Wednesday, December 27, 2006

this year, there shall be partying.


Someone heard that I like champagne.

I got something like 10 bottles of it for Christmas (and I've still got my crown Dom Perignon jewel from the wedding waiting for a special occassion). I think that pretty much necessitates a New Year party.

This is new for me. I tend not to give New Year's Eve much attention. I think it has something to do with media hype, my general reisistance to playing into the expectation that I want to party with local dj's and a general distaste for crowds that "oooh" and "aahhh" over fireworks (fireworks are fine. ooohing and aaahing...gets my blood up).

Some years I go to movies at 11 pm just to miss the hype. Some years I rent an armful of movies and maybe - MAYBE - pause one of them at about 11:57, just in time to throw something at the tv when the irritating "local television personality" in earmuffs and windblown, rained-on hair tries to get me excited about the antics of the "local radio personality" they've sent out to irritate the "revelers." Some years I go to bed at 10:30.

This year, however, something's changed. I've got the New Year's Eve itch...(and enough champagne to fuel a decent celebration....). I want to wear silly plastic headbands that say "2007" on them (er, wait, no....I don't) and swagger around downtown in the cold hoping to bump into local television personalities (er...so I can throw things at them...yeah...), then lay a big one on K at the end of the evening while we're laughing about things that aren't funny, having fun with people we don't like, hugging people we don't know, singing along to songs we've never heard before and pretending to have fun in cold, chilly, rainy weather that we can't stand. Then we'll shove our faces full of late-nite fast food before we wander on home in the wee hours of the morning and fall asleep with our clothes on and wake up at noon fiendishly craving eggs and hot sauce...

Or, I could stay home, order pizza, hoard all of the Nicholas Feuillate and go to bed early....easy, familiar, warmer...

Yep, I've been an old lady all my life...

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

GM, please.


Not as in, "I'd like a GM, please," but as in

"GM, gimme a break. Fertheloveofdriving, GM, please."

I'm a car girl. I love cars. Love driving cars, love admiring cars, love talking about cars, get as giddy about an auto show as most girls get over Brad Pitt or that guy from Prison Break (speaking of driving....)

I married a car man. He knows everything there is to know about cars. About body work, about mechanical repair, about selling, buying, rebuilding - he knows his cars.

First date: he mentioned something about a car he was working on, then cut himself off with a "I'll shut up, you don't want to hear about car stuff."

I think I swooned a little then.

At any rate - one of my favorite current event topics to follow is the Decline of Detroit, so to speak; the Struggle of the Lame Duck American Auto Manufacturer.

Call me unpatriotic (or just flat west-coast), but the glory days of the American cruiser are gone, and frankly, it has mostly to do with the attitudes of chairmen like GM's Bob Lutz. HERE is an article featuring Lutz whining about unfair fuel economy standards and the "desires of the GM customer."

I'm also a fuel economy junkie. I want to get the most miles for my money. Yep, I'd love to get the most stylish miles for my money, or the FASTEST miles for my money, or the most powerful miles for my money, too, but basically: my car sits in a parking lot for all but 1 hour of the day, so I'll be satisfied with going the most miles I can between overpriced fills. BUT, as a girl that likes to drive, I can't quite accept the variable-transmission-Prius option (gimme a stick and lemme fly) or the inflated price tag (which ends up costing more than the amount I'd save on gas). And I sit in traffic, so a diesel isn't a great option (all that carbon build-up...).

SO, when it came time for my new car purchase, I went Japanese. They're efficient. They're well-built. They're decently affordable.

And they're making GM jealous. Or, more appropriately, prone to lame metaphors:

"the attempt to force carmakers to sell smaller vehicles is like 'fighting the nation's obesity problem by forcing clothing manufacturers to sell garments only in small sizes.'"

That's Lutz whining again.

Nope, the Corporate Average Fuel Economy standard (CAFE) isn't an attempt to force auto manufacturers to make SMALLER vehicles. It's not an attempt to force consumers to BUY smaller vehicles. It's an attempt to hold manufacturers to higher fuel economy standars in ALL of their vehicles. It's simply a request for the (American) manufacturers to make their huge, gaz-guzzling behemoths more efficient.

Old dog, new trick.

If Detroit (and I use the term generally - Ford, GM, et all) - amid slumping sales, layoffs, unispiring incentives and price slashes is still struggling to stay afloat, I'm suspicious that consumers ARE sending messages about what they want. The Energy Security Leadership Council isn't to blame for their slumping sales. Consumers' demands simply aren't being met. Lutz seems to think that the American consumer would be turned off by smaller GM vehicles.

