The End of an Era

        "Let me tell you something in all honesty.  Life is made up of eras, and you usually don't realize you've been in one until it's over.  It's the end of an era for you, but there will be another era."  This was the sage advice given to me after a couple of beers and perhaps a shot of Fireball by one of our pulmonary doctors.  He's a totally cool dude, and he was totally right.

This is me and my cousin, Molly Jo, with her husband in 2006

        As you can see from the picture at the beginning of the era, I was very excited to be here.  I don't think I have smiled that big since about 7 years ago.  This was before I became a true Seattle-ite and stopped smiling and saying hello to people.

This is how I look now. All the time.  When I'm happy.

        Seattle has been good to me.  I have met excellent friends.  I will not ever admit to having said this, but I also met the love of my life here.

Look how young E looks... and look how short my pigtails are.

        When Eric and I first met, I used to say, "We live in [expletive] Seattle!" every time we drove on I-5 south at night and I saw the Space Needle lit up.  And I have recently started thinking that again as I drive home from work.  It is actually quite awe-inspiring and beautiful.  (Oh, I forgot to warn you, this post may be sentimental...for me, that is.)

This is real.

        But there were several years where I didn't even notice the Space Needle like I should have.  I stopped thinking it was so amazing that it warranted an expletive.  I don't think it's the worst thing ever to have stopped noticing, but I kind of wish I hadn't let it lose the magic.  

         Sometimes it takes the end of an era to remind you of everything you have loved about it.

        I became a nurse here.

Scary face, right?  It was scary being a night nurse on SCCA.

         Being a nurse in Seattle has been so much more than a job to me.  It has been love, heartache, learning, teaching, friendship, and growing up.  I grew up here... Seriously.  (I mean, as much as it is possible for me to grow up.)  It is so interesting to me to look back and think about the people I met when I was a brand new RN, and see who has created a space in my life.  It is so intriguing to think about those relationships over 7 years ago, and wonder at the fact that I never could have known who would still be here, and who would be so important to me now.

ah memories!

Well, no shit!

Fine, I'll go.  But I'm not getting in the water.

Something was funny. I can hear Kate trying not to laugh right now.

I know, purple hat looks like she's running in underwear.  She doesn't give a shit, and that's why I love her.

I want to go to there.

         And then there are people who have been there all along.

siblings...excited as always.

She's been in every era since I was 18 years old.

        So here we are at the end of an era. 

My pigtails are longer

       

I have acquired a Kittles.

     

I have acquired a husband

       

I have acquired new philosophies

       

Um, hi. I ran a marathon.

        This last picture leads me to my next point.  Ironically, the first full marathon I ever ran turned out to be in the city that is taking me away from Seattle.  Portland is taking me away from this place where I became...well...me.  It's the friggin' end of an era, man.  I have never ended an era that I liked being in.

        I've ended eras to get away from lame boyfriends.  I've ended eras to gain independence.  I have ended eras to go snowboarding.  Never have I ended an era that I was perfectly happy in.

Felix after a perfect game (which was not on the date in the poster) seems to be the epitome of happiness

        I don't know how to leave a city I love. I don't know how to leave the friends I love.  I don't know how to leave the job I love. 

        All I can do is leave you with this...

LOVE.

        Thank you to everyone who has made this era great.  

(PS. don't hate me if there isn't a picture of you in this entry.  Lack of picture doesn't make you any less important.)

     

Turns out I Forgot My Clothes.

        Should you ever need to shower at a friend's house, let me give you some tips for success. First tip: plan ahead.  It is thoughtful to bring your own towel to avoid creating additional laundry for your host.  Pretend you are going through airport security and bring some miniature sized shampoo and conditioner.  Also, conserve resources, and save some hot water for the rest of the family.

Ta-da.

        A few weeks ago, I went for an early morning run with a friend before work.  First, I was quite proud of myself for actually waking up early enough to start a run by 0545- BLERG.  Second, I was doubly proud of myself because I followed all of the above advice in order to be polite.  It was a win win.  Two wins!   

