Fairy Fun

I am a great lover of all things Faery. Folklore, art, religion and rituals. My favorite artists are Terri Windling, Neil Gaiman, Wendy and Brian Froud and of course the Cecilia Barker art. I came across this fun thing where you can find out what your faery name is and also what your vampire name is.

My fairy name is Thorn Hailfilter
She is a protector of the lonely.
She lives in brambles and blackberry bushes.
She is only seen on midsummer's eve.
She wears purple and green like berries and leaves. She has cheery turquoise wings like a butterfly.

Rather lovely, don't you think? I think it fits me just fine. I'm embarking on reading a collection of stories edited by Terri Windling called The Fairy Reel: Tales from the Twilight Realm. Then I will embark on another book by her called "The Greenman." Should make for fascinating reading. Remember, don't step into a circle of mushrooms, the faeries will grab you and you will be lost forever. (I actually saw a mushroom circle once. It's a treat because of the rarity of them. You usually only find half circles of mushrooms :)

My vampire name is....rather ominously

The Great Archives determine you to have gone by the identity: Sultana of The Ghastly
Known in some parts of the world as: Scourge of The Crows
The Great Archives Record: Intelligent, knowing, wise and shrewd. This winged one was cast from the firmament.


Go on, you know you want to! Just click on the link and click the fairy tab and then the vampire tab.

www.emmadavies.net

Creepers

Okay, here is how the eve before Halloween went. I have been rather lazy and haven't bought a pumpkin to carve. My daughter is at the cusp of teenage-hood and would rather not trick-or-treat this year but have a friend over and watch a scary movie and eat a bag of candy and popcorn, along with pizza and pop. I don't know how their stomachs do it. Anyway, I went to a local farmers market...tiny pumpkins not good for carving. 6 pm. Went to Safeway, no pumpkins left, like it never happened. 6:15 pm. Went up to the other Safeway, no pumpkins either. 6:25 pm. Crap! My kid needs a pumpkin to carve or she knows life will be over. She hangs her head in defeat and tells me "That's okay." I now know that nothing is going to be okay unless she gets a pumpkin. I head to PCC, they have to have something. Indeed, the best pumpkins ever! What does it cost me? $6.66. I kid you not. Creepy, weird, whatever you call it, we were meant to have that pumpkin. Take a gander. She did it all herself. You can't see the back, but there is a carved tail. It's rad!

Did any of you notice the flub of the stocking picture? The dates are backwards. That, my friends is called a photoshop flub-up. Oh well. Next.

As promised here is a picture of my trusty spinning wheel. Her name is Daisy and she is from Australia and I stained her myself. A cherry oak color. I love this wheel. I love that it's a symbol of old. A time when things were very hard on women, and people in general. Clothes were handmade, spinning was done all the time in order to create wool for tapestries and knitted garments. I could go without the cleaning. I've cleaned wool before and that is not a very satisfying job. I'd rather spin. When I spin, I put on some relaxing music, something that is mood-setting like Lorena McKennitt or something and trance out. It's such a rhythmic activity and before I know it, I've spun and entire spool of yarn. It's magic, right through my fingers. I'm not sure you can see the sparkles in this yarn, but it's there. It's a soft yellow and cream-dyed wool with just enough sparkles to shimmer around my neck when I wear it as a scarf. Or, I might make a hat too, (if there is enough)

Then there is the commission sweater I'm working on. I still have to call her and tell her I'm almost done. Thank the fates! Feast your eyes on this puppy.


I call this hideous. I may be too harsh, but come on!
What I won't knit for money. Pitiful. My client will pull it off though. She's a spitfire!

Ho Ho Huh?

Correction on previous post. The quote got mucked up in the blog formatting. It’s from “The Halloween Tree” by Ray Bradbury.

Now on to the fibery things in life; my knitting. I recently finished three Christmas stockings for a client. It has been the bane of my existence since April when he ordered them. I always underestimate the time it takes me to do these kinds of things. I charged him well, but in retrospect, I should have charged him more. $150.00 just wasn’t enough for all the hours of anxiety I went through. I don’t even like knitting Christmas stockings, especially since I don’t celebrate the holiday for the same reasons most people do. But I digress yet again. If I have to look at another green/red combo, I think I might barf. My true satisfaction comes from producing something with my hands and seeing the expression on the faces of those I present it to. He was pleased, to say the least and I’m quite proud of them. I don’t usually toot my own rusty horn, but in the fibery aspects of life, I’m pretty exceptional, since I had didn't have a pattern and had to replicate a stocking from the 1950's that his mother made him.

Next, my long-time client has commissioned yet another garment from me. This time, from an Anny Blatt pattern book from the ‘80’s. Can I just slit my wrists now? Imagine if you will; a bubby blonde in enormous plastic earrings, too much make-up and wearing an oversized garment that looks like a potato sack tied up with ribbon. That is what I have to knit. Pictures to come, I promise.

Better yet, onto my homespun. I need to set the yarn I spun on my Ashford wheel and make a scarf and hopefully enough for a hat as well. My wheel’s name is Daisy. She has served me well and I am looking forward to spinning more in the colder months ahead.

So, take a good look at the stockings. I have indelibly documented it so that I will never forget all the time and effort it took me to create such things and for a measly 150 bucks. Beggars (which is me) cannot be choosers. So I move on.

All Hallows Eve

Halloween. Sly does it. Tiptoe catspaws. Slide and creep. But why? What for? How? Who? When! Where did it all begin? “You don’t know, do you?” asks Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud climbing out of the pile of leaves under the Halloween Tree. “You don’t really know!”

—Ray Bradbury, The Halloween Tree

I remember it well. I was 29 years old and I had just swayed my way over to alternative religion after delving into several traditional disciplines over the past several years. Traditional Christianity doesn’t make sense to me. Believe me, I've tried to make sense of it, diligently in fact, and to no avail. So after moving to Seattle in 1998, and carefully giving thought to my course of life and how I wanted to raise my daughter, I sought the ancient pagan rituals and principles to follow. No mundane doctrines or boring worship sessions, and above all, no hypocrisy.

A few days before Halloween that year, also known as Samhain (summer’s end), or “Spirit Night” as they call it in Wales, I had decided to look into some holiday events at a local bookstore I often frequent called EastWest. I found out that a local priestess, Judith Laxer, would be holding a traditional Halloween ritual in the store's back room, and for a small fee, anyone could attend. Filled with curiosity and excitement, I paid my fee and awaited the evening of my first ritual.

I know this kind of stuff can be hokey and new-agey, but pagan religion is personal. One doesn't have to subscribe to chanting like a moron and wearing nothing but hemp hoping for enlightenment. I take it seriously. I don’t belong to a coven or even attend a congregation of like minds. That is what is so wonderful about being pagan. You can make it your own and worship as you see fit. I subscribe to the worship of nature; the trees, the flowers, the wind and rain. We are allowed to live here. It is a gift. Mother earth and the Father of the forest should be revered.

