I often tell non-natives that there are two seasons here- three months of warm sun and nine months of cold, wet overcast days. Most of the time I feel like I’m exaggerating, but nothing seems closer to the truth today than this. It seems like we had a transition period of three or so days where it was a bit colder while still managing to be sunny. But even so, the weather change seemed to come out of nowhere.

I have mixed emotions about the return of our typical Seattle weather. On one hand, I’m happy it’s raining because this summer has been too dry. On the other hand, I’m kind of sad that we’re moving out of Summer as it means I’ll have to start German 202 (nothing makes me shudder more than this). I’m also going to lose the joy of eating all of my freshly grown tomatoes and basil. How sad!

The adjustment between Summer and Rainy (my name for the season that is considered three seasons elsewhere in this world) is the hardest for me. Just when I’ve acclimated to the hot days, the cold and rainy days hit me out of nowhere. Fortunately, I have a longer season to adjust to for the cold days. But, then again, out of nowhere the temperatures seemingly skyrocket and I find myself sweating buckets for the first month of summer. Deodorant may keep me from smelling bad, but it sure doesn’t keep me from sweating like many advertisements have informed me it should. (Does that mean its false advertisement? Can I sue and put myself through college because I bought said product to keep myself from sweating and it didn�t work?)

Anyway, it certainly looks like Summer is officially over and Rainy has officially begun. I better get off my ass and go dig up those pepper plants I wanted to overwinter for next year. Ah, the joys of a P-Patch…

P.S. The title is from Tom Waits’ “Rain Dogs”.

Last night, I had a heart-wrenching nightmare that my dog, Mary, had died. If I ever woke up in a cold sweat, it would have been then. I vividly remember my eyes flaring open while my chest constricted from a mixture of stress and fear. When the throbbing of my heart began to recede, I could hear my dog�s congested snoring to the right of me. Unsure of reality, I gingerly moved my hand towards the floor and felt for her warm white fluff. My fingertips touched her ear and I then rubbed her head, causing her to start from her slumber.

Maybe I have no faith in this world, but I always imagine that were anyone to be in my place they’d be relieved when my dog dies. She’s old (albeit healthy), and has had a good life. But most of all, it’s not easy taking care of a dog while struggling with school-related financial troubles. I have lost count of the times someone has told me to get rid of my dog because she’s a financial burden. Their advice may be practical, but do they understand what Mary means to me?

Mary has been my companion since I was ten years old. She has stood by me for over half of my lifetime and is the only true friend I had before college. None of my friends, not even Tyler, have been there for my most pleasant childhood memories. Mary was by my side during the lazy summer days I spent with my nose shoved in a book, swinging under grape vines. She’s the only one who knows the delightful taste of the blue grapes I would strain to reach, and how they popped in one’s mouth with a burst of flavor that I have not found elsewhere. Only Mary was there for me throughout my three years of High School- the same three years that saw my mother’s beautiful body turned into a crippled and hunched shell of pain. And most important of all, Mary was the only one who stayed by my mother’s side during the long hours I worked throughout High School and after I had moved to the dorms for college. Not even my father can claim that he spent as much time taking care of my mother as my dog did. She may not have been able to cook fish sticks, but the extent of Mary’s selfishness was to sit next to my mother in order to receive attention. That simple act of constantly being by my mother�s side, comforted her during the peak of her pain.

I have vowed to return my dog’s loyalty with a loyalty of my own. I will take care of her and attempt to provide the best life possible while concentrating on the joyful moments we share with one another. Money is a small price to pay for the joy that Mary brings me on a day to day basis. Most people cannot understand this, but that’s okay. All that matters is that I understand.

So why all of the depressing posts? The period of September and October is a time of reflection for me. It’s the time that my mother’s health took a major turn for the worst three years ago, followed by a choice or two that I regret. What I write here helps me reflect upon my past and my present. It also helps me continue my healing and self-improvement. It’s a somber time of reflection for me, a time that trumpets the coming winter months which often dampen my spirits. But Spring always follows, and with it all of my favorite flowers and the ability to play in the soil for yet another year.

