Friday, May 28, 2010

Are You Ready!?!

This weekend a dear, dear friend of mine is coming to town: Folklife! Folklife has a significant role in my life because its craziness first revealed itself on my initial visit to Seattle; when I first fell in love with this place.

Don't know what Folklife is? Don't know what you're missing! Here, I'll fill ya in:

"Northwest Folklife creates opportunities for individuals and communities of the Pacific Northwest to celebrate, share and sustain the vitality of folk, ethnic and traditional arts for present and future generations."

It's basically a HUGE music festival at the Seattle Center, every year on Memorial Day weekend, and while most will be travelling eastward for the bigger more well known Sasquatch music festival at the Gorge, I will be happily staying here, enjoying my Folklife.

It definitely brings out the characters of Seattle. The hippies, the vegans, the artists, the naturalists ect. It is something not to be missed! In addition to the MANY music venues/shows ranging from African dance to Blue grass, there are tons of unique vendors, selling hemp bags, homemade ceramics and vegan food alternatives.

One of the many reasons I chose to move to the Evergreen State is because of the diverse cultures it offered compared to my home, Orange County. I LOVE the acceptance up here - the come as you are mentality - which is very different than the clone-like mentality I grew up with. It's alot easier to feel like you are truly accepted for being who you are, not what you have or wear. And for a people pleaser like me, the constant nerves over what others think of me are finally calmed. In Seattle, I find peace, a freedom from worrying about those Jones'.

Folklife celebrates our individual uniquenesses and encourages the masses to express themselves no matter how "different" they may be. It encourages us to let go of worrying about what others think because blending into social acceptance is definitely not what it's all about. I'm not saying man-kilts and dreadlocks are what it's all about either, but Folklife demonstrates there's room for us all in Seattle, room for us all in this world. Thanks for the reminder, Folklife!

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

What If The Beatles Were Irish?

It would probably look something like this...


I'm Obsessed.

Listen to "The Way You Play"

My life will never be the same <3 <3 <3

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

This Makes Me So Happy!

Farwell, Dark One.

Today, we mourn a loss. She was striking and mysterious; her blue eyes burned underneath her darker shaded shroud. She was most at home on cloudy days when the dimmer lights revealed her subtle crimson hues. Her chocolate flavored dreams, no doubt, were influenced by that soft, silky cap that laid upon her head and rested upon her pillow. She politely, effortlessly told visitors “beware” and “approach with caution,” inviting a quiet existence in solitude. But at night she showed depth, and a questionable wickedness that would tempt even the most innocent of suitors. We will always remember her sweet indulgence for coffees and chocolates, but will always admire her eagerness still to play around in the dirt and mud. She was extravagant, she was adventurous, she was the Dark One. And she will be missed.

But today, however, we also celebrate the start of something new. Today we will open our eyes and see a new, glimmery sunshine color. Only her smile will exceed the brightness of that halo which will now circumference her head. Her freckles will pop and dance and reclaim center stage as the darkest element of her brow. She will once again radiate favor and invite. She will smell of vanilla and will remind you of long summer days spent in the hot sun. You’ll hear the Beach Boys when she walks by. Just the flash of a smile and the boys will want to believe she’s flirting. She’s bubbly, but not ditzy; she’s obvious, but still fascinating. She’s blonde. Again.

Monday, May 24, 2010


Unfortunately, I have a case of the Mondays. But instead of moping, I'm reflecting on all the fun I had this weekend!

My friend Kyle from back in Orange County came up and we drove ALL the way down to Portland, hoping to see some of its notorious weirdness. We grabbed donuts at the famous Voodoo doughnuts (as seen on food network) - the line wrapped around the building! We waited for our dirty dozen for about an hour! And Kyle got yelled at by a boy with jet black hair, pants two sizes too small, in white sunglasses and shiny shoes. Kyle had cleared his throat and the flaboyant boy yelled: "cover your mouth BITCH" complete with the hip sway and the side to side arm movement. We turned around and he said "That's right, cover. your. mouth." And this time, he snapped. We couldn't believe it we just laughed.