The local priestess was wonderful. She made everyone feel at home and the music we sang as a group made me feel as if I were a part of something old and great and real. Halloween is the “thinnest” part of the year. Thinnest meaning that is when the spirits can go between worlds the easiest. All of our Halloween fodder is actually pagan-based. The majority of our modern traditions can be traced to the British Isles.

So as the sabbat approaches, I take in all that is the Fall and begin celebrating one of the most important times of the year…including our modern ritual of SUGAR COOKIES! My daughter and I made ghost-shaped sugar cookies while listening to some Irish folk music Sunday night. It was one of the best evenings we’ve had in a long time. We got flour everywhere and it is of great surprise that we managed to get any cookies at all! They're not very pretty, but the quality time I spent with my daughter is what mattered the most.

Now, sitting here eating my pomegranate seeds, I wonder what will be next on our Halloween agenda. Jack-O-Lantern carving to keep away the bad spirits!

Rockabilly Baby...

A few Saturday’s back, I attended the 20^th annual Rockabilly Ball, put on by our local radio station here, KEXP. I’ve never attended before, but I decided to go for it and buy a ticket to one night of this three-night event.

Now, Rockabilly fans are different, notably so, and I am among the different so that’s okay. My $20 bucks could not have been spent on anything better. Did I go with a friend? A boyfriend? No. I went it alone. Alone and brave. I was a superhero that night for attending a Rockabilly concert, at a small venue, no less, ALONE.

I had my reservations. I didn’t want anyone thinking I was “looking.” That would have been bad especially since I wasn’t looking. I was there for the music, not to go home with someone. So I paid three bucks for a Bud Light and walked the place like I owned it. Brave indeed. Some may have felt sorry for me or thought it was just too bad that I had to be there alone and granted, it would have been more enjoyable had I a friend along, but I was there and I danced and enjoyed a great group of bands regardless.

It’s funny what people do when they are alone to make it look like they have it all figured out. Most of us go to the bathroom first. Then sort of get lost in the mix on our way out hoping that those who saw us come in alone, would soon forget about it. I was no exception. I went to the bathroom, got my beer and pretended I was doing something dramatic and important on my phone, (which I wasn’t) So I drank my Bud like it’s something I do all the time (because I really don’t) and planted my feet in place for the spot in the crowd. I decided to get up close and personal. Showed them that I really enjoyed the music based on the amount of appendages and other fleshy parts that I could sufficiently shake. I needed the comfort of a crowd that night. I'm no longer a 20-something that can stand for hours. I'm in my thirties and standing for hours just about killed me. However, I inserted my cushy earplugs and rocked from 9 – 2 AM in the morning like I do it all the time.

It’s interesting how bands interact with the audience. Since this was such a small place, the interaction allowed for liberties otherwise not allowed. I could have lip-locked the cute bass player if I had wanted to and no one would have stopped me…probably. Anyway, The Mezcal Brothers really rocked my socks off. The Go Getters, a Rockabilly band from Sweden were the last of the line-up of five bands. They were the “dirty” guys; Singing of things that can only be projected over a sound system after midnight…and I’ll leave it at that. Face flushed, I left feeling giddy yet wobbly because my legs were so sore from standing for so long and trying get to my car in a timely manner. Walking past bars with the die-hards just leaving and just-about brawls are really not my scene. I just wanted to get into my car and go home.

People can be very stupid when they drink. The crowd was just as entertaining as the bands and sometimes more. We do things when we are liquored up and dancing. Freedoms that one probably can’t imagine on a regular basis happen in settings like that. Dressed up girls with tattoos that covered almost every inch of their bodies and piercing I could never imagine. Girly-girls dressed up in retro 60’s dresses with the tight bodices, squeezing their way to the front and pushing me back because I’m so short. Everyone was in my way! Then there are the bad-asses that think they are so cool when really they are lame and sad, the lot of them!

The Shake the Shack DJ was drunk off his ass and it was so fun to watch as he made an utter fool of himself as he danced. I sort of envied it though; to be so uninhibited and not give a damn about what others are thinking. I’m tiring of always having a guard up and hoping that everyone I’m around thinks I’m okay and not a complete idiot. Maybe if I had a guy on my arm or a friend there dancing along with me, I wouldn’t have been so guarded. But never fear… I did some shakin’ of my own and I bet no one even cared!

Party in Hicksville...

There I am, minding my own business as I go along in this thing called life…and I get asked to go to a Passion Party at a friend’s house this past weekend. I screw up my face and ask, “What is a Passion Party?” Well, I didn’t need a remedial lesson after that brief explanation. After laughing my obvious blush away, I said “Sure, I’ll be there. Little did I know what I was getting myself into.

My friend is great. Her enthusiasm amazes me and she is always trying to get me to sell Mary Kay. I’m just not havin’ any of it. However, I appreciate her diligent attempts to rope me in. So, she wants me to come see her new place in Lake Stevens. Never been out there, and from last weekend, still never want to be out there. It’s Hicksville with a capital “H.” Flags on every house; enough cul-de-sacs to make me barf and all those gas-guzzling hunks of tin they drive out there make me mad. I was scared I was going to be mobbed by a gun-totin' Republican! Again, I digress.

This requires a back-up; my best friend, who I must say is equal to or more “passion-driven” than I am. I don’t know how that can be, but I deal. We drive 30 minutes out wondering if it was going to be worth it or not. I insist there has to be at least enough booze to make it worth my while or I’m not buying anything. I wasn’t disappointed. Rum and Coke and I’m good to go baby!

We arrive 30 minutes late. They are waiting for us down in the basement. The house smells like cigarette smoke, which immediately turns me off, but we go downstairs anyway. Seven women already drinking, laughing and ready to see the stuff life is made of; Synthetically of course. My friend and I start blending and sit down ready to begin two hours of stuff I never knew existed. Games were played. Words were thrown in all directions and often times slapped me in the face. Knowing smiles were nodded at and it was apparent that these women were horny.

I have to share one game that was played. There was a waterproof massage ball for the bath that the party hostess had and she had a d---o in the other hand. If you got a question right, you got to try the massager on your back. If you answered wrong, you were blessed with this realistic looking d---o, and you had to have it vibrate in your hand the whole time. Well, I ended up holding the thing for an hour, just because my phone rang! They punished me with that because I neglected to turn off my phone. Only I could be so unlucky. But it was rather fun. It was becoming a conversation piece and it became part of my animation as I spoke with others. I finally had to set it on the table. I think I was becoming “too” comfortable with it. It was time to put the toy away.