BYOD optional

        Should you ever find yourself with a half gone, pre-packed miniature shampoo bottle in a friend's spare shower, there is one realization that no amount of thoughtful planning can save you from.

        Fuck. I left my clothes at home.

        As a rule, I would not usually shower at a friend's home after a run.  A typical human would go home and use their own facilities.  Yet, if we have learned one thing, we all know I am not a typical human.  (Ever notice how the difference between 'a typical' and 'atypical' is a [space?])  Nor would I usually choose to run before 6 AM.  On the particular morning in question, however, there were reasons behind both of these insane choices.  I didn't want to run after work because it had been in the 80's at 7pm that week.  Did I mention I had to go to work?  Hence the need to shower at a rando house in the first place.

Spectacular.

        How does this riveting story end, you ask?  You and I both know I have to drag this out a little longer and add more pictures.

        I finished my shower because I figured, if I had to go to work naked, I should at least be clean.  Then a stroke of luck hit.  My phone was with me in the bathroom! I furiously started texting my friend's wife.  

       

Of course I did.

        She happened to be right outside the guest bathroom at the computer desk, checking her email.  She didn't even read my text before asking, "Dude.  Are you texting me from  inside the bathroom?!"

        "Yes!" I panicked, "I forgot my clothes at home!"  

        "Well come out here.  We'll go upstairs and find something."

        "Um, I CAN'T. I have NO CLOTHES," was she seriously missing this point?

        "There's a ROBE on the back of the door!" 

         "Okay, I'll be right out."

        There are people who wear robes in front of company with no qualms. I am not one of those people. To me, a robe is awkward.  There could be articles of clothing underneath, or one false move of the belt, and all of the sudden, your favorite auntie is a flasher.  These are things no one wants to gamble on because no matter what the over under is, everyone loses.  (This, of course, also depends what is- or is not- under what is over.)  Confused? Me too. Obvi.

Just like in this picture- we're losing, the Mariners are losing-  we might as well have worn robes to the game.

        The rest is pretty much an average morning. [It was] just me running back and forth between my friends' bedroom and their teenage daughter's closet (who was dead asleep and didn't so much as roll over with all the commotion) to find some haphazard combination of presentable work attire.   All the while, I was making serious efforts to avoid a major robe malfunction that would make a bad situation worse.  Nobody wants to be a flasher*. No big deal.  

*Some people want to be flashers.  I suppose to qualify, I should say, "Nobody who is trying to be normal wants to be a flasher."

Kittles is always flashing people.  She's a disgusting human.

        When I think of possible lessons learned from this whole sordid affair, they amount to a multiple choice q&a.

        Sally is showering in her friend's home after a run. She realizes half way through that she has forgotten her clean clothes at home.  As a matter of fact she can picture the hanger on the edge of the kitchen counter. What a freaking nitwit.  In order to show up to work with clothes on, which of the following answers best describes what Sally should do to solve this puzzle:

a) F*@# work.  Call in "naked" and go home.

b) Only run with friends who also have a teenage girl in approximately your size of skinny jean.

c) Don't run at 5:45 am. Ever.

d) all of the above

        Now, I was never a huge genius at multiple choice. However, I learned enough in nursing school to know that when in doubt, choose C.  Although I have to say A would be an equally satisfying option.

I'm pretty certain at least one of these fools has had to call in "naked" to work.  What I am not certain of, is whether or not this individual was able to use a sick day.

Aaaand That was a Human Femur...

        I am pretty sure I found a human femur on the way to my Pilates session a few weeks ago.  Let me tell you, there is a lot of weird shit on 1st Avenue, but usually I don't see human bones on the sidewalk. Quite honestly, however, I'm much more concerned about the crow stalking me in Laurelhurst.  They remember faces, you know.

This is a creepy sock bird I made for my cousin's first baby.  He does  not remember faces, luckily.

