Much of this post was written last week; I've just been lazy and unmotivated and haven't felt the need to inform anyone of my whereabouts. Lucky for you, I'm in one of my moods...which generally isn't a good thing.
Here are some things I've been up to lately:
As I write this, my friend Mish, who is visiting for six weeks from Australia, is Googling pictures of Joan of Arc. My cat is swatting my leg in the hopes that such a tender display of affection will convince me to feed her dinner 34 minutes early. The sky has morphed from a beautiful hazy blue to a non-so-beautiful Zoloft grey in the span of approximately four seconds.
Mish arrived at midnight on the 7th and we have been keeping ourselves royally entertained since her plane touched down. Last week we had a picnic and read trash tabloids in the grass at Gas Works Park. The other day we accidentally emptied the entire bag of Scrabble letters onto the deck but are miraculously only missing an E and a Q (at least, those are what we can see through the cracks). Mish is now watching something on Netflix and, upon glancing out the window, shouted "Bunny!" (It should probably be said that there was actually a bunny.) I just pulled a head of cauliflower out of the refrigerator and it is pink--the cauliflower, not the refrigerator.
Updates
1. We just got back from a hike at Wallace Falls. I managed to pick the ONE day in the past two weeks that didn't even have three minutes' worth of beautiful stored away inside it. There's no putting it mildly: we were pissed on. All. Day. But that turned out to be fine because after we got home, had hot showers and ate dinner, we settled down for what has become our favorite evening routine: watching season 11 of The Biggest Loser and discussing how incalculably devastated we would be if we ever disappointed Jillian Michaels.
2. Yesterday was the Women's World Cup final between the US and Japan. I don't want to talk about it.
3. We are currently sitting in ye olde Lyons' Den Coffee Shoppe in Bothell. Mish is writing a short story and I am alternating reading a page of Everything is Illuminated and working on my Americorps application. Over in the corner two junior high-aged girls are drinking bubble tea and wearing shorts that look to be painted on, and so short that it's as if they ran out of paint before reaching a decent length.
4. The first thing Mish said this morning after waking up was, "Is it pathetic if I'm already looking forward to The Biggest Loser tonight?"
5. I received about two hours of sun today and I think I might be dying. Oh, my delicate Seattle skin!
I've been sitting on this post for about 2.5 weeks now, so I should probably post it. Hopefully you'll be able to look past the fact that my most exciting update is that my Scrabble board is now missing its only Q. I live a tough, tough life.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
The Pee Room Gets a Makeover!
Well, take a good long look at this picture--the color of the walls, the lack of carpet--and prepare to be amazed. The Pee Room has undergone a major renovation, and I had the foresight to document each step of the process for the four people who will read this. No need to thank me.
Step 1: Prime
Subheading: Goodbye, "Hypothermic Barney" Green!
Step 2: Paint - Take One
Subheading: "That's so not 'Yogurt.'"
Sub-subheading: Whoops.
Step 3: Paint - Take Two
Subheading: Right paint, wrong trim.
Sub-subheading: "That looks like baby diarrhea."
Step 4: Assemble Futon
Subheading: "Can you hand me the instructions? Oh nevermind, I'll read them in French."
Sub-subheading: "F**k this!"
Step 5: Document Typos in Malaysian-Printed Futon Instructions
Subheading: "Oh, we were supposed to lossen it?"
Sub-subheading: "Ah, yes. 'Matress' with the less common one-tee spelling."
Step 6: Rage
Subheading: "We might as well actually read this in French."
Sub-subheading: This is, in fact, not where I want to be.
Step 7: Woman-Assembled, Cat-Approved
Subheading: "Taffy, if you pee in here again we're putting you up for adoption."
Step 8: We'll Call it Good for Now
Subheading: My family recommends furnishing a room before touching up the paint. That couldn't possibly end badly.