So an hour later after aromatherapy lotions, pheromone injected rubs and sprays, we moved on to the “hardware.” “Wow!” Is all that I can say. Can anyone say, “Too many moving parts?” I mean really people. What are you doing out there? What happened to just plain old-fashioned passion?

I gave in, bought a few things for the sport of it, you know, like a team player, ate a few chips and dip and chased it down with a brownie and I was good to go. I don’t think I’ll be attending any more Passion parties anytime soon. I have my own devices an left to them, I do just fine.

Konichiwa

That is all I know in Japanese…for now. My daughter is embarking on the world of foreign language at the mere age of 12. It’s an exciting adventure for her.

All of my memories of foreign language ensconced French class with Madame Pier. She wore corduroy skirts, funky striped socks for every day of the week and a long-sleeved shirt. Her hair was a big black split-ended poof and her pointy nose jutted out from her face with indignance and pomp. I digress…French class had its moments…say the foreign exchange student Hugo from Spain. Aaaah, those days were great! Handsome-Spanish-speaking-French-taking tall-lean-beautiful-man that he was!

Anyway, my French name was Claire; making sure that the “r” sounded as if I was hacking up a fur ball. I’ve come to the conclusion that I know a handful of words from 4 full years of hell. I’ll never forget the days where we had to speak nothing but French and we stuttered and mucked the whole thing up until Madame Pier had had enough! We usually went to the local food mart for a treat after those days. I have to hand it to her, she did her best. I was head over heels for Eves (French name). He later ended up being my second husband but that is a different story of which I will not divulge…ever.

My daughter and her Japanese class get to do all sorts of dandy stuff. This past weekend we attended the yearly Japanese Cultural Festival at Bellevue Community College. It was so much fun and even Hello Kitty was there. I remember collecting Hello Kitty paraphernalia like it was gold or something. Recess would come and all my friends would gather and show what they had added to their collection. Smelly erasers, cute pens, pencils, it was all good…and it was all sparkly and pink. Bleah! Soon those days ended. But for my daughter, they are just beginning. Hello Kitty is like the Beatles. She transcends through each generation. I’m old.

So sushi was had, funny candy was eaten and beautiful Okinawan music was listened to and thoroughly enjoyed. Brave displays of Karate were demonstrated and a lot of retail sucked us dry…stuff that she just “had to have.” I have my limits and the shirt with a little sprite was the last straw. (It looks very cute on her though, I have to admit) Then come to find out that the shirt was too small and of course, no refunds, but we could slog our way down to Uwajimaya and exchange it for a new size. So we did, traffic sucked, but all was right with the world once a larger size was found. I love that place. I could spend hours there.

More to come on the crazy bus that is Japanese class…I need to brace myself. Next: The 10^th Annual Anime convention next March. Better start saving pennies now! My daughter’s already foaming at the mouth.

Turns out....I have a 7th grader.

Aaaah....7th grade. Do you remember? I do. Let me lay it on the table for you, nice and sweet. Picture a 12-year-old, in yellow shorts and a matching yellow cotton shirt attending her orientation at Franklin Junior High in Yakima with her parents and annoying little sister in tow. Sitting on hard bleachers in the sweltering Eastern Washington August heat listening to the principle ramble on matters that will never come to fruition. Now picture said 12-year-old buckled over in pain so bad she thought she would die, or would rather. Looking and pleading to her mom to do something to stop the pain. She dismissed it as gas. So 30 excruciating minutes later she went to the bathroom to release assumed gas and found herself covered in...well..Aunt Flow. Bright yellow cotton outfit and Aunt Flow, bright and cheery and making herself known, to all the horrors of her peers. People can be so cruel. Thank God for little sisters. Said girl had to walk sandwiched between her mother and sister hoping to God that no one saw, when in reality, how could anyone not see? Humiliating.

First day of school: Short, stocky, not yet lost my baby fat, and let's face it, I never did; I sported a Pink mini skirt, over-sized pink and white-striped shirt, Esprit canvas short tops and dangly gold earrings (give me a break, it was the '80's) The 8th graders were monstrous and one big tall black football player looked down on me like I was a bug and said I looked like a watermelon. Shows how dumb he was. Watermelon is pink and green with black seeds. I looked nothing like that. So, my year follows suit with awkwardness and about a dozen crushes that made my friends and I swoon with desire. So there you have it.

Picture my daughter, same age. Awesome clothes, thanks to Grandma, and friends that she can't even keep track of. She's built like 16-year-old, tough, can hold her own and loves life. How did she ever come out of my womb? I have to admit, I love it. So I picked her up and she, very loudly, announces every aspect of her day, emphasizing Japanese class and all its splendor. Friends, friends and more friends and blah, blah, blah. I'm catatonic as we're eating burritos at Taco Del Mar, no longer processing any information her enthusiasm is trying to get into my brain that is now mush. You parents know what I'm talking about.

We arrive home, she hops on the computer and begins World of War Craft, thanks to my ex. He bought it for her. She is very balanced and plays things I know nothing of nor comprehend. A fantasy world of beasts and the like and she digs it. The last game I played was Pac Man in 1984.
So there I sit between watching Dirty Jobs on Discovery watching the host put a swab up the butt of a goose and making my pug sit for a taste of toilet paper (he loves to eat paper) Don't worry, it's once in a while that he gets paper the size of a quarter. It makes him happy. All the while in the background listening to my daughter talk on the phone, listen to her game, play her game and relay messages back and forth. Talented. What the hell is a blood elf?

It's a scary world.

WTF?!

Well I’ve hit an all time low. I watched..oh..say about 4 hours (straight) of a reality TV show that I swore I would never watch. But it fascinates me on a psychological level. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

It’s Bret Michaels Rock of Love. (I admit, the man has a bod) I’ve been inundated with lovers all around me these days and it’s making me rather sick. I can’t even take my dog to the dog park without someone making out in a corner or two young goth lovers on a bench as he plays guitar and she hangs on his every word. I mean please, really, keep it at home people.

I have to admit, I’m a closet bit hair ‘80’s band fan. I did listen, and enjoy (as I cringe now) the likes of Poison. But the glam band days are done and that’s fine with me. Spandex needed to die and all of us closet rockers bid our farewell. It’s party music; senseless music that I don’t have to think about or care why I liked it. So, there it is, I begin a holiday Monday afternoon sucked into VH1’s marathon of Bret lookin’ for love watching these blonde headed bimbos eagerly ready to “ insert expletive” a rock star.

