Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Okay, this is a test...I just changed my template (obviously). Will my comments still come up?
I've recently become obsessed with skirts. This is an odd development because I have not worn skirts regularly for the past four years. Why? Because from the time I was five until four years ago the girls in my family wore skirts and dresses only. No pants or shorts whatsoever. I know, strange for the 21st century. The reasons for this are outside of this post's purpose, but needless to say, I had had enough of skirts and dresses for a while and exuberantly explored the world of pants. I exuberantly explored so much that when I came home this summer I discovered I only had three skirts to my name. And two of them were black.

I then decided that for a girl to have only three skirts was positively outrageous. So I added a soft fawn A-line to keep the other three skirts company. Then a suede chocolate brown skirt with an extreme diagonal hem came up and made the number five. After that my obsession began. Now I try on more skirts in a store than pants. A dark blue with wildly scattered white flowers is being added, as well as a ivory with impudent pink flowers and green vines running every which way over it. A soft coral tweed is tempting me too. It would be so chic for the fall. And in the back of my mind I keep thinking I need a white skirt...and maybe a yellow one as well.

I have no idea where this will stop. This is probably the furthest I will ever get in a girlish nonsensical obsession. But being obsessed with skirts seems a rather harmless obsession. At least for now.
"Somehow I get the feeling that you're not the type of girl who gives up easily."

"What makeup do you wear? I thought you didn't wear any at all."

"So what takes girls so long to get out of a car?"

"You're obsessed with wraps."

"That's pretty unusual for a girl your age to have never had a real boyfriend."

"The dishwasher has the waitress figured out."

---quotes from the dishwasher
My customer's response regarding whether or not they needed more coffee:

"Nope, doing fine on the frog's hair."

What in heaven's name does frog's hair have in common with coffee? Old men in Sequim are so random.
We smiled, alluring and mysterious. Tossing our hair, we arched our eyebrows, and gazed intensely into the camera. The photographer's assistant fawned about us, taming rebellious hairs and adjusting lights. Click, click, click. Photo after photo was shot, capturing poses and personalities. Photo shoots in New York are always so much fun.

Or so I wish I could say. We were actually in a living room, with a backdrop, far away from New York, but the image helped get us in the mood. After a successful photo shoot one always feels as if one should be a model. A job would be wonderful if all you had to do was put on (or take off) designer clothes and have your picture taken. You wouldn't even have to smile most of the time. The only problem is finding enough strangers who want to look at you.

Does anyone have a job opening for a girl to stand around and look beautiful? Any takers?

Monday, June 21, 2004

Most recent advice I've received from an older lady concerning staying young:

"Stay out of the sun, wear sunscreen, take your vitamins, and don't have children."

Thursday, June 17, 2004

I don't want to grow up to be an old lady. Aren't there any other options?

Saturday, June 12, 2004

The power of suggestion

"And what can I do for you gentlemen today?"
Both of the men I directed the question to immediately gave me slightly cocky smiles and perceptibly straightened their posture. The extra middle age body mass that had accumulated around their middles sucked in and the wrinkled T-shirts they wore relaxed slightly in the places they were stretched. Ah-ha, I thought, my theory is working.

My theory is this: if I call the male persons who I wait on in the restaurant 'gentlemen', they will at least think about being a gentleman, even if their conduct really doesn't match the description of that auspicious title.

Though some men that I wait on disagree with my theory, they nonetheless find themselves succumbing to it. All I have to do is introduce the concept 'gentlemen' in a question about their beer, and suddenly the knight, the protector, the chivalry is awakened deep inside them. Suddenly it is an expression of their manliness when they order their lunch or let me re-fill their drink. It certainly makes waiting on them easier. And the tips aren't too bad either.

I possess the power to make the male species gentlemen. And even if they don't stay that way after they walk out the door, I will have had gentlemen sitting at my table for a half hour.

Friday, June 11, 2004

I was startled by the pain in your face. My own thoughtlessness and selfishness had been more than an irritation to you; it had caused you great pain. I had no good reasons, not even excuses that would explain my carelessness regarding you and I. My words were slow and heavy, inadequate to justify my actions.

You have seen me in a moment of human failure. I have no persuasive reasons to make you see me in the same light as before, and I do not even see myself in the same light. Failure tends to make one re-evaluate the contradictions between motives and actions.

Sometimes saying "I'm sorry, will you forgive me?" seems insufficient to reconcile our failures. I wish there was another magical phrase that could erase the pain we cause another. I suppose if there were, however, we would go around failing everyone we know because it could just be erased.

The pain I caused is not erasable. But because it's there, I am reminded not to make another mark on you.

Thursday, June 10, 2004

For the past week my uncle has been picking miniature bouquets of flowers from his garden and placing them on the tables in his restaurant. Deep red poppies, fragrant wild roses, and brightly impudent peonies have sprouted up all over the dining room. Old ladies smile and cannot resist touching a delicate petal and bend their softly wrinkled faces to smell the fragrance. Some even claim a chosen flower from the vase, and carry it out with them into that mysterious world in which old ladies live.

Some people have a weakness for the freshly picked flower. The flower that lives in the garden until they pick it from it's stem, then lives in haphazard arrangement in a vase or cup. These flowers are the pansy, the country rose, the lilac. The wonderful old fashioned flowers that remind us of our mothers and grandmothers and, in my case, uncles.

My weakness, however, is for the boughten flower. The flower that lives in the shop or in the sidewalk bucket, smiling cheerily and promising to make your world a happier place. Perhaps my weakness for the boughten flower comes from always having freshly picked flowers growing up, and so a different context is appealing. The flower I spend money on will fade in a few days just as the free picked flowers will. After all, a flower is a flower. Just the same, I receive more satisfaction from the flower I bought.

I need to buy a flower.


Apologies for the recent absence. Our computers have had some sort of malady that I can't explain. One computer is now working, however, thanks to the genius of a friend. More blogs on the way.