Armoires and Wendy's: good ideas gone bad

Once you’ve moved (as in switching condos, apartments or houses) once or twice, it’s difficult to imagine what (outside of perhaps a flesh-eating bacteria on your face, being locked in a tanning bed or drinking bleach) on this earth is worse.

I helped move a friend yesterday, which is why I mention it. Well, actually, I mention it because I feel like an eighty year old man. Everything is stiff, from my shoulders to my knees. I can barely turn my head due to a tussle with a 400-lb armoire and there are apparently muscles in my forearms that are necessary for pretty much every finger movement, including lifting, gripping, and typing. I know this because these exact muscles are, at this moment, as i type these words, on fucking fire.

Ow.

Every time I help a friend move, I decide that’s the last time. Also, every time I move, I decide it’s the last time. Last, that is, until I buy a house, after which THAT move will be the truly final move.

But, of course, I continue these friend-helping and every-9-months-moving things. I lived, for a while, down the street from three Chinese restaurants and two Jiffy Lubes. Have you ever seen a four foot tall and three hundred year old Chinese woman swing a purse at two Mexicans wearing greasy shop clothes and using the word “punta” a lot? I have. Twice. Also, I used to live less than half a mile from a strip club run by the local mafia family that was painted bright pink and had a huge flashing sign with the words “LIVE GIRLS” perpetually on the front, like “DEAD GIRLS” were an option.

Not long ago, I moved from Fremont/Ballard to Kirkland. FreLard is a pretty rad little place, I think. Very close to the water, the city, and two progressive, large universities. A pretty happening place, without being dirty enough that you step on discarded needles on the sidewalk… frequently.

Kirkland, while also on the water, is sorta Yuppie-ville. Pricey, with some fun bars, incredible food, yachts, and a great strip right by the water, but full of these Microsoft geeks with drop-tops, Terminator-in-shiny-clubshirts types with overly-large egos (and biceps to match) and very very rich, spoiled 19 year old boys driving their daddies’ Hummers.

That said, I moved to be 8 (as opposed to 58) minutes from work, and my place has TWO bedrooms, a huge deck, and is walking distance from all the awesome things in Kirkland – the water, the bars, the retaraunts, Hector’s (the hands-down best damn breakfast this side of the country and a bloody Mary that will make you take your clothes off, in a good way), and a Wendy’s (open late!).

I have been smart, in the past, not to live directly behind a Wendy’s.

In my previous residences, I have always lived closer to a market (and, once, an actual vegetable farm) than a fast food restaurant. While this wasn’t by design, it was fortuitous. My new place is directly behind a Wendy’s (which is the best fucking fast food ever, in my opinion, second only to Dicks or White Castle – which is a whole ‘nother story). I am literally two blocks, maybe, from the front door of that shiny mecca of greasy, cheap goodness – (open late!). Also, the walk to the joint is downhill the whole way – a nasty turn of fate that makes it soooo easy to walk there and a red-headed step-bitch to get back home, much less with a value meal tucked in your gut.

My early prediction about this predicament was that a long, bloody battle would ensue between my vegetarianism and Mr. Wendy. There would be casualties, I was sure, and my net time spent at the gym would increase, necessarily, in increments directly related to dollars spent at this hellhole of deliciousness.

So far, I was right on the money. Though I’ve yet to buckle and eat a burger, I have become friendly with the drive through people, who see me coming and start making a baked potato and a side salad, then always ask me if I’d like a sandwich to go with. No, I say, but I’ll take a mini Frosty, please.


I did briefly appear to have won this war, I am proud to say, when the joint came out with that Vanilla Frosty, which tastes like powdered non-dairy milk alternative and gives me drymouth, and is basically an incredibly great fast-food idea gone terribly, awfully wrong. Which sucked for me, because I ordered it once, twice, three times just to be sure it did, in fact, suck as badly as I thought it did the time before. Each time, my worst fears were confirmed. The execution of this new frosty flavor was completely botched.

