Notes on Paris: Fashion and Gender Identity

Yes, Parisian girls really are that pretty, and yes, Parisian boys are also very good dressers, and no, they are not at all feminine. In fact, the gender lines were very clearly drawn in France; it’s been some time since I felt so clearly that I was A Woman, put on earth to be Decorative, and the other person was A Man, put on earth to choose his Decoration. It must be a difficult task for any man in Paris, where each and every girl on the street would turn heads here in the States. Not being a man, I tried to break down Parisian fashion, if only to copy it correctly and not stand out so much as a tourist—especially important, I thought, when traveling on my own.

First: Parisian girls dress very, very classic. They follow trends, yes. But only to a very small extent, and the style of their pants and shoes and coats is much more classic than trendy. Their heels are lower, their pants are neither as skinny NOR as flared. My mother would have felt comfortable in almost everything a Parisian seventeen-year-old would wear, except...

Second: the greatness of a look is in the details. Bags, printed scarves, tousled, pinned-up hair, rings, necklaces, earrings: that was what made a look trendy. Jeans on the inside or the outside of the boots? Hair up or down? How many earrings? What kind? It was the details that made every outfit pop, and clearly, everyone had worked hard on those details. Jeans were covered with decorative seams and embroidery. T-shirts and hoodies were stenciled, painted, and ripped in just the right places. A single ring placed on the perfect finger drew the eye in. Comparatively, back in the States, everyone looked like they had just rolled out of bed.

Third, the details were even more important because, if you weren’t paying attention to those details, everyone looked the same...almost. For example, all the girls had the same coat. Except...that one collar might be a little taller, one hem line might be a little shorter, one coat might have trim on the sleeves where another coat has trim on the collar. Everyone had jeans with decorative seams...except that the seams were in slightly different spots. As opposed to downtown Seattle, where I can see the same pair of Rockin’ Republics ten times an hour (those are designer jeans, boys) in France I saw hardly ANY mass-produced fashion; I never saw the same pair of jeans twice. No, I have no idea how they did that. It's a hard balance: how to look classic while still standing out from the crowd? The girls nailed this balance. And yes, the boys noticed these details. French eyes are more attuned to that level of detail, across the genders, which is probably why they recognize country of origin so quickly, too. After all, if you'd grown up in a country in which every building, every post office, every PARK BENCH was decorated with levels and levels of gold leaf and tiny sculptures, you'd spot miniscule differences, too.

Fourth, that much attention to one’s outfit inspires confidence in oneself, and the Parisian girls had that in spades. Due partly to the culture—they know they’re supposed to be decorative, and they take that charge seriously—and partly due to the amount of time spent on looking good, the girls practically sang with confidence and poise. They didn’t trip, they didn’t bat their eyelashes, they didn’t sweat. They didn’t even wear much makeup. Many of the girls even had acne, which they didn’t bother to cover. They just stood there in their classic outfits and their heads held high, and boys fell all over them.

Fifth and final tip: Approachability. Sure, you can spend a lot of time on your outfit, but if you don’t have a look you’re going for and are COMFORTABLE in, what’s the point? Parisian girls had a look. They’d carefully studied themselves in the mirror, from all angles, and they made sure their shirts were tucked in and that their hair sat just right, and yet none of them looked too perfect to approach. They were almost casual in their great coats and black pants and perfect heels, just standing there, like it weren’t no thang. Again: comfort, and confidence, and one begets the other.

It was very inspiring. I didn't have space to buy anything--say, a coat--and take it home, but I wished I did. I did the best I could with what I had, wearing my jewelery and my scarf and my boots, and succeeded well enough that French people stopped me on the street and asked me for directions at least once a day, so I'd consider that a rousing success. (WOO-HOO!) Back here at home, I'm trying to spend more time on the details, and when I dressed up this past weekend for Bonza Bash, I thought ahead about comfort and ended up rocking my dress.

Travel is the best education there is.

Notes on Paris

I return!

I’d like to blame Paris for my long absence, but that would be totally untrue. Or, rather, only partially true. Yes, I was gone for more than a week, and yes, there was a lot to catch up on when I came back, but that’s not entirely it. What Paris really did was fill my head up with images of gorgeous young Parisians and gorgeous old architecture, and I’ve spent every second when I haven’t been at either job...well, thinking.

Yes, thinking. I don’t do it so often. (Practically not at all, according to some people.) But there’s nothing like going to a foreign country where you don’t speak the language and spending hours upon hours each day in museums to make your brain go haywire, and I mean that in the best way possible, but it’s still unsettling.

I’ve had a lot to think about.

People Watching: On Ethnicity

American truly is the world’s melting pot. Blending of cultures and ethnicities is happening more and more the world over, but not half to the degree that it happens here in the States. It was a shock to be in France and clearly be able to see one’s country of origin stamped on one’s forehead. I was in a club in Eastern Paris down by the river, the Pont Ephemre, and was talking to a nice boy, and he said, very early in the conversation,

“So where do you think I am from?”

“Paris?” I guessed.

He shook his head sadly. “Tunisia,” he said, almost apologetically.

Like, “I just want you to know NOW that I’m not very respected here.” Like, “American girl, you may be the only girl in the club who is talking to me right now because the rest of these girls are from Paris and they won’t give me the time of day. I just wanted you to know so you could leave if you wanted.” Up until then it had never occurred to me that other countries in the world—even Western European countries that the U.S. gets along with, such as France—still have a class system. Yes, we certainly have racial and economic strife here in the States, but it is entirely different from the rigid structure in Europe.

Several days later, my hotel manager was telling me a story about going out with a lady friend of his and leaving her outside McDonald’s to finish her cigarette, only to come out and find her surrounded by Parisian roughs giving her a hard time. The minute he showed up on the scene, though, they showed hesitation. “Look at him, he’s North African,” said one. “What are you? Tunisian or Algerian?” said another. “I’m Algerian,” he said. “Get lost.”

They left. The North Africans have a reputation. To me, Maissy—the hotel manager—was just a dark-haired cutie who spoke three languages. He could have been Spanish, French, possibly Italian. Parisians clearly saw that he was Algerian.

It blew me away. Once I realized that Parisians could read faces the way I can read a book, I started to make the effort to read features and decipher accents. Maissy’s French was clearly more mumbled and less nasal than Parisian French, once I started to listen for it, and there was also a difference in class structure between Parisians—some deliveries were more subdued, some were more forward, some were more mumbled, some had sharper accents. All Parisian French was incredibly nasal, just like the stereotype. Amsterdam Dutch, on the other hand, sounds a great deal like American English except you can’t understand a word. German sounds more like British English—the speech pattern and lack of R pronunciation makes German and Queen’s English sound more like a caricature than real life, to these American ears. (Possibly due entirely to watching Beerfest.)

I had a difficult time distinguishing between Italians and Spaniards, in spite of all of my unabashed people-watching (read: staring). The two languages even sound so similar that many times I’d be eavesdropping and wondering why I couldn’t understand a single word, and it would take me fifteen minutes at least to realize they were speaking Italian.

Tomorrow: Paris Fashion!

Looking for Foreign Jobs

It's 7:34 am, Continent time, and I'm on the high speed train from Amsterdam to Paris, passing through Brussels and a few other places on the way. I have been to the Picasso Museum, the Van Gogh Museum, the Rodin Museum, Luxemborg Gardens, Tuileries Gardens, the Centre Pompidou, the Anne Frank House, and the U.S. Consulate, and I have been to the Louvre twice. And I have met some of Paris' finest, the gendarmes.

And it has all been fabulous (except for the Consulate and the police station) and I don't want to leave. I don't want to leave Paris EVER, really.

I have learned many important things:

1. Parisians really are very pretty and very well dressed, all of them. I arrived on a Wednesday and I kept thinking it was a Sunday morning, because in my mind, being on a train or bus surrounded by people who are all dressed up means it's church time. There ARE jeans, but there are no athletic shoes. Ever.

2. And yes, everyone is quite slender.

3. On the plus side, the girls in Paris have just as bad skin as we do in the U.S., so that's comforting.

4. On the other hand, Amsterdam residents--while still being skinnier than us Americans on average--are quite a bit heavier than Parisians, especially the ladies. And their skin is certainly not perfect, either.

5. Whereas the Amsterdam boys all look like they could model for Abercrombie tomorrow. It was completely nuts. I've never seen so many good looking straight men at once in my life.

