finished product

 

 

It hasn't been ALL hard work...

 
My friend Abby gave me a haircut that I've been craving for awhile. This pic is it in process... It's a relief. I always feel like I'm faking it when I grow it out long... maybe someday I'll figure out how to pull it off, but for now, aaaaaaah.

Overheard in Ballard (fancy pants bistro edition)

Around 5 pm or so, as I put together YET ANOTHER piece of office furniture, I said to my pal Sharon... "after this, let's go drink beer." After two more hours of back breaking moving madness (no, really, my back got older faster than I did, AND one of the movers quit(not our fault) in the midst of the job) I was really ready for one. We ended up at a fancy hipster former gas station "Station Bistro" for a porter and some warm dinner. It was quite awesome, and I feel silly for not going there for so long.

But this is another installment of "Overheard in Ballard". I'll set the scene: Two young dudes in woolen caps are lighting smokes.

"Hey man."
"'sup Couch! How you doin'... Couch."
(long sigh) "Not bad."
"Hey, Couch... what's your real name? I've just always called you couch."
"Justin. Joo-stun.. actually."
"Justin, that's cool. Why DO people call you Couch anyway? You sleep on a lot of 'em or what?"
(another tortured sigh) "I used to work at this skate park, and one day I brought a couch there."

exhaustedthoughts

I've been working long hours at my job to pack up our school and get ready to move.

It's crazy, man, and I am tired.

I just got an email from my sister (who also works in an early childhood) detailing Schul Sylvester (Or "School New Years") Where Jessy lives, there is an outlawed holiday all about small children getting up at 5 am to celebrate the last day of school before break. Traditionally (it is no longer endorsed by schools or parents) children would ring doorbells at 5pm. Today, while they are not endorsed, kids use fire crackers to explode the doggy-doo receptacles all over town.

As soon as I recieved the email, I called her because this holiday was too good to be true! I talked to Ivo, her husband, who told me that it was much wilder in "his day" and that the police had to start cracking down in the early nineties when it got out of control. He asked me "you remember the corner a block from my parents' house where the grocery is ?" "Of course" I said. "One year some teenagers occupied it and threw chairs at anyone who came near."

My sister lives in a wierd ass country. (Apologies, J & I) We all know stories of Teens gone ape shit that are way more principled or senselessly violent or unprincipled and more harmful. This holiday is at once kinder, gentler and more brutal and independent than any American childhood celebration.

Meanwhile, I spent the week/day packing up a classroom. Think about how hard it is to move with your loved one. It's not as gratifying to move with your coworkers. Although I have to say it is MORE gratifying to move with parent volunteers... these people are showing up until all hours to pack up our stuff.

Now, to bed.
Goodnight.

Holiday plans? ha ha haha hahahaha.
kp

Pronunciation Key

Last night I went to a Karaoke bar to celebrate a friend's birthday. This is a story about the wonder that is spoken and written English. It is relevant that I mention here that I don't believe I've ever had a manicure from a professional. I've got this feeling that MAYBE when I was in my friend's wedding years ago and we all went to a salon together, it could have happened, but perhaps not. In any case, I view manicure culture as foreign, bizarre, and probably quite charming, like the cultures of rugby, or rock collecting.

The bathroom at the Rickshaw is very small and very mirrored. In this way, it reminds me of affordable restaurants in New York City. As I waited for one of the two stalls to become vacant, I read a handmade manicure "menu" on the door. I learned that Nikki would come to my house if I liked, and that there I could partake of services like "Full something or other...Tips... Fill etc." There was something that stopped me in my tracks. (Those of you who ARE familiar with manicure culture, suspend your knowledge for just a moment, and join me in a world where "Polish" means "from Poland".)

One of the items on the menu was "Polish Change".

"Like an oil change? But Polish? What is the implication?" I thought. My temperature began to rise at the perceived indignity. (I, myself, am NOT Polish, but in 8th grade I found a book of "Portuguese jokes" that were Polish jokes with the word "Portuguese" inserted in the appropriate places, and have since felt a kind of soul-fraternity with Polish Americans.) "Why would a manicure be called 'Polish'?" I needed someone who either knew more about manicures or more about the specifics of anti-Polish slurs. Very likely, most people on the planet could therefore have been of service.

At that moment, I heard a flush and before me stood a Karaoke patron who probably fit the bill.

"Do you know anything about manicures?"

"Uh, not really. Kind of...."

"What do you think this is?" (I pointed.)

"Um, I guess it's like, when they change the polish... take it off and put a new one on I guess?"

(As she spoke the word "polish" (rhymes with 'smallish')my face displayed my sudden enlightenment. I know because there were mirrors everywhere... it looked pretty silly, all that realization right there in a humid, cramped bathroom. "Aha! Polish, not Polish!" (rhymes with "trollish") I thought.

I am the kind of person who wears her heart (and sometimes her interior monologue) on her sleeve. I also prefer not to see my fellow humans in the dark any longer than necessary, so as the woman trailed off quizzically at the end of her answer I explained my mistake. Happily for me, she is the sort of person who laughs when illiterate strangers detail their personal shortcomings at her in the ladies room.

Obama quips

Of COURSE he's funny...

About a year ago I read Audacity of Hope and became very excited about Obama. I joined a listserve and was invited to Bowlathons WAY too early in the campaigning for my taste. Now, though I am ready to represent at my caucus... in two months.

Politics of the future

What does this mean! What will be next?!

You may notice...

That this blog seems a lot more populated than it used to be.

No, I didn't just retroactively pen my memories of days past, I just moved blog entries over from my Myspace blog that I've had for awhile now. So, if you're bored, you can read further back in my life.

Socks on Zoks

 

There it is, ladies and gentlemen. A sock. My first, after 3 or 4 years of knitting. I was very intimidated by socks when I started. The first thing I made that I was very impressed with was a pair of gloves for Z. He was working then in an office at the Evil Empire in a server room. In order to keep the machines cool, there was an air conditioner attempting to keep the room around 60 F... right over Z's head. The dude "next" to him (4 feet away) wore short sleeves and shorts because he was practically getting a sunburn from the machines beside him, but Z wore a fleece and a hat everyday. When he told me that he sometimes went to the bathroom just to run his hands under the hot water to warm them up, I decided I had to make him some gloves.

Those of you who know Z, know that he can be rather particular. I was concerned that I might make gloves only to have them discarded if they weren't efficient enough, so the design of these "hobo gloves" (half-fingers) was a collaborative effort, but the knitting and engineering were all me. I am proud to report that Z wears the gloves to this day. (Literally today.... it's wicked cold here right now.)

Always, though, Z asked for socks, and always, I told him I wasn't ready, like a martial artist deferring her fight against the master for years despite the montage displaying her hours of devoted practice. (Have I mentioned that I watch Kung Fu movies at the Sunset Tavern once a month? Does it show?)

Then Z quit smoking. I quit smoking too, but I've had way more practice, having quit an average of once a year over the last 12 years. Z didn't practice much, he just up and did it... and I couldn't possibly protest about making socks anymore. The day that he'd been quit for a month, I picked out a pattern and some yarn. Admittedly, I was slowed down by the s mittens (did I mention that, too?) but here I am, half way through sock #2, and I've still got a week till Z officially has 60 days smober. I think I can do it, don't you?

winter storm warning...