This morning I went to the Kinko’s near The Metro for work-related business. I’ve been going to this Kinko’s for work related business so much recently that all the morning people know my face, and most know my name. Every time I go to Kinko’s to pick up something, I leave a little earlier than I’d leave for work, walk west to Roosevelt and then south until I hit 45th. When I get to 45th, I turn the corner around the former video rental store and make my way towards Kinko’s. Decorating the vacant video store are faded and paint chipped carnival columns that create a gaudy and misplaced feeling. I always examine these columns as I pass, wondering about their history. I often find the need to know what type of store found a use for them, as I’m almost positive the video store wasn’t responsible.

When I turn the corner, there is always a big man in a sleeping bag nestled in the rain-protected niche the front entrance offers. I usually exchange a friendly “hi” with this man if he’s awake. But sometimes, he’s passed out and smells of cheap whiskey and piss. It’s a smell I’ve decided to call “Bum Piss” as it seeps from every tucked away corner on Roosevelt and the other streets near where I live. On these occasions, I walk by thinking of what cheap alcohol I’d pass out with if I were cold, lonely and on the streets of a cynical city. Tequila is my alcohol of choice since it makes a really tasty drink known as Margaritas. But is cheap tequila the cheapest there is? I’d probably try to maximize my money and buy the cheapest, hardest alcohol available. And yes, if I was living on the street and had no one to take care of me or to take care of, I would probably buy alcohol and drink myself to oblivion at every chance I had. Wouldn’t every other person do the same, whether they want to admit it or not? Even the pompous businessmen walking the streets of downtown Seattle who always make it a point to yell, “get a job!” at the bums aren’t protected from the same fate should they fall into similar circumstances.

Often, when I walk by the man a second time on my way to work with my box of copies tucked under my arm, I nod to him and smile. When I pass and he remains in his sleeping bag, receding unseen, I wonder if anyone else smiles at him? Do the bus patrons standing in front of him make it a point to ignore his very existence? They probably do, as I often do the very same thing with other bums. But this bum is different for some reason. He has never asked me for money, and has never cat called me or yelled creepy sexually suggestive comments in my direction. He simply smiles and gives me a big cheerful “Hello”.

For some reason, I’ve never stopped to talk to this man, even though every time I pass him I want to. I want to ask him his name. I want to ask him where he’ll sleep when the vacant building opens as a bike shop and the owners decide to chase him away. I want to take him to a restaurant or caf� and buy him a meal where he can sit and enjoy the soft music and warmth. I want to hear his story, and then I want to go on my way to work and make a difference in this world. But instead, I pass him and continue on my way.

If you notice anything a bit off about this site, it’s because I’m in the process of moving everything from Blogger to Movable Type.

Sure, Blogger is a good service, especially if you just want a blog to update and don’t have anything remotely complicated you want to do to it. Since the beginning of this blog, it’s been a constant struggle with setting up everything how I want it on Blogger. I guess some of the stuff I wanted to do with my site was a bit too complicated. The comments problem pushed me over the edge. With the php for Blogkomm. I had to have my archives in my root directory, thus creating a really messy directory as I have a lot of other pages on this website. As you might realize, I am definately not one for messy directories.

So, I spent most of yesterday loading MT onto my server and most of this morning setting it up. Things still need to be worked on, so you’ll probably see some funky stuff while I’m setting everything up. Just bare with me in the next day or so and then everything will be back to normal and I can move onward to more interesting posts.