6. The red-light district in Amsterdam is, still, the red-light district. And yes, there was hash.

7. No, I didn't try any.

8. Europe faces the same problems with socioeconomic class and underprivileged youth that we do. There is graffiti everywhere, and there is definitely some riff-raff. Sacre Coeur, a beautiful church on a hill, was almost ruined for me because of the persistent nature of the con artists. Seeing an American couple about to fall for the "friendship bracelet" scam, I approached them and told them about it, at which point fifteen members of the group standing around--and there are DOZENS of them all around Sacre Coeur--confronted me. One of them grabbed my arm. "What you saying?" he demanded roughly. "What you telling them?" I shook him off and kept walking. (About now is when my mother is having a heart attack.) It was certainly an adrenaline-producing experience, but I was happy I had tried to save the young American couple. Even if they brushed me off as a bitter American, I did what I could.

9. I probably did sound a little bitter, since earlier in the day, I had personally met a member of the pickpocket elite, who managed to relieve me of my passport.

10. Hence my experience with the French police and the U.S. Consulate. And among the OTHER important things I have learned, I have learned that the U.S. Consulate is in Tuileries Gardens, and it is only open until noon, Monday through Friday, and you have to email ahead for an appointment.

11. Since I showed up there on Friday at 12:22 pm, you can bet I didn't allow them to enforce any of these rules on me.

12. That's another post.

13. Aside from this episode, Paris is really gorgeous, I had a fabulous time, I could hear the bells of Notre Dame from my hotel room, and I got my art geek on at the Louvre and even met some Parisians, who were extremely hospitable.

More on the way!

Things I Have Learned About Paris (Before Trip Edition)

Does everyone know I'm gone to Paris for six days, very soon? You don't? You do now.

(YES I KNOW I NEVER FINISHED POSTING JAPAN PICTURES.)

I'm getting there, I swear.

ANYWAY. A good friend of mine--a friend of mine who studied abroad for a year in Switzerland and speaks French--called me this evening to mention, in passing, that HE had been the one to introduce me to Timbaland's Shock Value, nine months ago, and I had blown him off, as is my wont, and he was calling to gloat and remind me that I should always listen to him.

"Uh huh," I said. "Did I mention that I'm leaving for Paris in two days?"

Because if we were going to get into a contest of GLOATING, I wanted him to know that I had major artillery in store for him.

After he got over his jealousy, he and his lady--who also speaks French fluently--gave me a long list of their recommendations of places to go and things to do.

And he passed me the following story:

"So, my lady says that she was once hanging in the square before Notre Dame with a girlfriend, and two security guards came up and started talking to them, showing off their native charm. The lady and her friend were quite receptive, until one of the guards said,

"So, would you like to see the catacombs? Because my friend and I could give you...you know...a private tour."

"Uh huh," I said.

"So, no matter how hot French guys may be," my friend concludes, "I don't think I would recommend getting it on in a tomb with one of them."

I considered. "I don't know," I said. "I'm sure there are some girls that are into that."

"Well, sure," he says, "if you're the kind of girl that sleeps in a tomb, and..."

"...paints her nails black..." I interjected.

"Sure, and listens to Evanescence..."

"...right..."

"...then I can see how that might have a certain aura. But for you, I'd recommend against it."

"I will take it under advisement," I said.

And in this, as in the case of Timbaland, I feel he is correct.

Just Another Tuesday

It's been--not too long a day, but certainly somewhat long--and I'm walking up the stairs to my apartment. I open the door.

I close the door.

I open the door again. Nope, that smell is still there.

I close the door again.

I bite the bullet and open the door for a third time. Titan is confused, all the more so because he has been sick. Out of his bowels. In my kitchen.

I leash him up and we run outside. And then I start the horrible, disgusting process of cleaning up...well, you can imagine.

In the middle of this, I check my email. I have received an email from my mother, and it is not complimentary.

I text Molly. "My mother told me I look like I'm in pain on my recent facebook picture, and Titan has had diarrhea. In my kitchen."

She texts back: "You need wine. Immediately."

Brain Space Occupied

I have done nothing--NOTHING--for the past week except listen to Timbaland's Shock Value. It's brilliant, it's surprisingly dirty, it's genius, it's genre-bending. It's addictive.

And when I HAVEN'T been listening to Shock Value, I've been bumming around Seattle and outlying areas. So, in lieu of having any sort of coherent thought at all, I present:

Recent Seattle Reviews, by One Opinionated Aarwenn

1. I do not understand why anyone ever goes to Zeek's Pizza. I got pizza from there once--delivery--and it was about Domino quality, maybe worse. Only three times the price.

2. On the other hand, Olympic Pizza (in Queen Anne) was tasty tasty, even though it was many hours old and COLD by the time I had any. I ate four slices.

3. I'm probably the last person to go to La Spiga, and this was a serious failing on my part. The food was simple, but so tasty that I could only take a few bites of each dish before my senses were overstimulated. The wine list is all Italian, so my date and I were a little out of our league, and unfortunately our server wasn't much help. His blond, surfer-boy delivery clashed with the super-classy Italian vibe. However! It really doesn't matter, because everything you eat and drink will be wonderful.

4. I also can't believe it took me this long to go to Olivar'sm especially considering I could throw a baseball and hit them. I keep thinking of them as just opened, until I was browsing old posts on Capitol Hill Seattle and realized they'd opened last summer. They, too, pack unbelievable amounts of taste into each bite. The food is a little less simple--a little more show-offy, if that's your thing--and the servers are extremely knowledgeable. Wine list is much shorter and easier to understand than La Spiga's.

5. On to Poppy: Many things have already been said about this, and I'm not sure I'll be able to say anything original. It's good, yes. But the thing about getting seven pre-arranged dishes is that one of them is likely to be a dud. Still: tasty, and I'd definitely go at least one more time.

6. Oddfellows Cafe: OH MY GOD GO IMMEDIATELY. So. Tasty. So. Reasonably Priced. So. Pretty.

7. If you have an opportunity to go to the Paramount Theater, you really should. It's so beautiful. If you're at that kind of show, be sure and pre-order your drinks from the concessions for intermission. This service is popping up at many venues--Benaroya Hall also--and it's a godsend, if your god looks upon drinking with a kindly eye.

8. Final Seattle Opinion: Get thee out in the sunshine while thee can!

Seattle Is a Very Small Town

I was out at a restaurant with a date, a friend of a friend, and he had been reading this blog.

"I enjoyed your account of seeing the LT at Beth's," he said.

I laughed. "Thank you. It's funny now, but it was extremely irritating at the time. Sometimes I can't believe how small a town Seattle is."

"Uh-huh," he said, his gaze focusing on a point over my shoulder. "And while we're on the subject, MY ex just walked in."

Almost A Twitter, If I Had That

The ski season may not be a lost cause after all!

Which is good. Because skiing is an excellent workout. And I have some fancy new designer jeans to fit into, y'all.

And also, I really need to go off some jumps.

A Short Valentine's Day Story

I was in my usual Starbucks on Valentines's Day, not too early, getting a prepatory Espresso Truffle Mocha before my trip to the zoo with my parents. (Hey, I can't spend ALL my time exploring the dark underbelly of humanity.) Titan was tied up outside, as usual, watching me through the window, and as I looked at him, I happened to catch a young couple out of the corner of my eye.

They were young, maybe late high school or early college, and obviously very much in love. They sat on stools shoved as close together as possible, and had their legs intertwined on the rungs, the way you do when you're so in love you want to actually climb into the other person's skin. He had his knee between hers, she rested a hand on his thigh. They were sharing an iPod, and as I happened to look over, he leaned into her space--not that he had far to lean--and kissed her delicately on the cheek as she looked down shyly.

She had her hair wrapped--they were both Ethiopian, so, freaking gorgeous--but besides that, they were in jeans and hoodies, very modern. I thought about how young they were, and how far they had to go in life. I thought how much they were changing the world, just being a young first-generation couple in America with a hair wrap and an iPod, about how in love they were and how excellent that was. They weren't thinking about their age or their parents' country or all the challenges they would face, both together and separately. They were just bathing in each other.

I'm not sure if I can ever fall in love like that again--not sure I want to, really--but it's sure pretty to watch. A thousand blessings on that couple for making my Valentine's Day.

Nihilism

The economy is broken, and I don't for a moment believe we've seen the worst. I have spent two weeks exploring the dark underbelly of humanity and it's fascinating. That is all.

I Couldn't Make This Up

Several weeks ago, my friends and I had a spur of the moment idea for a clothing swap, and it turned out shockingly AWESOME, especially for me. Shocking because we range in size from 4 to 10, and yet all of us can fit--roughly--into each others' clothes. (Dear Clothing Designers: I HATE YOU. THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH.) I brought home two pairs of slacks, one pair of corduroys, two work tops, and some earrings, and I haven't taken off the earrings or the slacks pretty much since I got them. Everything else—all the leftover clothes no one wanted or needed—went to Goodwill in big bags--five big black garbage bags--thanks to my Jeep Cherokee, who is still nameless. My closet can breathe, and I dress cuter for work. Hooray!