Are they buying enough of those behemoths to keep GM profitable? If layoffs, quarterly profit revisions and sagging sales are any indication, Detroit has nothing to lose by creating more efficient vehicles.

And sure, that Chevy Cobalt I rented handled well, was decently fun to drive, sported an aluminum engine block, Pirelli tires and a Kenwood stereo...but at the end of the day, it pulled 27 miles to the gallon. I'll take my Corolla's 35 average any day...(until I can get my hands on an Audi A3...or a BMW 330, or a Mini S, or a C230 Kompressor...)

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

...and she's OFF...!!!!!!


Hallelujah...

"SHE" is gone. One more day working with "HER" and then this ridiculous-enough-to-be-a-parody office situation is finally over. "SHE" has quit.

But it's better than that: she's leaving to move to MISSOURI (of all places) to "show the world the real HER." Honestly, I think Christopher Guest could do a GREAT job with this entire scenario. Parker Posey would play me. She'd roll her eyes a lot. SHE is leaving with NO job lined up, NO place to live, all of her belongings in a car, and she's LEAVING her son behind (paying some family friend to put him up for a year) while she galavants (because there's no better word to describe what she's doing than lunatic GALAVANTING) around middle America with an e-Squeeze that - admittedly, blatantly, brazenly - does NOT love her, but has managed to sweet-talk her into running his start-up business that will NOT pay her (the business is a classified listing publication meant to bring business to small businesses along the central corridor - she is, and I quote, "PASSIONATE" about this historic part of middle America. Because, really, there's no place more beautiful the Carthage. No place). SO - with a bit of money that her father gave her, she'd quit her job, unloaded her "disappointing" son off onto someone that will love him for a year in her place, and is taking this chance (the "chance of a lifetime....she just HAS to do this. Just HAS to") to end up homeless and unemployed, taking orders from a man that has no romantic interest in her. But don't misunderstand her, she's NOT moving for e-Squeeze. That would be "wrong."

Okey-dokey.

SO - that means my office Nemesis will finally be gone. And yep, I have an office Nemesis (a phrase I usually associate with comic book characters - Good Guy just wants to save the world, have a burger, kiss the girl. The comic book NEMESIS wants to destroy the world - hamburgers, cute girls and all...BUT, in comic book world the Good Guy and NEMESIS don't have to share a tiny 6x12 office for eight hours a day - they occassionally run into each other and fight, then leave each other alone most of the time. I'm not so lucky).

There was a screaming match once, between the two of us. It ended with me screaming (with much waving-of-arms...so professional...) "I WILL NOT CENSOR MYSELF FOR YOU!!!!!" in response to her belly-aching over the fact that I "treat her unkindly."

No, unkind I reserve for spiders in my bathtub, for disappointing episodes of C.S.I., for guys in mall kiosks trying to convince me to buy a cell phone that I neither want nor need. Unkind is reserved for people that get belligerent on the phone when they call the office demanding money and pull the old "did YOU get paid this week, young lady???" card. When it comes to HER...well I don't think there's even a word for the kind of frustration I routinely endure.

Imagine spending hours inside of a tiny office with someone that lectures the entire office about the food they eat.
Imagine spending hours inside a tiny office with someone that has a moral problem with complaining and finds any excuse to chastise someone that complains. "It is what it is, life's not fair, and we wouldn't really want it to be." That's one she's said before.
Imagine spending all day in an office with someone that bakes brownies, then PROHIBITS anyone from eating them until noon, because "it's too early for chocolate!" at 10am...I kid not.
Imagine someone that is unable to troubleshoot, or make judgement calls, and is still unable to solve a computer malfuntion after nearly TWO YEARS on the job...she wants to get permission from IT before changing her network password.

At any rate - she's finally gone. She's done. She's Missouri-bound. And hey, if it doesn't work out, her father's offered her a couch to sleep on and a full-time nursemaid position caring for her mother if she's interested.

In the meantime, she has 3 days to "teach her son to become a man."

Yes, that's what she just said (in the middle of some tirade about how we've never learned anything or achieved anything or gained anything from wars..."we just don't learn!")