Some guy mooched a couple bucks out of Kyle. Gave him the ol' "my car just ran out of gas..." routine. Then he quickly explained that the odd smell we had probably picked up on was only pachouli oil... riiiight...

I'm sorry to say, the town was pretty dirty and rundown. But the doughnuts were awesome!

I also had the chance to go hiking: Serene Lake and Bridal Veil Falls, WA

Friday, May 21, 2010

Must Watch!

Happy Friday!

Cup of Who???

As you know, I live in Seattle. And as you may have heard, we like our coffee. We like our coffee, a lot. Arguably the most popular coffee conglomerate, Starbucks Coffee Company, started here. According to the 2006 US census, we’re the most educated city in the country, boasting a population in which more than half have a bachelor’s degree or higher. That’s a lot of study sessions at the (always full!) local coffee house. According to a Central Connecticut State University survey, Seattle is the most literate city in the country: we read the most books, offer the most publications, and have the most used public library in the country. And you know what goes best with a good book? A cup of Joe.

A cup of who? Who the heck is Joe and when did we decide to give our beloved, dark nectar a nickname as generic and common as “Joe”?

There are many theories as to where this moniker originated. One of which, is that the government is to blame (of course, a usual suspect). In 1914, the secretary of the US Navy, Admiral Joseph ‘Joe’ Daniels, abolished wine provisions. Since the strongest drink now available on deck was coffee, shipmates commonly referred to it as “a cup of Joe” after the admiral himself.

During World War II, GIs’ were offered as much coffee as they wanted. Perhaps this was where "Joe" was born. One theory says since the drink was so readily available, all the men began calling it “a cup of Joe” because it was everyman’s drink. A drink every regular Joe could get his hands on.

It also may have acquired the name “Joe” after the owner of the popular New York coffee company, Joe Martinson, of the famed Martinson’s Coffee. "Cup of coffee" and "cup of Joe" were used interchangeably, much like some of us today mask our addiction to coffee by reffering to it as an addiction to Starbucks. What, does the green mermaid make you feel all tingly? You can't live without the "made from recycled material" cup sleeves? You don't fool me.

The strongest most accepted theory is unfortunately also the least interesting. It seems the mysterious “Joe” may just be a byproduct of a corruption of two other nicknames, Java and Jamoke. Apparently, we’re just too damn lazy to ask for a cup of Jamoke so we shorten the slang to the one syllable “Joe.” Idk, but I may detect a trend in lazy speech patterns but w/e. It’s nbd. TTYL!

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Who you gonna call?

PLEASE do yourself a favor and watch this today.

P.S. Tomorrow is FRIDAY! Almost there!

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Bus Chronicles 3: "Hit" on by the Homeless

I load the bus as usual: a nervous scramble to find the first available seat while trying to avoid locking stares with the various eyes looking in my direction. I find a seat at the front of the bus, cross my legs, get out my book and begin to read. I hear an “excuse me, excuse me…” but I pay no attention to it. There are so many people on this bus and I don’t recognize the voice so he can't possibly be talking to me…

“Hello there – hey you!” Ok, well now I glance. And sure enough a dirty, bald, obviously homeless man with missing teeth is staring right at me. He smiles his barren grin. I give him a polite yet uninviting smile – the kind where you smile with just your lips, not revealing your complete set of pearly whites – and quickly get back to my book.

“You’re awfully pretty…”

“Thanks.” I reply, not looking up from my book.

He obviously isn't getting the attention he wants. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him scoot to a seat closer to me. Now, I’m getting nervous. Please just leave me alone!

And then he starts reaching toward me. And before I know it, he’s tapping on my foot. His big, long finger nailed, greasy, muddy hand is tap tap tapping my foot! I try to ignore it. But he just keeps tapping, harder now. I finally look up at him. He winks at me and says “I like your shoes.”