Which is good, because now that I’ve changed jobs, I sit in a different building—the building with all of our customer offices. And our customers are from all over the world. Every day I go to work, I am face to face with dozens of beautiful French, Spanish, and German girls that are size zero and have no fear about wearing fashionable boots and scoop-neck tops. They could eat me for breakfast, or would, if they ate at all. This building is so famous guy friends of mine who work in other buildings sometimes make the trek to this building to have lunch in our cafeteria. Just for the eye candy. I need to look as cute as possible, y’all.

But that’s not the point. The point is, a guy friend called me during the clothing swap. “Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”

I looked around. “I’m…watching six of my friends get undressed,” I said helplessly.

Silence.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “And I assume my invitation got lost in the mail?”

Dating Episode #147

I have gone tailgating, spent four hours at a dance club with Jennie, and then played pong with Molly at my ex's house until a rather advanced hour of the morning and I am really not up for anything, but I promised a boy I would meet him for breakfast, and so there we are, standing in the sunshine outside Beth's, when over his shoulder I see a familiar backside.

In fact, I was playing pong against this backside just 7 hours ago.

The LT has his arm around a girl, a very tall girl, and they have also decided to come to Beth's today for breakfast. Immediately I turn my breakfast date around so that he--6'2" and 250 pounds, at least--blocks out all of my immediate vision. I tell him the story and he laughs, the rat.

The LT and his date decided not to wait, apparently, and set off down the street, stopping briefly to peer in the window of the Suzuki Dealership, which is closed.

A few hours later the breakfast date and I meander the same direction so I can peer in the same windows, only, as I am A Girl, the Suzuki guys rush to the door and unlock it for me. I throw my leg over some bikes and walk out with my date and a huge crush on a red, fully faired SV650.

A crush that still exists. Which is more than you can say for the either the LT's breakfast date or my own.

STOP THE PRESSES

There is a new dating story, I swear, but until then is this awesome update:

Dan Savage came into my restaurant last night!

It was a super busy night; I was covering one half of the restaurant PLUS a twenty-person party, and I was so busy I didn't have time to blink, so I almost didn't notice when the successful author, newspaper editor, and VH1 personality walked in with his boyfriend and their son.

It's a good thing I WAS so busy or else I would have stared at Mr. Savage all night. I'm not used to dealing with celebrities. I mentioned his presence to a few tables, and they all agreed that they had noticed him, but none of them seemed that overwhelmed. Those super-chill sophisticates probably see him all the time. Whatevs. I worked hard to keep my mind on my work and I did shockingly well--and I made a great deal of money as a consequence, hooray!--but I could still do a lot better. I noticed, for example, that both Mr. Savage and his boyfriend are very good looking and appeared to be--thus far--successfully navigating the pre-teen years with their son, although of course they're far from the finish line. I also noticed that Dan Savage noticed me noticing him, so I failed at treating them like any other family. I'm sure they're used to a few gawks, but I can rise above it. I think.

And it occurs to me that if I keep working at good Seattle restaurants this may happen again, so I may need more practice. Dear Tatum Channing: When Battle for Seattle opens here, please feel free to come into Vios. Shirtless. Thank you. (Hey, I just need the celebrity practice! My motives are pure as the driven snow! I swear.)

Dating Episode #353

Between one thing and another, my date and I arrived at our dinner reservations both having to pee immediately, which meant we stood in line together for the two unisex bathrooms. We were joking each other about this semi-awkward situation, until a brunette in front of me turned around and said, "Hi, Aarwenn!"

"Uh, hello," I said, trying to place her. Then it hit me. "Ah! Aren't you a friend of Nice Couple Who Just Got Married?"

"Yes, that's where I saw you last. That's when you were still dating LT, I hear. I just hung out with him for hours on the Nice Couple's boat."

My blood froze in my veins. "Is that so?"

"Oh, yes," she went on happily, and I realized, too late, drunkenly. "We talked for a long time. I told him all about my failure of a marriage. I really like him--what a great guy! Blah blah blah blah blah..."

Five minutes pass in which I try to avoid looking at my date while she goes on and on. And oh, it gets worse.

"...blah blah blah so I hear you broke up with him the day after the wedding?"

"Yes," I said, I hope as calmly as possible. "By the way, Brunette, let me introduce to my dinner date. Dinner date, Brunette. Brunette, Dinner date."

She shakes his hand without any sign of remorse or realization. I upwardly revise my mental estimate of how much wine she's consumed.

"Great talking to you," she says, "see you later!"

Back at the table, my date lets me stew for several minutes before he says, "SO..."

With apologies to Dinner Date, who knows who he is, and the LT. If you don't like seeing yourself in print, I will consider removing this post. Briefly.

Dating Episode # 255, or, Introducing Molly

It's a bright Saturday morning after my neighbor's house party, and the nice thing about having a house party at your neighbor's apartment--which is across the hall--is that you can just run next door for anything that a guest might need, like Scotch, or matches, or perhaps a flatbread pizza. (Yes, I have flatbread pizza just waiting at my house for guests. I am personally keeping my local Trader Joe's in business.)

Anyway, the bad thing about all that trekking back and forth is that you might forget something. Like...your coat. Which has your wallet in it. And the next morning you might have a date with your posse for breakfast. Breakfast, which costs money. Which is in your wallet, which is in your coat, which is in your neighbor's apartment, which is locked, and you are already late for breakfast and your ride is honking at you from the parking lot.

Molly, my ride, finally called me. "Where ARE you?" she said, irritated, and I explained the situation. She laughed at me. "It doesn't matter, just get in the car," she said. "We HAVE to get to breakfast, because I have a voicemail I have to share with everyone."

By the time we get the restaurant, the rest of the posse is sitting down, and Molly whips out her phone. "YOU HAVE TO LISTEN TO THIS," she says, and presses play. The restaurant is so loud that we can't all hear it at once, so Calsee gets to listen first. It doesn't matter, because watching Calsee's face turns out to be the most fun.

Calsee's face goes from interest to shock. "Is he...CRYING?"

"Just wait," Molly says.

"Oh my God," Calsee says, "Is he SINGING now?"

Five minutes pass. The boy cries his heart out, sings, "I'm All Out Of Love", and then tells Molly to stop being a brat and just call him. Calsee hands back the phone, a priceless look on her face.

"How long have you known this guy?"

Molly is a hot, hot blond with a subversive streak and a barely hidden contempt for most social niceties. This is unsurprisingly a potent combination for attracting just about every male under 40--and especially the weirdest possible males under 40, which Molly dates for entertainment value, both for herself and for us. There was the hockey player. The body builder with the Adderall addiction. The thirty-two year-old man who played Christina Aguilera and drank White Russians. The man who sent her shirtless pictures of him flexing in a mirror. And I'm sure I'm forgetting someone.

And now, the Art Student from Axis who, after meeting her once, set her a five minute voicemail of crying, singing, and berating all mixed together. In the next week, I fully expect her to meet a circus clown who proposes marriage. And it is going to be AWESOME.

Sleep. Deprived.

Just yesterday I was burbling, annoyingly, to my mother, "I'm getting less sleep overall because of my more crowded job schedule, but I'm getting much better sleep quality because my brain is tired! No more insomnia! This is great!"

Today I am bloody tired. I have not slept more than five or six hours a night in a week. The bags under my eyes may become permanent. Domino, my favorite decor magazine ever, is closing its doors. I am way more scared about the economy than I ever was before and I have the horrible premonition it's going to get worse. I personally know two people who have been laid off, one from Starbucks Corporate and one from Microsoft, and another friend lost two and a half weeks of pay because his company put everyone on unpaid holiday over Christmas.

On the other hand, the cold snap has broken. (Global warming somehow skipped Seattle. It has been about 20 degrees here for a week. Before yesterday, I hadn't had any feeling in my hands since the New Year.) And I still have both my jobs. It could be worse.

Things I'm Supposed to Love, But Don't

Rock Band.

I've tried it several times, and I have finally accepted this truth about myself. Seriously? People play this nonsense? Learn to play a real instrument or don't bother.

Hey, I'm not a snob. I'm all for amateurs--music doesn't have to be perfect! At an inauguration party recently, we busted out into a badly harmonized version of The Star Spangled Banner that had the only music major in the room cringing. (The harmonic IDEAS were there. He insists we were off by a crucial minor second. Whatever.)

Back to the topic: amateurs are awesome. I'm definitely for karaoke, for busting some jams with a friend, for singing on the street. It's important to know your limits, of course. But there's no need to keep quiet just because you don't play with the Seattle Symphony.