Quite honestly, I’ve come down to this conclusion. Women are just as bad as men. I will never again say that men suck or men this or men that. We can all suck. All of us. No questions. So I’m watching from a standpoint of psychological interest...remember that's my story. These women are horrible. Downright horrible. Not to mention the distraction of fake tans, too much eye makeup and enough fake boobage to put any man out of his mind. How does one choose, especially on a TV show in front of millions? There is no way anyone could get to know anyone else executed in this fashion. Impossible. Maybe have a lot of fun and a lot of pole dancing, from what I saw, embellished with cat fights and backstabbing to put the worst person to shame.

So I’m wondering in my long, overdue dry spell, will I ever find love again? I would be happy with someone just taking a second look! This will sound like I’m coming out of the 7^th grade here, but it’s just not fair! All my friends are married or otherwise involved with someone and of course they just don’t know anyone that they could introduce me to. Being single in Seattle sucks. Men are passive here. I need to move. So the good ones are married, involved or gay. That is my story. I'm beginning to sound like a run-on sentence.

Everyone else I know is talking about their love interests. I have a co-worker who has 4 guys lined up to date! She can’t even keep track of them! I have another friend who didn’t even have any layover time from a hasty divorce onto the next guy and she’s 50! Where am I going wrong? Is it so bad that I’m not a bar-hopper? It’s not like I don’t get out. I go everywhere, by myself. I go to theatre, movies, festivals, dog parks, coffee shops, you name it. I’m dud bait. No one bites. I’m friendly, outgoing, always cheerful for the most part…what gives? I guess I need to sign in to Slut Central or something and where my pants down to my crotch and push my boobs out my shirt in order to be noticed.

So my three-day weekend goes as follows: Self pity, loneliness, pitiful attempts to get out among the living by taking my dog to the dog park and going to coffee shops pretending that I enjoy reading in public while sipping a very hot caffeinated beverage in humidity that is killing me. No fun. So, my sister comes over and brings two Indie films that really gets me thinking. The Squid and the Whale: In a nutshell; divorce looms over all, and being a bystander totally sucks. Then The Ice Storm: In a nutshell: divorce looms over all and everyone is cheating on everyone else and everyone is truly miserable. Not a picker-upper if you know what I mean.

So, where do I go from here? Men are looking for tall, skinny, beautiful, rich women with financial futures and a great car. I’m a short, stocky, average, poor woman with no financial future and driving a 20-year old Volvo. Where does that leave me? Watching Bret Michaels finding love in the next stripper chick ready to flash her fakes. Something’s gotta give. Enough all ready!

Good morrow me ladies and gentlemen!

There are times when I feel like I wasn’t born in the right time. As if I’m supposed to be somewhere else. It’s a feeling I can’t describe and it’s more than a deja-vu experience. This past weekend, I took my daughter to a Medieval Festival and Banquet out in Carnation. A wonderful experience. I’ve always been drawn to the 14^th & 15^th century time line. The dress, the lifestyle, medical practices and social practices are a strong fascination to me, as well as the horror. I can’t believe those people lived as long as they did without proper health care! It’s amazing. I could continually learn about that time in our world and never get bored. We didn’t dress up, basically because we do not own anything to dress up in, but enjoyed the festival none-the-less.

It was St. Bartholomew’s Festival.

A bit of history on old Bart. I digress, but to get a context, it is needed. (Taken from the ol’ trusty internet)

St. Bartholomew, 1st. century, one of the 12.

“All that is known of him with certainty is that he is mentioned in the synoptic gospels and Acts as one of the twelve apostles. His name, a patronymic, means "son of Tolomai" and scholars believe he is the same as Nathanael mentioned in John, who says he is from Cana and that Jesus called him an "Israelite...incapable of deceit." The Roman Martyrology says he preached in India and Greater Armenia, where he was flayed and beheaded by King Astyages. Tradition has the place as Abanopolis on the west coast of the Caspian Sea and that he also preached in Mesopotamia, Persia, and Egypt. The Gospel of Bartholomew is apochryphal and was condemned in the decree of Pseudo-Gelasius. Feast Day August 24.”

We entered through the wooden archway into a nestled wooded area of those in dress selling their crafts, clothes, garlands and even took a stab at the bow and arrow (which apparently I’m fairly good at) First try and I was mere inches from the center of the target! Girl power abounded. Fortune telling also graced the grounds, yet we passed that one up. I am a staunch believer that we should never know the future regardless of the seriousness or silliness of its context.

Through the storefronts we walked. It was a lovely day. Overcast with a slight damp breeze due to the humidity in the air. My daughter fell in love with the essential oil lotion made of spices. They were displayed in beautiful corked glass jars of all colors graced with a ribbon for finish. She chose the purple bottle. We then visited the resident sheep. One forgets how funny sheep are and how much funnier they sound. But they sure can eat!

Next onto watching a playful wrestle and joust and to pass the candle maker and blacksmith. Later we learned to juggle. I am using the word “learned” very loosely here. I was a hopeless case, but the juggler was rather cute and he was making me nervous. I caught all 3 balls only once and called it good. I was off to buy my honeysuckle head garland to wear the rest of the day.

My daughter kept returning to the dagger and leather front. The woman dressed in a lovely empire-waist white dress with floral garland to match introduced us to satchels of all sizes and daggers/swords to match. My daughter had quite a time touching each blade and gripping the handle with each hand to make sure she received just the right fit. At last, she came upon a 12 inch metal and black knife with its own sheathe. I bought it for her. Now, one could say that I was crazy to buy my 12-year-old a dagger, but hey, for some reason, she is drawn to it and she is in to WOW and gaming and wanted to display it on her wall. Who knows? In a past life, she could have been a kin to a warrior or something and has an affinity toward the art. I question not. I completely believe that we go on after death. I’m almost positive that I am a reincarnation of some woman long ago. I feel like I’ve been around a lot longer than I have. I don’t dismiss those kinds of feelings. I believe it to be true.

We then sit for an hour concert and listen to ancient instruments like the hurdy-gurdy and fiddler-type of instruments and a wonderful harp. A lovely display of talent and a graceful voice by a handsome young chap with tatooes of old on his neck and face. I still can’t be sure they were real or not. They could have just been for “play” purposes, but they looked real to me-and I have three tats to compare by!

Then came the Dance Macabre; very creepy indeed and a mysterious way to end the festival. I danced as my daughter finished her goddess candle. Then the feast. By that time, we were starving, so anything could have been eaten and we wouldn’t have cared. We didn’t have plates. We had “trenchers.” A large round piece of bread that was to be eaten and to be ate upon. So, let me preface this by saying we are not big meat eaters. We’re not vegetarian; we just don’t prefer meat. Well, this night provided a plethora of meat. Very good meat, but I fasted for 20 hours just to cleanse my system! What heaven was put upon us but a cherry pudding. Yum yum! Sweet pitted cherries drenched in red wine, cloves, cinnamon and sugar. I thought I had died and entered another realm. I could live off that stuff. So beef, chicken, hens, more chicken and more beef later and then we finally topped it off with grapes and cheese to cleanse the palate. It was wonderful. And it was fun to eat with our fingers too! A good time had by all.