It snowed on Saturday and then rained all day today. I helped paint our new building this morning and then took off to go to the farmer's market. The farmer's market has become such a big part of how we eat, that I've learned that I have a rough time making food all week when I can't get there, so I went even thought I signed up to help paint. (I took an extra long time, though and when I got back... they were all done! I've got to say I was happy about that.)

It was raining HARD by the time I made it, and all the vendors were huddled in he center of their awnings or tents. Everyone had the cleanest carrots and parnsips ever, because they'd been rained on all the way to Ballard! (I went to a farmer I didn't recognize, and just as he handed me my bag of food, he grabbed a parsnip off of the pile, and tossed it in, then gave me a meaningful look that I found very difficult to interpret through his beard and rain gear. I gave him a meaningful look back that was meant to communicate "Gee, thanks! What a treat!" and headed back into the rain.

I walked past the fisherman and sighed. There are these great guys who sell wild, troll caught salmon and halibut and cod and other things. I stopped eating animals, though, including fish, and I wondered if they'd notice that I haven't been buying from them in months. I walked by and one of the fishermen's friends who was standing beneath a big green umbrella remarked "There goes a real northwesterner; no umbrella or hat!" The fisherman (they all are Italian, and therefore remind me of home. They smile and are charming and have big fat fingers. I wish they sold seaweed or something!) said "where" and the friends said "She just walked on by."

I smiled, and asserted to myself that I'm a real NorthEASTerner, but at this point who can tell.

ART for the PEOPLE

Check it.

My friend Sandra showed me this today and I dig it the most. Can't wait till I actually have $20!

Lice and a song

Today, before the kids arrived, I discovered that one of the kids in my group, and her brother have lice.

Later, when I went to pick half the kids up at once school, I sang an excited kind of theme song called something like "Check the Big Kids' Heads for Lice Day". It had a verse and brief chorus and it rhymed and musically made sense. It was dumb, and repetitive and I couldn't remember it ten minutes later, to sing a reprise for some kids who were late, but it made kids giggle.

This proves that it isn't just my mother's voice that comes out of me anymore, it's also my dad's.

The Writer's Strike

"He only said it because I wrote it."

Only in Seattle

I was standing in the produce section in the Ballard Market, which is near the front door. This summer I think they hired a new produce display person because the mountains of vegetables and fruits (often paired with wine or cheese or something) have just blown me away. In any case... there's a pair of blonde brothers, struck senseless with desire. Think about how some kids who suddenly have come across an unexpected chocolate mousse cake, covered in whipped cream and carmel. The boys are probably 7 and 9. They stare at a beautiful array in front of the door. Their fathers hands are full of canvas bags about to burst.

Taller Brother: (moans softly)
Shorter Brother and Taller Brother together: Chantrelles!
Shorter Brother: (begging)Dad! Chantrelles!
Taller Brother: (whining) Dad!
Dad: I know. I see them. I'm sure grandma is bringing some chantrelles. C'mon! Let's go!

For the uninitiated. THIS is the chantrelle.

And yet the retreat pictures continue...

Here is the labyrinth I mentioned. It's right next to the river, so the rushing and burbling is all I could hear. The labyrinth itself is obviously very simple which makes the act of walking it the center of attention. At the same time, it obviously took great care and effort to carry all the river rocks to this place and arrange them, so it also feels like a present.

 

There are three different buildings that anyone can use at any time of day for whatever practice you like to do. This one is called the sanctuary and around the edges of the room there are mats, cushions, drums... anything someone might want. At home I try to meditate every day, but it doesn't always work out. Here, I sat every day twice a day. It was very encouraging.

 

Here's the window I stared out of while I sat. I know that little sapling trunk in the middle distance better than any other part of the whole place.

 

The food at Breitenbush is just fantastic and delicious and nourishing. If you want food to take with you on a hike, all you have to do is tell the kitchen staff the night before and you get a brown bag lunch. I was eager to have some good food for the ride home (you can stay and use the facilities and eat the food until 3 the day you check out. I was leaving early, though to make it home at a decent hour.) so the night before I took off I went to the kitchen (through the wrong door) and asked for a lunch. The guy asked my name, and when I told him and spelled it, he smirked and said "We have a Kendra who lives here. I know how to spell it." (There is a community of people who live across the river and staff the resort.) The next morning when I picked up my meal (right door this time) there was a different guy who asked my name. He smiled a funny sneaky smile when he heard it, too, and said almost the same words. (I get the feeling that she must be something, this other Kendra, from their expressions!) Here's a picture of my lunch bag.
Not sure if the cook was being playful, or if that's how they've been taught to spell my name.

 

It was delicious.

Retreat pictures continued...

These are some frozen mushrooms. I got up one morning and walked the stone labrynth after breakfast. As I walked back to the lodge, the sun glinted at me from a mudpile. These skinny little mushrooms had frozen overnight, and were sparkling and melting as I watched. They were lit up and most lovely just as the sun touched them, and thus just before they crunched under the heat of the sun and the weight of the mud they inhabited. It was really beautiful, and sudden and I'm afraid these pictures don't really do it justice. The whole time, there was the sound of them breaking and little pebbles and chunks of mud falling.

My Retreat

Here are some pictures from the retreat I took all by myself in November. It was very peaceful, slow, introspective and lovely.

Here's my cabin. I was supposed to share it with roomates, but none presented themselves. The first morning I was there, I wrote a small note to the roomies who would arrive telling them who I was, and how long I'd be there, and that of course they could take the big bed if they wanted it.

 

Most of the people wandering around Breitenbush have towels around their necks. Between the hottubs and pools and the sauna, noone is ever dry for very long. Here I am heading out for a hike and a soak. The crazy thing is that I walked to the lodge and set down my towel and my water on a picnic table. I knew that noone would touch my things unless they absolutely couldn't avoid it. I went on my little hike up the river and then came back to my belongings just where I needed them. It was very cold already, so I'm wearing my silly hat, too.

 

This is the inside of the cozy warm cabin. It's heated with radiators that are filled with water that was piped down under the earth to the hot spots and then piped back up. Because this uses almost no energy, I had no guilt about turning up the heat in my cozy cabin and taking really hot long showers.

 

This is the lodge I described earlier. It's where all the meals are served. In the afternoon, the sun shone on the porch there and I liked to eat at the picnic tables. Then after, I'd find an Adirondack chair and move it near the woodpile, the LAST place to remain sunny before the sun fell behind the mountains, and knit. (In fact, you can see the chair right where I left it.)

 

A play unexpectedly about Jesus.

The truth is, I would have gone to see Whistle Down the Wind, even if I HAD been told that it was a play about a girl who thinks the bad guy hiding out in her barn is Jesus.

But after reading the 5th Avenue Theatre's description of the play:

Direct from London, discover what critics have proclaimed "Andrew Lloyd Webber's best show since Phantom of the Opera." Whistle Down the Wind is an uplifting musical about a young Louisiana girl who finds a mysterious stranger and hides him from the townspeople, who are determined to find the escaped felon. The US premiere production partners renowned rock lyricist Jim Steinman (Meatloaf's classic album Bat Out of Hell) and Andrew Lloyd Webber (Cats, Evita and Joseph...) to create a score inspired by the sounds of the American South – blues, gospel, country and rock 'n' roll. Directed and produced by Bill Kenwright, Whistle Down the Wind features award-winning songs including the Boyzone smash hit "No Matter What."