ALSO - a word from Seattle's local wine GURU Richard Kinssies on my favorite thing in the world:

Monday, December 18, 2006

power on, fridge empty (but the IMPORTANT part: the christmas tree lights up again)



At least I've got my priorities in line. We may have nothing but margarita mixer and melted butter in the fridge, but the Christmas tree is lit again, and - really - what better holiday spirit than to go hungry by the light of the tree? Christmas has its electricity back. All is well (and that lovely picture is, yes, MY tree)

So, we'll all readily acknowledge that this was no hurricane, no tsunami, no earthquake, just a one-night windstorm, but driving to work on Friday morning (after waking to the alarm on my barely-charged cell phone and picking out my clothes with a keychain flashlight) and seeing power lines laying across our main roads, seeing trees through the roofs of homes, having to detour half a dozen times to drive my seven miles to work (while everyone else FAILED to treat the dark traffic lights as four-way stops...what's the FIRST thing they teach you when you're learning to drive??? TREAT THEM AS A FOUR-WAY STOP. Apparently around here the fact that I stop at the intersection is actually my way of encouraging everyone else to barrel right on through one after another. who knew.) it felt like the twilight zone.

Thankfully K and I had the good sense not to asphyxiate ourselves (but hundreds of other people trying to barbeque indoors couldn't say the same, as we now have the proud distinction of being home to the country's largest carbon monoxide poisoning "epidemic" in history), but falling into a nice carbon monoxide-induced nap didn't sound so bad as I was huddled on the couch watching the indoor temperature approach 40-degrees...we could see our breath indoors. All of the blankets and jackets and pretzel-like "cuddling" maneuvers couldn't really keep out that kind of cold. No hot water, no heat, no light, no magical electrical fireplace...

It's a cute novelty at first, honestly. Swapping stories at work about the downed trees that I dodged and how many houses in my neighborhood would need new roofs, and how cold and dark it was, and who looked the best for having gotten dressed in the dark.

For about 4 hours. Then all novelty is gone. Then I'm trying to figure out how to barbeque eggs and how to bury last night's Indian food in the flower beds to keep them cold (because....it would have been too easy to go buy a cooler and some ice and just pretend we were, oh, camping. too easy). I can parade around with mascara smudges all over my face for a day or so because the bathroom is pitch black, then I have to figure out how to warm up enough water to wash my face without squealing from the cold water.

K was fantastic enough to warm up the toilet seat for me when I had to pee (FREEZING toilet seat...FREEZING.). Conversation would go something like this:

"I have to pee."
"Ok, hold on, I'll warm it up."

So he'd run off and sit on the seat for a few minutes, then

"It's ready - hurry and sit, hurry and sit!"

so then I'd swoop in and we had this great relay-style seat handoff maneuver that meant I could plant my buns on pre-warmed seat.

At any rate - power came back on after 3.5 days and about as many trips to the movie theatre (we had to toss EVERYTHING out of the fridge...yes, my collection of Betty Crocker frostings that I have on hand for those times that I really - REALLY - just need a few big spoonfuls of straight frosting (german chocolate, cream cheese, rainbow chip, lemon...whatever the mood calls for) were all tossed. They could probably survive a nuclear apocolypse since I'm pretty sure they're nothing but butter and creatively named preservatives, but who wants to find out they're wrong and admit that they're sick because they ate too much frosting that had gone bad....)...

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

poison ivy is natural and we're all gonna die somehow.




So, every now and then a girl gets tired of hearing her co-worker (who's essentially afraid to breathe air or eat Doritos or live in the same house with a new vinyl shower curtain (the chemical fumes! the chemical fumes! the aroma of vinyl! We're gonna die! We're all gonna die!) or microwave her food) constantly spout platitudes about the value of "natural products," and "organic living" and "chemical-free this, and chemical-free that." Every now and then a girl just wants to eat her bologna and her "yogurt made with high-fructose corn syrup" and drink her diet soda in peace.

Every now and then I get a little smug. Like this conversation yesterday:

(**to set the scene, the fear-mongering co-worker arrived at work with what looked like a sunburned face. bright red**)

"I can't believe I reacted to this product! It was all natural - I only buy natural skin products anyway, no petro products AT ALL. My face burns - like a sunburn...from a natural product! I would expect better from a natural product."

"Poison ivy is natural."

"...that's true..."

HA! Score one for the chemical-user. For that matter, e coli is fairly natural. It can kill ya in all of its natural glory. The sun can kill ya too. That's about as natural as you get. Get nibbled on by a cobra, or a black widow, or a rare breed of spiny toad - naturally - you're dead. People are basically suckers for marketing schemes. Five years from now we may find out that raw shea butter accelerates skin cancer in rats. Or causes lazy ovaries. But for now, we'll spend 30% more to feel like we're supporting a slightly healthier cause.

