The Inconvenience of Convenience

I ponder at how small the world has become through the most innovative invention: the jet. I recently flew to San Francisco in mere matter of about an hour and 45 minutes. An astonishing feat considering it would take me 15 hours by car, or several months on foot. Or several decades by hitchhiking. (Nobody picks up hitchhikers anymore. It's very disappointing). The airplane is the most convenient means of traveling long distances. 

Once the airplane delivered me to the SFO airport, I excitedly ran through the place in great anticipation of seeing a dear friend whom I had not seen for a while. After a whirlwind of socializing my trip was over. Far too soon. And so, I was deposited at the airport yet again to return to where I had come. 

I passed through security in about fifteen minutes. Now, the reason for the delay in security was the fact that a family in front of me, with three kids, had seemingly never gone through security. They required detailed instructions and re-instructions as to what to do with their bags, belts, laptops, iPads, cell phones, liquids, gels, drones, headphones, jewelry, shoes, sweatshirts, and apparently mental issues rooted in childhood too. This family held up the line with their incompetence. I was getting impatient and my arm was getting tired holding my poorly packed pack. The woman in front of me looked at me and we had a moment of shared irritation. How dare they inconvenience us. We are clearly important people who have somewhere to go see and to be seen ourselves. (Obvs). 

Fiiiinally, upon successful completion of security I then went over to check my departing flight. I studied the screen until I found my flight. Next to my flight there was a notation saying that instead of leaving at 7:30 PM, my United flight had now been changed to leave at 10 PM. 10 PM!  “Ugh” I thought, “This is why I fly Alaska. This would Never happen on Alaska!” (Cheap plug for Alaska airlines here). 

How unjust for me to be inconvenienced! I already was delayed in the security line by a massive, endless, unbearable, five minutes. Now you may not know this about me but I happen deserve a life completely and devoid of irritants. I really do. I don’t deserve to be stuck in traffic. Or to have flights delayed. You see, I am a princess who is entitled to strut through life easily without ever ever being inconvenienced. In frustration, I furrowed my eyebrows, huffed, clenched my fist and stamped my foot like an indignant three year old. (I am really pretty convincing at being an indignant three year old due to my unbelievably low level of maturity). But, it was at that moment when I was given the ability to check my privilege. I have the great privilege to even have an opinion about airlines. 

Many, dare I say most world citizens don't have the privilege to form opinions about airlines. Flying is beyond the realm of their dreams. Like, they're aware people fly in airplanes, but it's not anybody that they know. When I came to that realization, I gave myself a much warranted lecture. (I find that one effectively changes people by yelling and giving lectures. It's a very effective communication strategy). (That was a joke). I told myself, "You bratty little brat! Nobody likes a brat. Seriously, nobody likes you and nobody ever will unless you grow up and change literally every thing about you, okay?" I then added "Dumbass!" for dramatic effect. I felt defeated and humbled by my own self-lecture. And so, in my defeat, I heaved a long dreary sigh as I sat down in a chair. It was going to be a long several hours. And, my kindle wasn't charged. And, I had forgotten my laptop at home as I had left the house in such a fluster. So, I got out my phone and wrote this. 

The thing is - we’re gonna be inconvenienced in this life. And while it is devastating to the more immature of us (i.e. moi) - dude, get over it. We should be surprised when things do go according to plan sans inconveniences. Because guess what? Air travel is actually amazing. It really is. Even if flights are delayed. 

Eventually my flight boarded and took off. There we all were at 34,000 feet up, eating pretzels, and breathing recycled air. The weighty pressurized tube somehow charged across the sky at 500 miles per hour by some scientific phenomenon I don't have the brain power to comprehend. The plane unceremoniously landed with no fanfare and deposited the pasty tired travelers. Pasty, tired, privileged travelers who conveniently were transported a great distance in just one hour and 30 minutes. 

Covert Romantic Plotting

I recently found myself needing to gain access to my old hotmail account that I made when I was in high school. So, I put in my (immature and ridiculous) original email and then used my ancient password. Well, it didn't work. So, I tried some other old passwords but came up empty handed. I was then given the option to recover my password by answering a security question or having the hotmail wizards send me a text with a recovery number to type in. "I'll take the recovery question," I thought. After all, I know myself quite well. I felt confident in the answering of the question. Until I read the security question. This was my security question created at age 16.

"Who do I like?" 

When I saw that's what the 16 year-old version of me created as a security question, I could not help but emit loud guffaws! I was reminded that I am not the person I have always been - I used to be a boy crazy teen sitting on my blow-up furniture, twirling my hair, applying self tanner, and dreaming about the boy that I uh, "liked." I did this all whilst carelessly failing pre-algebra. 

