Escape From Bitch Mountain

I actually forgot the password to this blog.  So it's been two years.  That has more to do with my surrender to Facebook than with me quitting my job, cashing in my meager contribution toward the retirement I would have enjoyed at age 87 or so, moving to Central America with my dog and nine suitcases, and marrying a Costa Rican socialist.

coffee fields around the corner from my apt. with requisite volcano in the background

Oh, please. Don't act so shocked, most of your asses are on Facebook too.  You've seen the status updates.

Maybe I need a new blog. Even the colors on this one reflect those years in Seattle.  The grey years.  Maybe my long cyber-absence and the idea of a new blog are just ways to separate myself mentally from that time, I don't know. 

So I've lived here now for seven months, and the mental transition ... let's just say it's a process.  There's a part of me that is still surprised to see the sun every day, that doesn't truly believe it will really come back in the morning.  A part of me that even on muggy days, when my deodorant has raised the white flag of surrender, still mentally pays desperate homage to the weather gods so they won't take it away.  I still avoid the shade, and am weirded out when I see Costa Ricans using umbrellas against the sun.  They probably think I'm an idiot, trotting down the sunny side of street like some clueless tourist. Dumb gringa. Never mind, even the tourists have the sense to walk in the shade with their visors and backpacks and Hawaiian shirts.  And maps.  They all have maps.

Which doesn't help much because there are no street names or house numbers here.

In Seattle, people literally call in sick on sunny days.  No, really.   Because you never know when it will happen again, and there's a kind of giddiness that hits you.  Hey, I'm talking about a place where you literally may not see sunshine for a month, and then only that fleeting phenomenon locally known as a "sunbreak" before you're back in the grey. 

It's really not possible to explain the effect of living like that. There's this irrational fear:  don't waste the sun, if you don't appreciate it, it will go away.  And once that gets inside you, it apparently can't just be switched off by escaping to a tropical climate.

In Costa Rica, summer runs from December to May, roughly.  What they call "winter" is really just the rainy season.  The idea of a rainy season struck fear into my Seattle-scarred heart, but it really just means it rains every afternoon.  You still get sun almost every morning.  Of course, "rain" here can mean torrents that wash your house into the river as opposed to nonstop drizzle, but I repeat: sun basically every day.  (That house-river thing happened about a five-minute walk from us.  Rain does not play here.)

Going through said rainy season with no car, no dryer, and no furnace sheds a whole new light on rain, but that's another story.


So in December these trade winds, vientos alisios, arrive and the Costa Ricans, or ticos, as they call themselves, get all nostalgic and happy because it signals the beginning of summer and the arrival of Christmas. (I know.  Still trying to wrap my head around that combo.)  They put Christmas lights on palm trees, and these nativity scenes pop up everywhere.  Even in the bars.  The manger itself stays empty until the night of the 24th when the holy plastic child makes his blessed appearance. Even in the bars.

You know how the first snow and that crisp smell of smoke from the chimneys make us feel all happy and Decembery?  The vientos alisios are like that for ticos.  Except with no fireplaces or furnaces against the cold that rides in on them. The winds are insane.  Laundry dries in half an hour, but holy hell, can it be chilly at night!  The esposo loves it.  "Ah, ¡qué fresquito!"   I scowl and pull on my giant, fuzzy robe.  The one you all laughed at me for bringing.

I guess when you live your whole life where heat and sunshine are a given, every single day, those winds do seem refreshing, a relief, especially when they mean Christmas and summer.

It's hard to imagine ever feeling relief instead of dread at the arrival of cold winds or rain.  Even happy Christmas trade winds. I suppose someday I'll get there.  Until then, the sunny side of the street feels just fine.

Just Call Me the Snug Meister.

I bought a Snuggie, people. Yes, as seen on TV. This accursed PNW weather has finally pushed me into the the desperate realm of the oft-maligned Blanket With Sleeves.

I know. I hear you mocking me. It's okay, I understand. Until a few days ago, I was a merciless mocker of Snuggies myself. Besides, the offspring beat you to it. They were first, second, and third in the mockery line. And you know those kids were raised on the milk of sarcasm, so it's been more like running the damn mockery gauntlet around here.

It's all good though. Mock away, bitches, this thing is warm. I mean warm. Like swine-flu-fever warm. Like I-have-to-crack-a-window warm. Bite my snug ass, Seattle weather -- go on, bring your best. Rain, sleet, snow, never-ending dampness, go ahead. Because this winter I'm armed with the chocolate brown folds of the sleeved shield of glory. That's right. Just call me the Sleeved Avenger. Yeah, you heard me. Let's go, Seattle weather. Consider yourself served. By a Snuggie. We'll see who comes out ahead this spring.