Stay tuned for updates from the newly painted Pee Room! Some things to look forward to: a new desk, artwork, blinds, a lamp that my parents did not steal from me.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Poetry Corner Monday
Would you look at this, I'm actually posting a Monday post on Monday. Good for me.
Today being a national holiday, you lucky readers get two wonderful poems for the price of one. This week's poems come from the God of the Poetic Word, Sir Ted Kooser. (Yes, again. And yes, you're welcome.) I chose these last night without realizing that they both leave me feeling hollow in a way I can't quite explain. It's a full, content hollowness, if that makes any sense, like an insult you can't help admiring for its searing creativity. That was kind of a weird thing to say. I shouldn't have said that. Notice, though, that I'm not deleting it. Huh. Well, here you go.
North of Alliance
This is an empty house; not a stick
of furniture left, not even
a newspaper sodden with rain
under a broken window; nothing
to tell us the style of the people
who lived here, but that
they took it along. But wait:
here, penciled in inches
up a doorframe, these little marks
mark the growth of a child
impatient to get on with it,
a child stretching his neck
in a hurry to leave nothing here
but an absence grown tall in a doorway.
Depression Glass
It seemed those rose-pink dishes
she kept for special company
were always cold, brought down
from the shelf in jingling stacks,
the plates like the panes of ice
she broke from the water bucket
winter mornings, the flaring cups
like tulips that opened too early
and got bitten by frost. They chilled
the coffee no matter how quickly
you drank, while a heavy
everyday mug would have kept
a splash hot for the better
part of a conversation. It was hard
to hold up your end of the gossip
with your coffee cold, but it was
a special occasion, just the same,
to sit at her kitchen table
and sip the bitter percolation
of the past week's rumors from cups
it had taken a year to collect
at the grocery, with one piece free
for each five pounds of flour.
Today being a national holiday, you lucky readers get two wonderful poems for the price of one. This week's poems come from the God of the Poetic Word, Sir Ted Kooser. (Yes, again. And yes, you're welcome.) I chose these last night without realizing that they both leave me feeling hollow in a way I can't quite explain. It's a full, content hollowness, if that makes any sense, like an insult you can't help admiring for its searing creativity. That was kind of a weird thing to say. I shouldn't have said that. Notice, though, that I'm not deleting it. Huh. Well, here you go.
North of Alliance
This is an empty house; not a stick
of furniture left, not even
a newspaper sodden with rain
under a broken window; nothing
to tell us the style of the people
who lived here, but that
they took it along. But wait:
here, penciled in inches
up a doorframe, these little marks
mark the growth of a child
impatient to get on with it,
a child stretching his neck
in a hurry to leave nothing here
but an absence grown tall in a doorway.
Depression Glass
It seemed those rose-pink dishes
she kept for special company
were always cold, brought down
from the shelf in jingling stacks,
the plates like the panes of ice
she broke from the water bucket
winter mornings, the flaring cups
like tulips that opened too early
and got bitten by frost. They chilled
the coffee no matter how quickly
you drank, while a heavy
everyday mug would have kept
a splash hot for the better
part of a conversation. It was hard
to hold up your end of the gossip
with your coffee cold, but it was
a special occasion, just the same,
to sit at her kitchen table
and sip the bitter percolation
of the past week's rumors from cups
it had taken a year to collect
at the grocery, with one piece free
for each five pounds of flour.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Damn You, NPR (or, More Reasons Why I Will Die Alone)
There are so many things I wish I were. I wish I were Australian. I wish I were living in Chicago. I wish my knees weren't quite so red. Mostly, though, I wish I were cool. I use the subjunctive "were" here not only because it's a wish, but because that's all it will ever be. My undying devotion to public radio is a one-way ticket to eternal dorkdom.
So really, as much as I love it, NPR has ruined my life. Here's why:
1. If it's a warm day and I'm stopped at a traffic light, I'll generally have my window rolled down. But whereas many people my age would be sporting aviator shades and blasting some new rock 'n' roll chart-topper, I've got my radio turned to my local NPR station and I am carried away in my own little news cloud of divinity, listening to Weekday's Steve Scher discuss broccoli florets and cross-pollination.