Now teenage girls who happen to suffer from boy crazy developmental disorder require a gaggle of girls with whom to conspire. And, I had just that. At social events, we would have clandestine meetings that consisted of plotting, scheming, and hushed chortles. We advised each other on how to land a man. "Stalk him. Then you could impress him with your 'detective skills'" or, "Stand outside his window and sing 'Make you Happy' by Celine Dion." We'd make plans to bewitch our teenage crushes. Then, we'd proceed with all dispatch to lure them into our enchantment.

But of course, we could never talk about the boys who we happened to like using actual names. Otherwise, someone may overhear our conversation. They undoubtedly might find out! Mortifying! So, at these conspiratorial meetings, we would come up with code names for our hopeful matrimonial allies. 

One target of affection happened to have the initials KM. His name was Klaus Meister. In order to conceal his identity (actually, more to conceal the identity of the liker). We came up with the nickname "Shackles." Why you ask? Let me explain. You see, my friend Keiko, and I were subjected to being the children of vitamin evangelists. My mother, and Keiko's mother would frequent the same vitamin dealer. Thus, we were both regularly administered a dosage of a vitamin drink called KM - made by a company called Shaklee. Now, when you meet a fellow minor, who is also at the mercy of a mother who happily espouses Shaklee products, - it creates an profound, deep, everlasting bond that crushes through bedrock. Nothing bonds two people like shared childhood trauma. Anyways, when we saw Klaus, er "Shackles," at various social events - we would alert each other of his presence by saying things like: "I spot Shackles at 3 o'clock" and nobody knew what on earth we were talking about. 

I had a crush on a young man called Theodore Arrington. Actually, maybe it was more than a crush. I mean, I did refer to my feelings for him as "an out of control forest fire." Anyways, he had initials of TA. So we obviously called him "Tallahassee." Again, people who weren't "in the know" didn't know what I mean't when I said, "Tallahassee is such a dish!" And, when my accomplices sang back in unison, "Dishee dishee Tallahassee!" It only elicited blank stares from those who did not speak our language. Now, had I said "Theodore is a babe and a half!" those in close auditory proximity would have noticed the surging teen hormones - which, of course, would have been a huge embarrassment alert. 

Now, the idea for code names was a genius idea. But, not such a genius idea when one decides to make it a security question answer to their hotmail account. Who did I like when I was 16? Was the answer to my question "Tallahassee?" Was it "Theodore?" Was it "Theodore Arrington?" Was it "Shackles and Tallahassee?" All caps? No caps? Was it a code name of a guy that has long since been forgotten? I feel like "Lord Pimberly" may have been a code name. Maybe it was that guy called Jeff who I sat next to on the bus on the school ski trip. There was that really cute guy who worked at the organic hippie store. Maybe the password was "organichippiestoreguy." Maybe it was...gosh.. this was getting tough. As I scratched my head and banged my forehead, I made a decision to give up (something I often do). As a teen, I had crushes on a lot of guys. I mean, I wasn't discriminating at all. 

Digging into the depths of my romantic past  - or shall I say "could have been a romantic past" was too hard. There was simply too much material. In the end, I opted to have my password reset via a text message code. And guess what? My old hotmail account still exists!

The Language on the Shop Signs

This evening - like many people across this great country - I engaged in my civic duty of voting. As I walked up to the ballot box, which had the words "Ballot Drop Off" written in several languages, I waited for an attractive handholding bi-racial couple to cast their ballots. The woman was of Asian descent and man looked to be of Latino descent. We made eye contact and shared a silent acknowledgment of our voting participation. 

Later, as I took my passeggiata. I encountered a young Latino boy shooting hoops in his driveway. I greeted him with a smile and he grinned and waved at me (which, of course, made me grin too). As I sashayed about my neighborhood - I encountered a woman who looked Latina running and we too addressed one another with a smile as we passed. When I came nearer my home, I watched the post lady delivering packages - she looked to be Punjabi.

My neighborhood is a quiet unassuming place but very diverse. The other day, there appeared to be a quinceanera and mariachi music was blasting from someone's garage. One can smell various ethnic cuisines wafting through the air around 6pm on any given evening. There are Filipino, Vietnamese, Punjabi, Mexican, and Honduran people who live here. Many of the signs on the stores, in this neighborhood, are written in Vietnamese or Spanish. It's a place where immigrants live and where those of us who had the great fortune of being born in America - are a minority. 

Now, my rainy hometown was probably similar to this about 100 years ago. In my rainy hometown, many the of the folks there are of Scandiwhovian or Scandisomething ancestry. Thus, there is a higher percentage of people with blue eyes, blonde hair (or a variation of it), and a bit of height. In that rainy place, there is a large white and blue building that says "Suomi Hall" on the outside. There is a hall there for "The Sons of Norway." Many of the streets have Scandinavian names too. 