Unfortunately, after two pissed off weeks on Wendy’s strike, I’m over it, so the war’s back on.

Anyway, back to lessons in moving. Another lesson (in addition to carefully avoiding fast food joints when selecting your new neighborhood) I learned when moving to Kirkland was this:

Unless you plan to die in the home you currently live in, do not, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, purchase an armoire. I was reminded of this lesson this weekend, when I got to move another one – and this time it wasn’t mine, which made it even worse.

On armoires: They’re pretty, yes. They hold stuff, which is how you can justify the purchase at first. But about 4 minutes in to bearing 300 lbs of carefully weathered and whitewashed solid wood armoire directly on your lower back, you start to realize that there is absolutely nothing wrong with a regular old closet. Also, that’s about when the other people you’re carrying this ghastly object with start yelling things like “Careful of the goddamn polished brass knobs!!” and “Holy fuck! Did you hear that pop?! I can’t feel my arm!” and “If I die under this over-priced, hand-crafted piece of shit you just HAD to buy, I swear to God I’ll come back as a pissed-off ghost and haunt the balls off of you in this equally over-priced two-bedroom apartment in the center of Yuppie America!!!”

I am close to certain that my hands are now going to fall off my body, so if this is the last post ever, you know where to find the handless girl.

By the way, if I’m handless, that probably also means I’m thirsty and can’t fasten the buckles on my strappy heels, so please bring over a six pack of Miller light, some bendy straws and a pair of slip-on shoes. And maybe a body pillow or the torso of a mannequin. Because handless girls need love too. And please, DON’T buy an armoire. And if you do, and you ask your pushover friends to help you move it, know that they will, but then their hands will fall off and you’ll eternally be tasked with helping them wipe as karmic payback.

My Ex-Roommate Josh is saving the world

If you have a little time and would like to see why I have self-worth issues, take a gander at my friend and ex-roommate Josh's blog, which he started a few days ago from India, where he just arrived to establish a sustainable fundraising program for an organization dedicated to HIV awareness and female empowerment programming in the Indian workplace. Josh is a great example of what happens when we stop being lazy and afraid and actually do the things we always talk about wishing we could do.

Nothing's been handed to him -- he works hard, takes chances, dreams big, thinks hard about the important things and not at all (okay, well, maybe just a little) about the stuff that simply doesn't matter. Most of all, he isn't afraid of a little unknown, and that is what impresses and inspires me most about him.

I'm looking forward to reading all about his experiences, from a safe distance of course: in my nice, comfy chair in my spacious home, surrounded by meaningless but beautiful things, with a gut full of three square meals and two glasses of wine and absolutely no fear of war, famine, or arranged marraige. (Which I wouldn't have to fear even if I were in India, as I would undoubtedly be unarriable and unmanageable there, too). God bless America. Oh, and Josh, too.

You have to be smarter than the mailbox.

Ever since I moved (in May), I haven't gotten mail.

The reason for this is that when my landlord gave me the keys to the mailbox, she just sorta gestured over her shoulder to this big shiny metal box on the side of the road and said that although my unit number is 2, my mailbox number is 10. Then she pointed to the smaller of my two keys and told me this key would gain me access to my mailbox.

She was a nice-enough lady, but old. And clearly very ditzy. The lady could hardly focus from sentence to sentence, and in order to see the place, I had to schedule an appointment around when she got her hair done and when she got her nails done. The point is that this woman was no genius, and was so old/technologically simple-minded that she didn't, for example, know what Craigslist was, or even really how to use the Internet. So, though I'd never had one before, I presumed remote mailbox operation would be a simple task. If she could do it, I could do it.

Wrong.

For two months, I've been periodically going out to that goddamn mailbox and trying my damndest to insert my key into the one lock on the front side of that box -- the street-facing side.

Each time, no dice. There is honest to God no way my key goes in that hole. And for months I couldn't figure it out. To my credit, neither could the other two people I put this problem to (though one was a 9 year old and the other was an asian stranger on the street one Sunday afternoon who asked if I was OK while I banged the big metal box with my fists in frustration like a cromag or some type of monkey).