        What to do when one is at risk for attack at all times?

Wear a helmet, obvi.

        You're absolutely right, though. A helmet is no match for a killer crow.  I'm serious. I walk under that jack wagon's tree, and he frickin' quoth "Nevermore" every time.  Now what?  How to stay safe when living in a real life, "The Birds?"

That's me on the way to work.

        One of my good friend's husband is a police officer.  Much to his chagrin, we like to call him "Safety Sam."  He is incredibly, well... safe.  Last night I texted my friend, "Ask Safety Sam if he thinks I will get murdered if I go for a run at 0600 in Pioneer Square tomorrow."  Safety Sam doesn't want me to step outside my door at all,  let alone go running by myself in the wee hours of the morning- I already know this.  I just want to rile up poor old S.S.

        Let's be serious, when one is being stalked by an "old money," serial killer crow, one must find time to mess with the local law enforcement.  That way, when the crows in the fancy part of town peck my eyes (that they have methodically studied for months on end) out, and the cops find me dead of eye hemorrhage, they won't feel so bad.  "Too bad this crazy bitch got pecked to death, " they will feign grief, "But you know, she really shouldn't have strategically scared the shit out of Safety Sam so often."

This has nothing to do with Safety Sam; it just reminds me of Tony Soprano (RIP) who was obviously the opposite
sort of character.

        I was told that running at an early hour such as 0600 was ill-advised, but of course, the decision was left entirely up to me.  Great! Now if I get murdered, I can't even blame Safety Sam.  

NOT pictured here: Safety Sam.  I am the dude in the pseudo-fedora on the far left. Obvi.   

        Have you a Safety Sam in your life? A cautious individual that you would like to blame for your calculated, eye pecking murder, but in the end it is your own damn fault for running by yourself amongst a slew of mentally ill drug addicts without your pepper spray?   Bad news, you can't get sound advice, ignore it, and then blame Safety Sam when you wind up as one of the innumerable, well- memorized faces of a crow with a view of Lake Washington. Whatever your choice, you can't blame Safety Sam for the good or bad in the world.  You get to make your choices, and live with them. 

Joke's on Safety Sam: he has to live with the choice of not hiring security for his wedding reception

        Life Lesson #2  If you are about to be murdered by high- class crows, and you happen to spot a human femur as you are frantically searching for refuge, don't say he didn't warn you.

       

       

     

When Your Garmin and Your Balance Betray You

       If I was in a relationship with the action of falling, our Facebook status would read, "it's complicated."  As you may recall, or have previously witnessed, I fall a lot.  You may also recall or have previously witnessed that there is usually no perpetrating factor for said fall.  For instance, if my job was to stand on a very skinny ledge all day while spiders crawled up and down my body I would be falling all over the place.  Obvi.  Yet, I have a very safe job within a very safe life involving very few skinny ledges, and little to no spider interactions.  Still, I fall.

Imagine if this bastard was climbing on you- you'd fall off a ledge too.

        Today I fell on 1st Avenue South.  "Again?" You ask.  Yes, again.  "Didn't you just fall and rip your pants a few weeks ago?" Sure did.  I fall all the time people!  It just so happened that this morning at approximately 0823 AM, I tripped- I like to think over a crack in the sidewalk- and bit it pretty hard.  Dumb.

It looks like I am tripping here- No, I'm just dancing.

        Miraculously, I jumped back up and continued running- oh yeah, this was about 0.25 miles into my morning run.  I know what you're thinking- was I drunk? No.  Good question, though.  Is this just my new thing?  Am I that girl that randomly trips and falls over pretty much nothing?  I don't want to be that girl... Although, I guess technically it wouldn't be a new thing.  

If I keep this up, I'll end up in a cone.

        I told my Pilates guy about it.  He was like, "Are you okay?!" Yes.  "Are you taking some new medications?"  No.  "Okay because they say the leading reason old people fall is because they're on so many medications."