Cowgirl Up and Git 'er Done!

This past Saturday I took my daughter on a horseback riding day trip up at Crystal Mountain. Okay, first let me preface this by saying we are city gals. So the smell of horse crap and all that goes along with that is all very new and interesting to us.

We left early Saturday around noon. We didn’t need to be there until 3:30, but I thought I’d get a head start. Good thing. I got lost just trying to get to Auburn. I’ve never ventured to Crystal Mountain. I’m no skier, so why else would I go? Skis are not my friend. So, through Auburn we go; my daughter discussing life’s mysteries and humorous insights that she had recently discovered now that she is 12. I listen, I laugh, I offer advice and be the mom that I’m supposed to be. We get lost, or I should say, I get lost. I made a left where no left should have been taken. I ended up going past elaborate ranch homes and end up on a dead end trying to find WA-410. We backtrack, trying to ignore the stench of crap and skunk road kill. It’s weird out there in the boonies. People are different.

So we finally enter Enumclaw; a small “quaint” little town. We stop and eat at the local teriyaki joint where “oriental” had been spelled wrong. It was missing the “I.” I’m a writer and I notice these things and I have to say it bothered me. However, I digress. We continue on our “road trip” as I was then calling it and drove for what seemed like ages; my poor 20-year-old Volvo, Daisy, trying to last just a while longer. We get on WA-410 and drive through forestry that makes me smile. I love the water and all it has to offer, but the forest feels like my home. I feel a connection that I cannot explain to anyone. For being a city gal, I could make the great outdoors a home. So with the windows rolled down, I let the forest breeze hit my face and arms and enjoyed the incredible day that the Fates had allowed.

Well, the breeze got colder and colder and it was getting late and I soon found myself on a very scary road. Holy crap! I’m going over Chinook Pass. A gorgeous pass, but none-the-less I felt a little frazzled looking over those cliffs with not much of a guard rail thank you! As I continue to bite everyone of my nails off in anticipation of the fact that we were lost, my daughter says, “Maybe we should ask someone.” What a girl! So I pulled over because I lacked any logical thought process at the time and we asked a very handsome tattooed young man with his dog, if we’ve missed Crystal Mountain. He smiled, got out his map like a good boy and calmly told us we had passed it. Feeling like a complete idiot, I turned around and headed back down the pass and drove to the “Info Center.” Why I hadn’t stopped there before is beyond me. Well, we drove 45 minutes past our mark. So again, feeling like an idiot, I drove a half mile up the road and turned left to Crystal Mountain Resort Area. In my defense, the directions on their website said to turn left on Crystal Mountain Boulevard. There was no “Boulevard” posted anywhere. Just a “Resort Area” that I was supposed to interpret as a Boulevard. I did mention that to them when we finally arrived.

So we arrived right at 3:30 and I had to pee like a racehorse and then attempt to swing my short legs over the gigantic horse. I am 34 and hadn’t been on a horse since I was about 8, so my fears were relevant. The older cowboy running the show said, “Why don’t you get on this horse little lady.” I smiled because that was the cutest accent ever! I managed to get on and then proceed to imagine all that could possible go wrong with me on this horse named, “BP.” Yeah, guess what that stands for? Big Pain. Well, he ended up being a big pain alright. Stopping to munch on the greens, bucking the horse in back of me because he wanted his “space.” I can appreciate that, but not while I’m riding him! So, it took an hour to ride up the mountain. Rough track indeed. It wasn’t well paved; it was a mountain trail with huge rocks, dirt, very narrow, very scary at times. I was so hoping that the horses knew what they were doing, especially on those sketchy cliffs. So an hour passed, beautiful scenery had been appreciated and we came to Bullion Basin. An incredible clearing at the top with a small Artesan Spring. It was lovely, I must say. Like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I mean, we were really out in the middle of nowhere. We had our water, I took a few pics of Nadine trying to make her horse like her and off we went…this time with the other young cowboy right in front of me.

Well, about a dozen bad jokes later, he finally asked me if I was married or had a boyfriend. I said neither. He said, “With a pretty face like yours, I find that hard to believe.” Well, flattery will get you EVERYWHERE! Whether it was lip service or not, it boosted an ego that had been deflated for months now. We enjoyed our talk and he discussed his life and I found out it was his birthday that day. A mere 23 years old. He was an old soul. He was every bit a gentleman. He made me laugh and I didn’t even care that I was violently jostled by BP the whole way down.

The dinner back at base was home-cooked. Nothing fancy. BBQ’d steak, potato salad, baked beans right off the fire and the best chocolate cake I’ve ever had. After we ate, we sat around the fire and listened to some good country music on the guitar. Country music is okay with me around any fire. Anywhere else, well we may have to compromise, but that night, it all sounded good to me. The cute young cowboy asked if I was warm enough, I said yes, but he fetched a plaid flannel jacket for me anyway and I sat and enjoyed the music, in a warmer state of being. A few glances and few wishes that he lived closer...but you gotta let a cowboy do what they’re gonna do. A gal can wish though. I would have taken him home in a minute!

Overall, a delightful day, wonderful memories and a boosted ego will go a long way!

Ice-Creamy Goodness!

Browsing the internet I came across a horoscope for ice cream lovers everywhere. Vegan,Vegetarian, lactose intolerant or not, it is something that the press just had to make sure we all knew. Great, another thing that tells the world what I am all about without meeting me. Next, you'll be able to tell what kind of person you are by the underwear you buy! Maybe I should write an article for the Seattle PI.

This is me. I like them both equally.

Mint chocolate chip: You tend to be ambitious and confident yet a little skeptical. You are a realist who prepares for the future. Your loyalty, honesty and dependability create lasting friendships and close family ties. You are most compatible with other mint chocolate chip lovers.

Coffee: You are lively, dramatic and flirtatious. You thrive on the passion of the moment. You are easily bored and start new projects without finishing old ones. You are most compatible with those who prefer strawberry.

http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/food

Take a look-see!!!

Did Someone Say..."6-Foot Plastic Birthday Cake?"

This past weekend was my daughter’s birthday. She is now 12 going on about 16. She looks like it too, all by her little self. Mother Nature has been in favor of my daughter from day one. I tend to worry…a lot.

