perhaps i found my cure.

so, with some of this relaxing-don't-wake-up-til-10-am-timeoff, i decided to organize all of my photos on the new mac, which became somewhat of a disaster. it actually kind of reminded me of work. i was like, trying to decide whether to organize my sometimes-frisky-sometimes-fugly photos by year or photo type when i realized digital archiving just isn't so good for my convenient tendency of forgetting those past good-times. hmm. and also. i was way hotter in 2006. :P 

in other news, i've been searching high and low for things to sell on craigslist &/or ebay. so far, i have one local listing for (as my subject line states) a 'retro' red shag rug. considering the 3 or whatever days it's been on the market, i've only received one offer that involved an alter ego smoking hookah in the middle of its fun-fun-funkiness. pass.

i will continue to search for other possible lightly-used treasures, but let me know if you pass by anything worthy. these small delights may serve more to the sad roast inside of my ribs than for any lame e-commerce.

why i did not go midnight sledding last night.

last night—in between sneaky grins and visions of sledding &/or snow angels—i cut my hand with a serrated knife. not on purpose, of course. i was actually cutting a tag off of my new snow pants. but i sliced my paw regardless.

four stitches later (my little physician-in-training patched me up) i am realizing my combat skills are sadly compromised. the gimpy "claw" just isn't capable of anything more sophisticated than a crocked thumbs up. 

sad times. 

so, in these one-to-two weeks of recovery, you will find a fantastic unicorn bandaide hugging my wound. 

yes, you can call me killah.

i hope the mad woman in stretchpants doesn't fall on the ice.

it's about 20-something degrees outside and we've got snow on the ground. winter looks great on seattle. 

as an update, on my first days off i:

planted two of my perky plants into their new homes. one of the plants i am particularly excited about is a christmas cactus. festive, yes. 

got a much-needed haircut.

bought a macbook. taxfree. woohoo!

got a full body massage. and if i wasn't feeling good enough after the grand purchase, i'm definitely feeling good now. (it's sad how excited i get when i buy things. but consumerism is so gratifying.)

made butterfinger popcorn balls and some other sweet treats. (ask mandi, i'm still not sure what we made. but it's a lot). 

last weekend we also picked out our tree. i named it bridgette, pearl, something spunky. we got a whole bunch of frisky ornaments. my most predictable choice was the t-rex. oh-so-cute. 

oh shoot, and i almost forgot to tell you i both read and watched twilight. shh. don't tell. 

on that note, i'm going to go back to doing normal-people-things. :P

2008, i'm over you.

it's december 16 and i'm sitting at work. this is the last time i'll sit on this non-ergo chair for the rest of the year. til january 5 to be exact. 

this year was like a very unappetizing meal—that you can't help but consume because you are forced—and after its been shoved down your throat, you have a nasty belly ache and your insides endure a so-not-worth it ride, like the gravitron. at the fair. that you used to love. 

oh, l-o-v-e.

and, to top my rebellious insides, i'm aging. yesterday i caught myself admitting that while i may look 12, in reality i am actually 42. or, like, 80. i joke that these three chunks of what-used-to-be platinum were actually my hair's way of fighting my anti-aging attempts. and when going into battle (that'd be my job), wear ass-kicking boots. high-yahhh. 

call it anxiety. call it depression. i'm over it. 

so. before you go this way, and i go that way, i wanted to tell you that i hope to let you in on a little more. soonsoon. once i have mental space to stretch. like, mental yoga poses. 

namaste. 

i have a confession.

so. for those of you who are blessed with my unusually sarcastic and half-glass-empty presence these days (okay, months), i've noticed something. it's sick and i don't really want to tell you--but i think i like you--so i'll let you in on my little somethin-somethin.

i think darkness is my fuel. sure sure, it's ugly and makes me not-so-nice of a person, but i've noticed it boosts my creativity. and i'm not talking about those garlic necklaces i've been stringing together, i'm talking about me. how i'll be pissed at my douche-of-a-supervisor and all of a sudden i am in the bathroom--thinking about the ugly tiles on the wall and how they must have been on sale when they were constructing the building--and i realize i should really be a cartoonist. how my snappy wit would be charming if accompanied by a nice doodle. stick figure. what-have-you.

so when i think about my game plan, that plan that has me, i worry about this. i don't want to lose my essence. i don't want to look over, and all of a sudden have my glass of starfruit juice be half-full.

perception is important to me. and i'm concerned about what that means for next year.

some things are just more important.

judge me, damnit.

so, i was talking to my friend cheryl from bay area the other day. and she mentioned how she's the minority down in her neck of the woods. (i grew up with white bread. lots and lots of white bread. don't get me wrong, there is absolutely nothing wrong with white bread. in fact, i prefer it.)

but anyway, she said when she goes to her local coffee shop (starbucks, is it?) they—the wheat/rye/sourdough-looking baristas across the counter—always spell her name with an 's.' as in [s]heryl rather than [c]heryl. 