Today, in the year 1949 at a hospital in Kansas City, my grandparents’ first child was born- my mother. I’ve never been to Kansas, but all of the family pictures I’ve seen depict a flat and treeless backdrop with gravel roads. It’s the kind of backdrop that one would imagine to be various shades of brown if the photos were in color. Of course, I can’t forget the close-up photos in my grandmother’s photo albums of cars dented beyond drivability from chunks of hail “the size of golf balls”. I imagine it was a dry and dusty day, the kind of late summer day the natives cherished before the golf ball hail thundered down and unleashed its anger on shingles, windows and cars. When I think of Kansas, I think of when my plane from Seattle landed on the airfield strip in Salt Lake City and how I looked out to find a tumble weed rolling alongside my window from the force of the plane. Looking through the plane window, I thought of the stories my mother told me of how she and her sister pretended tumble weeds were horses and how they would corral them in the garage. My grandfather would come home after a strenuous day of work and open the door to have tumble weeds pour out on to him. After suffering from a mammoth allergy attack, he would storm into the house to find his two golden haired daughters playing quietly with their horse marbles and pencil corral. His heart would melt with pride and love and he would yet again forget to punish them as harshly as he had intended. Because lack of experience necessitated it, I transformed Utah into my family’s Kansas by flattening the landscape and adding wheat fields where Mormons flourished. I hated Utah because it was too dry and lacked any sort of natural green, yet I think I would love Kansas if only because a part of me came from it and will always belong there.

Today, in the year 1981, my mother probably sat in her favorite arm chair and sung to me in a screeching voice only love made melodic. Her cocker spaniel mix, Suzi, a mild mannered tan dog about the age of ten, probably sat at the feet of her chair, gazing longingly at her former throne I then occupied. I would have been exactly three months and two days old. I don’t remember what life was like then, but as I think back to this day twenty-one years ago, I slowly paint the picture from memories. My mother’s chair was a small brown recliner with a very soft and fuzzy fabric. The fabric was so soft that it rivals the fleece blankets of today. Over time, the fuzz wore off and was replaced by bare patches of crisscrossing brown threads. But back then, the chair was much newer and would have lacked any bare patches worn down from years of hands resting against the arms and years of a young child climbing every which way on it. Her chair would have faced the large living room window of our cozy one-story home, a window that gazed upon the tree laden cul-de-sac and its peaceful neighborhood. In a few months time, the window would show a postcard image of a quaint snow-dappled neighborhood in a small town that made cows and grapes its livelihood. In front of my mother’s window to the world would have been a humble color TV with a round dial used to change channels. The TV would have been perched atop of a skinny metal stand and would have either been showing “Days of Our Lives” or the blackened reflection of my mother rocking me to sleep. I couldn’t have qualified as a birthday present for my mother, as I was born three months earlier, but she would have disregarded this fact and would have told my tiny ears over and over again that I was the best birthday present, Christmas present, mother’s day present, and general everyday present that she had and would ever have.

Today, in the year 2003, I wonder what my mother would be doing. I would probably have taken the day off from work and taken her- and maybe my father- somewhere special. We might have gone to Mt. Rainier, assuming she would have used this week for vacation. Or perhaps we would have taken our family dogs camping in the Olympic Peninsula. These were the only places our small and fragile family went for vacation, but there are places I will always cherish and someday drag my children (if I have any) to. If she hadn’t used her vacation time for this week, then I would have baked her a cake of her choosing, which would have been her favorite lemon bundt cake spiked with extra lemon juice and drizzled with lemon glaze. We would have then had a low-key family celebration where my father and I would not argue and where we would take my dearest mother out to the restaurant of her choosing. We would then end the day with presents, cake and ice cream. She would have a small slice of cake topped with vanilla ice cream. My father and I would have large slices topped with chocolate.

But, what really happened today was that I woke up early in the morning and lazed in bed for an extra hour thinking that I wanted to pay tribute to my mother, but not knowing how. The rest of the day followed very typically, until I finally returned home. When I opened up my “miscellaneous file”, intending to drop in a receipt of payment for Tyler’s housing application, my memorial service pamphlet from my mother’s funeral fell out with a battered recipe for her favorite Lemon Cheescake Pie. I’m not sure how this recipe made its way into my possession, as my father had insisted on keeping her recipe stash to himself and not letting me so much as see them, but its presence brought tears to my eyes. It probably means nothing. It probably doesn’t mean what most would tell me once they saw the tears streaming down my cheeks- that she’s watching over me. Yet, I still find it a fitting tribute to make that Lemon Cheescake Pie tonight. So, today in the year 2003, I am going to fill my spacious and soon-to-be former apartment with the smell of sweetened condensed lemon and share one of my mother’s beloved recipes with Tyler and any friends who drop by. Perhaps I will even offer some cheesecake pie to the landlord I hate so much.

