The TV

Here is the first of many short stories to come of what I find on the streets of Seattle. I believe these things have a history and I feel compelled to write about it. It's up to you if you read it as fiction or not. I hope you enjoy this story and more to come.
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She adjusted her jeans in the mirror. She tired to avoid the mirror today because the image staring back was more than she could manage. Honesty was not what she needed. She needed a coping mechanism, not the growing lines on her face or the tears staining her pale cheeks reminding her of the pain she would have to heal from.

She noticed the edges giving way to old age. It was a mirror she and he bought together a year ago at an old estate sale. It was ragged, they knew, but it was their first purchase together. Today, it stood against a rot wall next to the dirty window she peered through in confusion and anger.

The city was shrouded in fog that day. It blanketed the tops of the few high rises that pocked the small city where she lived. Today she felt the fog's heaviness. It's demanding presence and the marks it left on her when returning from the outdoors. She could still hear her neighbors next door arguing over the same damn thing. Every day, it seemed endless; no solution she could think of. Why couldn't they understand that and move on like she had? Or had she?

She turned her back to the window. She stared at the apartment they once shared. His imprint still left on the bed. His scent still lingering on the towel he used last night. The tube of toothpaste he neglected to put away with repeated reminders of where it belonged. It didn't bother her so much now.

The kitchen table held the juice they shared that morning. A drop of syrup on the corner of the tile table that drowned the Belgian waffles they loved to make together, as a couple. A couple who said it was forever. A couple who loved the city, loved their apartment, loved the flaws in each other. Now the flaws had no audience. Flaws left to find another.

She sat on the unmade bed, wishing she didn't have to leave for work. How would she concentrate? How would she move forward and pretend he didn't just walk out that door? Picking at her bitten nails and peeling nail polish, she looked across a few feet to the mahogany table where it once sat. The TV now gone, leaving only a dusty frame. A remnant of laughter, tears and the nights where those stupid rabbit ears weren't making the picture any better. He left with a duffel bag full of dirty clothes and that old TV. With tears in her eyes and a determination to keep them from falling, she locked the door behind her and headed to the office.

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He was up early that morning. Not knowing what to say or what to do. Routine can be a friend in times like these. When hurt is too much to bear, routine is always there, a servant to your needs. Something told him it was the end. They both knew it and the funny thing was that he didn't even know why. Why do people fall apart? How do people get together in the first place? It was a miracle they even happened. Good times, bad times. Weren't they supposed to stay together. Were not vows to be taken seriously?

She was still in bed when he made the last batch of waffles they would ever share. The smell woke her up and she entered the kitchen and an awkward silence crept over them, invading the tangy juice they sipped together and the slightly sweet batter of the waffles, making the clanking of the forks so loud it was unbearable. It was decided the previous night. He would leave. She would stay.

He walked out the door, carrying what he wanted to accompany his grand exit. He knew taking the TV would hurt. It was worth nothing and worth everything at the same time.

The foggy day applauded his defeat, carrying him off to other adventures. He left with a sense of failure. He had failed her. He had let her go. Down on Columbia Street, he left it sitting on a cement nook in front of a black-inked graffiti wall. Old, tired of the arguing. Tired of the tears. Let someone else take it. Turn it into art, make a statement. It burdened him to carry it anyway. With deep regret and the urge to run back and touch her again, he headed to the ferry, wondering if she would notice it as she walked to work.

The Happiest Hooker...

Well, maybe. I'm a knitter. I can knit anything I set my heart on, but when it comes to crochet...I might as well be reading Swahili. I guess it's not all that bad. After all, being the fiber enthusiast I am, I should be able to wrestle and wrangle a lil' ol' crochet pattern, right?

I've been knitting for a client of mine for about five years now. I've knit probably 80% of her wardrobe and now, she wants me to crochet a dress. Yes folks, a dress. Now, one might be picturing those lovely vintage magazines our grandmothers had where there were lovely little women in bouffants wearing short little crochet garments. Vintage may be back, but for the love of all that is good, please don't tell me the crocheted dress is back.

The majority of us know what would happen if we were to don a crocheted dress. The rump alone would stretch the poor fabric out and it wouldn't have a chance of succeeding on any body who had a curve to call their own. One must be build like a boy to pull it off. Luckily, my client is very small and very thin and she'll look adorable in it. However, my procrastination on the matter needs attending and my better judgment tells me I can't put this off any longer.

I've spent the past few evenings, looking through the Happy Hooker trying to understand what I'm looking at. Now, my dear crocheters who are laughing at me right now, must understand. It's not the stitch I can't do; it's understanding what I'm looking at and counting said stitches. It's just silly. I teach knitting for crying out loud and I can hardly crochet to save my life! Will the universe ever make sense?

So the past few nights, I've went to my bedroom, put on my earbuds, listened to some Vampire Weekend and crocheted my heart out. That means three rows. I'm looking to get this done by the end of March. I'm sure some of you out there are wagering on this right now. Hint: the probability of it getting done in two weeks is slim to none.

For those who really care: I am using a size F hook and Cascade's Sierra Cotton/Wool. I love, love, love that yarn. Great price for the yardage. Can't go wrong with tried and true Cascade.

End of the Season

Parents, you know what I'm talking about when I say, "I have a kid in sports." We all know the long hours of training and practice that cuts into all of our grocery shopping time, our "down-time", our one hour each day that we might get to ourselves. The mornings where a book and cup of coffee are all we want, but no, we must drive to the gym and encourage our brood to be their best. Schmooze with other parents. Make connections and smile even though you look like you just got out of bed. Once you have a kid in sports, it's all over. I mean, it's all over once they get expunged out of our wombs, but sports is a whole other story.

My daughter has participated in the same basketball team for three years now, with amazing coaches I might add. She doesn't play for her school, but through her local community center. There are ups and downs. Wins and losses. Today marked the end of another season and pictured here is the team with their only win of the season. A good way to end it, don't you think? My daughter is the one with the biggest smile. Now, another season starts: Ultimate Frisbee.

Around 12 years ago, hardly anyone knew Ultimate Frisbee even existed! Now, it is a sanctioned, and very popular sport. World-wide even. Who knew? Turns out, it has become my daughter's first love. She has played three years and it is the funnest sport out there. You can play girls, boys and co-ed teams and the spirit these kids have is amazing. Their stamina is something to comment on too. They practice every day, for two hours. I wish I had even a thimble full of the energy required to do what she does. It takes enough just to drag my arse to the gym three days a week. But I digress. I'm proud of her. She is everything I had hoped she'd be. I'm no soccer mom, but I'm something more....I'm an Ultimate Mom. Let the games begin!