernando to do in real life if he ever perchanced to meet an orange lady cat.
By the end of our exodus, the little lady seemed hungry. So, I gave her a dish of an orange juice, orange sherbet, and orange crush concoction. She lapped it up ravenously and, then, I awoke to my cats snuggled lovingly against me on the bed. It's enough to make me not want to leave the house.

personalized nameplates...freak name validation

I am just going to come out and say it. I am obsessed with name-personalized products. You know the ones. The overpriced tins of breath mints that read “Beverly” in a faux Las Vegas Marquis, as though the big attraction in Vegas is “Beverly” and not the seedy brothels or tasseled-nipple night club acts passing as talent like a tart in an evening gown passes as elegant.

The obsession began when I was a child. I could easily pass this off on my mother. It’s her fault. She bought be these little trinkets whenever we were on vacation, which enable me to become obsessed with my name and, in turn, become obsessed with myself. This would be easy, because can’t we blame most things on our mothers? Her two ex chromosomes carry more genetic burden than my fathers wimpy ex why combination, one might say on the playground to another child or recess attendant. But, no, this burden is not my mother’s burden to bear. No, in fact, it is mine and mine alone.

Growing up I HATED my name. I absolutely hated it. I went through kindergarten and the better part of 1^st grade having never met another Shannon—not a single one. I often thought to myself, “why can’t I have a normal name like Jennifer, Jessica, or Amy? There are like five of each in my class? My parents had to go and name me something weird. I’m not even Irish.” Then, I met my first Shannon—it was a boy. I was mortified and heartbroken all at the same time. My dad gave me a boy’s name because he wanted a son! Oh, woe is I! I didn’t meet another Shannon until high school. My name was a freakish boy name that no normal parent would want to name his or her child.

So, when I would be in a souvenir shop and see a sheet of sparkley, rainbow stickers that had my freak name printed all over them, I would feel somewhat validated. See world?!?! My name is normal! This inflated sense of euphoria would be immediately dashed the next time I had to explain that my name was not, in fact, Sharon. That name is even worse than my real name.

So, that is where the obsession came from. Whenever I have a lay over in an airport, I always look for name personalized item. I still have that sense of validation when I get my notepads that say, “A message from Shannon.” I will often pick things up for friends, to let them know I think their name is valid and completely normal, too. Also, I have gotten better at enunciating my name upon being introduced to someone. No one calls me Sharon anymore.

the honeymoon is over...

I like to call the beginning of fall the honeymoon period of the autumn/winter time of year in Seattle.
The leaves on the trees are lush and full of the changing colors of the season. There is a hint of a chill and the whisper of rain in the air. People laugh about their state of inappropriate dress and lovers cling to each other as they mosey down the sidewalk that has only begun to collect leaves from the friendly trees lining the street. Shopfronts and shop keepers seem inviting. Cocoa, curling up with a good book, warm baths, and fire seem delightful, especially when combined with a loved one/intimate partner. There is a hopeful optimism about the things to come and people seem genuinely happy. Kids happily kick around a can amid the drizzle, the clanking and the laughter comforting reminders of the impending holiday season--a time for togetherness. [deep sigh] life is good.
Well, that period is over.
The trees that line the streets are mostly naked. At best, they look cold and mean. There is no hinting nor whispering about the cold and the rain. It is wet and freezing everywhere. No one is carefree or giggling about their inability to dress for the weather. People are pissed at themselves and they are hating life. More importantly, they are despising the limp, lifeless leaves dejected from their angry trees that have since collected, turned to mush, and have taken over the sidewalks as well as the storm drains; making it so that cars that swish by manage to splash pedestrians as they come toppling to the ground after sliding on that pile of leaves they found endearing just the month before. It almost seems like an ambush, sabotage, or mutiny. Lovers are not clinging to one another and no one is moseying down the lane. Shopfronts and shop keepers become bothersome as all anyone wants to do is go home and go to bed. Heaven help the poor loved one/or intimate partner this person is coming home to. This person gets the joying of bearing the brunt of the frustration. They don't understand what has been endured in the day, nor do they care, and why won't those stupid kids go inside and shut the H311 up!?! Anxiety is high as anticipation ramps up for the holiday season--the hustle, bustle, and head aching stress. No one is happy and life sucks.
I think that is why Pilgrims were so smart to decimate leagues of Indians when they did and Jesus had enough foresight to be born during this season. Because of this, amid the seasonal affective disorder, we have two wonderful holidays to be together and pretend to tolerate each others' company. I truly believe that if it weren't for these two holidays there would be higher incidences of homicide and assault during November and December in Seattle.
The honeymoon is over, but alas there is hope.
Be well, Do good work, and Keep in touch.