2. It has happened on numerous occasions that I will be listening to an NPR story in the car that's so intriguing that when I get to my destination I have to stay in my seat to hear the end of it. Oftentimes, this occurs in the library parking lot. I'll be sitting in the car, fascinated, and I'll let my eyes wander to the vehicles around me. I have lost count of the number of people I've seen doing what I assume to be the exact same thing. This should be comforting, the fact that I'm not alone, but it so isn't. Are my fellow public radio car listeners socially awkward twenty-somethings who drive their mother's purple minivans and name their fish after Shakespeare characters? That would be a no. Are they attractive, eligible bachelors enraptured by the BBC's The World? That would be another no. They are balding men in their mid-fifties who more likely than not just finished a marathon reading of The Memoirs of Richard Nixon.
3. One of my favorite Sunday morning rituals is playing the Sunday Puzzle with New York Times crossword editor and NPR's Puzzlemaster Will Shortz. As if that weren't dweebish enough, I actually shout out the answers. At the radio. Alone in my room.
4. If it weren't for NPR's book recommendations, I would have nothing to read.
5. Aside from Mauro Rosales (a 30-year-old professional soccer player from Argentina) and David Muir (correspondent and weekend anchor for ABC World News), all the loves of my life are public radio personalities. Some are gay; most are over the age of fifty.
6. Whenever my mom or I turn on NPR in the kitchen, it's largely static. If there's only one person in the room, and if she sits in a particular chair in a particular place and turns her body in a particular direction, the static is manageable. If, however, someone else enters, the radio blows a gasket. Minimizing the obnoxious background noise requires a bizarre, almost tribal dance across the tiles to find a position that does not interfere with the broadcast. My most exciting discovery in recent memory came yesterday evening when I was searching for the Sounders game on TV and learned that our television has entire channels dedicated to the radio. I'm fairly certain everyone in the universe already knew this. If my life were an episode of the podcast Too Beautiful to Live, this "discovery" would feature in the segment "That's Not News." But let me tell you, at that moment I fancied myself a genius. When you play NPR through the TV rather than through the radio, there's--get this--no static. It's beautiful. I feel like I've won the lottery.
7. I live for the KUOW pledge drives. I just love the unscripted moments during which my favorite radio personalities are revealed to be normal, dorky people just like me.
8. I was describing this post to my mom and she felt the need to console what she perceived to be bitterness on my part toward the fact that my life revolves around public radio. "I'm sure there are plenty of people your age who were listening to NPR in elementary school," she said. "I think it's great. Good for you." Yes, Mother. I nearly rupture an artery in excitement when I get a 94.9 KUOW sticker in the mail with my membership renewal form. Good for me. If I am an example of what happens when 7-year-olds listen to NPR, I think I'd prefer that my child not even know how to spell it.
So really, as much as I love it, NPR has ruined my life. Here's why:
1. If it's a warm day and I'm stopped at a traffic light, I'll generally have my window rolled down. But whereas many people my age would be sporting aviator shades and blasting some new rock 'n' roll chart-topper, I've got my radio turned to my local NPR station and I am carried away in my own little news cloud of divinity, listening to Weekday's Steve Scher discuss broccoli florets and cross-pollination.
2. It has happened on numerous occasions that I will be listening to an NPR story in the car that's so intriguing that when I get to my destination I have to stay in my seat to hear the end of it. Oftentimes, this occurs in the library parking lot. I'll be sitting in the car, fascinated, and I'll let my eyes wander to the vehicles around me. I have lost count of the number of people I've seen doing what I assume to be the exact same thing. This should be comforting, the fact that I'm not alone, but it so isn't. Are my fellow public radio car listeners socially awkward twenty-somethings who drive their mother's purple minivans and name their fish after Shakespeare characters? That would be a no. Are they attractive, eligible bachelors enraptured by the BBC's The World? That would be another no. They are balding men in their mid-fifties who more likely than not just finished a marathon reading of The Memoirs of Richard Nixon.