cheryl, being a lovely thinker such as myself, came up with a theory that depending on what you look like or what the barista looks like (i'm talking bread type, people!), they will spell your name [s/cheryl] accordingly.

that said, i've decided to jump on the bandwagon and try out the s/cheryl challenge. i've been to tully's downtown by the workplace once so far, and damnit, they didn't ask for my name. but i'm excited. and cheryl says she is 75% sure they will spell my name with an 's.' 

i've asked a couple of other people and they all think they'll spell it with a 'c.' i figure it really depends 1) if you know a s/cheryl, and if you do, how they spell their name and 2) you got it, ethnicity. 

we'll see how seattle judges me. i personally think a sourdough-looking person such as myself would be spelled with a 'c.' 

perhaps you'd be interested in taking the s/cheryl challenge as well. 

oh, and, it is fair to note that when i tell those baristas my name is ty, they tooootally pause and judge me. i frequently hide the cup of my vanilla or peppermint latte with a hot-sleeve, as the "thai" or "tai" really offends me. :P 

i mean, come on, people. 

the rubbermaid on my floor is called revelations. i think that means something.

as usual, i'm sitting-dreaming-thinking, of you (collectively). and it seems through these bizarre and dark times of mine, i'm receiving messages in just about everything i do. films, dreams, songs. always a random fragment of a half forgotten memory that i once enjoyed, that doesn't really matter at all. all that matters is that i miss a lot of things/people/feelings. 

but, you know what, i'm done with feeling like shit about myself, or the things that i do or have done. and i'm over listening to those letters that form that tired word—s-o-r-r-y—spill across my tongue as i apologize once again for the something-or-other that happened. to you. to us. 

so, this morning, i woke up with this song in my head—it was your song—your ridiculous alter-ego song that really is no good at all. but it was in my head. and i was forced to pause and recount the odd menstrual dream i had as well, and thought about what the hell it all meant. 

i think it meant it's time to move on with these hard times. move on move onmoveonn. i've got exciting things happening to me. big great things that get wrapped up in small, sneaky boxes with bright crunchy purple ribbons. 

yeah, i'm feeling good today. my hair is not weighted, i'm wearing a warm scarf, and i'm looking forward to talking about the ballard hens and their condos tonight. so random, nothing really matters, let's just get on with our lives. our lovelylovelylives.

stuck.

i want to go back to the way that i felt on june 26 when i wrote this quote down and stuck it to my desk with double-sided tape.

but instead, it's november, my least favorite month. and i'm still thinking about the meaningful look i should have given you—in the kitchen, when i opened the freezer—looking for the waffles i didn't have.

i think about you. every day. in some small way.
i write to you. in my sleep. in between rem cycles and lucid dreams.
i cling to you. when i'm feeling vulnerable. and depressed.
i play with you. at the end of your string. on the rug by my couch.
i laugh with you. when there is simply nothing better, or more amusing, than that moment's something-or-other.
i sleep with you. in the day. and at night. and whenever else we feel like it.
i sit with you. across the table. holding a book and a latte.
so i'll wait for you. to come back to me. and remind me who i am.

meet me on the other side.

the cat woman.

this morning, last night and at least the past four years of my human existence, i've been worried about the very likely possibility that i will become the dreaded cat woman.

oh, you know. the cat woman, who takes up the whole aisle in the grocery store with her very full and very embarrassing cart of cat litter.

the cat woman, who thinks her silent sidekick is secretly learning how to be obedient by responding to commands such as "breakfast" and "bedtime."

the cat woman who refuses to get rid of any fleece blankets, in the event that her choosey friend decides she needs a new (but similar) source of comfort.

but, after a brief moment of terrifying images of stretch pants and overpriced kitty condos, i remind myself that there is still time. i can still snap out of this. i am not destined to high five the small light-orange paw of my four-legged friend for the rest of my life.

at the same time, i quite enjoy all of my quirky photos of pickles in various settings of luxury and play. i really do find it amusing that she is learning tricks and calms to the sound of my voice when i tell her to "relaxi taxi." and i live for the comfort of her reassuring little motor that hums in my ear, every night, at "bedtime."

at this moment, i truly see nothing wrong with being a (cat)lover.

so you can have your small brand named chihuahua bags and truffle-shaped dog treats. and i'll have my pickle.

brilliant is my favorite word.

holy mother of pearl.

i'm chillin here at work and wanted to share some stuff that would deserve an exclamation point if they were to be used in a sentence.

oy. natalie dee comics are so awesome. and i don't think pickles appreciates that this is my new desktop background. 

today's best headline goes to the huffington post.

these wall decals are so much better than actually owning a bird. [um. the noise. the poop.] 

lastly—and most importantly—i'm thinking of taking this word/art class. kind of brilliant. and hey, art school is hot. 