I've heard my aunts tell me that they had to go visit their grandmother (who lived with them upstairs) once per day and speak Finnish to her. I imagine the families in my neighborhood have grandparents that live with them. I'll bet the children are subjected to speaking their parents native language with their grandmother too. 

Over the generations, the rainy town has lost most of the Scandinavian languages yet the Nordic heritage still lingers. There is a store in Main Street that sells Scandinavian goods - such as Marimekko textiles, reindeer hides, Marttiini knives, and those little Swedish horses (dalecarlian for all you vocabulary increasers out there). And, there is an annual Scandinavian festival complete with a May Pole. But now, the signs on the shops are in English, not Danish or Swedish. 

And ya know what? Whether in my quiet unassuming neighborhood or the rainy town - we all get to vote. Voting gives all Americans, no matter where they come from - what language they speak, or what their hair color is - a chance to participate in the oldest democracy in the world. 

And that, dear reader, is probably the most beautiful thing about America. 

An Encounter With Drifters

I just love it when the day gives you what you don't expect. Sometimes, these things can wreck your day (say a car accident), but sometimes they are a pleasant surprise and teach new life lessons or give one an unexpected outlook. That happened tonight. I decided I would take a dip in the communal hot tub that the residents of my complex enjoy before it closed. So, I robed myself in the proper attire and sashayed across the street to the hot tub.

I was sitting quietly in the tub when two people appeared out of the dark. A guy jumped over the fence and said "Mind if we join you?" Following close behind him was a girl. These people clearly were not residents of the housing community. They both had on jeans, boots and a lot of chains and studded accessories, which they probably classified as jewelry. But, I figured "who cares if they mooch off a hot tub?" And also, how was I, a twenty-something female sitting in a hot tub going to stop them? So I said "I don't mind." And I didn't mind.

The guy removed his shirt and then began to lower himself into the hot tub. He looked at me quickly and said "Do you mind?" And I replied "well...you could take off your boots.." "Ha, I'm too lazy!" and with that he plopped himself into the hot tub with a grin on his face. "We don't have bathing suits," he informed me. "Fair enough," I thought. The girl then joined us, she was wearing a bikini top and jeans. She informed me that her bikini top was her only bra. "Fair enough," I thought again. They pleasantly introduced themselves to me and we began to converse.

I knew these were interesting people, so I decided I would make the most of this situation. "Where do you live?" I asked the guy. I was naively thinking he lived in east Portland and found himself on the west side jumping fences to soak in restricted hot tubs. "I'm homeless," he replied. I wondered if that meant he slept on friend's couches, in shelters or on park benches. So I asked him "Where do you sleep?" "Mmm, mostly under overpasses and stuff,' he replied. I informed him that he was going to be awfully wet tonight as he was wearing his regular street clothing (including his sturdily built lace-up black boots) and he happened to be immersed in water.

I then turned my attention to the girl. I asked her where she was from and she told me some town in California. Somehow I found out that she had been in Austin and well, Portland is often compared to Austin. I wanted to know what it was like and she said she didn't like it because the cops were jerks. I suppose when you're a street kid, the town sheriff matters because they hassle you to stop sleeping on park benches and to not pan handle and what not. To people like me, the friendliness of the cops really isn't a reason for me to like or dislike a place. I've never had a proper run-in with the law.

Anyways, I learned quite a a bit about this girl. She was homeless for three years in her town in California but then things went south. She had to pay to sleep in the homeless shelter and there just weren't enough resources for homeless people, so she left. She hitchhiked all over the country. She had most recently been in Kansas City and had been in Portland for just a week. I asked her how she got from place to place and she told me through truckers. This rang an alarm in my mind. "Do you ever feel unsafe?" "Well, I'm still alive!" she replied. She then informed me her methods of hitchhiking with truckers and how she sits in the truck for a moment before it takes off. Apparently, drifters and street kids learn how to read people pretty well and she told there are characteristics you can pick up on right away. Sometimes she gets out of the truck and other times she decides it's safe. She has never had a regrettable experience.

I mostly conversed with the girl as the guy was contorting his body in unusual ways, making funny faces, emitting a variety of sounds, and being generally happy. But the girl was a chatty one and I wanted to know her story. She had a horse when she was young and she sometimes worked as a stable girl in whatever town she ended up in. Normally people didn't let her ride their horses, but she did know what she was doing. She found a cat in a storm drain and gave it a very long name, which I can't remember, but it goes something like this: storm-scuff-death kabie-gutter-babe-something-something-sheba-the-third. She and the guy had just met hanging out somewhere downtown. I commented to her that I think there is only one guy like the guy she just met. He certainly marched to the beat of his own drum and was a friendly one. She informed me that he was indeed pretty unique, but you meet interesting people when you live on the street.

I really have no idea what the world of the drifter is like. I've only seen the movie "Into the Wild" (and read the book, and bought the t-shirt). But, I have met some people when when you ask them where they live they say "nowhere." And, these people did quite strike me as those types.