3. One of my favorite Sunday morning rituals is playing the Sunday Puzzle with New York Times crossword editor and NPR's Puzzlemaster Will Shortz. As if that weren't dweebish enough, I actually shout out the answers. At the radio. Alone in my room.
4. If it weren't for NPR's book recommendations, I would have nothing to read.
5. Aside from Mauro Rosales (a 30-year-old professional soccer player from Argentina) and David Muir (correspondent and weekend anchor for ABC World News), all the loves of my life are public radio personalities. Some are gay; most are over the age of fifty.
6. Whenever my mom or I turn on NPR in the kitchen, it's largely static. If there's only one person in the room, and if she sits in a particular chair in a particular place and turns her body in a particular direction, the static is manageable. If, however, someone else enters, the radio blows a gasket. Minimizing the obnoxious background noise requires a bizarre, almost tribal dance across the tiles to find a position that does not interfere with the broadcast. My most exciting discovery in recent memory came yesterday evening when I was searching for the Sounders game on TV and learned that our television has entire channels dedicated to the radio. I'm fairly certain everyone in the universe already knew this. If my life were an episode of the podcast Too Beautiful to Live, this "discovery" would feature in the segment "That's Not News." But let me tell you, at that moment I fancied myself a genius. When you play NPR through the TV rather than through the radio, there's--get this--no static. It's beautiful. I feel like I've won the lottery.
7. I live for the KUOW pledge drives. I just love the unscripted moments during which my favorite radio personalities are revealed to be normal, dorky people just like me.
8. I was describing this post to my mom and she felt the need to console what she perceived to be bitterness on my part toward the fact that my life revolves around public radio. "I'm sure there are plenty of people your age who were listening to NPR in elementary school," she said. "I think it's great. Good for you." Yes, Mother. I nearly rupture an artery in excitement when I get a 94.9 KUOW sticker in the mail with my membership renewal form. Good for me. If I am an example of what happens when 7-year-olds listen to NPR, I think I'd prefer that my child not even know how to spell it.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Poetry Corner Sunday Night
I was listening to A Prairie Home Companion this morning, as I do every Sunday morning. Garrison Keillor announced one of his musical guests: a folk singer, previously unknown to me, by the name of Joe Pug. He hadn't gotten two lines into his song "Hymn 101" before I knew, with every ounce of certainty inside me, that this was one of the most significant pieces of music and poetry I would encounter in my life. To me, there is no statement more profoundly moving, no statement more full of courage and simultaneous trepidation, no statement plainer and yet more philosophically complex than the line, "I've come to test the timber of my heart." I wish I could explain the emotions that swell inside me when I hear it and read it and sing it aloud. It just fits. That's really all I can say. It is the sentence of my life.