Okay, nothing good to read again. Sorry about that. I set up the RSS feed on my site and changed the comments thingy from BlogSpeak to Blogkomm. Nothing against BlogSpeak, but I didn’t like how it was hosted on a server different from mine and how I had limited control over the layout. I also didn’t like the blatant use of promotional links on the pop-up window and how he was going to start placing “text ads” in the windows. It’s a great service is you don’t want something complicated, you like the pop-ups and you don’t mind the text ads. However, it’s not the kind of thing I was looking for.

Speaking of pop-ups, I really like how they keep the main page clean and free of gunk, but I decided that they weren’t practical from a reader’s perspective in case someone has pop-up preventive software or a general thing against them. Thus, I made the sacrifice of losing my three comments and moved to Blogkomm. Hopefully this will be the one I stick with and I won’t have to go through yet another change. Luckily, he’s kind enough to have set everything up so my comments stay in their own file on my server- that way they’re never truly lost as long as I back stuff up once in a while. There’s something to be said for having stuff on your own server and not someone else’s.

I’m what I call a “reviser”. I’d like to say that I have all of my college courses to thank for this, but I know that isn’t true. Ever since I found I loved writing (age of 11), I lingered over every word, tasting it and then changing it until I found the perfect one. Two days later, what I had written went into my scrap notebook and I started anew.

Anyway, my problem is this: every time I write a post for this site, I work really hard on it and then post it. The issue I’m having is that when I read the post over the next day before I post something else, I have problems with some of the word placement, etc. I then re-write my previous post and re-publish it, forcing myself never to look at it again lest I want to re-write yet another time.

I was quite happy with how the first part of “Defeated” turned out, but I’m very unsatisfied with the second part and have not been able to move on to the third and final part until I’m happier with the middle of the story. That said, I am going to revise Part II tonight and then start on Part III. After this, I’m going to pass a new rule for myself regarding this site; I will no longer revise anything once it is posted. I’m still new to this blogging thing and am struggling a bit with how different it is from my usual writing habits (which consist of nothing unless I take a class to force myself to write), but I think that it’s been helping kick me in the butt to write and is a valuable tool for my improvement. Hopefully, over time, I’ll get better at forming my sentences and choosing that perfect word from the beginning with my new rule. If not, oh well. I can always revise stories written outside of this blog.

By the way, Tyler brought home a lovely new printer for me yesterday. I was expecting an older model HP printer that would have been collecting dust somewhere in his house, but this was actually a still packaged beauty that had supposedly been special ordered for Steve Jobs and somehow didn’t make it to him. Instead, it sat in Tyler’s father’s office (he’s some sort of VP for HP) and collected dust. Sounds impressive, doesn’t it? Well, to dash the impressive quality a bit, the special order consisted of changing the front cover, which is designed to have a photo of your choice on it, from the standard shipping cover to one with a jaguar print. I suppose this was in honor of the jaguar version of OS X. I love my new printer and have now defiled its Steve Jobsness by hooking it up to my PC. I figure it won’t go to printer hell, just purgatory, as I will also print from my iBook on it.

Best if read after Part I

I’m not certain at what exact time the car decided to break as the clock in the dashboard had been reset nine months ago when the alternator had gone out and my aunt and uncle paid for the costly repairs. After the alternator had been replaced, I never bothered to set the clock to the correct time. This was mainly due to the combination that I never have a watch on me and that I rarely drive unless I have an appointment for the vet or something equally as pressing and far away. By the time I usually jump in the car, I only have so many minutes to avoid the decelerating rush-hour roads, not to mention make it to my destination at the designated time. I have become quite adept at looking at my awkwardly placed alarm clock before dashing out the door and then calculating that when my car says “9:45” it really means “3:16”.