That is not what I imagined.

Now, most Christians may see that "mysterious stranger" and "uplifting" are code for "a story about Jesus". I personally didn't see it coming. In fact, a month ago, I read a description out loud to my seatmate, and tripped. I said "a young girl finds a man hiding in her brain" instead of "barn". In the end, given the nature of projection, my interpretation was completely founded. Nearly every third line includes the name "Jesus". (It's in Louisiana in the 50's... They pray a lot.) There's even snake-handlers. My friend and I assumed that the religious bent wasn't mentioned because of Seattle's aggressively secular attitude, and that the show was marketed differently somewhere else. We believed that the 5th Ave believed we had to be tricked into coming. But I checked, and the show never mentions the whole Christ thing. (Also, the Andrew Lloyd Webber website wanted to know if I was Male or Female and told me that 60% of the visitors to the page are female. Wierd.)

So, basically I watched this play (which was funny and sweet and dramatic) and the fifteen year old inside me watched it, too. The fifteen year old cried, I'm pretty sure, but the tears never quite made it to the surface. She's totally inviting her friends from CYO to come next time. And EVEN though she's always hated Andrew Lloyd Webber, she will totally belt out all the words of every song when her friends play it in the car.

I, on the other hand, laughed at the choreography (Bad) and all the tenor parts (Pretty but weird) and felt uncomfortable with the main character's "loving Jesus" vs "LOVE-ing Jesus" eternal Mary Magdelene problem. (The fifteen year old had her own reasons for feeling uncomfortable about this.)

On the Andrew Lloyd Webber Yuck Front:
Nobody whistles in the whole damn play
"A kiss is a terrible thing to waste." was funny the first time. Then it became a refrain. Likewise "The night that kids ruled the world."
Southern kids with southern accents: adorable. Pacific Northwest kids with "southern" accents: unintelligible and occasionally painful.

However, I am always a sucker for spectacle and stories about "America" and being in a large group of people in the dark, staring. SO, I loved it.

Gasoline and lavender

Today I finally changed my fuel filter. It was awesome. My identity has now stretched to include "Mechanical". (It's a big tent, here folks.) I was excited to have an old car that I could learn to take apart and put back together, and now I am ACTUALLY doing it. AND my car exhaust smells better to prove it.

I was a little worried at first because I've never changed a fuel filter, and whenever I imagine myself doing something new on my car, I imagine that it could probably make me explode. Once I'm done with that powerful visualization, I start reading in one of my four manuals that tell me dryly and in tiny print about a whole collection of models and years of cars, some of which match mine. So far I've used this method to change the wipers on two different cars, replace lightbulbs and sideview mirrors (guess who knocked them off!) and change the oil and filter.

The first thing I found out about the fuel filter was that SOME Subaru's have the filter right on top. Others have it behind a wheel, and are only accessible if you can stand the car up on jacks.

Since I DON'T have jacks, and I haven't made it through the "If I put my car up on jacks I might accidentally forget to unplug some wires and blow myself up" there's no way I was going to change the filter if I had one of THOSE cars. On the other hand, I had already made up my mind (weeks ago) that I would change this goddam filter, so I kept reading. That's right, I kept reading, and hoping that my filter happened to be the kind that sits right on top of the engine instead of walking outside opening the hood and actually looking at MY engine. I read all about it, and then started to look up pictures online so that I could imagine doing the five steps that were in the book. Finally the part of me that gets fed up with all the less evolutionarily sound parts screamed "GO LOOK IN YOUR OWN CAR TO SEE IF YOU CAN FIND THE FILTER!" It was right there on top. Much smaller than the ones in all the pictures. I was nervous, because I had learned that I COULD in fact blow gasoline all over my face at high speed during this process, so I found a website to give me a new perspective.

This guy is really helpful, and all about "mechanical empowerment". Also, unlike the guys at Schuck's I've never seen him make more than one expression, so I have a harder time imagining him patronizing me in any way. I'm going to change my air filter next, I think. Once I take care of the wierd shudder that's started.... ehem.

Anyway, I read all about how I might need a special Fuel line clamp wrench, because some cars have very special bolts holding the filter on. Since I was going to go have to go buy "open wrenches" anyway, I took another look at the filter to see if maybe I'd need a special wrench. Nope. My car is so old that the clamps are held on with phillips head screws. Yup.

So I removed a fuse, I took off the filter and got gas all over my hands. I enjoyed this immensely, and was glad again to be a nonsmoker. After I put the thing down I went to go wash my hands. Soon the kitchen smelled of gasoline and lavender which sounds like the name of a folk duo with a big bearded dude and his tiny barefoot wife. I think the smell woke up Z. Which is a cruel thing to do to someone really.

It's all put back together now, and I even drove her to work today. For some reason the small shudder that generally occurs in the first five minutes of driving now occurs over a longer period... yes, I know. Yikes. I am never afraid of blowing up while DRIVING, just repairing, so I'm perfectly confident gripping the wheel through the moment or two that the car bucks generally for no reason I can figure. So, I'll open a beer and my manual, and look through that website, and if none of that can help me, I'll have to ask my grease monkey friends about it.

I'll be at Breitenbush till Thursday, so till then...

Some time to myself... (?)

I spent last weekend helping some folks from work paint beautiful furniture for our new building. Then Friday night I went to a work retreat and got home last night. I have to go to work tomorrow, so this RIGHT NOW is my time for myself. I went to the farmer's market, reconnected with an old friend, and am now surfing the old web through one of my favorite lenses... knitting.

Knitters are some of the most savvy folks on the web, and I've been reading about how to knit two socks at once, how to knit secret messages into things AND that an angora rabbit can allow you to spin your own angora yarn... which is just a crazy thing to think about. Maybe I want an angora rabbit, I think. Maybe I should knit secret messages into two socks that I could knit at the same time. Then I remember the cats and their feelings about non Pelowok mammals. I remember that I've never actually knit a sock and that I'm working on a sweater and a hat right now. THEN I remember that I sat down to print out a coupon for the local gym because I am still trying to find a reliable way to exercise without hurting THE FOOT. I also remember that I've been cutting down on caffeine and that second cup today clearly is doing some serious damage to my attention span. The truth is I know that this is my only time to recharge myself, and I don't want to spend it sifting through the interwebs and YET here I am, doing just that.

So, to the gym, and then home for cooking and soccer, and then another busy week. This one is filled with more meetings for my job, Zombie movies, a musical and some other damn stuff... and then my own personal solitary vacation starts next Sunday.

whew. I'll be READY.

A Carrot Love Story.

I love going to the Farmer's Market!

Autumn Leaves....

There is this heartbreakingly sad version of this song by Ricki Lee Jones, and that's what I'm hearing right now in my head. (Don't worry, it's in an indulgent "cold out there/warm tea in here" sort of way. There is no doubt that it is fall in the Pacific Northwest.