My daughter has known that she would be receiving an ipod for several months now for her birthday. I made her wait the entire month before she could receive it. I just believe that birthday gifts should be opened on your birthday…give or take a few days, but not a whole month before! So Saturday I awoke, had to get to an eye exam and proceeded to go to the store and buy her favorite waffles, a Mylar happy face balloon with a tie-dyed background and a candy-sprinkled doughnut that I put a candle in and sang happy birthday to her as I served her breakfast. I made her wait a little longer before I handed her the cute little-red-very-expensive-we-are-very-poor-this-month-because-of-it-ipod. However, some of the proceeds go to Africa to help fight AIDS. Like buying an ipod will help. But that’s a different story; one very opinionated story.

Saturday ensued and while cleaning my very messy apartment, I had to interrupt my groove to fetch her best friend. We stopped for Slurpees and came home for the rest of the day. Time seemed to stop for these two as they played WOW, emailed friends and watched Anime in my daughter’s room.

Then what do my wondering ears should hear but a knock at the door! Who could be visiting today? It was my daughter’s best “boy-friend.” Not boyfriend, but a boy who is her friend. That is my story and I’m stickin’ to it - He rode his bike all the way from his house to our apartment to see my daughter on her birthday. Well, isn’t that special? I never received such a nice surprise from a boy, ever, but that again is a different story and another very opinionated one at that.

So, Mr.-Boy-who-is-my-daughter’s-friend ended up staying until 8 pm, and pizza was had and laughs all around. It is very interesting to watch three pre-teens interact with each other, especially two girls and a boy. Things are different that is for sure. One thing is for sure, my mother and father would have never and I do mean never let a boy come over at a mere age of 12 to my house. My father would have shown him the grave. Well, my father did that at age 15 anyway. But again, I digress.

Saturday came and went. I slept with earplugs in that night so that I could actually sleep among squealing and the TV going. It was morning before I knew it and off to my sister’s to celebrate her birthday officially.

My mother and her husband and my sister and her boyfriend all moved this weekend, so a party smack dab in the middle of it all was a bit stressful but all went on without a hitch, thank God!

My daughter’s menu of choice for her birthday was as follows:

• Vegan pizza (my sister’s influence)
• Vegan chocolate cake (again, my sister’s influence)
• Jello Poke Cake (my mother’s influence)
• Watermelon
• A bowl of Kissable candies

I don’t know, I don’t ask, I just provide and we did. I walked in to the empty apartment and found my mother blowing up a 6 foot tall plastic three-tiered birthday cake decoration. I grabbed my camera to forever memorialize this moment in time. It was a sight you had to be there to appreciate and then laugh your ass of at.

On the wall my sister put up a paper entitling it “50 Things We Love About Nadine.” My sister is like that; wanting to capture a moment in writing that can be enjoyed for the rest of your life. By the end of the evening we had 50 reasons why my daughter is wonderful. After all, she did come from my womb with 9 hours of grueling natural labor! (I never let her forget that)

The evening was closing in and I found myself laying on top of the 6-foot tall plastic cake. Yes, you read right, I was laying on it. My sister thought I could put it in the back of my Volvo wagon. Ha! I wouldn’t be caught dead with that blown up thing in the back of my trunk. I made my daughter and her friend lay on it and get all the air out until it was in a state to where it could fit in my car. However, the games had really only begun and wrestling, yelling, laughing and joking was had all on this plastic cake. An hour went by and still not flat enough. I did what any crazed, tired mom would do, and I sat on it and wouldn’t move. My sister got the whole thing on her lovely camera. Pictures to come…What I won't do for my daughter.

The Babysitter-A Short Story

Part I

She wore her heart on her sleeve: An exposed bloody mass of entangled emotions that clung to each fiber in order to save its life and Eve was aware of it. She felt like a circus side-show. “Come and see the girl whose heart decided to leave!” She tried desperately to fit in and could not understand why the universe didn’t allow one to choose their parents. She didn’t like hers at all. They yelled a lot. They fought a lot. They smoked too much and they never seemed to have enough money. Why didn’t they get a divorce already?

Some days it was easier to talk to her self in the bathroom and rehearse conversations with those she may come in contact with. While other days, she lost herself in her books and stories of fantastical fiction and imagined that she would be anywhere but where she was. She was an intelligent introverted girl with a keen sense of how people felt about her without even asking. She was often accused of worrying too much about what others thought; yet she was always right in the end. She would later figure out in her adult life that she had a mild talent of psychic ability and premonition.

Most of the time, she would sneak around corners and listen to the adulterated and sinful conversations of her so-called grown-up counterparts with vivacious envy in hopes that one day, she might be old enough to partake in such lifestyles; spinning her own web of desires. But for now Eve was content to let her mind wander and wonder if she would ever get out of the rut that was already well-paved for her existence.

At a mere 11 years of age, she didn’t have a lot of friends. She was well-liked and easy to get on with but preferred her space. Eve was like a cat in many ways. She could take care of herself and only wanted attention when it most suited her needs. She was her own familiar.

Eve had already been to seven different schools and was used to the fact that friends weren’t meant to stay around for long. She was a pawn in a pathetic little game; scratching the surface on life’s game board. Her parents set the rules and they always won.

Life was mundane for Eve. Everyday was the same. It was a rather surreal life she led. She felt tension everyday of her life. It veiled her thoughts, haunted her dreams and silenced her need for answers. There was no need to ask questions because there were no answers to give. She often sought solace in books and her art.

Her parents didn’t have many friends either. The friends they did have were only around out of sorry obligation. Then one day, Eve’s mom suggested she try babysitting. “Earn a little extra money.” She would say. They knew very few people and none of them had children. What were they going to do; continue their sick game and pawn her off to people in desperate need of a night out? Well, that’s exactly what happened on a very warm, sunny summer day. How she got there, she would never be able to recall, nor ever see them again. The emotions she was capable of feeling and played upon she would never forget.


Part II

Youth binds us to selective memory. We don’t recall so much a place as much as how we immerse ourselves in the external unseen. The smell of perfume, the texture of a sofa, the taste of a kiss or a song playing in the background; all play a part in our recollection of an event. Eve remembered these brief few hours of her life in this way and would later come to realize that what she experienced would shape her views on life and love, and what she would be capable of doing, even if it took the most benign of forms.

It was a hot Eastern summer: typical in many ways. However, the day had an unusual crispness to it. The colors of life were painfully vivid. She could almost taste the pungent wet dirt as summer lawns were watered. The lingering odor of propane made her head hurt as families lit up their grills to prepare for their evening dinner. The hum of cars along the main drag were louder and were grating on her every nerve. The air draped on her heavy figure, clinging to her moist sweet skin. She was on her way to babysit three small children under the age of six of whom she had never met.

Who sends their 11 year-old to babysit three kids at one time? Her parents were apparently not in a frame of mind to judge whether or not this should happen. As her mother pulled up along the curb in front of the house, Eve was tempted to cancel the evening and come up with false stomach ache or a bad mood. She had an uneasy feeling that would not subside. Again, her keen sense would prove right.