        Great.

        I told Rico, "I fell while I was running today on 1st Avenue just past the Mission."  Rico countered with a predictable, "Did you trip over something?"  I told him my crack in the sidewalk theory.  "All the way to the ground?" He was incredulous.  And you know what? So was I!  All the way to the ground twice in a matter of months!?  Who's running this shit show?  (Don't answer that.) "Did people laugh?" he asked.  

        Great.

There was no banana peel involved.  O'Doyle Rules!

        There is good news in this whole sordid tale, however.  At least this time I didn't rip my pants! Good thing too because they were from the hundred dollar store, and I can't afford the cost of replacement , as we have already learned from previous falls.

       There you have it.  If you see a person running in Pioneer Square and yard sale-ing on to the pavement, it is either me or an elderly homeless person who just started some new medication.  You should probably pretend not to notice this individual either way.  If you have to laugh, make it minimal- just in case all those mean things people say about Karma are true.

Next time I fall, I'm just going to act like I hit the deck to practice my surfing.

       

You Know What's Funny? Ludacris.

        If you have ever read the book, "Stuff White People Like," you already know that we are really into music.  We each like to think we were the first individual to discover a particular band or song. We pride ourselves in naming super obscure venues where we have seen these previously "unknown" artists perform.

This is me and Rico at a Shins concert. We're so unoriginal.

        I was thinking about a life soundtrack- you know, a soundtrack for your life? (Also, something white people like.)  Don't tell me you never think, "If my life was a movie, this is the song that would be playing right now."  Okay, you're lying if you "never" think about the music that would be in your big scene.

and scene.

        As I was running the other day, I was listening to DMX- obvi.  After I laughed a little to myself about how funny it is to run while listening to poetic lyrics like, "You're broke, the kid ain't yours, and e'rbody know!" I started creating a scene in my mind.  It was along the lines of the movie shot where the hero gets out of an Aston Martin in an Armani suit, and starts elegantly filling the bad guys full of lead with a Glock 17.  And if you guessed that I have no idea what I just said,  you are correct. That James Bond knock off of a description was not what was running through my head while I was, well...running.

     

You get the idea.

        What I was pondering, was, "What would my hero scene in a movie look like?"  You should know by now that I'm going to tell you- whether you want to know or not.  Let me paint a little picture for you...

       
        Fade in

        The sun is shining in Seattle. A white Escalade screeches to a halt in the Schooner Exact Parking lot.

        The driver's door opens. 

        CU (That's "close up" for those of you who don't write awesome mini screenplays.) 

       Blond woman in early 30's  mid 20's steps out, dressed head to toe in Lululemon yoga clothes.  Fawn colored French Bulldog with a pink rhinestone collar is tucked under her arm.  

        Someone snorts- it is unclear if it is the woman or the dog.  

        Woman turns to lock the Escalade.  Alarm on SUV chirps, and she lowers her sunglasses to shade herself from the blazing Seattle sun on this 65 degree day in July.  She looks super cool.

        Right?!  Now, the question is not which song to use because the answer is clearly, "Party Up (up in here.)"  The question is, do I cut right in with, "You wack, you're twisted, your girl's a hoe," OR "Listen! Yo ass is about to be missin'. You know who gon find you? Some old man fishin!'?"  Also, it's probably more along the lines of the final scene in "The Hangover 3" than any James Bond scene.  Seriously.

This is me and Fairbanks at  a Ludacris concert.  Different rapper, but equally as hilarious as DMX.

        You don't think we were out of place do you? Me neither.  I think we blend right in with our matching tank tops purchased at the Nordstrom Rack earlier that day.  Also, aren't we glad I'm out of the headband phase?  Hate it.

        I was going to go into this whole schtick about my theory that rappers like DMX and Ludacris are just trying to be funny, but then I started looking up specific lyrics.  Turns out they are occasionally quite funny with lines such as,

        "All white top, all white belt, all white jeans, body looking like milk!"