In fact, we'll avoid hydrogenated fats and petroleum products and vegetables from Tijuana and Fruit Loops and laundry detergent right up to that fateful moment when we're hit by a car or a tree falls on our house or a CRANE comes smashing through our organic restaurant and...we're dead.

How 'bout that.

Thursday, November 30, 2006

what, pray tell, has happened to Christmas music these days???


Ok, let's first get the fact that I was raised on Manheim Steamroller Christmas tunes out of the way so that we're all on the same page about what I consider to be REAL christmas music. If it's not George Winston on the keys or Amy Grant singing about snow in Colorado or some strange synth interpretation of Carol of the Bells, it's just sub-par.

HOWEVER - we've got a radio station here in beautiful RAINY Seattle that plays nothing but Christmas tunes from Thanksgiving day right up to New Year's Day or something ridiculous. It's the "soft rock" adult contempo station you love to hate the rest of the year, but for this month of the year (due to work prohibiting online radio for bandwidth reasons during the work day) I listen to "Warm Christmas Favorites" all day, every day.

I can deal with the Carpenters sucking the joy right out of traditional Christmas carols, I can deal with the Beatles "Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime" because - uh, if you can't get away from 'em, embrace 'em - but do we really need FIVE - count 'em, FIVE - renditions of "Last Christmas," that venemous tune about giving some undeserving soul your heart for Christmas and having it handed to you the "very next day?" Thanks, George Michael for inflicting the unecessary first rendition on us (we'll forgive you, you were probably strung out and recorded it wearing nothing but Wellies and a Santa hat), but really - did Savage Garden, Jimmy Eat World, Hilary Duff AND (I cross myself even as I type this) the CHEETAH GIRLS really need to put their own nauseating spin on a song that ought not have been recorded, let alone inflicted upon our unsuspecting Christmas spirits at all in the first place???? Can't a girl just listen to her Bing Crosby and Perry Como in peace? Wilson Phillips, "Santa Baby" is this close to being a Christmas felony.

Yes, Mariah Carey completely DE-Christmas-ized "O Holy Night," and there's something creepy about N'Sync serenading me with some lame ballad that happens to contain the word "Christmas" somewhere in it's lyrics and therefore qualifies as a Holiday Song.

Give me Rosemary Clooney, give me Harry Connick, give me Dean Martin and Alvin & the Chipmunks, even Joan Baez ferheavenssake - sure, I can handle a healthy dose of 80's holiday cheese (hence the Manheim Steamroller that I can't decorate a tree without), but at least keep the roots in something "Christmas-ee."

Yes, that means YOU "American Idols." I'm onto your "Great Holiday Classics." Justin Guarini is probably enough to make me set my tree on fire.

welcome home, tiny bubbles


Alright, I promise not to have a hokey "champagne" reference in every post. Just this first one...or two...or until I run out of "subtle" ways to incorporate it into a title. We'll see...

And - as an explanation by way of example:

I'm terrible at exercise. I've yet to find a way to stay warm and dry AND have fun that manages to burn calories and get my heart rate up for any reasonable amount of time. Everytime I find something that seems like fun, I stick with it for a few weeks, then get bored and jump ship.

Same goes for haircolors. I was born with one of those "non" color haircolors - somewhere in between light brown and dark blonde and muddy auburn. So I change it every few months. I've been flaming red, been bleached blonde, been straight black...I just get tired of looking in the mirror and seeing the same thing, day after day...so why not change it up. Hair's not falling out yet, so it's got a little life left in it.

Do the same thing with clothes...shoes...favorite foods. Get tired of everything after a little while.

Stands to reason a blog would get the same way...

I got a little soft...too much rambling about wedding stuff, too few posts, cop-out picture slide shows...lazy stuff like that. I think I'd been staring at the same blog for awhile. I wanted to start fresh.

I know, I know, it's "trendy" right now to go mysteriously absent and then come back reinvented. Believe me: not trying to be trendy. Trying to find a batch of fresh inspiration, find my voice again, come up with something that motivated me.

I've got no major milestones like weddings and honeymoons looming ahead of me, so I'll have to rely on more abstract inspiration. But, who says that contentment can't be inspiring, too? Who says that happy and comfortable and at peace can't create an ongoing dialogue. Who says that I can't feel both sublime and creative at the same time?

SO - in honor of happiness, here's my new ode to suburban content - it's life on the up-and-up in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment. It's simple pleasures. It's being satisfied with where I'm at. It's creativity borne from the warm-fuzzies. It's going to bed with a smile on my face. It's champagne rising.