I close my book and get off at the next stop. Thanks, but I’d rather walk.

(On a side note, this isn't the first time I've been approached by the homeless. On a separate occasion I was asked "Hey, ever made out with a homeless guy before?" and generously given the opportunity to do so. I graciously declined.)

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

I Am Blessed

“Blessed are the forgetful;
for they get the better even of their blunders.”
– Friedrich Nietzsche

I’m a little bit forgetful. It’s true.

I can never remember what I need when I get to the grocery store, so I always make a list, but then I forget to bring that list.

I never know where my keys are.

I don't dare silence my phone because I'll never be able to call and find it again.

Where did I park my car?

What movie is that from?

What did I do with those earrings?

Did I lock the door?

Who sings this?

All things lost, slipping through my mind, everyday.

My family has been fortunate enough to be able to take many trips together. Most of them are road trips (the best kind of trips, in my opinion) and they all start out the same: we groggily climb out of our beds at 4 in the morning, lug our packed suitcases to the top of the stairs and find a cozy spot in the car to fall right back to sleep in. My father - being the charitable man he is - takes the suitcases down the stairs for us and loads them into the car and off we drive until 7am when we wake up whinning for a breakfast stop at Starbucks. This is how it always was; this is how it always is and will be.

Well, except for that one time.

This time we were flying (since you can't drive to Hawaii, but that's another story) but our flight left from LAX early enough so we woke up in the same nature, pulling our suitcases to the top of the stairs. I - being the charitable daughter I am - offered to help my father take all the suitcases out and load them up (we were plus 3 this time, my paternal grandparents and current boyfriend were joining us). We loaded all suitcases and successfully made it to the airport right on time.

Crawling out of the car, Mom instructs us all to grab our suitcases. I search in the pile and don't recognize which is mine. All bags in the pile are slowly collected until the pile disappears and I still do not have my suitcase. "Where's mine?" I ask - and everyone shrugs until mom says "Oh Kelsey, did you forget your luggage?"

Yes, yes I did.

Apparently we were all supposed to leave are bags at the BOTTOM of the stairs this time. When we returned, there my lonely luggage sat - in the usual drop off spot - at the top of the stairs.

Luckily, I have 3 sisters and we all wear pretty much the same size. Mom bought me a bathing suit and that really would have sufficed: in Hawaii you pretty much LIVE in your swimsuit. But it gave us a good laugh and a story I will never forget. Well, I might. But my family would never let me.

“May you never forget what is worth remembering, nor ever remember what is best forgotten.” – Irish Blessing.

Monday, May 17, 2010

I Wonder If He Knows...

There have been a number of men in my life, most have come as quickly as they have gone and I’m no worse for wear, but there’s always that one. The one that handles your heart just right so that before your know it you’re falling into a pit of unthinking love: like falling through Alice’s dark rabbit hole except instead of dirt walls, empty rocking chairs and upside-down trundle beds there are floating pink and purple hearts, bright lights and fluffy clouds covered with rose petals. But despite these obvious differences, the inevitable landing at the bottom comes just as hard.

It’s been years since Doomsday (aka the day we broke up) but he is still in my thoughts all the time. Worse, he’s still on my heart. We haven’t spoken. We aren’t friends on facebook. I don’t go the places I know he frequents. We live 1,200 miles away from one another! But as hard as I try to erase his place in my life, it just doesn’t seem to be happening. He happened – we happened – and there’s nothing I can do to change that or forget it.