         However, there are several funny phrases that can't be re-posted due to this writer's potential PG-13 audience.  Also, there are lots of terrible lines that are not even close to hilarious, especially when reading them instead of hearing them.  (I don't know why, but somehow, reading them made the lyrics worse.)  At any rate, no schtick will be had here.  My theory has been disproved during my brief stint of  research on "Lyrics A-Z."  Still good music to run with, but I do not recommend listening to it in the presence of developing young minds or people who are easily offended by legitimately shocking vernacular.

   

Exception: never listen to explicit rap music while running if your mother is present.
It will be awkward for both of you when Ludacris mentions swimming lessons involving
*ahem*... inappropriate parts. 

     

When Your Ankle and Your Pants Betray You

        If you have ever very nearly or very completely peed your pants on your commute home from work, you have learned many valuable life lessons.  Not the least of which is to always bring a spare pair of pants (life lesson #39.)

Babies never bring spare pants.  They just expect everyone else to have a pair on hand - jerks.

        A few weeks ago Seattle had a heat wave.  I mean, the sun was out, and it had to be at least 55 degrees.  I got out my capri pants, you guys, and my friend and I went to Discovery park with her baby.  Don't shake your head like that ins't picnic weather!  If you have survived a Seattle winter, you know that is exactly what it was.

Tropical.

        We had to hike to the beach so we could have our picnic.  Picnic is a word which here means, "drinking beer out of red solo cups and eating chips and salsa."  Obvi.  It turns out that hiking with all your picnic supplies and a baby down to the Sound makes a person short of breath.  Maybe even the person not carrying a baby.  Nevertheless, I made it back to my car, unscathed.  I should say, I almost made it unscathed.

        Bad news:  I fell.

        I can tell you have questions.  Let me answer them for you.  Was I drunk? Not even a little bit.  Did I trip over something?  Just tripped on a paved trail over some... air.  Are you okay?  Other than skinning a knee- which I haven't done since I was about 8 1/2 years old- and ripping my capris, I'm fine.  (Okay, we all know that part about not skinning a knee since grade school is a lie.  I am clumsy, trip, and bust up protuberances all the time.)

        It happened in a split second, but time stood still as my trick ankle betrayed me.  As I lumbered to the pavement, I thought, "Am I seriously falling all the way to the ground right now?  I hope this doesn't ruin my pedicure!" I did [fall all the way to the ground,] and it did [ruin my pedicure.]

Now I will never be as awesome as Neil Patrick Harris.

        That's one pair of pants ripped.  A few weeks later I was doing the ol' squat-to-get-your-jeans-on dance, and damn if I didn't rip another pair of pants.  As if tripping and falling over nothing isn't enough of an ego killer, I also had to split a pair of jeans that I no longer comfortably fit into.  Hate it.

Love this

        There are two things I hate about ripping multiple pairs of pants within a month.  Number one: it reminds me of a crazy person I used to date who would only shop at thrift stores (that's not what made him crazy, but it really didn't help his cause.)  One time he ripped a pair of thrift shop corduroys, and when I didn't understand why he was so heartbroken over a $3 pair of pants, he informed me, "Girl, it's not the pants I'm upset about; it's the cost of replacement!"  I keep hearing his voice in my head as I begrudgingly acknowledge my ruined pants.  I hate to say it, but he was right.  It's not losing the pants that hurts the most- it's the cost of replacement.  I've gotten cheaper in my old age, I'm afraid.  

        Okay, second thing I hate about this whole scenario:  we learned in the opening statement of this blog entry that one should always bring a pair of spare pants.  How am I ever supposed to bring a spare if I keep ripping through them?!  I mean, you don't have to pee your pants to need some back up denim.  As we all know, sometimes scabs come flying at you, which is another classic reason to have an extra set of slacks on hand.  

        What if you are a person who, for legitimate reasons, is low on pants?  Life lesson #39, isn't really helpful to you.  Now what?  You should probably just stay home in your underwear and have a cupcake.