I said I would cover them if security asked about them. I would just say I have my hot tub pass and they are my guests. I liked these kids, even though, I do have to admit, they had their issues. But they certainly weren't snobby and they were very friendly. I also think they enjoyed me asking them lots of questions. I wanted to ask them more like "What about your family?" or "Do you have any rooted relationships with anyone or do you just drift and meet random people constantly?" I wondered if they had a vision for their future. Did they think they could really do something with their lives? Did they even want to? Did they think this life could go on forever? I mean, it's cute and interesting and exotic when you're 22 to be a street kid/drifter...but time has a way of, well, moving on.

A group of Indian guys joined us (probably engineering students working on their master's, hey sorry for the stereotype there, but stereotyping serves a relevant purpose!). I think they thought the street kids were weird, and they were. We didn't talk to them. But, I realized there were two groups in the hot tub and I was a part of the homeless group, although I have a home.

After awhile, I got lost in my own thoughts and we all became silent and let the bubbles in the hot tub boil us and make noise. I had gotten a lot of information out of them and I was feeling too relaxed to make anymore conversation so, I said goodbye to them. "Thanks for putting up with us," the guy said. "Well, thank you for making it interesting," I replied.

I then wrapped a towel around myself and slipped into my $80 trendy travel sandals, feeling a bit pretentious. And yet, I knew these kids were not judging me for having expensive shoes and access to a pretentious hot tub.

Dogs and Crooks

There are people out there who know me personally and have had ample time to observe my strange psychology. These "so-called people," have probably even come to a dubious conclusion about my character. But before you people start saying all manner of nonsense about who I am. Let me, at the very least, defend myself! There is one thing I most certainly am not: an axe murderer. Yes, go tell it on the mountain. I am not a a dangerous villain to be dealt with carefully. I am simply a quiet unassuming caucasian female. (And Regis Philban fan). So, now you're probably wondering where all this paranoia of mine is coming from. Why am I defending my character so fervently? Where did I get such ideas that people think I'm dangerous?

Well, it's not people. It's actually animals.

I was walking down the street, in a most unassuming way, when a cute dog on a leash stopped walking and slinked back to the side of the sidewalk as I merrily passed by. The owner then told the canine "It's okay. She won't hurt you."

Of all the nerve! Of course I won't hurt the dog. Why must the owner assure this canine that he is in fact safe in my presence? I love dogs! My middle name is Dog! (Okay, I may be exaggerating). The only thing I might be tempted to do to the canine is reach down and give it a good scratch. I am very talented when it comes to scratching canines on their rump and ears. Actually, it's a violation of animal rights for me to let that talent do to waste.

At such an offensive comment, I found myself quite cross. "I'm a nice girl. I'm so approachable! What's the big idea?!" I defensively thought to myself. I then considered glowering at the animal but then I realized that I would give the animal something to fear. So, I decided against it. I decided not to let this minute misunderstanding bother me.

Next time I see a dog that fears me, I am going to give it a reassuring smile and talk to it in a breathy and soothing voice. And, I'm not going to take things so personally.

So remember, don't let silly things bother you. Even if someone (or some animal) gives you the wrong look or says the wrong thing. Well, it's all probably just a misunderstanding. It doesn't mean you're a crook, okay?

On the Topic of Wrangling Wild Northern Beasts

When I was a large/massive/weird child, I used to read books about horses, play with toy horses, draw pictures of horses, and memorize horse anatomy and breed types. For three years I religiously and selfishly prayed every night that God would use my polished manipulation skills to convince my parents to get horses. My parents were impressed with my knowledge and enthusiasm and my prayers were answered. So, we resurrected our falling down barn and built a barbed wire fence on our acreage. We ended up getting two inseparable Arabian sisters who had rebellious teenage attitudes.

Horse ownership isn’t all glamour and glitz. Frankly, it’s peasant farm labor. I shoveled monumental amounts of horse sh--, carried buckets of water up the hill to our barn, (since our barn had no running water), and loaded heavy hay bales from the truck into the loft. Then there is cleaning their hooves, tacking them up, bathing them, feeding them, getting them shod, and dealing with their neurotic tendencies and impossible psychology. Horses are exhausting.  

I haven’t done much horse riding since I was a kid. However, I’ve resurrected that hobby and I’ve found myself a little petulant horse to ride. She’s a feisty Icelandic/Paso Fino horse. She has a bushy black main, a little brown face with a bump on her nose, small dainty legs, and a ballooning belly.

And she’s a little pill! She tries to eat when we’re riding in the meadow – even though she’s just eaten and is, in fact, full. When I make her trot, she tosses her head in defiance, trots for a few steps, and then stops. I have to keep my legs glued to her sides to keep her trotting (and even that doesn’t work). It’s exhausting and harder than doing a wall sit. She bucks when I make her cantor. And then runs towards the barn, hoping to be done with the torture. It’s like dealing with an obstinate two year old. Now I know how you parents out there must feel.