No luck. The key looked good, and everyone else seemed to be getting their mail just fine. With one lock and one key and no sign of a problem other than my inability to make the key open the lock, I was at a loss. I knew I was doing something wrong, but couldn't figure out what.

So today, when I got an email from Geico saying my car insurance renewal form had been returned and that there was a problem with my mailbox that could cause a lapse in my insurance, I finally gave in. I mean, this was a matter of the law -- there was just no getting around it... I needed into that mailbox, and I needed my landlord's help to do it. Beaten, I buckled and called her.

Me: Yeah, Anita? It's me, um, from unit 2? You know the mail key you gave me?
Anita: Yes, honey. The key for your mail.
Me: Yeah, well, it's broken. I've been trying since I moved in to get my mail, but it won't go in the lock.
Anita: You haven't gotten your mail for two months?
Me: No, you see I was really busy and stuff, but now I need to get it and I can't, because the key doesn't work.
Anita: Well are you putting it in number 2's box? You know, number 10?
Me: I would, but there's only one lock, you know? And my key doesn't fit.
Anita: Well honey -- [laughing, now]-- you're on the wrong side of the mailbox. YOur box is on the other side. That front lock is for the mailman. You just have to walk around the box to get to your lock. Have you tried that?
Me: Oh, just kidding! Ha! Wouldn't that be funny, though? If someone thought their mailkey was broken and tried for 2 months to get their mail but the whole time they were just on the wrong side? But I was just kidding about that. Because that would be pretty dumb.
Anita: No you weren't, honey. Alright, well, I have to go.
Me: Wait! No, I WAS! I totally know how to use a mailbox and stuff! I work in technology! I am very resourceful!
Anita: Bye bye, then!
::click::

So now I guess I know how to get into my mailbox. I feel like a moron, yes, but I have access to the box of wonder, joy, and bills. Speaking of which, I haven't paid a utility bill since I moved in (due to the mailbox situation), so I've probably figured this all out just in time for my water and electricity to be turned off due to past-due balances.

Oh, one other awesome thing: I also didn't recieve phone bills during this time, and just today called to determine what I owed Cingular. The icing on the cake? Not only did I owe my regular monthly bills, but an additional $165.98 in charges related to phone calls I made out of the country to someone I was (casually, but still) dating up until a couple weeks ago. (He spent a week or two out of the country on vacation and I -- foolishly and expensively -- kept in touch during that time). AND I anticipate recieving at least one postcard that he sent during that trip as well, as soon as I open that mailbox. Which is awesome. So my ego, pocketbook and emotional well-being will all have taken a significant beating by the time this day is done.

Being a masochist, I'm really looking forward to that.

I'll keep you posted, but please don't be surprised if my next post references my newly-aquired night shift at the local Taco Time. I might need the job (and my pride is pretty much out the window at this point so no loss there).

Goodbye Nessy, hello career

Well, this month I was supposed to be leaving for a 3-week trip to Europe, during which I would be watching World Cup games, drinking unhealthy amounts of German beer, searching for the Loch Ness Monster and generally engaging in ballyhoo across Western Europe.

Was supposed to be. Past tense. Because I'm now not. Because I took a new job, which I love, but which also necessitated the cancellation of said trip.

And now, in an ironic twist of fate, I will still be spending the month on and off planes -- for work. I just returned from business travel which had me in NY until yesterday morning, and am leaving again for NY on Tuesday, returning Thursday, just to leave again on SATURDAY for D.C. returning MONDAY. And so on.

It's been a whirlwind couple weeks, and doesn't look like it will be stopping anytime soon. But such is life. And frankly, though I can't say I don't feel a twinge of remorse every once in a while when I think about the debauchery that would have accompanied the Europe trip, I'm having a helluva time.

And a major perk is traveling first class (they serve breakfast! and alcohol! and endless coffee!) and staying in rad, cushy, couture hotels in major U.S. cities. If not for that, I mightn't be so positive about this development.