According to my car, it was about 4:32 when- without warning- it decided to ruin an otherwise good day. Granted, I had to sit idle for over an hour while I waited in line for emissions testing, but the car had passed with flying colors and I found my excursion a good excuse to stop by Home Depot and find a solution for keeping crows out of my tomatoes. Armed with my giant roll of “BirdBlock”, I found myself to be so happy that I didn’t mind the sluggish late morning Saturday traffic. As I came to a busy intersection and braked for a light, the car gave a split-second shiver and was then silent. Trying to restart the engine while in the drive gear only resulted in the “service engine” light blinking. “Thanks you little bitch,” I said to the car. “It’s not like you couldn’t have given me a warning before you die, is it?” I set the gears into park and turned the key, rejoicing as the engine jumped to life, only to return to my former state of annoyance when the engine died as soon as I shifted the gears into drive. I tried this over an over again with different gears. Every gear but drive worked. I had no way of powering the car to the side of the road as I was on a slight incline and far from the curb. I momentarily considered attempting to push the car myself as I had done once before when my friend’s shoes were too slippery to grip the black top of Home Depot’s parking lot when my alternator had first given out. However, I soon realized that it would be too dangerous to push the car as everyone around me seemed manically bent on zooming past as they honked and shouted curses out their open windows.

Once traffic stopped around me to wait for the light, I jumped out of the car and ran to the gas station I was in front of. After trying a number of different towing companies that wouldn’t be able to move me for two hours, I finally found one nearby my scene of misfortune who assured me they would be by in a couple of minutes. The small old Asian woman who worked as the gas station attendant asked me where my car was a couple of times. I kept pointing to the street, surprised she couldn’t make out the static white car that everyone cursed and honked at as they drove around it. She squinted her eyes and said nothing, probably still not able to make it out but taking my word that it was out there. In a terribly thick accent that I had a hard time deciphering, she told me that “no ficking tow companany will come for forty-fie minute.” Even if I had known she was right, there was nothing else I could do but wait for them.

As I was assured someone would tow me in a matter of minutes, I stood outside the gas station waiting with relief. When it became clear that they weren’t coming in two minutes and that a surprising majority of drivers couldn’t figure out there was a reason why I had my flashers on, I ran to the car and opened the hood to signify it as broken. Perching myself on the small plastic space in front of the hood, I then continued to wait for the tardy towing company while doing my best to ignore the honks and screams of angry and impatient drivers.

Twenty minutes later, a cop came around to the front of my car where I was perched and peered at me from the side of the open hood. “Waiting for someone?” he asked me in a tone that noted him as sarcastic and disenchanted with the world. He was a relatively tall man with a buzz cut of short, stubbly gray hairs. His skin was a deep red from the Seattle elements and he looked at me with brightly hardened blue eyes. He stood inside what I consider the space bubble that only my boyfriend and good friends are allowed in. I figured as he was a cop I should refrain from giving him a hard time.

“Hi!” I said, happy that someone finally stopped by to see how I was faring rather than screaming a curse at me. “Yeah, I called a towing company. They said they’d be here about twenty minutes ago.”

“Hmmm…” was his reply, as he thought for a moment about something that he was no doubt trained to think over. “Well, I’ll wait here with you for a little bit and if they still don’t show up I’ll help you push your car into that gas station lot as you’re blocking traffic.”

“Thanks a lot,” was all I knew to say. Then, trying to make small talk, I asked, “Did someone report me?”

“Yup. So nice of them to stop by and help you out, wasn’t it?” he said, clearly not excited about North Seattle’s lack of eagerness to be good citizens.

We waited for a minute longer and the cop began to grow increasingly antsy and started to dance around from one foot to the other. If my mind hadn’t been concentrating on how awkward it was to be waiting in the middle of the street with a cop next to me, I might have laughed at how this serious older man was hopping about. “Okay, I’m going to push you in that lot. Just put your car in neutral and let it slid back into mine. I’ll hook you up with that black thing in the front and push you,” he told me after a minute or so of more hopping.