I tried to manage her naughty behavior by saying things like “No!” or “Don’t do that!” Then I tried rewarding her positive behavior. I said affectionate and comforting things when she did as I said, like “good girl!” and “you’re doing such a good job.” It was somewhat successful. But then she just went back to her usual wayward ways. So, in a moment of frustration, when she refused to listen to me, I slapped her butt. She jumped a bit and then did every thing I told her to do from there on out. She figured out that when I mean business, I mean business.

We made a good team. I felt like a wild county girl with the power to domesticate a large beast (by beast, I mean small pony). I patted her and told her she was distinguished and esteemed. She beamed in delight as she tottered about. 

After the frustration and joy, I eventually dismounted my beast and de-tacked her. Then I sat down in the shade, put on her halter and she lazily grazed by me. Eventually, I put her back into her pen and stroked her. She stood next to me rubbing her head digging into my belly. I put my arm over her head and tousled her chin. And she nuzzled her little head into my armpit and gave me horse hugs. 

It was nice to know that after all we’d been through. The roller coaster of emotions - we were still friends.  

A Playful Case of Dysphagia

Ha – you take-things-for-granted person. You probably don’t even know what dysphagia is. You probably think it’s the name of a beautiful Italian actress in one of those confusing foreign sub-titled films, or a province in Northern Spain, or a flashy new car model. All of those guesses are wrong. You’re off. Way off. Dysphagia actually means having difficulty swallowing. And, it’s no fun at all.

You’ve probably never even thought about swallowing!

We swallow about 6,000 times per day. We swallow our food, our saliva, and even foreign objects – quarters, fish bones, and beer caps to name a few. And no one thinks about swallowing. Except Speech Pathologists. They think about. They think about it all day. Then they go off and read books about it. They need to get lives. 

I met a sick cute little old lady with dysphagia recently. She was Spanish-speaking and so I had to slosh out a pathetic Spanish word salad as a means to communicate with her.  Poor her. I should send her a sympathy card. I need to go to the post office to get stamps... Anyways, back to my poignant story.

I haven’t spoken Spanish for a very long time. So, I kinda majorly suck. But, we made it through.

Anyways, this cute old lady called me “mi amor,” and made a point to say “gracias” and “adios” when I left. (Maybe she felt she had to be extra nice to me because she thought I was mentally disabled). But, when I bossed her on how to swallow, she got all sassy and playful and repeated “unn traaagiiiito!!” and looked at me with a mischievous edentulous smile. Then we laughed. Then we smiled. Then we giggled. Then I said it back to her and wagged my finger - with my usual dopey grin. Then we laughed again. Then we smiled. Then we got back to business. 

That lady made my day and put a smile on my face. When I got to thinking about why it because she was endearing but also because we played. We joked around and we didn’t even know each other. We even had communication barriers - her with no teeth, and me with my crummy Spanish. This got me to thinking about playing. Adults need to play more. Seriously. Most of the adults I know are stone-faced, almost all the time. We’d all enjoy our lives more if we played more. And we might even like each other - without having to dole out bribes. Think about the money that could be saved by not having to bribe people with extravagant gifts!

So, if a sick little old lady, with dysphagia, can play and joke – with an outright stranger, and in broad daylight, well, then so can you and I!

Listen to what your mother said and “go play!”

Play!

Validating Beaming Grandeur

Generally, our galaxie's sun is allegedly supposed to shine. However, in the Northwest our loving sun is completely inattentive to its primary task of casting warm sunbeams on the masses. This sun of ours comes up with all manner of reasons not to do its rightful job. Or perhaps it’s frightened and hides behind big heavy dark rain clouds. Well whatever the sun's excuse is, everyone is dreary and cross. It’s quite troubling really. They (By "they," I mean everyone) listen to Radiohead, drink beer, and have depressing introspective thoughts as they stare out the window upon the gloomy weather. It’s true. It really is. Just come to the northwest and you’ll discover this for yourself. The people here take large amounts of things like Zoloft and Prozac. Those drug companies make a killing off this place.

But not this week! Or last. Or the week before that.

Finally, this sun of ours, has been dutifully and obediently shining and shining and shining. It is finally listening to the needs of the people. No longer do we need to use our OTT lamps and make extra efforts to maintain a positive attitude.

It’s sunny here! And it continues to be sunny!

All this sun has caused a bit of a raucous. People are chatting to one another in the elevators, smiling and whistling absentmindedly whilst ambling down streets, and even making small talk alongside pools – and all of this is happening in broad daylight!