I just walked to the corner to buy a calling card so that I can talk to my sister overseas. Why has no one written a sad love song about the act of buying a calling card, yet!? It is such a pathetic and cynical and horrifying action. You walk to a gas station, which is ugly and smelly. The needs of everyone else there are immediate crucial and distracted. Only the worst food, toilet paper and light up Incredibles key chain LED pens are available because you are a captive, you cannot escape because the bars of your own business hold you in. There are posters in at least 10 languages (including at least one form of pidgin English) advertising calling cards. (We apparently believe that folks who speak Spanish, Korean and Arabic want to call home more than they want to find the ATM, pump their gas, use the bathroom etc.) Half of all of the calling cards I've purchased have screwed me over in some way and YET I still buy them, because I believe they are the cheapest and most convenient way to call long distance to Europe. So, I have this transaction with the guy behind the counter... like buying a lottery ticket or a tree air freshner, he asks me which one I want and I tell him, and we exchange money and card and it's over. This guy has enabled me to stay in contact with my family, like it's no big thing. Whew. Thanks.

watching... the girls go by

This is brilliant.

I just watched two movies. One was a documentary about Spencer Tunick, a photographer who I can't help but admire even though I KNOW that he's a gimmick a one trick pony. The sad thing is I think I may have seen it before. The whole thing. I may or may not have rented and watched that whole lo-fi, silly, disorganized documentary about a subject I dig and NOT REMBERED it at all. Which is really too bad. It's called Naked States and it takes place in the late 90's before he was "famous" and he had a harder time encouraging people to pose nude for him. There are some great moments, like when he asks a young woman at the Sturgiss bike ralley to pose and she tells her dad, who overreacts in a stereotypically macho biker way... or all the moments when well-meaning rural people in diners and bookstores explain with a firm smile that they understand that of course HE does this sort of thing because he's from New York, but "People 'round here don't do that. 'cept up at the school, but you know, that's art." Actually I think I liked the movie quite a bit. Which is great because in all likelihood I'll rent it in a few years and get to enjoy it all over again for the first time.

Also woke up at 5 this A.M. to see the Women's world cup Semi Final. US vs Brazil. I will not comment in case anyone's going to watch a rebroadcast... oh, that's right they don't bother rebroadcasting this World Cup because it's just a bunch of CHICS!

Then after the naked movie, I watched Who's Life Is It Anyway, a movie with Richard Dreyfuss which is awesome... and (spoiler!) about a quadriplegic who wants to kill himself in the early 80's. I had NO idea about some aspects of hospital life during this time period, but this movie made me feel very grateful (I'm serious here) for Anita Hill and every other woman who spoke up about sexual harassment. In this film an orderly routinely CHASES a young nurse around small offices and elevators (she eventually goes out with him!) a patient loudly complements a doctor's breasts (sorry, a "woman doctor's breasts") and she then sort of blushes and gets all melty in a gross undoctory sketchy sketchy way.

Sexual politics aside, the right-to-die as ground-breaking brand new question was really sweet and innocent and clean. Everyone was examining and reexamining this question as thought it had just been thought up, and everyone walked around down hospital hallways and through rainstorms (or in the quad's case, laid there, looking straight ahead until a hot young nurse wandered by to be harassed... sorry.) People got angry, but NOBODY talked about God. It was refreshing, and jinkies but nothing beats a young Richard Dreyfuss... 'cept maybe a young Richard Dreyfuss in that hat from Jaws (which he TOTALLY wears in this movie for like a second while he can walk!) and of course young Dustin Hoffman.

Miracle Healer? Really?

My foot has been hurting for a long time, and yesterday I went to an awesome physical therapist. She explained to me that the structure of my feet and the way that I walk were responsible for my pain, and gave me three exercises that will help me change all of that.

I am so relieved.

I'm back, and this time I've overdosed on Garlic

and I don't mean that in a colloquial sense, like when someone tells me that they're "addicted" to Veggie Booty.

Nope. I sat with my friend and ate SO MUCH garlic. It was roasted and then microwaved, and then eaten with bread and then without bread and it was delicious. (This was Monday, so I'm fine now, and just had a lovely "Back to School day" with the kids.) BUT on Monday night I was convinced I was going to die... I didn't know why. I thought it might be a cookie from my friend Dave, but my friend was sick too, and the garlic was the common culprit!

I believe in the power of words, so I prefer "Garlic Overdose" for it's specific clarity, but the internets tell me that it's POISON. (Check out the link if you doubt the fervor of these antigarlic crazies.) I have also come to believe that too much garlic at one time can damage the flora of my stomach and prevent it from digesting things(like a cookie) at it's usual busy clip. (JD, it was like at least one HUGE HEAD, so don't worry, it won't happen if you only use it recreationally. This will not happen to you.) Actually the ease with which I found "information" about "garlic poisoning" stunned me, so it was time to check and see if this was a random Google effect.

"Toner cartridge poisoning" led to almost no related items... no I don't know why "Toner Cartridge" was the first common household (ish?) item to come to mind. Blame the garlic.
"Corn poisoning" was all about sinister exterminators feeding pests.
"Jelly poisoning" was patchy, but DID bring up this disturbing piece about the banal hazards of incarceration.

At this point I had a quick chat with my sister and decided that I should be searching for other "miracle cure" type foods, more like garlic, so I tried "Vinegar Poisoning". Everyone in every interweb agrees that Vinegar is the CURE for all types of poisoning. Sure, now I know.

So, there you have it.

Also, I was mystified enough by this that I wanted to share all of this news with everyone I know, so there it is, I'm going to try a blog again. (Not least because of the Sprayberries.)

The Red Sox Won Last Night

and despite not caring a whit about baseball I'm completely thrilled.

Last night I went with some friends who actually own Red Sox shirts and hats (because of where I'm from, I have a default love for the Red Sox, but no actual interest in the American pastime) to watch the Red Sox beat the Mariners in a very dramatic game.

There was a heightened amount of "Security" going on at this game that really threw me. I watched someone's sharpie get confiscated (even though the 3 or 4 in my purse were ignored... it was enough to make me want to develop a tag while I was in the ladies room "Paste" or "Play-Doh" or something....) and then my pal got BOOTED for putting booze in his soda, (he was a kind of a folk hero to all the people in our section after a while) and the "Alcohol enforcement" people came back and officously carded two (very beautiful and youthful) women in their FORTIES which was pretty comical for all of us watching. When I worked in shelters, part of my job was a bouner-type roll, making sure folks weren't shooting up in the bathroom, or drinking beer out of a gatorade bottle, or selling drugs. I learned a lot about how to follow rules that are unpopular, but keep people safe, and the "Profit Enforcement" people brought out a sort of adolescent indignance and obstinance in me that folks who do that work should really try to avoid.

I haven't been to Safeco for 6 years, when I watched the Mariners beat the Red Sox. At that time, my pal Al almost got his ass kicked for wearing Sox gear to the game and we were the ONLY people in earshot chearing for the Sox. This time, though, you could see the bold red and blue contrasting with the kind of sissy pastel teal and purple throughout the stadium, and there was a large contingent of Sox fans in our nosebleed section. There was one dude wearing a newish Sox jersey who kept forgetting and cheering when the Mariners would score. After numerous reminders the poor bastard just stopped cheering altogether and let his ladyfriend in a tasteful white Mariners hat do all the work.

These were not all "since the world series" fans either... you could hear in the way people cheered "Sawks" that they were hahd-co-ah fans from back east. I adore being in a crowd. (Z hates them, and often feels anxious and exhausted at events like that one, but the buoyancy of the rest of us was enough to protect him from the throng.) Being in a crowd full of people all doing the same things together is so energizing to me, and to see have fans for both teams screaming their heads off, because, who knows you're clapping and jumping MIGHT make the difference.... what a rush. Anothter rush was paying $40 for a burger, fries and a beer. Wow, ouch. And then the sox one at the very last minute. It was freakin' awesome.