But to recourse to Rock Band--ugh.

Friday Morning Snippets

Friday mornings turn out to be not so bad when you have wakeup calls and iSnooze.

Of course, I've only been up for two hours. Ask me again at lunchtime.

Happy Friday, everyone! I got about five hours of sleep, give or take, after salsa dancing until midnight and getting a parking ticket--also around midnight--for parking HEAD IN instead of REAR IN.

That seems to me to be the last word in frivolous--seriously, you ticketed me at 11:30 pm for parking in a real spot, but in the wrong direction? I mean, I guess we are in a recession, so Seattle needs the money. But seriously?

Fortunately, none of my friends have been laid off yet--not even from M'soft, which will cut 1400 jobs in this region by today--and Obama will end the funding ban for groups abroad that provide abortion services or counseling, a small gesture that is completely awesome, although expected. (Reagan passed the ban as he took office. Clinton reversed it. Bush re-instated it, etc, etc.)

Also, I have a fancy dress party to attend tonight, and nothing to do tomorrow! HOORAY!

A Good Hair Day

Me: "Sorry I had to hang up in the middle of calling you. I just had my hair done, and as I left the salon, a man just stopped me on the street and asked me to go have a drink with him."

Sarah: "WHAT? Did he look normal?"

Me: "Yes!"

Sarah: "What did you say? What did he say? What happened?"

Me: "I was in the middle of dialing your number, and I smiled at him and his friend as we passed. He smiled back, and then he kept looking at me and turned around to walk with me, ditching his friend. He said, 'Who are you?' I told him my name, and he said, 'My friend and I are going to go have a drink in Belltown. Would you...like to come?' I said, 'I would love to, but I have to go buy shoes.'"

Sarah: "By the way, you are really testing out that 'A girl can never have too many shoes' idiom."

Me: "I like to go the extra mile. IN REALLY CUTE SHOES."

Sarah: (Sighs) "Moving on. Then what happened?"

Me: "He asked me if we could have a drink some other time, and I said we could."

Sarah: "Where the heck do you get your hair done? And do they have openings?"

Me: "Seriously."

Sarah: "Are you going to go out with him if he calls?"

Me: "He won't."

Sarah: "What? Why not?"

Me: "I asked him if he normally stopped girls on the street, and he said no. And I asked him, 'What makes me so special?' And then I went ahead and answered for him, and I went on and on about my hair and the salon."

Sarah bursts out laughing. "You asked him what made you so special and then you answered the question for him?"

Me: "Yes. I'm an idiot."

Sarah: "But an attractive idiot, apparently!"

Working and Cars

(And working ON cars.)

Speaking of cars! My car runs and there's beautiful sunshine today! HOORAY!

In fact, it's been sunny all weekend here, which is enough cause to throw a freaking party. I went for a long sunny drive to the beach (in the car! which runs!) and back, which was pretty fantastic, and my parents took me out for lunch after my dad rearranged my computer station for maximum awesomeness and my mom walked Titan.

In between those things, though, we had one of those epic nights at the restaurant that makes servers so bitter.

My friend T worked a double--he was already at the restaurant when I got there, so he had been stuck inside all day on a nice day, but that happens. We were pretty busy, according to the reservation book, so we were all girding our loins, but that happens, too.

What doesn't normally happen is the hot water disappearing. Which meant we couldn't use the dishwasher. Because the dishwasher won't run without water at a certain temperature. And the dishwasher doesn't have a heating element. So our dishwasher had to wash everything by hand. And in order to get hot water for the hand dishwashing, we had to BOIL IT ON THE STOVE. Parties kept calling and changing their numbers, meaning that my GM ran around like crazy trying to fit everyone in. Therefore, the servers absolutely could not make a mistake, because if you fired something wrong, it would be half an hour before the GM could get to the computer and authorize the void. Which would make your table wait half an hour for your check. We had a whole party of screaming children. A table of four completely stiffed us after their child threw cheerios all over the floor. I forgot entrees on two separate tables, both birthdays. At eight o'clock, the calculator broke, so in the middle of going crazy, we had to split checks and calculate 18% tips by hand. We technically close at nine, and the restaurant was still packed to the gills at nine thirty.

Nights like this make me happy that serving is no longer my primary source of income.

Moving on. My new job at my actual career is going well, which is awesome, although let me tell you that waking up every day at 6:30 after being at a restaurant the night before until 10 is not as easy as it sounds. I worked three shifts last week and didn't eat dinner any of those nights. As a result, I have lost three pounds. Hooray!

Gas Not Included

I drove to work. I drove home from work. I drove to the restaurant. I drove my manager to the bus stop from the restaurant. I got gas on the way back.

I noticed, when I got in my car, that I smelled like gasoline. "Hmmm," I thought. "I must have stepped in some. My cuffs are long. I will switch jeans when I get home."

I get home and switch jeans. My apartment STILL smells like gasoline. Five minutes later, two neighbors knock on my door. "Can you smell that?" they ask. I say that I think it's me, and the downstairs neighbor--who is fabulously gay--picks up my abandoned jeans and sniffs.

"JESUS, honey," he says, "what did you do? Bathe in it? Roll around in it? Did you shoot a porno at the gas station?"

I throw my jeans, shoes, and belt outside.

Five minutes later, my apartment STILL smells like gasoline. I realize that some of the windows I have opened for ventilation are directly over my jeans, now outside. I close these windows and open other ones.

Ten minutes later my apartment still smells like gasoline. I run out to my Jeep to see if she is leaking gas. I can't smell a darned thing.

Back inside, I also throw my coat outside.

Twenty minutes later, the smell seems to be dissipating.

Love and Value: A Eulogy

I know that it's wrong to speak ill of the dead, but I think the time has come for me to say how I really felt about Helter-Skelter, aka Trouble, aka my Jeep, aka the Worst Financial Decision I Ever Made.

I liked Helter, I did. And unlike Titan, who I can actually get mad at, I couldn't really get mad at Helter. It certainly wasn't her fault that she was so expensive. I chose to pay that high price, and I chose not to negotiate because I wanted that specific car, and the car salesmen knew it and they bled me dry.

Readers, I paid something like 33,000 dollars for that car. And I had 7.5% financing.

It's an outrageous price, an outrageous rate, and my monthly payments were equally outrageous. Add in the fact that I was driving a brand-new car and I had a terrible driving record, and you can imagine that my insurance premiums were pretty outrageous, too.

It all seemed worth it at the time, mainly because I had no idea what money was, how much it was worth, how long it took to earn enough money to pay for that car. Six years seemed like eternity to me, so why care? Why try to push for five years? Why try to lower the price? $564.90 a month seemed fine. I had no concept of reality, of what you COULD get for 565 dollars, how to measure value. I had never seen a car payment before and I had no idea what my parents paid a month, either for car payments or insurance. I had no idea what a good deal was. And even if I had known, it wouldn't have really helped. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I had money, what seemed like a LOT of money, and I was very ready to spend it.

And so Helter and I began our relationship, and in her defense, she tried her best to live up to her hype. She never caused me a moment of trouble--not likely in four years on a new car, but still it's worth mentioning--and she got me into and out of many a tight spot. She never rolled off that cliff or refused to start. Her radio, although nothing special, worked every day and accepted my iPod connections later. She never rolled over on me, in spite of my best efforts, and although she would never win a drag race, she gave it her all when I pressed down on that gas pedal.

After four years of crashing her through underbrush, backing her into telephone poles, rear-ending minivans, spinning her out on the freeway, crawling rocks, and turning left in front of speeding motorcycles, she slipped on a patch of black ice and gave up the ghost. Poor Helter. I never gave her a chance, really. By the time I realized how much I had paid for her, working to get the most value from her frame seemed impossible. I would never get out what I had put in, and so from the start, I never valued her. I never babied her, not once. I never loved her. I liked her, but it wasn't love. I treated her like a junk car that I had paid a pittance for, and by the end of her time, she looked like it. I couldn't use the rear wiper anymore because when I backed into a telephone pole, the back gate had bent so far in that the spare tire no longer gave the rear wiper enough clearance. She was black, and I never washed her. The interior was also black, and I never bothered to pick up the Titan hair, so the exterior and the interior were basically gray. I melted wax on a seat and stained the dashboard, and of course I drenched her in coffee. Her sides were scratched up, and she was beginning to develop rust spots on her hood from bird doings that I never cleaned off.

Maybe she committed suicide on that ice patch out of depression because she knew I didn't love her. I'll never know.

