Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Seattle Drivers: You Suck (but it's cool, man)

I've lived in six different states and have never really been able to say I've been living life in the fast lane. But now that I'm in Seattle, I can officially hold that honor. Because compared to these people, I'm as agressive as New York cabbie with a suspended license, who still holds a grudge against pedestrians. Yes, that's me laying on my horn when you come to a complete stop in the merge lane. It's me riding your ass as you cruise around, stopping at every yellow curb to see if it's a parking spot. It's me who doesn't wait for you to gesture me to go at a four way stop sign because I know I can make it across faster than you can turn your head to look at me.
But something about these Seattle drivers, as much as I loathe them, has me feeling like kind of a little roadway Grinch.
Yesterday, for probably the fourth or fifth time since I've been living here, I got into a parking fight with someone. I had assumed most people knew the protocal for dealing with these sticky little situations: hornblowing, finger throwing, window rolling down, obscenity screaming, with the winner being whoever can whip into the spot first. A Seattle parking fight, in contrast, consists of me doing all of the above while the other person gives a friendly little wave, mouthes 'sorry' and drives off. Frankly, it's a little unnerving. I mean, who are these people who aren't willing to raise their blood pressure over a parking spot? Maybe, just maybe, I can stop getting so aggro over parking spots (doubtful, but either way, I'm sure my heart grew two sizes yesterday). Thank you Seattle drivers, god love ya, you're annoying little ways might just start to rub off on me.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Now's he's ruined Fleetwood Mac too

As I was driving to work this morning, trying to ‘slow down and conserve gas,’ Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow’ came on the radio. I practically shed a tear. The anthem that inspired us that our country was moving in the right direction now just makes me mourn for Clinton, the cool dad who smokes pot and gives you his old Grand Funk records. And frankly right now, I’m scared to think about tomorrow. Mean old Mr. W, the dad who drives over your new bike and doesn’t even notice, just doesn’t fill me with optimism. The future doesn’t seem so bright right now and it doesn’t seem like anyone in power is giving a rat’s ass about tomorrow. Or ten years from now. But as far as W is concerned maybe he should just think about today. Just take the day and think about what the fuck’s going on. Hey man, just chill; you’ve done enough for one presidency. Let someone else think about tomorrow and you just take the next couple years off.
Maybe he needs his own anthem to inspire him. I’m stuck on ‘Highway to Hell’ but I know there’s a better one out there…

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

7 things, as assigned by Ms. RBrown

7 things I want to do before I die
1.Go back to Alaska before it gets ruined.
2. Simultaneously impress and annoy people with my vast wine knowledge
3. Ride fakey
3. Own my own business
4. Have a big vegetable garden
5. Make Bill Murray laugh
6. Drive through South America
7. Live someplace sunny

7 things I cannot do
1. Ride comfortably in an airplane
2. Smile more
3. Give up butter
4. Fake it
5. Listen to Howard Stern
6. Stop complaining
7. Act motherly

7 things I say most often
1. Fuck that
2. Don’t even front
3. I hate Safeway
4. My phone’s about to die
5. Hey buddy
6. Do you want to go for a drink?
7. This sucks

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex
1. funny, but not funnier than me
2. curly hair
3. jewishness
4. mountain man
5. knows how to cook +/or likes trying new food
6. likes to party, but not more than me
7. can laugh at himself

7 celebrity crushes
1. Luke Wilson
2. George Clooney
3. Matthew Broderick
4. Robert Downey Jr.
(all funnier than me, but oh well)
5. Andy Roddick (drunk sex only)
6. David Beckham
7. David Bowie (in theory)

Monday, October 24, 2005

more bad news

Last night I got some disturbing news: I have a triangle head. Awesome. Now, in addition to everything else, I have this triangle head to obsess over. After a long (SUN)day at the office, I decided to look online for haircut ideas. This lead me to a seemingly helpful site that recommends haircuts based on face shape. You simply measure across your cheeks, jaw, forehead, and the length of your face, and the ratio of these numbers determines your face shape. But as I finished my calculations and compared to the chart, nothing was matching up. Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. Oh, here we go –triangle? Now I’ve seen face shape charts in about twenty different mags over the years, and I have never seen a freakin’ triangle. Oval, Square, Heart, Round, all familiar shapes to me. But triangle? C’mon, you might as well call me conehead. Well, alright I thought, if I have to deal with having a triangle head, I should probably know what haircut to get to minimize my freakishness. This didn’t encourage me in the slightest. According to the website, we Triangle Heads should try to ‘create more volume near the forehead, as well as wear hair away from the face.’ Turns out my ideal haircut looks nearly identical to David Spade’s hair in Joe Dirt. My other option is to bring back the Paris Hilton pompadour, so if you see me rocking it, you better not laugh. And if anyone goes to visual-makeover.com/face.htm, and discovers that they too are a triangle, please let me know if you'd like to start a support group or bring a lawsuit against the hospitals where we were born.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