But, since I’ve resided in this corner of the world so long. I know it shall not last. So, I must relish this. Soak it up (literally and figuratively). For before we know it – it’s going to be gloomy again. So get outside! Talk to that person on the elevator! Strike up a conversation about the price of zucchini with the complete stranger down at the farmer’s market. Or, for that matter – actually go to the Farmer’s Market. Because, if we don’t – our sun might get offended and think we don't even care that it is shining and then it might go off and hide for another nine months.  Now we don’t want that, now do we? We must validate the sun.

It's our civic duty!

An Operation of Book Reduction

I have recently begun the process of becoming a minimalist. Now, I've never been a person with a debilitating packrat problem but for some reason - with the arrival of Spring, I have this urge to GET RID OF STUFF! Let's see what do I have that I don't use much. There is my ukulele, five tennis rackets, a guitar, a futon, a printer, an old laptop, too many clothes, too many shoes, too many books, too many towels, and TOO MUCH STUFF! I'm pulling out my hair in large clumps as a result of the abundance of stuff. So, I've decided I must ensure stuff is not so plentiful. Therefore I'm on a major warpath and getting rid of my worldly possessions and taking a vow of poverty and solitude. (Okay, I might be getting a bit ahead of myself here...)

Why get rid of stuff? 

Stuff is overwhelming. Stuff gets in the way. Stuff is stupid. Stuff is unnecessary. Stuff is fluff and you don't need fluff. It's liberating not to have stuff. I don't know about you but I like liberty (and life and the pursuit of happiness). Liberty is one of my inalienable rights as endowed by the US constitution and my lifestyle has caused me to put a constraint on that. I must put a stop to this madness! So, I shall. 

Today I did a small exercise and I got rid of 70 books - I now own 64 books (including text books which are professional reference texts). 

Rationale: Will I ever read these books again? They're heavy. They take up space. And, if I'm desperate to read them again, there is always the library - or a Kindle. I used to have books to ensure people would think I'm smart and then those people would say "Wow, you're sooo smart. I can see you read so much." Well truth is, I'm actually illiterate and I bought books to fool people. If people think I'm smart because I have a bunch of books well, they think too much. People will know I'm smart if I actually am smart. And if they think I'm smart, even though I'm not smart, then they're not smart for knowing I'm not smart. Duh. 

Do it. Get rid of your extra books. Face up to the fact that you're not going to read them again. Trust me, you're smart. You don't need a massive bookshelf validating you.

Impressive Icelandic Adventure

Trip to Iceland. Check. 

I have just experienced what one might call "a trip to Iceland." Yes, I engaged in my typical tom-foolery and bought myself a flight to that empty island in search of adventure. And, adventure I found!

I took this trip sort of on my own. Some people choose not to travel if they cannot find a friend to go with. I say "poppycock!" to such thoughts. There is always someone to travel with. You might not know that person right now, but you can get to know them if you choose. You can find these people in adventure groups or, in my case, on couchsurfing. I met a girl on couchsurfing, we rented a car together, split the costs, had dinner together a few times, went to the local soaking pool, and stayed in a rural cabin for a night. No, we did not become best friends but it was nice to have a companion. Before I took this trip, I was on my own. I had no one to do things with. But, I quickly remedied that situation.

Never stop yourself from taking a trip because you have to go alone. You don't. Be gutsy and find someone. Trust you instinct as to whether you would be a good fit. If not, you can ditch them. If your choice is don’t go at all if no one will go with you – well, you’re selling yourself short. And don't sell yourself short. 

Being Desirable

Most days pass by with few notable events. Even when one rides the bus and is surrounded by people who characterize themselves as "bus people" life just isn't always exhilarating. However, the other day I was sitting on the bus when a woman boarded with two young children. The young children boarded in front of her and she attempted to heard them to three empty seats in the front. The younger walked on to the bus with a hood on his head and an oversized backpack. He appeared to be about four or five. He then looked at me, gave me a mischevious smile, and sat himself down right next to me. Then the mother beckoned for him to come and sit by her because he chose to sit quite far from his mother (next to me!). In any case, this small child choosing to sit by me on a bus full of other people happened to make my day!

The Politics of a First Grader

"Punishing honest mistakes stifles creativity. I want people moving and shaking the earth and they're going to make mistakes." 
Ross Perot

I recently stumbled upon this quote by Ross Perot. Aaahhh, Ross Perot. A man who has always had a bit of real estate in my heart. I have been one of his ardent followers since I was six. 

When I was six, my elementary school had a simulated election where we voted for the president. I hadn't quite figured out my political ideals but I was working out various political theories in my mind. In fact, I hadn't even heard of the people on my ballot and I wasn't even sure how to spell their names - much less write them in my primitive penmanship. 