Now I have a new car. She's only a year younger than the girls I tutor, all of whom are now seniors in high school. When she rolled off the factory floor, the first Bush was still president. She already has 174,000 miles on her. Her hood is losing its paint, showing the primer underneath, and her interior lights are gone and there is actual mold on the console. I paid $800 for her, and put an additional $550 in her right away, in the form of all new fluids and an oil change. And I can tell already I will value her more than I ever valued Helter.

She doesn't have a name yet, but that doesn't matter. She needs babying and I am here to give it to her. She drives great and handles great and her four wheel drive works great, and everything else, I can fix. She doesn't have a radio, she doesn't even have cup holders, and I don't care. She's mine. Not shared with the bank and my dad: she's MINE. I paid for her, and I worked for every dollar that I used to buy her, and she's mine. I'm in this relationship for good. If it's under a year, so be it. If it's five years, I'll be there at the end.

Of course, I'll be a little more comfortable in her once I clean out her mold.

WE REGRET THESE ERRORS

By the way, this is--as always--inspired by The Stranger article of the same name. Which is just as funny this year as it has been every year, and that's pretty damn funny.

I recently went to Mediterranean Mix for the first time--after hearing about their falafel from about everyone--and it did not live up to the falafel hype. Mediterranean Mix regrets this.

Hallava Falafel regrets that it had to move to Portland due to the Georgetown Brawl.

The people involved in the Georgetown Brawl, specifically the guy from Smarty Pants, regret that they are such fucking idiots.

Seattle regrets that it now has no good falafel. Seattle should have done more to keep Hallava Falafel here, in spite of Hallava Falafel's too-cool-for-a-storefront thing.

Hallava Falafel regrets that it is too cool for a storefront.

Moving on to music: I regret that I never got to see the Massive Monkees battle with Dyme Def. That would have been an awesome show. Furthermore, I regret that there's still posters up in my neighborhood advertising that show, rubbing in the fact that I never got to see it.

Having just discovered the Duke and Dutchess, I regret not having found them earlier. They are awesome.

I regret the lack of really good women blues singers.

I regret the entire designer denim market. Specifically, I regret that now, due to the plethora of options and the flooding of the market by designers with no taste at all, that you can look just as bad in a simple denim trouser as you can in the REST of your over-designed clothes. Adding to this, I regret girls who wear jeans that fit them so poorly that the fancy pocket stitching sits half on their thighs.

Possibly related: also, I can't find a pair of designer jeans that looks good on me. I regret this.

Seattle regrets its mayor and snowstorms, both, but especially regrets the two of them together.

Travel Regrets:

On my trip to New York, in spite of all of my obsession about what to wear, I completely failed to look cute at any point in that trip. I sincerely regret this. A lot. I should have never worn my rather old and oversized winter coat, in spite of the 20 degree weather.

On a side note, I regret my winter coat, which has served me faithfully but really needs to be retired and updated.

In fact, I regret cold altogether.

Speaking of cold, I regret attempting to find a lost ski on Crystal Mountain in late October. Everything about that trip turned out poorly and I should have known better.

While in Tokyo, a very nice West African guy helped me buy a subway ticket at 5:10 a.m., when I was on my way to the Tsukiji Fish Market and he was getting off his job as a bouncer at a club. He asked to see me while I was in town, and I rejected him, as I had a boyfriend, I wasn't sure how to communicate that, and I didn't know what he was looking for, or how people dated in Japan. I regret this. It would have been awesome to mingle a little among the locals. Plus the club scene turned out to be impossible to break into if you weren't Japanese and it would have been great to have an in.

Jack in the Box and Taco Bell regret that they were torn down this year, making it impossible to find a bite to eat on the Hill for less than ten dollars an ounce. Everyone regrets this, especially stoners, drunks, bar hoppers, dog walkers, and...okay, everyone.

Dicks does not regret the sudden lack of competition.

Titan regrets eating carrots, hot cocoa, brie, saran wrap, almonds, and bread. He does not regret eating lamb stew.

I regret Titan eating my lamb stew.

My figure regrets me listening to the siren call of Starbucks. And not, say, the siren call of running.

My love life has not run perfectly smoothly this year. I have lied to people, I have been lied to. I have led people on, I have shied away from confrontation, I have passed on information that wasn't necessary. I regret all of this and resolve to do better in 2009. (Except for the telling of white lies, which I almost always regret NOT telling.)

However, the demise of my love has given me a lot more free time, and I do not, in any way, regret the number of awesome girl friends I have made this year!

I hope they don't regret becoming MY friend.

I regret Jaeger. And vodka. And tequila. And beer pong. (Some of the time.)

I do not regret red wine. In any shape or form.

And most of all, I do not, in any way, regret my birthday run, skydiving, or buying a motorcycle!

Happy 2009, everyone! May you strive for many more regrets!

Bordering on Giving Up Altogether

I had one of the worst days of my life ever, yesterday, ever. It reminded me of the old joke: It's a recession when your friend gets laid off, but it's a depression when YOU get laid off.

My friend got laid off and my Jeep was TOTALED, so I guess I'm somewhere in between a recession and a depression, and let me tell you, that is nowhere like being between a rock and a hard place. It is more like being in a dream sequence where a bad guy is chasing you and ahead of you is a cliff and you CAN'T STOP. Yes, my Jeep is gone, that Jeep that slid into a guardrail after hitting a patch of black ice going MAYBE 35 miles an hour, two weeks ago. Yes, two weeks ago. Seattle entered Thunderdome status after the worst storm we had in two decades and the body shops have all been a leetle backed up, not to mention the entire city is sold out of rental cars, I called seven places, DO I SOUND HYSTERICAL YET?

Plus I forgot my lunch today.

Help me. Send wine.

Greatest Picture Ever

Random sawhorse, some random street, Capitol Hill (Pike, I think):

Transference

There has been no recycling or garbage pick up in a month, maybe more. The bins are overflowing, both at home and on the street. People have stopped picking up their dog messes because once bagged, there is no place to throw them. The streets are filthy, Titan has a sore paw, I am out of wine and I CANNOT GET THIS PLASTIC CONTAINER OF PINEAPPLE OPEN.

However. The Starbucks are still operating. All is not lost.

I was standing by the side of the road on Monday, shivering in the 25 degree weather, waiting for the tow truck, watching the de-icing truck cover the spot I'd just slipped off, and all I could think was, "There are eleven people coming to my house in an hour and I will not be there. Also my place is a mess and I have no provisions. I had counted on having an extra hour to clean. Also I can't get there and I can't get to the store first anyway. What the heck am I going to do about all of this? Also, should I call the insurance company?"

My friend Calsee actually got into a head-on collision on Aurora and walked away without a scratch, a Christmas miracle, and as her roommate went to go pick her up and drive them both home, all Calsee could think about was apples. "I have no apples," she told Kit, her roommate. Later on when they got home she scoured their cupboards for apples. As they repaired for the night--again--Kit asked Calsee if she really felt okay. "I'm okay," Calsee said, "but I never got my apples!"

The human mind, when put under stress and cooped up and after noticing that the daily routines it depends on have completely failed, does very, very weird things. It reminds me of seeing Children of Men with a friend of mine. (It's a phenomenal movie, by the way. If you haven't seen it, do it. But perhaps not during the holiday season.) It's supposedly set in 2027, and the friend and I argued about whether England--and the rest of the world as we know it--could descend into that kind of chaos and despair in 19 years.

Given the rate at which Seattle has shut down given a complete lack of city support for three weeks, I'm increasingly sure that it could.

Boy, am I cheerful or what? Sorry. I just find human nature so fascinating. What makes minds go crazy? Why do they do it? What makes compulsions like OCD seem better than facing reality? Why did I only focus on my party after I'd run into a guardrail?

Still Here

Hi everyone. Seattle is having the worst storm in decades, there's snow everywhere, and all the businesses have shut down--and half the roads. My friends and I are celebrating by walking to each other's houses and having get-togethers, which is pretty awesome. My Jeep hit a patch of ice and and ran into a guardrail, which was not so awesome. (I'm fine, and the Jeep is repairable.) As I waited for the tow truck, the de-icing truck came along.

Now that's irony. And snow. So, everyone, stay warm, and enjoy each other this season.

A Little More Sunshine

Remember when I went to Boston? Like, a year ago? More than?

It was beautiful, and I took some pictures. And here they are.

From Boston, Fall 2007

From Boston, Fall 2007

From Boston, Fall 2007

From Boston, Fall 2007

From Boston, Fall 2007

From Boston, Fall 2007

Warmth By Computer

I don't know about you all, but it is 28 degrees here and snowing up a storm, and I haven't barely even warmed up from freezing to death in NYC just two weeks ago.