I did as instructed, riding my breaks and letting the car slowly slid towards his. He stood off to the side, red and blue lights painting his face and hands with changing and unnatural colors. His raised hands were held clearly in my view as he coaxed me backwards. He gave me the signal to stop and I felt the car reverberate from impact. Traffic stopped instantly at a wave from his hand, and he jumped effortlessly into his car and started it up. It was only a matter of a minute before he had pushed me completely out of the road and into a niche in the gas station lot that seemed to be made specifically for a broken car. Jumping out to thank him, I noticed how my car seemed like a child that had been yelled and was forced to face the wall for its offence of high mileage.

I must admit, I felt a pang of regret that I was now out of everyone’s hair. The drivers had been so upset with me and my car being in their way, I was disappointed that I wasn’t making their lives miserable any longer. It seemed fitting that I should take the yuppie populated traffic down with me if I was to suffer and not a single cell-phone owning bastard would jump out of their car and help me push mine out of their way or even offer to call a towing company. But at the same time, I was relieved not to have a constant string of curses and honks thrown in my direction. I knew I should have dressed sexy that morning, but little did I know it was for a reason other than so the emissions guys would let me through if I barely passed.

High noon found me making my way across a barren landscape of concrete and freeway overpasses, trying my hardest to ignore the fatigued ache that crept into both my back and left knee. Shambling slowly south with a three foot tall roll of “BirdBlock” tucked under my arm, I’m sure I came across as a comical figure. I had no form of music to listen to and the heat was too bothersome to try and jot any notes of my situation down on the crumpled receipts stuffed in my purse, so for entertainment I did what I know best. I thought.

I thought about the events leading up to my situation, and I thought about money. I also thought about how bad my weekend has been so far and that this surely must be the worst part of it. But most of all, I thought about how thirsty I was and tried not to concentrate on the sore dryness of my throat. Too late I realized my mistake in not going into the convenience store and buying something cold to drink. While there, I could have also gotten some money off my debit card and then had them make change so I could catch the bus home. I had known the area to be safe, and I had known where the bus was. But in the end, an uncharacteristic cheapness set in thanks to the large quantity of money I will soon have to spend, so I began walking south towards the U-District and my home. After 1.5 miles of walking, I was about halfway home and began to calculate when I’d soon hit 65th. After a short while, all I could concentrate on was the street and its lovely collection of shops, restaurants and places that will surely have something cold to drink. I then tried to keep myself entertained by thinking about where I was going to get that icy cold blessing only money can buy when away from home. Fortunately for my wallet, I had another half a mile to walk before I reached 65th, by which time I had decided that if I stopped for any reason before I made it to my destination then I’d probably collapse into a chair and not be able to move for an extended amount of time. When I reached 65th, my movements became mechanical and I took to an ant-like method of plodding along. My excessive thinking soon slowed down to a dull silence that was occasionally interrupted by a passing interest in what cold beverages each shop carried.

Though only temporary, I completely stopped thinking about how my car had died in the middle of a busy road just before another very busy road intersected the one I was on. My memories of how I had instantly switched on the flashers and sat in the car vainly attempting to restart it were erased. My thirst, fatigue, and need to be home outweighed what happened by so much that I no longer felt stress or the need to recall crisp images of the recent events. Of course, the crisp images were still there. They were just hiding.

It’s amazing what random things get sent to my PO Box. I understand all of the strange vegan/raw food/organic stuff sent by organizations that can’t afford a decent color publication; those are because I have subscribed to various vegetarian magazines in the past and make annual donations to environmental charities. However, this one takes the wheat-free, dairy-free and egg-free cake. Who are these people anyway, and why do they think that I am a part of the “Student Letter Exchange Pen Pal Program”? The last Pen Pal program I had signed up for was over five years ago and it was through some ad in the back of Sassy. Does anyone else remember that now defunct magazine that merged into Teen?

“A GIFT FOR YOU…………

As a special thank you for participating in our Student Letter Exchange Pen Pal Program, we have arranged for you to receive a FREE one-year subscription to Elle Girl.

Elle Girl is a magazine that offers up a glittering international ambiance and fashion sense to help you become the true fabulous you. Elle Girl is filled with lots of do-it-yourself ideas and other fun stuff for girls searching for a witty, smart alternative to the traditional teen magazine.

We hope you enjoy the magazine.

Sincerely,
Student Letter Exchange”