So, the time came to cast out ballots in the election. "Whom should I vote for?" I anxiously asked myself. George Bush, Bill Clinton or Ross Perot? I had no idea who they even were or what they believed. But I knew something. I knew that Ross Perot was really rich. So, based on that knowledge and that knowledge alone, I voted for Ross Perot. 

Here's why:
I heard that he had money. I also knew that it took money to pay something called taxes. I knew my parents didn't like paying taxes. Hmm. So, if Ross Perot had money and you needed money to pay taxes then he would probably charitably use his own money to pay all the American tax bills therefore reducing the tax rate. You see, he would pay off so much of the taxes there would only be a minute portion that the American people had to pay. Ross would use his money. "What a magnanimous man - he's got my vote!" I enthusiastically thought to myself. 

It was a nice idea - even if only for a moment. But, my universe collapsed right onto me one day during phonics class. I learned that Bill Clinton had won. Comrade Ross Perot would not lead the movement. He would never get the chance to use his own money to pay everyone else's taxes. I wondered for years if my theory would have worked? Would a rich president say "Oh America, don't worry. I'll pay your taxes with my own money. You go back to watching reality TV and drinking boxed wine. S'all good!" 

Which brings me back to the quote at the beginning of this insipid essay I have just written. Go ahead and make mistakes. Why? Because Ross said so. 

No really though. Ross didn't win and become president. Was that a mistake? Who's to say. But go ahead and take a whack at something where you might just make a mistake. Maybe some six year-old will believe in your cause.

That's worth something. 

The Perks of Interactive Meals

For the past several years, every three months I have had reason to be festive. Yes, as a perpetual student attending institutions of higher education on the trimester system, I have been obligated to celebrate the end of the term every time an end of the term comes around. Therefore, I’ve been living an ill-ridden life of debauchery consistently every three months for the past five years.

To be celebratory this time around, I went out to dinner at a Mexican restaurant. I’m not Mexican food foodie. But I have discovered the art of true happiness and a sense of authentic accomplishment in fajitas. Read on to find out more!

Fajitas are not something I generally order as it simply does not occur to me. But last night, I took the brave plunge. The dare to have an item delivered directly to me that is noisy, interactive and sizzling. A meal that caused people to follow their noses and say “what was that that just went by??”

When I received my meal, I looked down at the three items in front of me: corn tortillas enclosed in a plastic portal, a plate containing beans, cheese, pico de gallo, lettuce, sour cream and guacamole, and lastly a sizzling cast iron pan with a mescla of onions, chicken and bell peppers. What was I to do with all this sitting in front of me? I looked upon my food with affection and puzzlement. I knew I was being called to a great performance. Yes, greatness was being thrust upon my shoulders yet again. It was my duty in life to form something with these three items. So, I decided, like a good American citizen, to create some species of burrito-like object. I then began mixing small sums of the ingredients together. Voila! Before I knew it, I had morphed into an artist and a miniature burrito was in my hands to be relished. And relish it, I did!

I have to say, there is genuine joy in interactive eating. One has a sense of feat, of attainment, of greatness, of finally making it. One feels like an artist as the meal not only requires consumption but assembly. So dear reader, if you want to be an artist.
And I mean a REAL artist.
And if you’re hungry.
And if you happen to be at a Mexican restaurant whilst you have this yearning.

Then I recommend ordering the fajitas next time you go out. You shall not be dissatisfied.

A Stinky Bus Averted

Well well well if it isn't old February, the month where diet is still the hot topic. And I’m no exception to that trend. I too am talking about diet and everyone seems to be eager consumers of my wisdom. So today, on this beautiful January day I decided it would be quaint to take the bus downtown and go shopping at the famed Asian store, Uwijimaya. I hopped on a bus and away I went!

Well, was I in luck - I just happened to bounce right onto the bus that had quite possibly the friendliest bus driver in the great state of Washington (and beyond). I asked him if his bus went to the International District and he said “Sure does. Guilty as charged! Hop on ma'am!” He then proceeded to make small talk with me, asking me what I was up to that day, where I was going and if I was a local or from out of town. He even told me about a not-so-secret restaurant that makes their own prosciutto that is owned by Mario Bertelli’s father and that I have to go there, but don’t go there on a Friday - it’s too busy - they’re closed on Mondays - but Tuesday is a good day, not so crowded. I have to say, it’s not often that one meets a chatty and friendly city bus driver while navigating the streets of a big city.

Mr. Bus Driver happily (and he really was happy) directed me to my stop - Uwijimaya. I got there and was greeted by smells from all over Asia - Korean barbecue, Japanese Sushi, Beijing beef and Panang Curry. I encountered a sturdy wok and entertained the idea of getting it for myself. But, I resisted as I did not want to carry it home on the bus.