I desperately need warmth, y'all. Also I weighed a terrible number of pounds this morning that I can't talk about, really, and I can't drink sugary coffee anymore. So in lieu of hot chocolate, I bring you the following from L.A.

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

Warmer yet?

From LA

President Bush Has Fast Reflexes

The man must work out.

Bush Dodges Shoes On Farewell Visit to Iraq.

Definitely watch the video--the President moves quickly! I'm impressed.

That Time of Year AGAIN

You guys! I am going to turn 28 in two days!!!

It's true that most birthdays are celebrated in bars--at least, most of MY birthdays. Possibly you celebrate yours at home with friends, or alone on a sailboat, or naked and howling at the moon, or whatever. I won't judge.

This birthday will be slightly different. I blame it on all the runners I've been hanging out with recently. (Thanks a lot, ladies.) The Seattle Jingle Bell Run happens to be on my birthday, you see, and...well, I'm going to run it. With the aforementioned ladies, and a few gentlemen. Yes, we are waking up early Sunday morning and running a 5K. We may be hungover. We may be still up. We may have gotten a full eight hours of sleep the night before--hey, it could happen! (Unlikely.) But we are running it. Fortunately, a 5K is not a long distance--basically a fast stroll in the park. I'LL have trouble, but all the marathoners I hang with will be doing crossword puzzles while they're running, or possibly solving Rubik's cubes. Be sure to give them a hard time. In fact, come on down and give ME a hard time! We'll all have pink signs taped to our shirts and pink hats on, because we are classy.

And the Jingle Bell Run happens to benefit Arthritis Research. My dad has this disease, along with 20% of Americans. You may not think it affects you, but I bet you that you or someone you know has this disease. So, if you want to give, in support of my birthday run (what, the world doesn't revolve around me?) then be sure and go here and donate.

If you'd like to.

And thank you!

Sincerely,

Aarwenn

New York, New York

Radio City Music Hall Downstairs Lounge.

It was freezing, filthy-gorgeous, and kind of amazing.

I had been there before, but it had been some time, and going at Christmas is obviously one of the best times, although it's colder than the dark side of the moon. Rockefeller Center was all lit up, all the trees were lit, Saks Fifth Avenue had a light show (that my Little actually designed and built), and I got a real New York experience: my Little and I were leaving the St. James Theatre after Gypsy. The snow was falling and there were huge lines of musical fanatics waiting outside every theater trying to get autographs. Across the street, there was mass hysteria--Equus had just gotten out and Daniel Radcliffe himself was signing autographs on the way to his chauffered Range Rover. He's a lot shorter in person, which I realize is true about every actor ever.

More New York Experiences

I saw these guys performing:



Back to Saks Fifth Avenue: My little is a lighting designer and production manager. In New York City. She's kind of big time. Watching this, I just could not believe that I was standing next to the girl who BUILT it. My Little is amazing. (This isn't my video. It's way too high-quality for me.)



Besides Gypsy, we also saw the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular, which was over the top, but very watchable due to the incredible talent of all the performers. The building itself is worth seeing.

Lobby Staircase.

Downstairs Women's Lounge.

Lobby.

So stunning, so amazing to actually visit in person.

Way more pictures coming. I meant to post some last night, and instead, went to drink wine with two of my closest girls. It was definitely the better decision.

Trying to Pack For New York, Five Hours Before I Have To Wake Up.

The bus I have to catch to get to SeaTac leaves at 4:37 am and it's two miles away. I really, really, do not want to walk two miles in the dead of night carrying my luggage. I would leave now and just sleep in the airport except the bus has stopped running. (It stopped an hour and a half ago, at which time I was still at work. Boo Seattle and their non-24-hour transit.)

After some exhaustive research, during which I learn that none of the scheduled transporters leave early enough to make my flight, I finally decide to just take an effing cab. I console myself that I will take the bus BACK, at the normal traffic hour of 7:30 pm on a Monday, when there will be plenty of people out and so forth.

Packing is difficult. In spite of reading Lucky like it's required for my job, I have no idea what "normal but stylish" people wear in NYC, so I've packed: A lot of black. My long underwear, because daytime forecasts show a high of 38. A scarf, a hat, and my armwarmers. Sweaters. Button-downs and sweaters. (Hey, I look good in them.) Running clothes. (Just in case.) And a dress and boots, just in case. And one drape-y top.

Plus my longest coat, obviously.

And a snippet from the "duh" files:

I was sitting with a sorority sister of mine recently, in from out of town. We were in my apartment, and it was the last few hours I was going to see her for some time, and she was chatting away, and I had to check my work email, and my computer started behaving so badly that I cursed at her. She stopped talking, startled and hurt.

"I'm sorry," I quickly apologized. "Just give me a few moments of silence to get this worked out."

Once I had hurt her feelings, the laptop worked like a charm, of course. I finished my business. As we walked to the car, I felt terribly guilty.

"I'm so sorry," I said again. "I don't know why things not working the way they're supposed to drives me into such an uncontrollable rage."

She looked at me with long-suffering tolerance. "Possibly because you make things work for a LIVING," she pointed out. "Every day, your job is to make things work. I'm not surprised that when things don't work, it's an insult to your very being. You know you could design it better."

...

I stopped dead on the sidewalk. Titan sniffed a plant. "Holy CRAP," I said. "That never occurred to me. Ever."

"Hey," she said, herself no slouch in this department. "I'm a lawyer. Interpreting situations is MY daily job. I get you."

Only Dropped Things Twice + Some Looking Back

Fortunately, on two different days.

Hello! I have now worked five shifts at said restaurant position and all has gone swimmingly--enough so that they immediately added me to the schedule, after the first day, and today was my first day out of training. (WOOT I GOT TIPPED.) Also my new Lazy B position does not start until practically the new year, at which time I may have enough seniority at the restaurant to control my schedule and keep it down to a few shifts a week. It's a very chill, family-type atmosphere. Unlike huge places that have as many as 10 servers on at once, with another 10 bussers, there's a whole six servers total at V, and only three of us are on at any given time, with maybe one busser on the weekends. Already I know everyone, and have given a cook a ride home. (She lives within four blocks of me.) It's a blast and a half, not yet tarnished by the realization that I have to wake up and go to my real job every morning.


I took to it just like riding a bike, and I love it just as much as I did before, which is reassuring. I was worried that I had been unecessarily nostalgic about waiting tables due to a number of things happening at that time in my life--good support system, dating a longtime friend of mine, living with my best friend, etc. My life--the last time I waited tables, four years ago--was incredibly good and incredibly settled, and I only saw that getting better after I started working at The Lazy B.

WELL. My life got both better and worse, although not at the same time, and it certainly wasn't as settled. For some time after that.

Now, though, it's pretty settled. I have lived in the same place for two years and I easily see myself continuing on for a third. (The longest I've lived ANYWHERE after graduating high school.) My job, although it has changed, has been with the same company for four years, and I don't see THAT changing any time soon. (Cross your fingers.) And I'm waiting tables again, finally, which I love.

As for my dating life, well...a girl's gotta change up SOMETHING, right? :)

----------------
Now playing: The Cambridge Singers (Holiday) - O Magnum Mysterium
via FoxyTunes

Ch-ch-ch-changes, Again

My life has changed radically and I owe it all to two very good friends, Ben and Molly. (Shockingly enough, both blondes.)

The first was Ben. I had been complaining to him for some time about how stagnant I felt in my position at the Lazy B. (Not the Lazy B's fault.) "Look for a new job," he suggested.

I laughed him off, and then I did so. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I'm proud to announce that I have a new position at the Lazy B, starting in the middle of December. It's a promotion and I'm pretty excited. I owe Ben a huge drink.

The second was Molly. Around the same time, I was complaining that I didn't get to wait tables anymore, and reminisced a little about how much I enjoyed it. "Start doing it again," she said. "Just one shift a week. You'll earn a little extra money and I won't have to listen to you bitch." (She was way too polite to actually say that last part.)

I also laughed HER off, showing my inability to learn from my mistakes. And then I investigated some "Now Hiring" signs.

Which is why I'm running off, in half an hour, to my first restaurant shift in four years. Hopefully I still remember how to hold trays steady.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! If there's one thing I'm thankful for, it's my ability to get hired. Blog bless jobs in this tough economy.

----------------
Now playing: Duffy - Syrup & Honey
via FoxyTunes

Things Not To Say To Bachelors

There I was with a nice boy, having a nice time, and I wanted to compliment him. I took his arm; he properly held his arm at just the right angle so I could hang on gracefully.

"I like that you're domesticated," I said, giving his arm a little squeeze.