Lady Sovereign

is my new hero.

She's a young English rapper, and she rocks.

I'm reading Songbook by Nick Hornby which is this beautiful collection of essays about individual pop songs and their place in his life. Apparently the hardcover actually came with a mix cd to go with it, but I got the paperback used, and now it's killing me that I can't listen to Thunder Road while I'm reading his piece about it. In any case his tastes are incredibly varied (he's the guy who wrote High Fidelity) so he's got Ani Difranco and the Beattles and Badly Drawn Boy and Ben Folds... It's made me listen to music almost constantly this weekend. A shortlived radio show called Pop Vultures did the same thing to me while it was on. (the show is still available online, and is some great listening). I just suddenly find myself needing music in a way that I associate with adolescence, and I'm having to readjust that idea. Here I am all grown up, needing music in that same desperate way again. The only adult I know who craves and consumes and KNOWS music, especially pop music the way that Nick Hornby does is my father. He knows all music, devotes a huge piece of his brain and life history to consuming and integrating and loving pop music. And now, I guess, here I am, doing a similar thing, only with this part of my brain that tells me that I probably shouldn't. It's wierd.

In any case I've been planning a trip to the record store to stock up on MIA, Lady Soveriegn, Amy Winehouse, and the Blue Scholars. If I could find it, I'd buy a record by a band called Guns That Shoot Knives, who I saw last week at the Sunset, but I doubt they'll have them, since I can't even find them on Myspace! Sheesh. Generally, I walk into a record store with a very clear idea of what I want, and walk out with something that seduced me as I walked down the aisle instead. As a teenager, this was the Morphine problem... I'd walk in to buy a Morphine album and walk out with something else. This is top of the long list of reasons to buy music from a story and not online. The other reason is hip, short, attractive music geeks behind the counter who seem to be the same hip, short, attractive, music geeks who worked behind the counter in Rhode Island when I was in high school and college.... weird.

Anyway, rock some Lady Sovereign.

Oh, and PS use http://www.pandora.com

You type in the name of an artist or band you like and it tries to play you music that is similar. It's awesome.

file under "NOW I've seen EVERYthing"

file under "NOW I’ve seen EVERYthing"

I grew up with a hatred of pawn shops and Rent-a-Centers because they profit only from the poverty of others. I particularly hate their ad tactics and their placement in places where folks "need" them most.

Today I was walking through a Spendy neighborhood near Leschi, when I saw a white SUV with hot pink "People Pawn" stickers on the sides. It's a mobile pawn shop that will come to your "home or office" to exchange petty cash for jewels, electronics and presumably guns. At what kind of office exactly is it appropriate to have the People Pawn SUV parked outside? What?! I'd already visited the "Yuppie Pawn shop" in Lake Forest Park. (Basically for folks who feel like they're giving too much away when they send their REI jackets and older model Cuisinart to the Goodwill.) I always thought of Pawning something as a kind of desperate act, so I can see how the place may benefit from availability... getting there before you think twice about trading heirlooms to pay the electric bill, but the "office" part just doesn't add up for me.

That said, the org I serve IS in the middle of a big fundraising campaign, and we ARE looking under every rock at this point....

Nah. Forget it, what would they give me for some fingerpaintings and a lego helicopter anyway?

Radio 8ball

Last night I went to see Radio 8ball... it's a live version of a radio show. On the radio show, the host, a guy name Andras, listens to a caller's questions and then picks a Cd and song at random to answer the question and then he and the caller interpret the answer. This process has also been called the "Ipod Tarot"... tonight though, it was a live show for an audience full of barefoot women, men with facial hair, mood lighting and a DJ and the songs all came from one Jim Page.

(Jim Page is a busker/folk musician here in Seattle who has played really revolutionary and musically solid songs for longer than he cares usually to talk about.)

Everyone submits a question, and then a person's question is picked out of a box and they are invited onstage to read their question, spin a dial that is marked with signs of the zodiac. There's this big sign with the signs next to names of Jim's songs, and then he plays that song to you. Everyone else's job is to hold their own interpretation, their own intention for each question. Jim Page's songs are sometimes political... tonight the owner creator of Fishtales Organic Beers in Olympia got up and asked when she should move to New Orleans, and if she does if she should open a floating brewery there. The wheel turned to jim's song "Petroleum Bonaparte" which is an angry/funny diatribe about Oil and George Bush. Afterwards there were different interpretations... clearly New Orleans is a part of "Big Oil" and the song was saying not to participate in what's happening there... or perhaps the song was saying to wait until George Bush is out of office, or that New Orleans desperately needs more beer right away. (Did I mention that after you ask your question, you're given raw chocolate and an "Herbal Brew" filled with kava kava and yohimbe and raw honey and other herbally stuff?)

One young man (17?) asked "How do I know if I am a good person or a bad person?" his answer was called "More than anything else in the world" and the rest of the chorus was "I'm never gonna let you down". Jim Page is probably in his sfifties or sixties, and his own interpretation of this answer is that one makes a decision to be a good person. I took it a different way, but enjoyed that idea. The young man's friend's question was also picked. His was "How do you go from surviving to thriving?" The dial landed on the special "Radio 8ball" song which was sung (and written) by this Andras fellow, and it was called "I fucked a pumpkin". It was painful to watch as this young man's serious question ( I hear the word "survive" and assume some heavy shit, though maybe he was just talking about how shitty it is to have curfew or something) answered by an obscene Halloween comedy bit. People took the guy with the lost cat and the woman doubting her path of yoga WAY more seriously than this person's youthful angst, which was hard for me personally to take, because I'm crazy about young people who share their angst. I guess the Pop Oracle decided that humor and pumpkin fucking is what he needed... who am I to argue?

Another woman asked if she had a guardian angel, and the song that answered here was "Jesus and the Laughing Deity" a song about a jester-god who jokes with Christ until he finds himself off his cross, leaving behind his suffering. The guy who's cat Fargel had wandered off three weeks before got a song about Julia Butterfly and Taoism and activisim which was confusing for some of us. All the pet owner heard were the words "Jack the Ripper" which didn't bode well for him.

It was such a fascinating evening... my good friend asked her question onstage. I'd told her when we arrived that I was certain one of us would get selected... she was the last one. She asked "In what direction is my vision going?" because sometimes it gets better, but for the last three years it's gotten steadily worse. The song that she spun was about Rachel Corrie, and about not ignoring the suffering in the world. The first four lines or so were about being a really decent, loving person who changes what needs to be changed which reminded me of her partner, a great guy who I think has been the difference between "surviving and thriving" for her. I cried through the whole thing.

Afterwards, there was a great party. Jim Page was wandering around with a huge piece of cake (his birthday was last week) and looking for a place to sit, so I invited him to join us. We had a great talk. I told him I thought it'd be had to play his own music without being in charge of the show. He said that ordinarily, he had to manufacture his conversation with the audience, but in this venue it was understood, impossible to avoid and that he liked that, said it was easier. It was a fantastic thing to behold, and I can't wait to go again.

What a day!