The house was average. Nothing special. It put on airs of misfortune and gratitude for habitation. Five people lived here. A father, a mother and their three small children. One young girl about nine months old and two young twin boys around the age of five. The baby had lovely angel-blonde hair with small curls just beginning to frame her round face. She was a healthy baby whose smile sent warm chills through Eve's soul. The twins were a rather typical pair of lads. Overactive, smelly and much too interested in their body parts. They appeared to have been without clothes most of the day, only wearing tighty-whitey's and shirts that were too small to fit over what seemed to be very distended bellies. The day's dirt caked to their faces and the morning's trip outdoors underneath their fingernails made Eve regard them as if they were a disease. She certainly didn't want to catch what they had. Eve found that an uncomfortable aspect, but would have to deal with it for a few hours. Obviously price should have been discussed and negotiated before any agreement had been met.

She came in through the kitchen wearing frumpy clothes on her already care-worn frame. She reminded Eve of an apple. She was a heavy woman with a petite frame that could barely carry her weight. "Mommy!" the boys yelled. She was curling her permed hair with a small rod attaining what she thought was a great style. Finished it off with about a half-can of Auqa Net and applied large amounts of black liner to her entire eye lid. The smell of hairspray seeped into Eve's nose, the filaments unable to filter out harmful toxins. The cloud of spray in the kitchen rested on fruit and food that had been left out the previous night and came dangerously close to the lipstick-kissed cigarette she was smoking.

Eve went into the living room and awaited the evening's instructions with trepidation. "Mommy" looked Eve up and down, sizing her up, scrutinizing her youth that she once had. She didn't like Eve and Eve returned the favor ten-fold. The stare-off was interrupted when he walked through the wood-paneled hallway and into the dimly-lit smoke-filled living room. The TV blared cartoon banter as Eve froze in place. She felt immobilized as he escorted her to the couch and sat down in a chair directly across from her.

Author: Me
More to come...

“If you can love the wrong person that much, stop and think how much more you can love the right person.”

That was an email from my father today. That was all he said. It was his response to my latest poem entitled Sotto Voce. It had to be the most profound piece of wisdom he has ever said to me and a wake-up call that has stopped me dead in my tracks. It brings to mind how much energy we spend on people who seem to zap that energy we so desperately need to live and survive on a daily basis. My poem does reflect a personal experience and it pains me to read it again and again. It’s a feeling of dread; like I have been diagnosed with a disease that will not kill me, but linger on throughout my whole life, tormenting me. I had hoped that getting it out might eradicate it from my mind and help me to figure some things out. But instead it seems to play a permanent cryptic aspect in my life.

I’ve noticed among my friends and just listening to the lives of others how unhappy so many people are in their current status of love and loathing. How their circumstances have trapped them into a life they no longer want to lead or shouldn’t have started in the first place. We are creatures of habit and sometimes staying in situations that are painful is somehow less damaging than getting out and dealing with the inevitable. However, the opposite is true. Our choices have an often times unknown radius that affects the most innocent. I’ve been a victim of this: so many of my friends have been victims of this and most still remain in this tangled state. It’s a tragic life to lead when you want to be somewhere else and you actually begin to treat yourself as a prisoner of your choices; sometimes choices that you make in all the right frames of mine. The cosmos doesn’t appear to make sense. Yet, it all makes perfect, beautiful, glorious sense! The flow of love, friendship, desire and death; it’s all meant to be just as it is, right or wrong.

I’ve been recently aware of certain people that have come into my life for reasons that I will not understand until their gone. It’s also come to light that if there really is one person for everyone, or that “soul mate” that everyone talks about, it’s actually not the person you are really supposed to be with for the rest of your life because your soul mate makes you a better person through harsh realities, through forbidden pleasures. How could one stand to spend the rest of their lives with someone who constantly makes them feel like that? I have met my soul mate, I believe from a previous life, but nonetheless, he is and I would have to agree with the above that it would be too painful to be with him and so the time I had was just right. What took place with that individual was perfect and full of vast knowledge that I will probably never experience again.

I want to spend my energy in the positive; an over-abundance of living. I will no longer expend my energy looking for “the one” but more for the brief experiences that enrich my life, be it painful, joyful or both. Recognizing the immense amount of energy I have to give to another is mind-altering and staggers me like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I am my own Ashram, my own Healer, my own Love and my own Forgiver.

Sotto Voce

A formidable force ties us together.
Tugging and pulling at the core for the blood of love.

Familiar glances crash on the shores of my memory
Never telling, nor revealing its remnants to the blissfully ignorant.

A touch, a hug, a moment of release where white turns to gray
and distills into black
Time passes and is forgotten
His imprint of passion forever remains, not so unlike an unwanted scar from an old wound.

A forceful friendship emerges
Neither one willing to disappear
We hang on for dear life to rotting ropes that dangle over sharp cliffs
Never looking down at destiny.

A simple nod, a sideways glance
Oversimplifies a notion all too clear.

I can’t wait to see him again.

Author: Me

I must admit it sooner or later, and I guess sooner would be better than later. I am a knitter. Not just any knitter, but a "Be All You Can Knit" knitter. I've worked in a yarn shop before (4 yrs) and I teach and so on and so on. One doesn't see me outside of work without a knitting bag and needles. I'll even go as far as to knit at the movie theatre. Yeah, I'm that good. It's one of the few things I'm good at, so I'll gloat if I want to. However, this skirt that you see on the left: "The Skirt From Hell." A 100% linen skirt with well over 200 stitches on each round on a very small needle. You knitters out there can sympathize. You've been there haven't you?

I thank this woman I knit for. She has happily employed me for two years as I knit what seems to be her entire wardrobe and has provided me with the much-needed extra income. But this skirt: 40 hours of grueling knitting labor. I think I would have rather amputated my pinky finger than knit this skirt. You might be wondering if there is really someone out there who would really wear this skirt. I dare say, yes, she is out there and she will be delighted to finally see it tomorrow when I meet her and maybe choke at what it's actually going to cost her. New glasses in it for me! I had to take a picture of it to forever remind me to remain in my right mind when the next individual comes along and asks me to knit a skirt and I will robotically inform them that I cannot and move right along.

This skirt goes into the knitters "I-Can't-Believe-I-Actually-Knit-This (and survived) Hall of Fame."

When my hands are arthritic when I'm 50, I'll know who to blame.

Update on my horoscope July 19-July 25th

As Rob Brezsny so eloquently says it...