:P

things that could save my life.

this has been a less than perfect year for me. i know this, and by the look on your face, you know this. but, if, deep down, the jolly red man thinks i am deserving of a consumerist pat-on-the-back, these are the items that i hope to hold near and dear to my heart at the end of this holiday season.

two words: crochet cactus.

the mere thought of these accompanying the chia-cat on my windowsill make my heart do cartwheels. and my heart is no gymnast.

a subscription to bust magazine.

it's kind of odd that i don't subscribe already. so it's time.

the new david sedaris book.

because he makes any holiday season a little more bearable. period.

lastly, and most importantly--before you say i'm greedy &/or undeserving--all i really want is this.

next year, i promise i'll be better. and nicer. and i'll share pickles with you. for at least 30 minutes. (she is my bff afterall).

and i will look forward for it. i will look forward for you.

i do love irony.

it seems as if my obama buzz has faded. that's not to say i'm not still dancing inside because our world--my world--is going to change, but i suppose the awe factor has internalized. or perhaps it's taking a little cat nap.

i've been spending a lot of time in other places. mental spaces.
and this sad-sad-sadness has washed away my passion. and spunk--if it ever truly existed.

you know me. at least, i hope you do, deep down.
i am not sitting around knitting a scarf with this lovely, dark and mysteriously forbidden wool. in fact, i despise this wool and what it has done to me.
please.
please.
please.
the irony of all of this--this so-called life that i refuse to admit is mine--is that i just want to be happy. at the end of the day. that's it.

let's forget about tomorrow.
and i'll forget about my scarf.

big hearts for obama.

my kind of celebration. fireworks.

;)

i'm in my party outfit. clearly.
president obama, this is for you.

pickles hearts obama.

barack the vote!

today it's cold and rainy in the 43rd district.
blue blue blue.
at 7:30 a.m. i voted. it was amazing, liberating and exciting all at once.
i have such a crush on obama.

soul.meets.body.

this is all i can think of—and all i want to think of—for a very long time. i mean, for at least two years.

 

i want to live where soul meets body

and let the sun wrap its arms around me

and bathe my skin in water cool and cleansing

and feel, feel what its like to be new.

 

i'm not ready for the next set of lyrics. so we'll just stay right here.

 

i started this super fantastic and exciting new path (insert blog here). and craigslist was supposed to click 'submit' and send my hopes and dreams far far away. and now i'm realizing i've lost all of those dreams somewhere in-between. perhaps it's because my mouse is broken. or, you know, what were those dreams, anyway. but i'm still clinging to those other dreams—the ones that don't count but just stick in my head like when someone gives you a bad look. the one i remember most was last night when i got my tongue pierced. i was asking the sweaty, dirty piercer dude where he'd stick me with this perverse metal, and then he did it. he plucked me and it didn't hurt as bad as i thought it would—though i still made those oh-my-gosh-i've-just-been-pierced noises—but i did it. 

and then i woke up and thought it was so predictable and terrible and why did my mouth now represent a cliche. i checked my tongue later-on and it was still lovely, and naked. 

but i've lost those passions that i used to hold so near and dear. and i'm still cursing those who don't have what i don't have. so hyp-hyp-hyp-hypocritical.

 

damnit.

 

well. i'm sitting and waiting and ready for the lightning. not the bad kind, but the good kind this time. and i'm asking for it to please strike me on the left side—because that's where my heart resides—and jump start my spirit. 

i'll be here. with the same shitty look on my face. waiting.

dramatic pause.

my stomach is infested with grasshoppers these days. at any moment, they're either irritable or dancing. i haven't decided which one yet. yeah, you guessed it. it's work related. gross. i hope that doesn't mean i'm one of those people. so, yes. i've started this blog in attempts to take advantage of those amazing spare moments my brain decides to take a mental smoke break. you know, start something new. fresh. kind of like a nice head of lettuce.

oh, buses.

so. it was 4:35 and i was waiting for the bus down on sketchville 3rd and pike. to tell you the truth, i hate waiting at this stop. i find myself daily, dodging eye contact with those boozy men in tattered leather jackets and trying not to get my robot tote bag dirty when the messy-haired coke addicts obliviously storm past me. avoiding this repeated scene is my daily battle, so i jumped at the chance to catch bus 11 when it rolled up. to my surprise, the bus was stuffy-crowded and i was forced in the back. it's fall now, and in seattle that means 50s and damp. oh, seattle. at least i could breathe. so, i was on this bus, slightly irritated that this woman had her monstrous duffel bag resting on my side. then i started to think about the movie i watched the night before--match point--and tried to detect if i could feel any sharp objects in her bag (oh, you know, such as a rifle). after deciding my side was likely safe of any sudden shots to the appendix, the bus came to a halt and i was freed from my paranoia, quickly taking the nearest open seat. just as i began to relax and thank the rifle for not firing, i looked around and realized i was accompanied by a much different crowd on this bus. uhh, what is this bus 11, anyway? shit-shit-shit. we stopped at a red light and my stomach was doing somersaults. i began to worry we would take a dramatic turn and enter the freeway express lanes--you know, where people like me go to die. damnit. leaving work early just became counterproductive. one.two.three.four.five. i stopped holding my breath when i realized the mystery bus was still headed toward the hill, away from fast speeds and concrete evil.