The weather was in the 80's last week, which told me that summer was *coming* but when I walked down my street and saw that the movie marquee had
Spiderman 3 (saw it, loved it)
Pirates of the Carribbean 2 (ditto... I know, I know, they're dumb, but so good in an old fashioned corny-ass way)
and Shrek 3 (I know EVERYONE else digs them, but I saw the 2nd one on a plane and wasn't impressed...)

Coming soon? The Bournes Ultimatum (third in the series) and Ocean's 13 (can't wait!) In other words.... it's summer, my friends. Generally speaking, I've never been one for sequels, but I can't wait for Ocean's 13. (I tried to watch the original... I'm crazy about Sinatra, but try as I might to change my frame of reference to a different, more misogynist time, I couldn't watch it.)

ANYway. I stayed home sick today with a stomach ache, and our water heater suddenly started to "leak"...ie gallons and gallons of hot and then cold water came tumbling onto my basement floor (and thus, my dirty laundry). It was a good thing that I was home because from his office, Z would never have heard the noise, and it would have gone on for much longer. It was my incredulity that my husband would do laundry in the middle of the day (that was what the water sounded like) that led me to investigate.

So, I finally got to "STOP FREAKIN' Call Beacon!" which I've been waiting to do for years. A pinnacle of marketing genius that line...

New Boiler and a cheeseburger were exactly what the doctor ordered.

No, like, for real

Some of you will know that I got a subscription this year to the 5th Ave theatre. (RI folks, think PPAC). Generally thinking I'm more of a late-night, fringe, bring yer beer into the black box, wacky trashy pay-what-you-can kind of theater goer, BUT my pal Paula and I both like musicals. (Only I'm generally too embarrassed to tell other people that because I'm tuff.)

We got the subscription with another friend because they were showing "Company" (Sondheim show about sex and marriage, also the theme music for my early childhood. yeah.) and "White Christmas" (I cried, and loved the fake snow, and sang along at the end louder than anyone else in the nosebleeds because in the dark, noone can see you're tuff.) and "West Side Story" (c'mon!)

We also got "Buddy; The Buddy Holly Story" and, fatefully, "Edward Scissorhands". (We actually signed up for something else even more unlikely, but "Buddy..." replaced what the original season included. Imagine, like "Woody; The Woody Allen Story" or something.)

Last night was Edward Scissorhands. It was something else. I'll jump to the end of the night, which took place in the corporate video establishment (which I always avoid) because it was too late for my local joint and I couldn't wait.

Kendra: Hi. I can't find Edward Scissorhands, will you help me?
Short Dorky Blonde Video Guy: Did you look in drama?
Kendra: Yeah. I found Eddie and The Cruisers.
SDBVG: Here it is. (In comedy)
K: fifty fifty shot I guess.

at the counter:
SDBVG: Hey, did you know that there's, like, a ballet version of that right now?
K: Yep. That's why I'm here. I just saw it.
SDBVG: I heard it was great. What did you think?
K: I'm not sure. I was expecting a musical, and brought my blind friend, so I spent the whole time whispering narration, so I couldn't really get into it. Maybe it was really good.
SDBVG: Oh. (BLIND. GOSH. YUCK. WHAT DO I SAY?) My friends said it was really good.
K: The set was cool.
SDBVG: (THANK GOD!) Yeah. They said the the sets were amazing. They saw the London cast, which is pretty much the same thing.

That's right friends. I narrated the ballet version of Edward Scissorhands in my quietest indoor voice from the nosebleeds.
"Now that slutty lady brings the salesman into her house... whoops, he's out again. I think he might be golfing with her husband now."
"The cheerleader loves Edward... the other teenagers are doing a peer pressure dance now. Oh. She leaves him".

There was a dream sequence (I'm not big on ballet that isn't the nutcracker... is that like some ballet trope of some kind?) where Edward has hands and all the other folks are topiaries. It was probably awesome, but it turns out that all of my cynicism lives in my left brain right next to my words, but my right brain has all my Dream-dancing-appretiation.
Fucked up. A joke, even. Sheesh.

If "West Side Story" is, like, a One-Womyn performance piece, I'm staying home.

Oh. Ps. Not one smoke in four months. Word.

Sad News And/But I love Ballard

The sad news is this: my beautiful and loveable young cat Trinity was hit by a car and killed last week. Zak dug a big ass hole, and we put in a beautiful and edible garden (although Z says that because her body is decomposing down there we shouldn't eat them... anyone want to weigh in on this?) We spent the day crying and digging (I did almost no digging, for the record). Some dear friends (the ones who really cared about Trinity AND with whom we felt comfortable crying) came over and helped us put her in the ground. The garden is really lovely, and since trinity was THE most social and friendly cat in the universe, it has torches and benches so that we could all sit there together and drink beer and eat pizza after/while we cried our eyes out.

Also, I got some very sweet cards/letters from the Big Kids since I took the day off work. Some girls were obviously working together because they each drew a round little black cat with wings and a halo. (They obviously never met my tricky, shameless, cat, but that's ok.)

In other news, today was so lovely that I'd like to tell you how it went.
I woke up late, got a lot of coffee (a party last night left me a little delicate) and then went downtown to see Lawrence of Arabia in dazzling 70mm at the Cinerama which was tremendous, and lovely and a whole different movie because of all the immensity and vastness that is not possible on a television.
Next I had Corn Beef Hash at the Five Point. I took a nap and got up with some daylight left for a bike ride (this is the cool part). As I cruised around Ballard, I saw so many happy people. There were folks who were waiting in line at the Tractor to see some Gaelic band, and folks who were eating ice cream cones outside of Ben and Jerry's (The make Stephen-Colbert flavored icecream now!) I felt really contented and hopeful just then, all the way to my toe clips, when I heard a *really* loud and funky bassline. There was a teenage jam band (a very good one, actually) playing on the sidewalk, and a whole bunch of local homeless guys were rocking out, having the best time! I sat down behind them and took it all in.

I used to frequent the Chaihouse more, ah, frequently than I do now, because now my heart belongs to Nervous Nellies. The Chai house, however is so tenderly tie-dyed, so openly open-mic, so unabashedly idealistic and wierd that it holds a warm place in my heart. They've got this new woman there, Reverend Betty, who is all about "community". I read some of her missives, and felt pretty cynicallly that her idea of "community" was about folks buying into her big ideas. She had this idea of "Chaistock" where they'd have live music all week to raise money to get a better sound system. I'd read the posters, and rolled my eyes when I saw the pinnacle event, which was "improvisational collaborative mayhem"; my inner adolescent poet shuddered with shame.

There I sat,today, watching these really young, talented kids being treated like rock gods by some homeless guys, and some homeless guys being treated to their first front row seat in a long while I imagine. This dad and his little kid came by and sat with us, and the toddler could NOT be restrained from gently resting his little sticky hand on the snare. More and more folks showed up with coffee and sandwiches, and curry in stryrofoam and, with astonished looks on their faces sat upwind from the rabble nodding their heads to the beat. One dude with a bedroll under his arm, walked up to the chubby, dorky-looking guitarist and got really close, and then closed his eyes and started singing with his mouth wide open... no words just screamy melody that perfectly completed the music. He went along for a minute or so without a single error... this was exactly as advertised "improvisational collaborative mayhem" but REALLY. Dudes were dancing that wierd ass hippie dance, and looking like they were at a Rush concert. Men I walk by every day, who have never smiled at me, never met my eye grinned and nodded with me, let me in, shared this with me. After awhile the guitarist and bassist went in for a pop (I assume, although, really they were funky enough for a beer in my esteem...) and another pair came on up to join the drummer.
The corner/park where they had set up is at a 5 or 6 way intersection with a really long and thorough light, so folks in cars and on motorcycles got a listen too. There was this woman in her 60's perhaps in a blue sedan all alone, stopped at the light about 15 yards away from the band. She peered and squinted so intently at them, that I imagined for a moment that she might be jealous. I imagined her seeing these homeless guys all dancing and bellowing cheers on the sidewalk, these kids just tickled pink to be adored, the rest of us thrilled to be allowed a place in this meeting, and wanting.... something. I'm not sure exactly what it could be, or where she went when the light turned, but she was thinking some thoughts, I could tell that much.