"I'm drinking a toast to my grade-school teachers, five of whom were stern spinsters in their 50's and 60's. I may not have esteemed them when we were together those seven hours a day, 180 days a year; I may have been alternately bored and alienated by their nagging me to learn. But from my current vantage point, I'm ripe with gratitude; pleased with my ability to wield the English language and do the arithmetic my business requires and hold in my imagination a clear vision of the planet's geography. Those maestros taught me well, and I'm in awe of their tireless efforts. Now I suggest you do something similar to what I just did, Taurus. Feel a flood of thanks for the helpers and teachers from your past (even the inadvertent ones) whom you have never appreciated sufficiently."

My response: To all those out there, and you know who you are....THANK YOU. I LOVE YOU.
OH, YEAH....I'M FEELING THE FLOOD. :) Minus the arithmetic...

My weekly horoscope....

According to The Stranger, Seattle, WA...You gotta love these things!

"Don't cross a bridge until you come to it," advises the old adage. But is that really a good idea? The fact is that the world belongs to people who have crossed bridges in their imaginations long beofe those bridges existed. Let that be your guiding thought in the coming weeks, Taurus. Start visualizing, contemplating, and building in your mind's eye a certain bridge you want to make abundant use of in 2008."

Isn't it the truth. Truer words could not be spoken of me right now. Someone must be spying on me.

My forest awakens the soul in slumber
Drifting a foreign balance under the skin
Settling on night’s need in dream

Clicking, clacking, purring en route
Through a journey of their own
An object of disapproval

Unwanted eyes on a vulnerable sleep
Circling pungent skin, leaving marks unnoticed
Awaiting something bigger to mind

As dawn approaches, the foreigner awakes
Looking in the eyes of judgment
Bewildered, hopeless surrender to the way

Her skin melts into the forest growth
Fingers into branches, limbs into trees
Singing a love song so sweet and true

Forest fright no longer holds dear
Yet embraces each night
Awakening the native within

She belongs.

A Day at the Beach

My stocky frame sinks in the sand as far as it will let me. It doesn’t depend on my weight like I depend on it. My eyes go blurry at the sight of the sand enveloping each toe as I concentrate on trying not to concentrate. I continue to walk along the crowded beach in attire unsuitable for the weather. In long pants I have rolled up all too hastily to avoid getting soaked. A t-shirt that is much too thick and long to let any sunlight hit my pale, sensitive figure. I forgot a hat, so my Sunday hair has to remain in a hair tie because I can’t tolerate hair blowing in my face. At least I applied sunscreen before I left because in the car a few minutes ago, a panic set in, like I wasn’t going to have time to enjoy what I came here to do alone. ‘Alone’ being the relative word here, since I have two pre-teen girls walking up ahead of me reminding me days long ago.

It’s maddening to feel alone among hundreds of sun-baked individuals with their tiny bikinis and funny sun hats. I can literally see skin burning in the hot Seattle sun. One doesn’t hear that much around here, but today was different and according to the weather gal, it’s going to get worse.

All walks of life must have come here today to enjoy the same thing. Parents making sandcastles with their kids, not really knowing how, just mere servants of toddlers hauling sand back and forth, wondering how much laundry this day is going to cost them. All the little kids with dirt sticking to their faces like summer war-paint, and oh, don’t forget the woman-does-everything-father who appears by their child intermittently so as not to miss a smoke 25 feet away.

Young promising beauty queens with their perky tan breasts bubbling forth and their lean bodies bejeweled in naval piercings and anklets. Box-blonde hair swaying in the wind and eyes that flirt at any given moment to even those who are otherwise spoken for.

The elderly and the otherwise homeless variety shuffle on by eating ice-cream, dripping sugar-laden dairy product all over the hot cement. Dogs taking every chance they get for shade and a quick drink and maybe the clumsy kid who drops a treat.

Families and friends uniting for BBQ’s stuffing their faces with heavy caloric food and cheap beer and wine, excusing all inappropriate behavior, while young boys and men strut their stuff smoking, drinking and smelling of cheap cologne and cheaper thoughts as they parade around looking for loot to drag home. Their toothy grins and chagrined attitudes are enough to make anyone nauseated.

Then I arrive and find no place to call my own, but under a partially shaded spot just on the outskirts of the well-populated beach. I take out my book and the real fun begins: People Watching. I capitalize it because if someone was clever enough, you could make a living out of it. It could be an official title.

However, the tattooed woman talking about how alone she has been for 13 years as a single mother amongst her married friends with 3 healthy plump kids gets me thinking…will I be that tattooed mother in 13 years sitting among my married friends discovering how alone I am and is it all my fault?

Please Don't Eat the Daisies

How can one watch a Doris Day film and not smile? She had the greatest smile ever. It was innocent and refreshing. What happened to movies like that? Last night I coerced my 11-year-old daughter to watch the classic movie with me that I’d been harboring for weeks. I’ve been Netflixin’ it for months now and it’s been sitting on my table for 3 weeks waiting to be watched. All I needed was a few 100 cats, a floral muumuu and a bottle of Vodka; throw in a pint of Chocolate Chip Mint Skinny Cows for good measure and I would be the stereotypical single girl who can’t get a date; tough days. I think I’ve lived a previous life because most of the time I don’t feel like I belong in this one.

It’s been a crappy week and watching old movies does the trick, at least for a few hours. Thank God these are the days of advanced technology and battery operated “things.” Who needs a man when you have all of the above? No inflated grocery bill, no petty arguments, no farts, no burps (although I can hold my own, thank you) But, I digress.

The evening progressed and guilt overcame my lazy butt and I took my dog (Oliver) out at 9 pm for a short walk. Strange things happen after 9 pm around this city. People look a little different, because in the dark, who doesn’t? So I stuck to well-lit areas and appeased my pug for a while and actually stopped and talked to a neighbor because I have admired her yard for months now and always walk by and pretend that I could someday possess such a yard. Ha! No such luck. Only in my dreams; but I can admire others whose dreams have already come true, can’t I? I enjoy living vicariously through others. Some days, it’s the only thing that keeps me going. So I enjoyed a beautiful Seattle summer dusk and let the wind blow against my face without the slightest frown. It was lovely outside. As most things, it had to end and I came back and feebly tried to exercise more by jogging place. Ladies; this is very boring. I don’t recommend it. But I broke a sweat and as my dog looked at me like I was a crazy person, did some sit ups on my Pilates ball; all for the sake of health.

Well the night progressed and a few handfuls of chocolate chips later and my daughter overtaking my bed, I began watching “An Affair to Remember” Cary Grant. Wow. What a man! Sad, sad movie. I told my daughter that during this era of film, Cary Grant was a hot commodity and was a “true hunk” as my aunt would say. Her response to me was, “So, he was like the Johnny Depp of his time?” I had to laugh; I tried to imagine how her mind jumped to that conclusion and said “In an odd sort of way, I guess.” I guess I could see Mr. Grant saying, “Savy?”

We spent the rest of the evening singing “Please Don’t Eat the Daisies.”