Now I’m not some poor schmuck who goes about her day all “woe is me”; I am “over him” per se – I’ve dated other people since ect – but for some reason he just touched me like no one else had done before and like no one has been able to do since. Simone de Beauvoir, a French existentialist and feminist who attempted to define the essence of being a woman, writes “The woman gives herself, the man adds to himself by taking her” (Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex, 659). I think this is why women have such a hard time of getting over a relationship. We've already had plenty of practice of letting go - of giving of ourselves- it’s the “taking" that's tricky and uncomfortable for us (the "taking" that he's conveniently so good at). But once he's gone, what do we do now? It's a bit like the empty nest mentality: who do we give to now? Women love wholeheartedly, unabashedly; it’s in our very nature to be nurturing and self sacrificing so when we give so much of ourselves to the lucky men who have stolen our hearts, we don’t know what to do with that energy, that desire to give, once they are gone. It's as if breaking up goes against our inherint nature, like abandoning those once under our care. It's why I can't stop the tender emotions conjured when I think of him. Why I would still desire to help him in any way shape or form if I could.

Penny Widmore (from LOST) writes to her love, Desmond, while he is presumably away in prison for dishonorable discharge from the Scottish Army. She writes to encourage him, saying: “Please don’t give up Des. Because all we really need to survive is one person who truly loves us. And you have her.”

I know he didn’t have much self confidence. I know he didn’t have much self control. I know he didn’t have a good family. I know he didn’t have good, supportive friends. I know he was insecure and confused with life. I know he longed for acceptance and approval. I know he’s since lost his job. I know he’s since lost a lot of his friends. I know he’s since let people he looked up to down. I know he blew a second chance. I know he has to be in a rough place right now. And I think about it all the time. And I wonder if he knows what Penny said: “all you really need to survive is one person who truly loves you.” And I wonder if he knows he (still) has her.

Friday, May 14, 2010

Why Didn't I Think of That!?! - Episode 1

This week Starbuck’s is having Happy Hours: Every day from 3-5 all frappuccinos are half off! Aka – Get over there before the 16th! Needless to say this is the only time I can afford the usually expensive drink. But what’s a girl to do after the 16th? Answer: Learn how to make her own iced coffee beverage! Here’s how:

Cold Drip Iced Coffee

To Make: Soak 3/4lb of coarsely ground coffee in 8 cups of cold water overnight in the refrigerator.
Strain coffee into your favorite serving pitcher and – voila! You should have 24 cup size servings of this chilled brew.

To Serve: Pour one part* coffee, two parts milk or water. Add ice. Stir. If you enjoy an added flavor in your coffee, try getting some of those flavored syrups and put a little in the cup first, before you add anything else. If you prefer a frappuccino to an iced coffee, simply follow said directions and pop it in the blender for about 30 seconds.

*For coffee fiends like myself, two parts coffee, one part milk.

I love my hot cup of joe in the morning, but it’s nothing compared to enjoying this nice chilled beverage in the afternoon sun on my rooftop deck overlooking the Sound. Gather a group of friends together and share some good conversation and a pitcher of this delectable brew!

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Bus Chronicles 2: White Woman's Workout Worries

First, I watched this

And - hint - you should take a peek too, in order to enjoy this blog entry in all its glory.

I know, it’s pretty horrible. I stumbled on it, I swear.

Watching that little jewel was the last thing I did before leaving work one afternoon and heading for the bus.

I always hate getting on the bus – it’s so awkward. You climb on and suddenly it feels like you’re on stage. Everyone is staring at you while you’re searching, picking out which seat to sit in. I always sit as quickly as I can; I scan for the first seat available then, as I make my way towards a seat, I quickly realize the obscenely large handbag I carry throws my whole body off balance, causing me to clamor gracelessly to said seat which – inevitably – leads to more staring (which makes me more uncomfortable and more shaky. It’s a vicious, vicious cycle.) I don’t even TRY to wear heels anymore because I consistently lose my balance due to the jerk-driving of the bus drivers and always end up landing in someone’s lap.