Hymn 101
By Joe Pug
And I've come to know the wish list of my father
I've come to know the shipwrecks where he wished
I've come to wish aloud
Among the over-dressed crowd
Come to witness now the sinkin' of the ship
Throwin' pennies from the sea top next to it
I've come to know the shipwrecks where he wished
I've come to wish aloud
Among the over-dressed crowd
Come to witness now the sinkin' of the ship
Throwin' pennies from the sea top next to it
And I've come to roam the forest past the village
With a dozen lazy horses in my cart
I've come here to get high
To do more than just get by
I've come to test the timber of my heart
Oh, I've come to test the timber of my heart
With a dozen lazy horses in my cart
I've come here to get high
To do more than just get by
I've come to test the timber of my heart
Oh, I've come to test the timber of my heart
And I've come to be untroubled in my seekin'
And I've come to see that nothing is for naught
I've come to reach out blind
To reach forward and behind
For the more I seek the more I'm sought
Yeah, the more I seek the more I'm sought
And I've come to see that nothing is for naught
I've come to reach out blind
To reach forward and behind
For the more I seek the more I'm sought
Yeah, the more I seek the more I'm sought
And I've come to meet the sheriff and his posse
To offer him the broad side of my jaw
I've come here to get broke
Then maybe bum a smoke
We'll go drinkin' two towns over after all
Oh, we'll go drinkin' two towns over after all
And I've come to meet the legendary takers
I've only come to ask them for a lot
Oh they say I come with less
Than I should rightfully possess
I say the more I buy the more I'm bought
And the more I'm bought the less I cost
To offer him the broad side of my jaw
I've come here to get broke
Then maybe bum a smoke
We'll go drinkin' two towns over after all
Oh, we'll go drinkin' two towns over after all
And I've come to meet the legendary takers
I've only come to ask them for a lot
Oh they say I come with less
Than I should rightfully possess
I say the more I buy the more I'm bought
And the more I'm bought the less I cost
And I've come to take their servants and their surplus
And I've come to take their raincoats and their speed
I've come to get my fill
To ransack and spill
I've come to take the harvest for the seed
I've come to take the harvest for the seed
And I've come to take their raincoats and their speed
I've come to get my fill
To ransack and spill
I've come to take the harvest for the seed
I've come to take the harvest for the seed
And I've come to know the manger that you sleep in
I've come to be the stranger that you keep
I've come from down the road
And my footsteps never slowed
Before we met I knew we'd meet
Before we met I knew we'd meet
I've come to be the stranger that you keep
I've come from down the road
And my footsteps never slowed
Before we met I knew we'd meet
Before we met I knew we'd meet
And I've come here to ignore your cries and heartaches
I've come to closely listen to you sing
I've come here to insist
That I leave here with a kiss
I've come to say exactly what I mean
And I mean so many things
I've come to closely listen to you sing
I've come here to insist
That I leave here with a kiss
I've come to say exactly what I mean
And I mean so many things
And you've come to know me stubborn as a butcher
And you've come to know me thankless as a guest
But will you recognize my face
When god's awful grace
Strips me of my jacket and my vest
And reveals all the treasure in my chest?
And you've come to know me thankless as a guest
But will you recognize my face
When god's awful grace
Strips me of my jacket and my vest
And reveals all the treasure in my chest?
Thursday, June 23, 2011
So That Happened
In the words of KOMO 4 weatherman Steve Pool, "Let's get right to it."
1. My family wants to paint the inside of our dish cupboard some shade of turquoise. The one my mom and I have chosen is part of Behr's Disney Collection. It is called "Ariels Song." No apostrophe. My dad wants to pick a different color because it's Disney. I want to pick a different color because I would rather perish than support such an egregious lack of punctuation.
2. I'm sorry to those of you who don't give a crap about soccer, but it would be sacrilege for me to not mention that my boys kicked some New York Red Bulls ass tonight: 4-2. They burned 'em. As always, Mauro "El Fuego" Rosales was making magic and the team closely followed my two helpful keys to the match: 1) Give it to Mauro, and 2) Don't suck.
3. My cat, the little stinker, has of late fallen into the habit of stealing my beanbag chair if I happen to vacate it for any period of time greater than or equal to 2.8 seconds. And I really mean 2.8 seconds. I'll be reading, Taffy lying on the floor several feet away, and I'll decide I want my water bottle which is on the other side of the room. I'll stand up, take literally two steps forward, turn around, and Taffy the Vulture will already be halfway into my seat. I'll laugh (for some reason each time is infinitely more hilarious than the last), lightly scold her with a "Bug, I'm still sitting there!" and then find some other way to occupy my time because I'm a sucker and there's nothing in this world more adorable than my little squash blossom settling into the beanbag chair that she just appropriated for herself.