BANG went the arm. "DOMESTICATED?" he cried. "I object! I am NOT domesticated! I trash my apartment! I burp when I want to! I...I...have a line of hookers waiting outside my door every night! I....I..." he floundered.

"Buy condoms by the case?" I suggested.

"Yes! Every time I walk into the Walgreens, I just wink to the guy behind the counter. 'Put it on my tab,' I tell him."

"Uh-huh."

"That's RIGHT," he said, feathers settling. "And don't forget it."

On Reading The Call of The Mall in the Heartland, After Obama's Election

It was 8:30 pm local time, only 5:30 my time, and I was nowhere near hungry--but I had to eat, and I thought I would get out and see what there was to see.

A nice waiter seated me in the only local restaurant for miles, and I asked for a glass of red wine and opened my book, the Call of the Mall. Paco Underhill, the author, is discussing the mall parking lot. "Out on the edges of nowhere, these stores" (Farm and Fleets, who sell everything a rural person might need, from jeans to harnesses for your donkey) "sit in the middle of endless parking lots. Rural land is still cheap."

Here I am, in the middle of all that rural land, staying in the middle of a strip mall exactly like thousands of others. My hotel is two parking lots away from the restaurant, a boon for me, since I don't like driving the automatic Pontiac sedan the rental car company has given me--I have about as much control over it as riding an elephant. (If the elephant goes where I want him to go, awesome. If not, how the hell am I going to stop him?)

Of course, I chose my hotel because the website said it was near "shopping", and the website was correct. I'm by a huge--and well-kept-up--mall that has completely empty parking lots, four weekends before Christmas, at 8:00 pm. It's possibly the economy, although I don't think so--Chattanooga is a relatively booming town full of new business prospects. Mainly it's the overwhelming SPACE of the area. Anyone who is going to shop at this mall, on this night, would have to drive 45 minutes away from their house--at least--and 45 minutes back. That's a late night after going to work all day. Of course, on weekends, I assume this mall will be packed.

Inside the restaurant I sat quietly with my book and made small talk with my waiter, who confirmed that on weekends this restaurant--right by the mall--is packed to the gills. Still, this restaurant is huge, enough to swallow five or six Seattle restaurants in terms of square footage alone, and it has at least three serving staff that I can see, plus two managers on duty. In Seattle, that would be a lot of labor cost to wait on six tables, but here, of course, the servers only make $2.13 an hour. It's amazing to me how so much land makes everything so cheap. The food is cheaper, the gas is cheaper, the labor is cheaper. I don't know why a surplus of land makes this so. Supply and demand, maybe?

Let me say right now that I absolutely love the Heartland, and I can't seem to shake it. Maybe it's the surplus of land? The flatness that implies that there's enough space for me to do whatever I want? Whatever reason, I'm happier when I'm here, and no more so than tonight, three weeks to the day, practically, after our historic election. The racism that I was so concerned would ruin Obama's chance at the presidency doesn't seem to exist here in Tennessee. Out of six or seven tables, at least three contain African Americans, and two of those three are mixed. Ahead of me, a pair of married ladies--one white, one black--giggles over wine, obviously having a girls night out. To their right, a black couple eats dinner, and to my immediate right is the most interesting table: a good looking blond guy is eating with three very good-looking mixed-race girls, and enjoying himself immensely. With his tan and his long-limbed biceps, I at first think he's whiter than Joe America, but then hearing his speech pattern, I begin to guess that he's part Hispanic, a guess that's confirmed when he breaks into Spanish a few times. His audience appears to follow along just fine. It's then that I notice that's he's pretty darn tan, for a Northern American blond. Everyone at his table has similar combinations of sharply North American faces with dark skin, or naturally blond hair with classic African American texture.

They're all stunning, of course. If I sound a little obsessive about how different races combine to create beauty, it's partly because I'm a little jealous--I'll always look classically Scandanavian. No exotic mixes for me. Huge blue eyes, yes, but that's about all I got. I wonder what these girls would want to be called. All of them are obviously black, in some fraction, but they may prefer not to be called any label at all. Informal readings among my black friends has been inconclusive. My friend Charles and I were talking about Obama's race the other day, and I referred to our President-Elect as black. Charles--a black man--snorted.

"He's half and half," he said, rather witheringly. I pointed out that Aaron McGruder, the arguably crazy cartoonist behind the Boondocks--would consider Obama to be black, no ifs, ands, or buts. Charles knew who I was talking about, rolled his eyes, drew in a little on himself, and then he said the most provocative thing I've heard recently:

"That's slave mentality," he said, and then he moved on to something else.

I was officially speechless. I couldn't think of anything worthwhile to say. I was blown-away-impressed that he'd refer to such an evil mark on America's past so casually, especially one that was built on race--HIS race--and then move on with the conversation. He didn't take that lead to become Angry Black Man--he just said his piece and moved on to the Seahawks. At the same time, of course, he was factually correct. The practice of counting anyone who had as little as a sixteenth or more African heritage as "black" DO come from slave times, and if Charles disagreed with the practice, I'd make a note of it. While a woman's struggle for equality is much more subtle and much less violent--we may have gotten the vote later but we were never treated as group property--I'm still sensitive to a minority group's struggle for equal rights. Let me not stand in the way.

Back to a more superficial level, the blond guy enjoying himself while he entertained the table full of hot mixed-race girls cheers me no end. He was putting on a show for them, and they enjoyed it, and he did, too. Good, old-fashioned flirting still has its place in this day and age. As I paid my tab, it reminded me of a recent conversation I had with a boy.

We were talking about Michele Obama. "Have you ever dated a black girl?" I said.

"No," he answered.

I thought for a second. "Do you find black girls attractive?"

"Yes," he said, without hesitation. "I don't like the ghetto stereotype--the girl with the huge ass and the hair-did and the gold nails an inch long, much like how I don't like, say, Emo girls. But I do find black girls hot. Naomi Campbell I especially like."

"Huh."

I mulled this over while paying my check. It was 10:40 local time, and it was time for me to be in bed.

On Twilight

Short answer: Painful to read, but I'm surprisingly meh over the social aspects. (For Baby-Boomers: "Meh" means "Apathetic", or possibly "Indifferent.")

Longer answer: I couldn't even finish the first one, it was so bad. I actually enjoyed Bella until she met Edward, so don't assume I'm hating on Bella. But the two of them together are insufferable. Not only is the writing bad, but the anti-feminist applications are appalling. Bella is a very normal girl with divorced parents who suddenly, for no reason at all, attracts the eye of Edward, one of the most beautiful men in the world, who just happens to go to her high school. The problem: Edward is a vampire. Why does she attract his attention? Certainly not by being special—the only thing special about Bella is her overwhelming talent for clumsiness and her ability to attract trouble. (I'm not being catty—both concepts are explored constantly in the book.) In spite of this, for some reason the scent of her blood is intoxicating to him. He can't get enough, he'll never leave her side, he tells her, and Bella responds by listing all the reasons she'll never be good enough for him, and he reassures her again he'll never leave her, and she protests he'll get bored, and…you get the picture. For five-hundred PAGES.  

It's every girl's dream, really, to think yourself ordinary your whole life and be resigned to a crushingly normal existence when all of a sudden Mr. Rochester—sorry, Edward—comes swooping down out of heaven to lift you up above all others, to proclaim your specialness before the world, to throw himself in harm's way for your precious skin at every opportunity. In fact, while writing this post about Twilight I kept humming the theme song to Cinderella, so intertwined in my head are these two stories. Although this fantasy is obviously terrible, insidious, and likely to make children out of grown women, it's certainly unfair to place the blame for the creation of this fantasy solely on Twilight. I mean, sure, it's a terrible example, but so what—Bella does have a few good qualities and there certainly could be worse role models. What scares me is the obsession that fully-grown women with husbands and children have apparently fallen prey to a kind of obsession with Edward and the rapture that Bella feels being loved by him. "I have no desires to be part of the real world right now," posted one woman in a fan forum. "Nothing I was doing before holds any interest to me. I do what I have to do, what I need to do to get by and that's it. Someone please tell me it will ease up, even if just a little? My entire world is consumed and in a tailspin." 

Uh, really? Wow.

However, other series and fictional universes have definitely created a similar kind of creepy obsession—Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings are great examples. So I find myself relatively compassionate toward Stephanie Meyer. She's a bad writer who's written a very bad, very anti-feminist series, but the obsession of grown women with the Cinderella fantasy is certainly not her fault. She's certainly accomplished more, writing-wise, than I have, and is probably a better writer after all that, anyway. 

A good write up on Salon.com is here. Be sure and read all the comments.

--

Have You Seen This?

Holy Blog, I WANT I WANT I WANT.

Polaroid PoGo Instant Photograph Printer.