So, just so you understand, loading onto the bus is a very stressful situation. A girl needs to get herself together once she finds her seat, gather her belongings, collect her thoughts etc. Well on this particular day, thoughts collected, I was heave-hoeing my purse onto my lap when I locked eyes with a black man sitting across from me. I was in the midst of pulling my purse closer to my chest, merely collecting my things, but I suddenly thought (influenced by the video, no doubt): “(Gasp) What if he thinks I’m pulling my purse towards me because of him? Has he seen the White Woman’s Workout video? Does he think that I think he’s going to try and snatch my purse? Chase me down the street?” I was horrified. I wasn’t afraid of black people. My roommate is black. My best friend back home is black. I was not racial profiling! And I couldn’t imagine how it would feel to be racial profiled. I didn’t want to think – not for one second – that I would cause someone to feel the embarrassment of racial profiling. I was honestly very worried and very embarrassed. So much so, I seriously considered explaining myself all the way home. Give him a smile and an anxious “That’s what I get for lugging a purse so large” (With a possible elbow nudge, maybe a wink-wink?)

Well, it was an intense 5min bus ride home. I was at a war within myself. I had the HUGE urge to say something – ANYTHING – to reassure this man that I did not think he was going to take my purse. But in the end, I figured telling him I didn’t think he was going to take my purse would have adverse effects; would probably convince him that the thought had crossed my mind, and would only make him more aware that I was aware that he was black and the assumptions behind his blackness. In the end, when the bus came to my stop, I simply gathered my belongings and once again clamored off the bus in my usual awkward style.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

A Lesson Learned

I had heard stories. It’s a normal complaint of puppy parents. But Gamble would never – has never – done that. Well THAT finally happened last night.

She’d been flirting with the idea, I could tell. She’d eye it, slowly walk up to it, sniff around it – “No!” – I’d interrupt and she’d quickly leave it alone. But she’d always come back. You know what they say about curiosity and well… dogs.

Last night, while watching LOST I heard a strange, repetitive sound coming from down the hall. I listened closely, trying to decipher what I was hearing. Was she chewing on something? No, not that. It was more of swallowing sound. Did she find something to eat? No, no. More like a lapping…

Oh no…

I quietly made my way down the hall. Yep. There she was there in all her glory, face buried so deep behind the porcelain walls she looked like a headless pup. Nothing like a cool drink of water from the toilet, eh?

Apparently, I need to fill her water bowl more often. Apparently, she needs easier access to it. Hopefully, this isn’t one of those bad habits that once they start are practically impossible to break…

Take heed, puppy parentals. This too could happen to least expecting you!

(Please note, this is NOT my dog. Although this is pretty much what she looked like. She's too short to put her paws up and her head barely fits over the toilet rim (a reason why I (erroneously) thought she would never be capable of sipping from this saucer). I refuse to pose her for a picture for Mommy's blog because I'm trying to discourage this behavior at all costs...)

Tuesday, May 11, 2010


I tried a new church this weekend. It’s a pretty far drive, but I made the trek because the pastor loves to surf. It says so in his bio. And he’s totally from my hood too: went to school at Pepperdine, used to be an associate pastor at Saddleback (Megachurch in the OC) – I mean, really, a fellow Californian – what’s not to like? (Unless you’re this guy.)

I’m glad to say I wasn’t let down. It was perfect timing to check out a new church as Mike Howerton, Lead Pastor at Overlake Christian Church, was just beginning his new series: The Game Of Life. In the next few weeks, Mike will go through 4 stages of life and show that God has certain lessons we are supposed to learn in each of these 4 stages. This week’s stage was the Exploring years, our first years, say from birth to early teens. He went over a few lessons we should learn, but I got stuck at Delight. It was something I needed to hear, and it is something you don’t hear (unfortunately) very often. He spoke of how God delights at our very existence. How it is so SO important that we recognize this at an early stage in life and continue to acknowledge it in our later years.

So often, it seems that we get stuck on the scolding. The what we’ve done wrong, and the reasons we should feel shameful in the eyes of God. We do this to ourselves and unfortunately we do this to one another. I can’t tell you how many, many times I felt evil, sinful, dirty because of what I’ve been told from people I look up to spiritually paired with the pressures I put on myself for perfection. I can’t help but feeling like I’ve let people I love down, like I’ve let the Holy Father down. And this is a dangerous place to be in folks, because it’s when I feel like this – when I need God the most – that I cower away from His presence: too embarrassed to confide in a Christian friend, too embarrassed to pray, too embarrassed to even utter His name.