4. During the game tonight, I counted a total of five players on both teams whose shoes matched the "Ariels Song" (still no apostrophe) paint swatch we taped to our dish cupboard.
5. I informed my mother that I had named my body pillow Mauro. The following conversation occurred:
Mom (putting her hand to her forehead as if shielding her eyes from the sun): Oh lord, I really did not need to know that.
Me: What? All I do is lean against him when I read! I think it's a good name change.
Mom: Change?
Me: Yeah. He used to be called Grissom.
Mom: Oh, how the times have changed.
1. My family wants to paint the inside of our dish cupboard some shade of turquoise. The one my mom and I have chosen is part of Behr's Disney Collection. It is called "Ariels Song." No apostrophe. My dad wants to pick a different color because it's Disney. I want to pick a different color because I would rather perish than support such an egregious lack of punctuation.
 |
| My perfection has a first name, it's M-A-U-R-O. |
3. My cat, the little stinker, has of late fallen into the habit of stealing my beanbag chair if I happen to vacate it for any period of time greater than or equal to 2.8 seconds. And I really mean 2.8 seconds. I'll be reading, Taffy lying on the floor several feet away, and I'll decide I want my water bottle which is on the other side of the room. I'll stand up, take literally two steps forward, turn around, and Taffy the Vulture will already be halfway into my seat. I'll laugh (for some reason each time is infinitely more hilarious than the last), lightly scold her with a "Bug, I'm still sitting there!" and then find some other way to occupy my time because I'm a sucker and there's nothing in this world more adorable than my little squash blossom settling into the beanbag chair that she just appropriated for herself.
4. During the game tonight, I counted a total of five players on both teams whose shoes matched the "Ariels Song" (still no apostrophe) paint swatch we taped to our dish cupboard.
 |
| My perfection has a second name, it's R-O-S-A-L-E-S. |
Mom (putting her hand to her forehead as if shielding her eyes from the sun): Oh lord, I really did not need to know that.
Me: What? All I do is lean against him when I read! I think it's a good name change.
Mom: Change?
Me: Yeah. He used to be called Grissom.
Mom: Oh, how the times have changed.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Cleaning Out My Closet
One of my favorite weekly segments on the podcast Too Beautiful to Live is called "Jen Cleans Out Her Closet," in which the producer discusses all the emails/news items/pop culture phenomena that she didn't have time to bring up earlier in the week. I am modeling today's post after that segment, considering I have a backlog of posts and there's really nothing I do better than make snarky lists.
1. Last week, my friend Meaghin (whom I met during my study abroad program in Australia), was visiting Seattle and the Olympic Peninsula with her parents. I spent a day with her wandering around the city.
The highlights:
-The requisite out-of-town-guest visit to Gas Works Park, during which I inexplicably yawned 9,000 times.
-Meaghin informing me that my dad's Toyota Matrix was "huge" and that we'd never find a place to park it if we were in her hometown of LA.
-Lunch at a restaurant I can only refer to as "the place that used to be Bambuza," where I thought I saw Sounders midfielder Brad Evans ride by on his bike. (As you'll no doubt see, by clicking on his name, it was a gigantic disappointment that it wasn't actually him.)
-A trip to the central branch of the Seattle Public Library and a healthy stint in the map room looking at the enormous 3D globe and table maps.
2. My friend Scott was home for the weekend from grad school in Bellingham, and we took advantage of our time together by doing what we do best: eating Thai food and watching The Nanny.
Other highlights:
-Trying out the first two episodes of Living with Fran (jury's still out on that one).
-The Beautician and the Beast, which we watched in 15-minute installments on YouTube. -Sounders game. Scott has previously maintained that he finds soccer "ass-numbingly dull," so his decision to grace us with his presence called for popcorn and a round of celebratory game-time margaritas.
-Scott's announcement at the end of the game that his ass was, in fact, not numb, and that he would gladly watch another match.