I was too. I was thinking "I love you, Ballard!"

k

Overheard in Ballard

There's a website called Overheard in Pittsburg... http://www.overheardinpittsburgh.com/

It's pretty funny. I know of it, because my friend Chris occasionally reports shit his husband Jeff said, because homeboy is too funny to keep from the masses.

Anyway, I've been campaigning my fella, IT to the stars (TM), to start Overheard in Seattle, already, doggone it. My campaign consists of possible entries, like these two, from my late afternoon commute today.

Guy is waiting for bus. Bus arrives...stops... opens doors. Guy waits a beat and then his eyebrows shoot up in surprise! (Hey, look! A bus!) He boards jovially and sits down. We head over the Ballard bridge.

"Hey. Up there, are you gonna go left, or keep going straight?"
(Quiet Bus driver voice.) "Going straight"
"What?"
"Going straight."
"What?"
"Going Straight."
"Oh. Good. That'll give me awhile, cause I forgot where I'm goin'"

Guy laughs so hard, I can smell the Nightrain from two rows BEHIND him.

wait... for... it...

"Oh! That's right. The strip club!"


LATER (walking down the street, two fourteen year old girls and a balding guy)

girl 1: didn't you want to be a marine biologist?
Girl 2: Yeah, but they can go out if they want. They can have a tan.
Girl 1: Daddy, there's this surfer girl who's like 13, and she got her arm bit off. Now she's got her own lotion company.

That's what I got for you folks...

Don't Smoke, Don't Knit, What can you do?

Ugh.
Due to a wrist injury acquired weeks ago from closing the lid on a jar, and then exacerbated by extended periods of knitting while home sick with a cold, I cannot knit. I spent the weeked with my friend the physical therapist/massage therapist who rubbed it and pinched it and showed me how to do the same things for myself, but from the feeling of it, there will be NO knitting for days at least. This sucks because there are a couple of babies wandering into the lives of loved ones in the near future, and I just started making Z some new gloves, AND also I really enjoy knitting.

The good news is that I've been reading a lot. Right now, I'm taking turns between "Going Solo" the second half of Roald Dahl's autobiography and "The Audacity of Hope" by Barrack Obama. So far the cyncial side of me is outraged because Obama makes a lot of sense to me, and no one can really be *that* right about how to lead the country, right? So, what's his real agenda? The pragmatic liberal eats it up, because he sounds so goddam "electable". The radical is also pissed because Obama is about meeting people where they're at, not demonizing others people who don't agree and working toward an end of the polarization that's been happening in our country. The Buddhist in me loves this because OF COURSE all the dualities that appear in our views of politics and government are unreal and unuseful, but the militant feminist in me and her buddies are agog at this and want change and want it now, and don't think that this friendly attitude is going to work. So, the crowd are working it all out and I'll let you know how it goes. Everyone settles down and cuddles together, though, to hear exploits of the worlds' greatest children's author as he bops around Africa and the middle east just before WWII. It's a good balance.

Leaving Wednesday morning for Tucson YAY!

Make some time, friends, this is long

A couple of weeks ago I went with my union to lobby my state legislature over the weekend celebrating the birthday of Dr. King. This was amazing in many ways, so it's been hard to start to write about. Here's what I got:

-I was surrounded by purple which may, it turns out, be my least favorite color. SEIU has chosen purple as its color. In general, I've found that folks who choose to like purple have a different relationship to their favorite color than others. For instance there's a whole store devoted to selling purple things.

Walking around the capitol building and seeing hundreds of purple people representing for childcare workers, mental health workers and nurses helped me get it, though. We were a presence, and that came through loud and clear and in tacky tacky bright shades of purple. It killed me, but I saw its use. Next time any of you people start a union PLEASE, how about black? Maybe black with some dark grey, or silver studs... I mean unity and visibility are great, but come on.... The best part is that folks wear all shades of purple, lavender and plum (I myself was wearing a somber aubergine.) so in our unity we clash terribly with one another, even as we represent.
Wait, I assure you this story gets better. (But it continues to be purple the whole time. Keep that in mind.)

-We were celebrating something huge. SEIU organized the 17,000 "Family Care Workers" in our state. (Note: Family Care Workers are also known as "In-Home Care givers" or folks like my mom who take in neighborhood kids for dough, and as a way to get paid for staying home with their own kids.) These folks care for 40 percent of the kids in our state. They now have a historic contract which made me want to cry more than once. It's a little complicated, but it goes like this: Poor folks need childcare in order to work, and they can't afford to send their kids to places like Hilltop, or places like anywhere in most cases. The state subsidizes care at about $500/month per kid. (My school is like $1000/month per kid. So if we want to do the right thing and offer our amazing services to kids from working class famlies, we need to suck up around $6000 of revenue. Which, we can't afford. So, most moms who get this subsidy send their kids to a Family care provider. The provider gets about $25/day per kid. This is not a living wage, and it means that poor folks can't get care, so they can't keep jobs, and as someone who spent a few years working in women's shelters I can tell you that this results in families living in hotels,cars and shelters.

Happy news: these folks got together. They got the state government to realize that this workforce (officially considered independent contractors who work for the parents) really works for the governement. The state pays these women to care for the poorest kids who need the most. So the state agreed to allow the care workers to collectively bargain WITH THE STATE which is fucking huge. The contract promises all family care workers that they will get higher subsidies for kids from low-income families. Also, they get some of the training folks at my center get about child development and learning, AND a very small few will get a teeny weeny bit of health care benefit. It rocks.

- Also, these women were awesome. They were all ages and sizes and most had loud voices. They all know about how to love children, but they also knew how to hold folks accountable. The staff were translating all the proceedings into Spanish and Somali because you can care for kids in any language, especially in a country without an official language (so far!) which also made me cry a little bit. For the record: I'm still off the smokes and therefore loopy and weepy all the time. I'm getting used to it, and kind of think it's nice how crazy and wrecked I get about everything.

- I got to hear Jone Bosworth Head of our brand new Department of Early Learning. She kicks ass and takes names and I'm totally stoked to have her on my side. She (a beauracrat) quoted Thurgood Marshall "When they tell you 'Go Slow' they mean 'Don't go." P.s. I think I have an unconscious block against spelling beaurocrat properly. I don't know why.