Yes, I know this is a vicious cycle.  More cupcakes = more ripped pants.  C'est la vie.

Femoral Anteversion

        I was thinking today how "Femoral Anteversion" would be a rad name for a band.  I was also thinking I should make a bumper sticker that says, "Back Fat Sux."  Neither one of these thoughts has anything to do with anything, but I thought it might be a good attention getter.  Feedback welcome.

        Have you ever seen the show, "Dirty Jobs" with Mike Rowe?  It aired on Discovery Channel, and for those of you not familiar with the concept, it's pretty self explanatory.  This dude goes to random sites and follows people who make you think, "At least I don't have to do that for a living."  I used to watch it frequently, and cringed as the host toured/ interned with sewage plant treatment workers, maggot farmers, and owl vomit collectors.  To my knowledge, he never did a show following an inpatient nurse.  I assume this is because of HIPPA and crap like that (pardon my sad attempt at irony and the use of "crap" in this instance.)

I always make this face at work

        If you have never sent the following text to a friend, your job does not qualify as a "Dirty Job:"

        Emergency.  I need to borrow a pair of jeans- a kids' scab flew onto my pants, and I can't stand the thought of it.

        Qualifier: if you have sent this exact text to a friend in a moment of scab-fearing panic, but it is the grossest thing that has ever happened to you at work, you don't have a "Dirty Job."

        Then, there are people who have the kind of jobs where they get to meet celebrities, have  company credit cards and tons of free products.  Sometimes we get a pen with our logo on it, but I don't think that counts as swag, nor do I think our nurse recruiters use this as a selling point.  I was feeling mildly sorry for myself a couple of weeks ago because within days of each other, I spent time with two friends who have seriously glamorous jobs.

       About a month ago I walked in to my friend's house in Portland.  "Hi! I have presents for you guys," she smiled.  I was thinking, "I really hope it's candy."  Turns out it was a Nike running jacket and yoga pants.  Super amaze-balls.  As if that wasn't cool enough, she informed me, "Michelle Obama tried on that jacket."

   Me:     "Right.  Like the same style Jacket?"

   Carly: "No, like that exact same jacket."

   Me: "Bullshit."

   Carly: "No really.  She did!"

   Me:  "You're just messing with me."

    Carly: "I swear to god!"

    Me:  "Sweet."

        I told myself I was going to play it cool about wearing Michelle Obama's running jacket.  "I don't get starstruck," I coached myself.  Turns out, I can't shut up about it, and everyone reading this has already heard this story five thousand times.  My point is, Carly just flew to Chicago and had this insane event with tons of athletes and Michelle Obama.  NBD.  What did I do last week?   Hm... I took some stitches out of a stinky foot...

Those are my feet- they don't stink.

        Three days later, I had dinner with one of my [only] friends from high school.  She's a producer for a major national broadcasting company.  Obviously.  She flies places, interviews all kinds of fools, and has a company credit card.  *sigh*  She very nicely tried to tell me that I also had a glamorous job too, after I told her how strange it is to have friends with her fancy kind of employment.  I laughed in her face, and decided not to tell her how a kid's pee dripped all over my shoe a couple of Friday's ago.  Living the dream.

In a Hospital, it would be Pee Soup Anderson's

        Okay, so fine-  I do not have a glamorous job.  I have a dirty job.  (A scab flying on to my pants is absolutely not the grossest thing that has ever happened to me at work.)  I have never met Michelle Obama, and will likely never have any kind of a company credit card.  

        Let me tell you something those fancy jobs don't come with.

Amazing artwork like this.

        Whether or not you are schmoozing with Nike athletes and first ladies, producing that perfect interview, or dodging bio hazardous materials, hopefully it is something that you enjoy.  May we all be so lucky as to receive a "hand drawn photo that really happened," or a nickname as awesome as "Lady Zebra Bubbles," even if it means getting a little scabby along the way.