More is coming soon, but I must first get out from under the 400 emails I have to read and respond to since my return. Not counting yours, of course. :)

Let's take the scenic route, eh?

On Seattle

I.
It's as if I am visiting after being away far too long.
I had almost forgotten the feeling
of damp air on skin,
the sickly sweet smell of garbage and bum piss
in the alleys of downtown,
and the way spring doesn't come until June --
buds bursting into colorful crowns
yesterday nonexistant in the green,
now grinning and bobbing outside my window.

I had almost forgotten the contradiction of this place:
How it buzzes, steel and glass planted in wetland;
The reflections in tall, mirrored buildings
of slender trees tacking down squares of earth along gritty streets;
The reflections in wide, windowed buildings
of two people in one trenchcoat beneath a yellow bus sign, kissing;
The reflections in geometric wonders of buildings:
reverse images of brick buildings and black buildings
and of building itself.

I'd let the pierced blonde woman slip my mind:
glittering tragically in anger and rebellion
with her carefully dirty hair,
lounging always outside the coffee shop
with newsprint-blackened fingers
framed by the fog of a hot-tipped cigarette.

I had almost forgotten the noise:
The pregnant silence just before
a strong-armed man in rainboots throws his head back,
hands outstretched in an embrace with thick air
and belts "Fish! FII-IISH!"
in a gravely bass that makes me want to join him
in my own triumphant release;
And the cacaphony of buses, taxis and horse-drawn carts
jockying for position along First Avenue,
all hissing, honking and clopping.

And I am lucky to have been moved to remember
how in a day amongst
the raincoats
and streetlights
and brick buildings
and buses
it's possible to exist solely on this energy
and be satiated, somehow.

II.
Bumper to bumper,
we creep through the arteries of this city together.
Bonding in bored glances from lane to lane,
we flirt -- one metal pod to another --
at seven, eight, fourteen miles per hour.

III.
I finally peel away from the rush hour rest
and fly.

Brakes shriek as I careen around a corner,
reckless in my new freedom.
I pass the standing firemen,
all navy jumpsuits and square jaws,
at the station
with my windows cranked down and
The Doobie Brothers blaring from the one good speaker.

I sing through the sucker tucked in my cheek
just loud enough for them to notice,
though I don't know the words to this one.

The air screams in one window --
whipping my hair about my neck
pouring in my sleeves, around my ankles
then biting cheeks and dampening eyes --
before it bursts out another.

I watch it in the rearview
as it teases the litter in the street behind me;
I watch it grow smaller.

And I watch the dappled light,
filtered through the trees,
flying over my hood, windshield and me,
faster and faster:
an Appaloosa racing through the veins of this metropolis.

Never ever ride the bus late at night.

Whoa... Were my self-esteem directly tied to the emails I recieve after each post, the last post would have sent me into a complete me-loving frenzy. I would, in fact, be under the impression that I'm only a lyric away from signing a record deal and riding off into the sunset in a tinted-windowed tour bus surviving only on my ability to write mediocre verses. Which would mean I definitely need to go shopping for a leather jumpsuit and an entire wardrobe of sequins.

In short, thank you for your kind words. And message recieved. More to come, as soon as I'm struck by incredible boredom/self pity/love at first sight.

::steps off soapbox::

You remember that magical bus story from when you were little? What's it called?

::googles::

Aaah. "The Magic Schoolbus". Remember it? And Ms. Frizzle taking the kids on these crazy magical bus rides through the galaxy or their intestines or the deep deep scary-glowing-fish-who-look-like-aliens sea? I sort of felt like I was on the grown up, cracked-out version on the bus home last night.

I stayed out late after work with a couple co-workers. Saw a foreign film. Ok, it was an action flick.

::shifty eye action, lip biting, finger twiddling::

FINE. It was "In Her Shoes". Whatever.

The point is, after the movie I had to hop on a bus to get home. The stop I needed to use was the one on 3rd street, just up from the market, in a sketchy retail part of town. Stores close, freaks and gangsters come out, and the transients go to bed in every doorway.