-We stayed at a place in Tacoma called the King Oscar Motel and Convention Center. This brought me no end of pleasure even though the flourescent lighting ALMOST made my nonsmoking self go out of my mind. (And, dude, didn't all the guys and women in those Union movies and stories all smoke?) Also I went out with two crazy union people to wander the strip around King Oscar's until we found Kareoke. The place is called Longitude 84 Sports Bar. It was startling well (flourescently) lit. The lighting conspired with the well spaced pool tables, electronic dart boards and few booths to feel like a cross between a Boys and Girls club and a Greyhound station. The Kareoke was hard core with few but serious performers. I sang "Walking After Midnight" "Mr. Jones" and something else. It was wicked fun. I even beat some old broad at pool by accident when she sunk the eight after lecturing me on calling every shot. Tremendous.

-We asked legislators to fund the Family Workers Contract. The governor has said that she'd like to offer the same subsidy rates to centers (like mine!) so we also asked folks to support that part of her budget. Lastly, we told folks that we are working on a way for workers in centers to collectively bargain with the state too. This sounds great in most ways, and also, kind of wierd, because I'm used to a more traditional model of a union. This kid includes everyone and says there's no bad guy, no "bosses". While I think this kind of organzing is great for kids, I don't think it'll have any impact on the long and glorious tradition of protest songs.

- We have an incredibly beautiful state capitol. I am SO sad I didn't bring my camera, but I will next time. I looked up at one point, while we were sitting in the atrium on some stairs eating lunch and making our plan. We were under this incredible dome, and there was a big old golden seal in the middle of the stairway with George Washington's face on it and that was surrounded by velvet rope, which I always find compelling because it reminds me of the Smithsonian and the bank when I was a kid at the same time. Anyway, I looked up while we were practicing our "message" and saw this 8 year old kid on the top stair across from me, and he was the coolest kid ever, I could tell. He was just walking along, and then, casual as anything, he popped the wheelies out of his shoes and just skated right along the top marble step under this pinkish dome just slow and easy as you please.And the staties didn't even try to stop him! Dude, I would have given anything to be in his shoes.

-I know I'm not the first to say it, but Jamie Pedersen House Democrat from Capitol Hill is the most charming politician I've ever met in my whole life. Also asked great questions. (Also comically short. I've discovered that dudes who are short AND are cool with that cannot under any circumstances be overestimated or stopped. Go Mr. Pedersen Go.) I know it's kind of demeaning, but also he's fucking adorable. I didn't want to say it, but I did. There.

- That's all I can think of about it right now. Everyone I spoke with was so respectful and seemed to be very excited about what can happen in our state for child care and education right now. I'm not very familiar with political excitement, really so it felt strange, but in a nice way. I was also representing my school in some way, which is wierd because we kick ass, AND we're in a wierd limbo. Folks from all over the country have heard of Hilltop Preschool AND I work with school agers afterschool which sounds like babysitting, which it's not. So, it felt funny. I felt like I was playing a part most of the time, but then from time to time I'd find that it was really me talking to organizers and reps and senators and aides, and that the smart ass cynic who was so uncomfortable had just taken off around lunch time.

Maybe, it's not so bad, my friends. It can work.

Headline: Yoga leads to carpet cleaning

Beware, friends, cause they dont' tell you this at the ashram, or the Y... yoga is not just about flexibility, strength, spiritual onenes with the cosmos and looking like Madonna. Oh no, it's also about opening yourself to your inner housewife.

This morning, as I leaned forward on my yoga mat, my attention kept turning from my body and position to the dark, nasty stains on my rental-colored carpet. These stains are the result of my cats' hairball and eating until vomiting habits, and I have scrubbed them before, but today, the shadows of Kitty Digesting Fluid were too much for my sensitive soul. I tried to gently refocus on my shoulders and hamstrings, but it was a struggle to tear my mind away from the filth. I finished my practice, and got my ass a rug-doctor from Safeway.

I rented one before, when I was equally desperate after a particularly well-attended New Years party. I'd assumed I'd be paying half my paycheck, but was stunned to discover that it's only 21 dollars (which for those of you keeping track of childcare salaries, is actually only 1/4 of my paycheck. Thank goodness for the union... oh and my sugardaddy.)

If you ever do this, (or want to clean anything else without filling your house with yucky chemicals) I highly recommend the book Better Basics for the Home by Annie Berthold-Bond. (Basically, everything comes down to vinegar, washing soda, borax and tea tree oil in differing amounts, but it's comforting to have someone else tell you how much, and why it works.) She's incredibly practical, wise and has thought of virtually anything you might want to clean. When we first got Trinity (the only cat I've ever had to housetrain) this book sat on my bedside table. Now it automatically opens to the pages on odor-removal, which are dog-earred and tear-stained.

Rather than buying the good Doctor's soap at Safeway for ten bucks, I just used a little simple green with borax and washing soda, and now (part of) my carpet is Poorly-Installed-by-Cheap-Landlord clean again. (And I didn't have to do this "experiment-with-homemade-hippie-dippie-cleaner-and-hope-I-don't
permanently-mark-my-carpet" which can be stressful. (I'm now taking a bit of a food break, but will return to the fray and finish before my allotted 24 hours are up.)

Tomorrow, I look forward to my monkey-mind obsessing over the super clean smell in the air instead.

These things happen to other people....

I'm pretty crazed and confused just now on account of the whole no nicotine thing, right? Last night I went to a party, and stayed up "late" (these folks have kids) drinking whiskey, only because NOBODY at this "party" smoked, and therefore I did not run the risk of getting tipsy and immediately bumming a smoke from someone. (I did, during a quiet moment, sneak outside, and kind of casually perused the porch, poking around behind the bigwheel, an old desk rubber balls, hoolahoops and stuff hoping to locate *an old butt lying around on the porch* from the last time I'd been there, like a month ago. ("Which", my tortured psyche was telling me "would have quite a bit of tobacco in it because of course I couldn't ever smoke a whole one at this house before the six year old would come out and catch me at it and lecture me. Heartbreak. Guilt etc.) Ewww. This skulking only lasted a minute before I caught myself at what I was doing and hied my ass inside, disgusted.

So, anyway, just completely whacko these last couple of days. I "talked about my feelings" on a phone call with my seester (thanks, dear.) which may have been a terrible idea and then was kind of a wreck, and got myself all worked up and wacky in the middle of my messy nest of a "my husband's away so I can knit/eat/read/sleep/draw anywhere I damn well please" living room. Just losing my shit... my stomach actually hurt from churning all that nasty emotionality around with all the detox tea, and my stomach is made of iron, friends. Iron, or perhaps Titanium which gets stronger with age.

When (here's the amazing part) suddenly, I realized that I could go running and feel better.

I've been running (very sporadically) since last February when a dear friend convinced me it would be the secret to quitting the LAST time I tried. (He even took me out to buy sassy blue shoes.) I have run cheerfully and sleepily and lots of other ways, but never to meet a clear and present need. Just out of some obligation and a fondness for looking at scenery slowly. Today, I ran to change the way I felt, and it worked, and I felt great and came home and did yoga to music (?!) everything in the whole world became sparkly and open and kind of animated. Including my stomach, and the piles of yarn, and the cat fur all over the couch. Amazing. Tremendous.

I think it also might be time for me to write the second fan letter of my whole life to Ani Difranco for her record that I downloaded for free from her website, which feels kind of wrong, though obviously condoned. And probably to not use so many quotation marks. I'm compensating, here people.""""" Anyway, I've always liked Evolve, but it was part of all the mind-blowing that happened here in my living room today.