Devoted Readers

I feel like it has been about/at least a year since I have written down anything at all and possibly longer since I have blogged/ranted/what-have-you. I will not succumb to the temptation to bore you with the insignificant details of my mundane life. Because, when it really comes down to it, I have been keeping my plate full with empty calories. My life plate has been seriously lacking sustenance. This is probably why I have avoided creative endeavors. My life is lacking inspiration. Without inspiration, there can be no creation. I have been going through the motions because I am afraid to deal with a life in transition. Best not to be bothered with instability. Better to avoid and hope it all smooths over. I am unsure how this can be considered living? I know that I am alive because I can see the steam of my breath against the mirror. But, I don't see the twinkle in my eye that used to be there for all occasions. So, even if it is better to make myself into a small ball and let life run over my back like tepid bath water, I will face the rocky turmoil of change. In nature, the most constant growth of a forest happens after the devastation of a fire. The little critters scurry away for a time, but return to a lush budding and burgeoning habitat. Within this girl a fire does burn. I will no longer try to contain it with controlled burns and prescribed fires. Instead, I will walk through the fire, because where else can I turn? The woodland creatures of my heart may seek refuge from me for a time. One by one they will turn from me, but will return to find me rejuvenated, full of life, and creation. I will be happy and I will do what I need to make myself whole. I will fall in love with life, fall in love with myself, and soon you will love me, too.
This is where I will pick up my written journey and hope that people have not written me off as ignoble or irrelevant [YET]. Thank you for peaking in from time-to-time and back to your regularly scheduled program...

Driver Safety Tip #1001

this story begins on Sat, Aug 2nd for purely anecdotal intents and purposes.
Harpo and I, for reasons mundane enough to omit, had to bus up to queen anne to bike up my bike. We were on the Route 3/4. If you look at the map, you'll see that from 3rd avenue the northbound 3/4 turn right onto Cedar Avenue. Typically, this is a fairly uneventful portion of the trip. Obviously, if this was the case on Saturday, I wouldn't bother to mention. However, luckily for everybody something out of the blue occurred. I did not see all of the events as they came to fruition, but Harpo saw some and I saw others. As we were en route down cedar a woman in her car decided not to notice her red light in time to miss the bus passing in front of her. She appeared to try and stop, because she slowed down substantially before hitting us. However, the regular sounds of brakes and tires locking and swerving were not to be heard. She hit the articulated bus dead in the center. The bus driver stopped, quite freaked out and shouted: "What just happened? My light was green right?" I turned around in time to see the light we had just driven through turn yellow and then red. It was interesting, because I didn't really have any idea that a car hit the bus for a minute or so, because the entire incident was rather quite and from inside the bus it just seemed like we maybe bumped a shopping cart.
I couldn't tell if the woman in her car got immediately onto her cell phone or if she had been on it the whole time, but the moral of the story is hang up and drive!

some explanations

WARNING!!! THIS POST IS A TOTAL DOWNER!
Here is an excerpt from a post I wrote earlier in the year:

"...most importantly, I fell in love. this was quite a shock, because I was convinced that love was a cliche novelty that didn't go with any of my shoes. Fortunately, love brought shoes with him! my insecurity about relationships seems to be dissolved. and my disdain for man almost completely gone as well. this is a good feeling and Harpo is a good man."

Harpo is still a good man, he's just not my man anymore. There was good reason for calling the relationship quits, though I can't remember it right now. Right now I am trying to figure out what makes me hard to show affection to? At what point my company becomes something to be taken for granted? And whether there was someone who was more desirable? Basically, I'm driving myself crazy and crying most minutes of most days.

So, that is why the things mentioned in the previous post make me sad. They are all things that I know Harpo needs and things I shouldn't be thinking about anymore.

boo hoo