But wait – God delights in you!

God doesn’t look at you and focus on the imperfections; sure, he’s aware of them and yearns for your trust and to follow him, but regardless – He DELIGHTS in you.

Mike gave the example of his daughter, Alexis, 10 years old, in the back of his car she says to him: “Daddy, I can read your mind. I know what you’re thinking.”

He looks in the rear view mirror, obliges her “Ok, what I’m I thinking…”

“You’re thinking: there’s no way my daughter knows what I’m thinking, but man is she beautiful.”

She knows her father delights in her.

I’m sure there have been many times where God has looked at me and said: “There’s no WAY my daughter knows what I’m thinking. What is she doing with her life?” And I’m well aware of that, but this Sunday, I was reminded that when God looks at me, he thinks “But man is she beautiful.”

Seattle Freeze: Thawed?

In Seattle, there is an anti-social phenomenon known only as the “Seattle Freeze:” a local public consensus that states the city of Seattle and/or its outlying suburbs are generally not friendly, introverted, clickish or strictly divided through its social classes, thus making the city/area difficult to make social connections on all levels ( There are many theories as to why this exists: from Seattle containing more introverts per capita than any other major city, giving it a more introverted culture, to a sort of mild xenophobia, and even perhaps the dreary cloudy skies may have something to do with darkening the moods of the city’s inhabitants, keeping us indoors and to ourselves. But whatever the case, the Freeze usually looks a little something like this:

You’re talking to a co-worker/someone at a party/fill in the blank. In any other town, this person looks like someone with whom you might be friends. Potential friend asks, “So what are you up to this weekend?”

You answer, “Oh, I don’t have any plans yet. I just moved to Seattle and don’t really know anybody . . .”

Friend-to-be smiles and, for a brief, shining moment you think to yourself: Finally, someone is going to ask me to do something. Invite me to a party. Happy hour. Brunch with the girls. It’ll be just like “Sex and the City.” She’ll be Charlotte; you’ll be Carrie!

You feel a chill coming on. Still smiling, Friend-Not-On-Your-Life politely excuses herself, “Well, have a nice weekend then.” (Taken from an article in the Seattle Times. Find more information here:

Unfortunately, I can attest this is a common scene. I’ve been in Seattle for 3 years now, and have yet to feel the secure bonds of friendship with a born and raised Seattleite. I’ve swapped numbers with a many of them, only to realize they never expected to really hear from me and they certainly never intended to make a call themselves. They’re polite, but nobody really wants to let you in or really develop a relationship.

Well all that’s usually the case. But this weekend, as the sun shined strong and the temperature almost reached 70 I think the Freeze may have thawed a bit. I met some of my neighbors, swapped numbers, and actually got a text the next day! Just to say hello! And on Saturday, I took a walk down to Pike’s and a stranger, eating lunch on the patio, offered me a high-five and invited me to sit down with them for a beer. That afternoon at home, my roommate convinced me to go on a pub crawl for a local Relay for Life group. We ran into some “friends” we had met in the past and had a blast with them while complete strangers chimed in cheers for my song picks and joined in on the singing (But honestly, who can NOT sing along when Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” comes on?) There were still a few let downs: I have a friend, we were friends before I moved out here, and he refused to come hang out (ehhemEvanehhem), but I chalk it up to he must just be busy with other things – no way could his Seattle Freeze have survived the sunshine, happiness, and humor I experienced this weekend. No way. Bring on the Summer!