I have wanted something exactly like this for, oh, say, forever. I like to take pictures of stuff around the house that I want to remember, or of stuff outside that I want to remember. And although possibly in the future I will be able to display those pictures because I'll have a computer screen that takes up one wall--and wouldn't that be awesome?--in this lifetime I have no way to look at them except to stare at my tiny, small computer screen, and let me tell you, my computer monitor went with me to college in 1999 and it is OLD, friends.

I want to PRINT PICTURES OUT SO I CAN SEE THEM. Is that so much to ask? This PoGo sounds ideal. It sounds like someone entered my brain while I was sleeping and wrote down everything I wanted and put it into a product, although that would be a little creepy.

Why is this so cool? Four words:

Refrigerator Photos Are Back.

I miss refrigerator photos. A lot. (My current refrigerator is about big enough to hold four photos, but that's another story.) I miss wandering out to the refrigerator early in the morning and looking at friends of mine, or snapshots of chairs that I liked, or a sleepy picture of Titan, or whatever. I miss looking at the pictures on other people's fridges. I miss photos hanging up in lockers, photos taped to binders, photos stuck in books. I miss photos. A lot.

Now if only this printer also printed with a few effects, like, say, a polaroid border, I'd be set for life.

Readers? Just because this is the first instant photo printer I've seen, doesn't mean it's the first or best in class. Thoughts?

In Which I Demonstrate My Inability to Learn. At All.

So there I was, hanging at a club with my friend Jennie. Let me say right now that Jennie is an effing KNOCK-OUT, and the only reason I can put up with hanging with her at ALL is because we've been friends since we were ten and I suppose I have to. Otherwise I would thnk up a lot of reasons to avoid hanging out with a girl who's 5'11" in bare feet and could easily grace the cover of Vogue.

I'm so altruistic, aren't I?

Anyway. As I was saying. There I was. She had had the audacity to show up at my house wearing a dress, forcing me to put on something cute, but it gets worse: she was wearing HIGH HEELS. And I had woken up Saturday morning with a SOFTBALL-sized lump of swell on my right ankle, necessitating immediate ibuprofen, at which point I realized I was ghetto enough to have EXPIRED ibuprofen.

And therefore--and I'm not proud to admit this--my ankle was so badly swollen (it increased to cover the entire right side of my foot by about six pm) that I had to wear flats to the club.

I know. My entire closet of hot shoes yelled as me as I walked out the door. Also, the ibuprofen may have been causing me to hallucinate.

How did I happen to hurt my ankle, you ask?

I'm so glad you did. I can't believe this, but apparently I'm taking a break from being an attention whore and am making something of a habit of hanging out with beautiful girls half a foot taller than me. Because the very previous night I was out celebrating my friend Leslie's birthday--who is knock-out 5'10" redhead with cheekbones to set a drink on--and we were walking out of the club and she was complaining that her feet hurt, and of course I laughed at her, as I was strutting along in my patent leather boots.

"Ha-HA," I said, chortling. "Whereas my feet are AWESOME. Because as I am not goddess-sized, missy, I actually have to get used to heels, and therefore I'm so good at heels I can jump around in them!"

I attempted to demonstrate. I'll let you guess what happened next.

My landing was so bad that I think I actually hit the ground with my ankle bone. Leslie was laughing so hard she could barely support me to the car, and this would be a lot less interesting if I hadn't done exactly the same thing a week ago.

Election Night, 2008: Memorable because we voted in a black president and I decided to frolic--wearing a very nice pair of patent leather boots. I frolicked down some steps, and I landed so wrongly--so very wrongly--that I shoved the heels of both boots up into the boot, breaking the shanks. And of course, I rolled my ankle.

This made the boots famous when I limped into my cobbler the next day with my broken soles (sorry. He looked them over and then looked at me.

"It's going to cost you, honey," he said, "and by the way, Aarwenn, how the hell did you manage to actually BREAK these boots?"

"I was frolicking down some steps on Election Night," I mumbled. He burst out into laughter. I snarled. (Yes, we're on a first name basis. Besides frolicking, I slam down on my heels when I walk--it's part of my famous strut--and I wear out shoes and heels very, very quickly. I recommended him once to a table full of girls and Sarah asked me where he was located. I just pulled one of his cards out of my wallet and handed it to her.)

Moving on. I've come to the conclusion that I should never actually WEAR these boots, because on the very day I picked them up from the cobbler, I put them on to go dancing with Leslie...and you know what happened there. The difference was, the boots survived this time, thanks to the cobbler. My ankle--the same one--took the brunt...again. Which is possibly why the second swelling took over my entire FOOT, this time.

Maybe I should take my ankle to the cobbler. Also, I bought a new bottle of ibuprofen.

A Light Funny

Everyone needs one of these on a Friday:



There's a whole series on YouTube--I didn't know that Apple Japan made their own, but several of them are very amusing.

Salivating Over Shoes

Start Drooling Now.



Aren't they gorgeous? I own them, and they are WAY cuter ON. So. Cute.

And these:


Rawr. And these look just as good on. Kind of amazing, actually.

And I'm REALLY into this style right now:



I love the huge business in the front--I think it's so sexy.

So, I've done a little shopping recently, possibly you noticed? I went to L.A. and got to see the excellent Ali and did a little shopping with her sister Sabrina on Rodeo Drive, and it was really, really fun, in spite of the Smythson store being closed. (I'm a pen-and-paper nerd. So sue me.) A few classic examples of Smythson:





Some other things I'm really looking forward to this season:

1. Armwarmers. I just bought these from Etsy, and I love them.

2. Great Big Hoodies. I don't actually have a good picture for this, because I haven't found the item I want. I want a hooded blazer-type item, both with sleeves and without, to wear over my button downs. I'm tired of sweaters.

And, one disappointment:

1. Victoria's Secret blouses. I used to love them. I bought them in bulk. And then they got a "new shape" and they no longer fit. I'm so annoyed. Hence the need for the freakin' cover-up hoodies. I might have to just go up a size, but of course, that's depressing all on its own.

But it's hard to be depressed with cute shoes! Yay, shoes!

I Is A Writer, Yes I Is

My blog post at Capitol Hill Seattle was mentioned in the P-I's Big Blog today!!

I can't get over it! I'm amazed they took notice! Not only is the post excerpted, but they mentioned the full post in "Recommended Reading" for today! Holy crap!

Drop by Capitol Hill Seattle to read the post in full.

Veteran's Day

Thank you, veterans.

I wrote about this last year, and it said a lot of what I wanted to say.

This year I'm a little less optimistic about our country, in spite of the presence of President-Elect Barack Obama (I could write it four-million times, and that phrase still won't get old) and the fabulous celebrating that went on in the streets after the announcement. It's not so much the state of the country, although that worries me too, but the state of the CITIZENS of the country that makes me pessimistic.

I'm happy about the record voter turnout, but unhappy that it's still barely above 50%. I'm unhappy about the bailout idea, which I think is ridiculous--let the companies die under their own debt. I'm annoyed that the middle-to-low economic classes who dared to reach for a piece of the American Dream are getting slapped back down, and of course there's no bailout for them, and I'm angered that the poor always ALWAYS bear the brunt of economic depression. At the same time, I think that people who bought houses they couldn't afford, planning to "flip" them to make a fast buck, deserve all their bankruptcy.

I wish there was a way to discern motives as well as results.

I'm annoyed at people who were basically born on third base, in the baseball game of life, and therefore assume that they hit a triple, and have no compassion on those who were born reaching for first. I'm equally annoyed at people who were born on first and expect the government to carry them to all the way to home plate. I'm annoyed at entitlement, I'm annoyed at people who cheat the system.

I'm generally annoyed at people, I guess, and the state of the people affect the state of the country. And so I'm pessimistic about the state of the country, too.

Which, of course, is no way to live life. I want to believe. I want to believe our public school system can change, that teachers will start to get paid living wages and that the whole profession will be revolutionized, that systems like welfare and healthcare will be revamped and shrunk. That farm subsidies will only be paid to people who need them, not to people like Ted Turner--although he is generally awesome, he's not in need of handouts from the federal government. I want easily-obtainable, locally produced, HEALTHY food for our schools and for our poor. I want empty lots to be turned into community gardens and locally-produced, artificial gasoline to fuel cars. I want a military with less bureacracy and more awesome toys, like whole fleets of unmanned, remote-controlled planes with cameras that see everything and breathable nanofiber uniforms that protect against bullets and poison gas.

Good food, good education, and security--and a kick-ass military--that's what I want for this nation. It's an odd mix, I guess. I'd be interested to hear from all two of my readers. (I might be up to four.) What do YOU want for the nation?