3. Having graduated from her Masters program at Stanford, my dear friend Jessica is home for a month and a half to spend some time with her family before heading back to California to start her teaching job. I, of course, am beyond happy for her but beyond unhappy for me because her moving back down the coast means her not being here to entertain me on an hourly basis with her witty quips and profound analysis of LOST.
Weekend highlights:
-A trip to our special place - the Starbucks in Barnes & Noble - for coffee and a spirited discussion of must-see television.
-A harrowing morning during which Jess, who was home alone, realized that she had no power in her house and became convinced that a band of feral meth addicts roaming her neighborhood had cut her electrical cords. Electricity was restored by the time I dropped her off after coffee, so if it truly was the meth addicts, at least they were kind enough to give her back her internet.
-Coffee and pastries at The Essential Baking Company, an adorable organic bakery in Fremont.
-In the car on the way to Fremont, Jess informed me that the bakery was rather "hipster." While I lamented the fact that I did not wear my Orcas Island shirt--a tee with a topographical map on the front, which is the only semi-hipster item of clothing in my bland wardrobe--Jess could at least say that she was sporting Toms.
-Our lengthy discussion about literature. This was perfection. I love very few things more than I love talking about books with my closest friends.
I now declare my closet officially clean, albeit utterly un-hip.
1. Last week, my friend Meaghin (whom I met during my study abroad program in Australia), was visiting Seattle and the Olympic Peninsula with her parents. I spent a day with her wandering around the city.
The highlights:
-The requisite out-of-town-guest visit to Gas Works Park, during which I inexplicably yawned 9,000 times.
-Meaghin informing me that my dad's Toyota Matrix was "huge" and that we'd never find a place to park it if we were in her hometown of LA.
-Lunch at a restaurant I can only refer to as "the place that used to be Bambuza," where I thought I saw Sounders midfielder Brad Evans ride by on his bike. (As you'll no doubt see, by clicking on his name, it was a gigantic disappointment that it wasn't actually him.)
-A trip to the central branch of the Seattle Public Library and a healthy stint in the map room looking at the enormous 3D globe and table maps.
2. My friend Scott was home for the weekend from grad school in Bellingham, and we took advantage of our time together by doing what we do best: eating Thai food and watching The Nanny.
Other highlights:
-Trying out the first two episodes of Living with Fran (jury's still out on that one).
-The Beautician and the Beast, which we watched in 15-minute installments on YouTube. -Sounders game. Scott has previously maintained that he finds soccer "ass-numbingly dull," so his decision to grace us with his presence called for popcorn and a round of celebratory game-time margaritas.
-Scott's announcement at the end of the game that his ass was, in fact, not numb, and that he would gladly watch another match.
3. Having graduated from her Masters program at Stanford, my dear friend Jessica is home for a month and a half to spend some time with her family before heading back to California to start her teaching job. I, of course, am beyond happy for her but beyond unhappy for me because her moving back down the coast means her not being here to entertain me on an hourly basis with her witty quips and profound analysis of LOST.
Weekend highlights:
-A trip to our special place - the Starbucks in Barnes & Noble - for coffee and a spirited discussion of must-see television.
-A harrowing morning during which Jess, who was home alone, realized that she had no power in her house and became convinced that a band of feral meth addicts roaming her neighborhood had cut her electrical cords. Electricity was restored by the time I dropped her off after coffee, so if it truly was the meth addicts, at least they were kind enough to give her back her internet.
-Coffee and pastries at The Essential Baking Company, an adorable organic bakery in Fremont.
-In the car on the way to Fremont, Jess informed me that the bakery was rather "hipster." While I lamented the fact that I did not wear my Orcas Island shirt--a tee with a topographical map on the front, which is the only semi-hipster item of clothing in my bland wardrobe--Jess could at least say that she was sporting Toms.
-Our lengthy discussion about literature. This was perfection. I love very few things more than I love talking about books with my closest friends.
I now declare my closet officially clean, albeit utterly un-hip.
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