just thinking about it gets me all flushed

What’s with all the hubbub about the bourbon and champagne combo, many of you (2 to be exact) have wondered. Well, first and foremost, anybody in SF should head on over to the Red Room on Sutter Street and order up a big ol’ martini glass of French 77 (1-2 shots bourbon, shaken + 6 oz. champagne + a dash of chambord). They make the best and biggest ’77 I know of, in addition to being one of the chillest little hole in the walls in town. There’s nothing like drinking the ‘Bette Davis Eyes’ of cocktails while lounging in a red pleather cave. Now, before I go any further, I must address the ugly stepsister of the ’77, the more commonly sighted, French 75. The latter, consisting of gin, champagne and lemon juice, has never really sufficiently whet my whistle. Bartenders who don’t know how to make a ‘77 will try to pass off a ’75 on you, but don’t let ‘em do it. The ’75 is served in a champagne glass, which means (you guessed it) less booze for your buck. Plus, gin is just gross, while bourbon, oh sweet sweet bourbon, is the nectar of the bluegrass gods.
Which brings me to my next point: if you don’t like bourbon, the ’77 don’t like you. It is my deepest hope that everyone who’s dear to me should share in my love for ‘77, but if you can’t handle straight bourbon, you’re probably not gonna dig it. It’s okay. Many have tried and failed to get past the first sip. But if you can handle it, please by all means, order one up.

Friday, October 14, 2005

I'll get off my high horse now

Ever since my *genius* of a boyfriend finageled our TV antenna to pick up network channels, home just seems so much more ...inviting. Everytime I walk in the front door, I wonder: What does tonight hold in store? What will I be watching as I lounge in the luxurious glow of the TV set? Now, I'm sure most of you are reeling in horror as you wonder, 'how long did this poor girl suffer without TV,' and I'll tell you, it was no less than seven months. But I honestly didn't really miss it. Oh, I rented my share of movies, read my news online, reinacted my favorite scenes from 'Family Ties' for my roommates, but never actually caught an episode of Dancing With the Stars. 'I have much better things to do with my time than watch some reality show' I reasoned. And I did--running around Greenlake; drinking wine on my roof, under the stars; barbequing at friends' houses; reading books on the porch. Then, the money and the good weather ran out and I felt like a lost child. Coming home at the end of the day, I felt compelled to do dishes and feed the cat, things I never would have bothered with if I had anything better to do. And then, just when I was about to take out a third loan to order cable, *genius* hooks up a clear FULL COLOR picture on the tube. And all is right with the world again.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Wait! Don't go...it's just starting to get soggy.

As I try to recover from the loss of yet another disillusioned Seattle-ite, (my girl, RBrown) I think it’s appropriate to take a few moments to point out that there are more than a few redeeming qualities to this leaky refrigerator we call home.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky enough to catch the breeze just right, you can get a solid fishy whiff. This always reminds me of being at the beach when I was a kid (never mind the fact that if I tried to go into the ocean here I would, in fact, be reduced to a whimpering child).

Celebrity sightings. Grunge is still alive and well in Seattle and if you ever get the urge to bump into that guy who used to be in Queensryche, he’s hanging out by Dick’s on Broadway.

Thai food. I don’t care where you live, don’t even front. Seattle has the best Thai food in the country. (Except for Jai Thai. Don’t ever go there. Trust me.) AND you could eat Thai food everyday for 2 months and not hit any place twice.

Despite the weather, we don’t have the highest depression rate in the country (in fact, that honor goes to my birth city, Philadelphia). That means we must have some preetty fucking cool diversions to make us forget about the weather.

SLUGS! …remind us that slow, slimy and fat can be beautiful.

And in no particular order: Lighthouse Coffee, the Burke-Gilman trail, cheap ski-lift tickets , PCC, hippies who still talk about the WTO protest like it was last week, KEXP…