Then I wandered over to the seafood section where I watched live tilapia swim about in a crowded cloudy tank “Poor fish,” I thought “they don’t know they’re going to be on a dinner plate covered in coconut milk and lime juice.” If I found out I was going to be on a dinner plate covered in coconut milk and lime juice, I’d be slightly startled. I watched some crabs swimming and noted that they were on a super sale. I didn’t get any because I did not want to stink like fresh crab on the bus ride home. What I really intended to buy was seaweed. I wondered to myself where the aisle with seaweed might be, but then I saw a big sign that said “seaweed,” and I thought to myself “I know I am in an Asian store when there is a big sign announcing the existence of seaweed.” Who else does that?

I bought four packs of seaweed and other Asian odds and ends. Enough stuff to fit in a small bag and still be carried easily and comfortably on public transport. Away I went from bustling downtown Seattle where there is a Starbucks on every corner and tall skyscrapers grazing the sky. Off I went back to my humble abode to enjoy my loot on the bus.

Please take this as a friendly reminder not to overshop when you’re riding the bus. You may be tempted to buy several large live tilapias, crabs, lobsters and a big sturdy wok to fry them up in. However, you will quickly find yourself in a state of distress when carrying it on a bus whilst simultaneously stinking up the vehicle. Be vigilant dear friend.

A Sure Way to Vicarious and Riotous Living

New obsessions come and go for me. Right now I’ve decided to go onto this crazy diet called “The Caveman Diet” which consists of gnawing on large hunks of meat, vegetables, fruit, nuts, eggs and uh, yeah, that’s about it. But I shall not regale you with tales of my new eating plan. (although I have been prancing around in a leopard print loin cloth whilst grunting). No, I shall regale you with my new obsession. But first, I must start from the beginning.

I have never been much of a homebody, domestic goddess or homey person. My aunt once told me she could see me traveling about and then coming home to live in a small box somewhere under some stairs whilst I save up for my next big adventure. And I would be more than content. However, all future travel plans have been suspended. Thus, I’ve become something of a domestic goddess due to circumstances. And, I can prove it ‘cuz I have a checkered apron and I have to pay an electric bill. Bonjour real world!

So, in my new life, I’ve been making attempts to be all homey, since I’m no longer living in a cardboard box, and I’ve rediscovered the true art of happiness. It comes in only one form – candles.

Yup. (that was a smug “yup” by the way).

I’ve never much thought about buying frivolous things such as candles – I try to keep it to the essentials (food, tea, warm socks). But, I found myself perusing the candle aisle at Target a few weeks ago when it struck me “I. Am. Going. To. Buy. A. Candle.” So I did, I tried one and I felt exactly like I was in Bali – I’ve never been there – but the candle was called Bali sunrise..so I’m pretty sure that’s what it must feel like to be there. Last week I bought a second one. I’m burning it all the time. All I can think about is buying more candles. When can I get to my candle dealer to get me more...and more…and more!!! I can’t seem to stop. I’m addicted. I need to go to CA—Candles Anonymous.

Bah! No need to travel. Just get a candle bozo!

Inventions of a Simple Serenade

When I get an idea in my head, I sometimes can't get it out and then it festers and hijacks me and before I know it I'm talking to myself about it. My latest idea you ask? Signing up for clown classes at the community college? No, good guess! (hmm...) Give it all up and become a shoe cobbler? Good guess,...maybe someday. Nope, I'm afraid you're wrong, dear reader. I appreciate your good guesses (or rather the dialogue I just engaged in with myself). The idea that I just can't evacuate from my mind is...becoming a ukuleleist.

Now you just stop your roaring laughter! The ukulele has been an underdog of instruments and as an underdog in the human race, I think it's a good fit for me. No, it's not as cool as a bass guitar or the key-tar. People play the ukulele as a joke outside the window of their wanna-be-betrothed. You're probably imagining a gondola playing it to two lovers floating down a disgusting dirty rat-invested canal in Venice. Very well, yes I admit, the ukulele is guilty as charged and has been involved in all of those circumstances.

And while the great thinkers of our modern time debate the politeness of pet ownership or how to properly pronounce "tomato," I shall simply play my ukulele and bring joy to the peasants (perhaps to the occupiers?). The movement awaits it's leader! Alright, maybe I'm getting a bit ahead of myself, but here is why one ought to pick up a ukulele.

1. The ukulele translates to "jumping flea" (aka lice) in Hawaiian
2. It originates in Portugal (I have a crush on Christopher Columbus who was an honorary Portuguese citizen).
3. Isreal played it in his famous "over the rainbow" song
4. George Harrison played it
5. Billy Ray Cyrus did not play it (to my knowledge)
6. Many Hawaiian kings and queens were accomplished ukulele players
7. It only has four strings!!
8. It's sooo cute and tiny!

All reasons why the ukulele is a perfectly respectable hobby to launch. Next time you see a ukuleleist, I encourage you to be inspired by the four string delight and pick one up yourself and go and serenade your sweetie.