Bus Chronicles 1: "Seattle People Don't Like Californians"

I’m at the front of the bus. The man sitting next to me is having (a very loud) conversation with the bus driver about all the places he’s been and his opinions of those places. He doesn’t like Philly. Says you can’t speak your mind out there unless you carry a baseball bat and a pit bull you haven’t fed in a few days. Remind me never to go to Philly. He doesn’t like all the “crazy mormons” in Salt Lake City although it’s relatively safe compared to Philly (ya think?) He enjoyed his time in Atlanta, but his favorite spot is a little town in Connecticut. I don’t remember the name of the town, but apparently you won’t meet a nicer group of folks than in that little beach town. He begins to talk about how Seattle’s agreeable too. He’s not as enthusiastic about it as he is about Connecticut town, but he seems to like it until he’s interrupted mid sentence: “Seattle used to be nice bout 25 years ago.” The gruff, raspy voice came from the man sitting across from him, “used to be nice before all those Californians started coming up here.” I swear he looked right at me.

I mustered up some confidence: “Well, what’s wrong with California?”

The man sitting next to me starts telling me about how he used to live in this awful place called Long Beach (I swear the guy has lived everywhere) and how it was a pretty violent and drug ridden neighborhood, but I mention I’m from Huntington Beach and I think it’s a pretty nice place. “Oh ya, ya I’ve been there. Huntington is a nice area,” he agrees and we’re interrupted again by the dark, sinister voice “Ya, but all you come up here to take Seattle’s jobs; you’re taking our money.”

“Um, I came up here for school and because I think Seattle is so beautiful,” I argue. “And I work for a non-profit, so I’m definitely not up here for the money.” Ha, take that. I’m a little offended now. He’s made this personal.

“Well good for you, but the majority take the money out of California and come up here for the jobs. There are no jobs in California.”

Crap, this is my stop. I should have told the guy that I’ve met MANY more people that are transplants to the Seattle area than I’ve met natural born Seattleites. And they weren’t from California either. Based on his logic, he should consider the whole country is trying to take over Seattle. I should have told him that duh people move to where the jobs are – our society is built on capitalism. Competition is a good thing; it creates an economy where we’re constantly striving to do better. Without competition we’d all get complacent. Would he NOT move from Seattle if all the jobs were in California? If he would, he’d be a hypocrite; if he wouldn’t he’d be an idiot. I should have said all this to him, but then I’d have left the bus screaming, pulling my hair out, looking like a raving lunatic. Instead, I just stood smiled at the bus driver when I gave him my usual “thanks” and got off the bus only wondering what could have been…


WARNING: you will not completely grasp the horror of this nightmare if you haven’t followed the television show LOST.

So I woke up on a ranch in a clearing surrounded by brush fields and eucalyptus trees. The clearing was very large, like the size of a residential street with space for homes and yards too. There was only one home that was already being built and almost completed. I walked into the house. Ben Linus was in the front room – a dining room – at a table covered with papers. He looked up and started paper clipping a stack together and said, “Oh hello there, so glad you could join us.”

He proceeded to tell me I was called there for a specific purpose: household chores. I was to help build the house, doing little odds and ends jobs that still needed to be completed. I quickly found there were others. Not other others, but others like me, brought to this clearing for maintenance.

Some of us were a little argumentative at first, wondering how we got to this place and demanding to be allowed to go home. A few attempted to leave the clearing and were immediately shot by people hiding in the eucalyptus trees. You couldn’t see them, only heard the shots and then man down, right there next to ya.

This caused a panic. Would we ever get home? We all started trying to find a place to hide on the compound, being picked off one by one by the guns hiding in the trees. One girl just stood there, dirty tear-streaked cheeks, wailing. Zip! I watched her white tank turn red beneath her left breast.

Soon enough, everyone had been killed except for me and two other men. We had found a shack equipped with a phone. It wouldn’t let us dial 911, but we got through to a news crew. We frantically told them we needed help, that people were being killed and held hostage. They said they were on their way with the camera crew, coming for the story, coming to rescue us.