So I'm waiting at the bus, and this guy who smells like he's never wiped in his life keeps walking by me and referring to a "sweetie" (which I sincerely hope wasn't me) and scratching all over and licking his lips. The 10 minutes I spend waiting at the bus stop were some of the longest minutes ever. THEN, I get on the bus, open my book, and begin to plug those uncomfortable little I-Pod headphones into my head when I (well, everyone on the bus) notice there's the quintessential meth-head on the bus, scratching and talking exactly one million miles an hour to what appears to be herself. Well, at first that's what I thought, until a pair of very loud African American women near the front engaged her in an argument.

Turns out My Friend Meth was saying 3 things over and over: "I'm native american!" "I just can't believe how black you are!" and "look at black curly black ness I can't believe gurgle gurgle..." or something. Anyway, lots about the blackness of the black hair of these women with curly black hair and brown skin. Meanwhile, the two ladies seem to have completely forgotten that this woman is clearly under the influence of the demon of drugs, and decide they'll get upset about crazy's comments and start yelling and threatening her. Well, at this point, all book-reading is futile as I'm devising a survival plan should things get ugly. Namely duck under the significantly large man sitting next to me. While I'm busy having escape fantasies and pretending I'm invisible by averting my eyes and ocasionally squeezing them shut and counting to ten, the bus driver begins to yell at the already yelling ladies, only worsening the problem and causing everyone on the bus to increase the intensity of their practiced eye aversion.

THEN, as if we all weren't WAY uncomfortable enough, some stressed-out passenger just can't wait and LIGHTS A CIGARETTE AND PROCEEDS TO SLOWLY AND DELIBERATELY SMOKE IT ON THE BUS.

Well, this drives the bus driver (heh heh) nearly off his rocker -- which is a bad, bad thing, as he's driving the bus that is supposed to deliver my ass safely home.

Which is where I eventually wound up, after we pulled over on Hwy 99 and threw a couple passengers out.

So it was an eventful night. Tonight, I think I'll watch "Lost" and maybe even pop some popcorn if I'm feeling crazy. Or illegally download a Metallica song. Oooooh. I've really turned over a new, brave, live-life-on-the-edge leaf, haven't I?

Aaw fuck it. I was always a good girl. No amount of piercing, swearing and drinking will cure me of that. Hope you're not dissapointed.

Today's soundtrack -- funky latin and old jazz, sung new:
"Mariposa (en Havana)" by Si Se
"Waters of March" sung by Jane Monheit
"Reflejo de Luna" by Alacran
"Don't leave me now" by Amparanoia

From suburbia to the city: progressing to the pulse

I am moving, in 2 weeks, to the city.

Destination: a fantastic house (HUGE windows with a view, 2 bedrooms, a hugegantic kitchen -- more room to cook, which is good, because I love to cook, and many other exciting features (like a 10-minute commute) that you don't give a shit about. It's ok, you don't have to pretend.

This house is in Fremont...full of artists and students and conflict and color and life. I love being in the city.

I don't know how I survived on the Eastside so long. Don't get me wrong, I grew up there, and owe many of my greatest friends and experiences to that place. I've just reached a point where I am completely bored by it. And the city I live in now, Kenmore, is full of people I like to affectionately call Kenmorons.

What is exciting and challenging and unique about herds of 40-somethings commuting to and from jobs they hate with glassy eyes? Or the cheesy little smoke-filled bars where people argue about sports games and tell bigoted jokes too loud? Or the handful of people I went to high-school with who never left Bothell and have remained exactly, scarily, the same?

Or cul-de-sacs? The definition:

1. a street, lane, etc., closed at one end; blind alley; dead-end street.
2. any situation in which further progress is impossible.

Exactly.

So I'm ready. And I plan to partake in my very favorite celebration in Fremont this weekend to jump-start my relocation: the Fremont Solstice Fair.

You have seen nothing until you've seen this fair. Don't worry, I'll tell you all about it...