We made our way back to the house to see if we could find more survivors, but Ben met us in the kitchen. “What have you done?” He asked. He knew we had made the call somehow. Then he slowly turned his head to look and the window, saw the crew coming up the hill and said “I’m sorry I’m going to have to do this” and he shot the two men and tried to shoot me. But I ran outside and the camera crew was just a few feet away. By this time I’m bloody, sweaty, dirty, and in a panic I run up to them and start screaming for help, but they just quickly turn the camera on, filming my calls of distress. A man – the director? – shouting to the camera man “Turn it on! Are you getting this?”

“You are filming this…” Some monotone, expectant voice questioned from behind me. Ben.

“Yes, sir. All of it.” Said the man holding the camera.

I should have known the crew worked for Ben. It all sank in and I turned around: “You’re not going anywhere,” He said.

Why I Want to Date a Cowboy (As demonstrated by various country songs)

They’re curious about commitment! Kenny Chesney actually WANTS to know how “forever feels.” Instead of the usual avoidance of it.

They love Sundays because of church; Craig Morgan can even sing every verse of Amanzing Grace.

They always “recognize when they see Old Glory flying, there’s lot of men dead so we can sleep in peace at night.” Really Toby Keith? Respect and gratitute mixed with a lil partiotism? Mmm…yummy.

They never complain about you taking too long to get ready. Brad Paisley devoted an entire song to how he’ll gladly wait on his woman. Taaaaake your time ladies, cowboy’s don’t mind!

Jason Aldean will take me for a ride on his big green tractor.

Have you BEEN to a Craig Morgan redneck yacht club party?!?

They do EVERYTHING heart and soul. Didn’t you know? That’s how country boys roll according to Billy Currington. Oh and they’ll give you the shirt off their back if you ask and you should definitely ask…

Hair in a mess? Old T-shirt and jeans? Beautiful without a trace of makeup on? Barefoot in the kitchen singing my favorite song? Oh yes, Joe Nichols, I can give ya that girl!

They’ll put ya in your place, but only if they have to. Eric Church doesn’t like to fight, but he ain’t afraid to bleed… don’t make him do it!

They’re not afraid to risk a lil trouble for a lil fun. Dierks Bently stirred up some dirt when he snuck a girl outta her house while her daddy peppered his tailgate! All for that sake of that little white tank top…

They work hard; they play hard. They work work work, all week till the job gets done, but Billy knows how to relax: weekend bar-b-ques and a few cold ones. Where do I sign up?

Lastly, have you seen cowboys holding babies? I don’t think it could get more sickeningly sexy/adorable…

Trouble on the Poop Deck

When my lab mix, Gamble, was just a pup she couldn’t hold her potty all night. I’d have to walk down the three flights of stairs and out my apartment door two, three times a night so she could do her business before we could get back to bed. One night, I was particularly exhausted and it was raining so I just didn’t feel like taking her all the way out. I knew we had some large planters on our deck, so I decided I’d just let her do her business there and pick it up in the morning. (Before you judge, I was exhausted and my brain was not in superior working condition. It may not have been the best idea but hey, I was desperate to get back to bed as quickly as possible.)

She must have REALLY needed to go that night because she bolted out of the house and through a small opening onto our neighbor’s deck. As I peered helplessly over the fence, I watched in horror as she popped a squat and let it rip. I crossed my fingers and prayed the neighbors weren’t up. As quickly as she took off, she returned with a new bounce in her step, proud of herself for making it outdoors just in time.

I debated what to do next. Leave it there? Would they know who the culprit was? Would they assume a wild animal dropped this deuce? Perhaps a wily cat, a mischievous squirrel, or even maybe a rascal of a raccoon? I shook off this irresponsible, wishful thinking and – at 2am in the morning – grabbed a bag and hopped over the half wall to pick up the poo, only to realize in picking it up that poo kind of sticks to stucco patio. I shortly returned wet paper towel in hand to finish the job, all the while hoping that no one was up at this God forsaken hour to catch a glimpse of what would look like me breaking into my neighbor’s apartment. (No officer, I was just cleaning up the poo…right) I was quiet, I was slow moving, I was stealth all in good measure because I made it back to my bed unscathed and uncaught. After washing my hands, of course.