Christmas in the Northwest

It snowed last night. Again. They've predicted another wave for this afternoon. We're way past White Christmas here, folks. Picture, thousand words, enjoy.

Holly berries



The little apple tree in the side yard.



Snow on green leaves



A lone leaf hangs on.



Bird house




Icicles over the back door




A side street in our neighborhood.



The main highway being cleared didn't help this semi truck.



And from the archives, especially for Yellow Dog Granny, who asked where the heck our snowman was, a snow goddess from Christmas past.

Snowbound

Well, my two-week vacation has turned out to be more like house arrest. House arrest with three teenagers bouncing off the walls from cabin fever. Not a Norman Rockwell scenario here, folks. And to think, just a week ago, I was excited at the prospect of finally, just once, Christmas shopping during the day, like a person of leisure, instead of battling the mobs after dark with all the other frazzled, bleary-eyed, homicidal after-work shoppers. Sounds like a little thing, but I was really fucking looking forward to that. 

You may have heard, since we apparently made it onto the national news, that western Washington got a visit from Jack fucking Frost.

Snow doesn't bother me. I was practically born with a snow shovel in my hand. I've spent 95% of my life in big snow areas. Areas that actually have snowplows. And salt. Areas that know how to deal with snow. When it snows in Seattle, it basically shuts the joint down. Seattle has about 25 plows for the entire metro area, which is akin to putting out a fire with spit. They ran out of de-icer, and the next shipment can't make it over the pass from eastern WA.

I live north of Seattle, where there are even fewer resources to battle the white stuff. The idea of a snowplow making it even to the main roads where I live is a crap shoot, and you can forget regular neighborhood streets. Also, they don't put the blade all the way down where they do plow. They leave about 2" of snow, which gets compacted and turns to ice. They don't use salt, either. Apparently, it "damages the roads". Much like snow plow blades, I guess. Maybe so, but places like Ohio and Minnesota and friggin' Kaposvár, Hungary seem to do fine with the damn salt. Come on, how often would we even need to salt here anyway?

It started snowing about a week ago. Christmas is Thursday, and I've been stuck in the house for a week. Worse, everyone else in the PNW has been stuck inside as well. The crowds will rival Black Friday if I do make it out. Which is doubtful. More snow predicted, starting tomorrow night.

Fuck you, Jack Frost, and the cold front you rode in on. Seattle is NOT the place for this level of Winter Wonderland.

The dorky channel 5 weatherman is in his element. He's practically sporting a snow-boner every time the news comes on. He's one of those guys who fancies himself suave and debonair. He's got a 70s mustache and somehow manages to swagger from behind his big weather desk. He wears a leather jacket on-air sometimes. I bet he was a football player back in high school. I can just see him reliving the glory days with the guys over a case of Bud Light. I'd also be willing to bet he uses the term "little lady". Anyway, he's a headliner now. Forget the anchors, bitches, Local Weather Guy's at the top of the hour now. Yeah. I watch the other channel with Steve Pool and his Double Doppler Radar.

My normally cynical friend remarked that it must be so cozy being snowed in with family, "with all your babies surrounding you". (Why no, as a matter of fact, she doesn't have teenagers.) She, incidentally, is house-sitting for a mutual friend in a gorgeous abode perched atop one of Seattle's famous hills, with no cable or Internet access. Fantastic view, though. She's going nowhere except out of her mind.

Let me tell you, my "babies" have no interest in kicking it with dear old Mom in the midst of this frost fest. I haven't even had the nerve to suggest popping corn and bringing out ye ole board games. Male Offspring has followed the siren song of his PlayStation, cloistering himself away in his hermitage room.

Early on, there was the requisite fighting with Teen Demon about taking her car out in this mess. She is somehow under the impression that the ability to drive in snow is genetic. An inherited trait, like curly hair. Or sarcasm. After the first day or two, she quickly realized that the hills are alive with the sound of crunching metal, and left her car safely buried in the driveway. Not to be deterred, however, from the critical activity of Hanging Out, she donned her little felt boots and cute little fashion coat that literally does not cover her navel, and her cute little yarn gloves, ready to set out hiking and meet her friends. Five miles away. Yes, of course I tried to stop her. Words were exchanged, shall we say. You forget, she is over 18, and therefore knows everything. I did make her trade her faux boots for my hiking boots, causing much eye rolling and gnashing of teeth.

Then, the Bohemian, who is usually sensitive to my concerns, and whose time in DC has raised her awareness of risks to one's personal safety, hears that Main Street has been closed to traffic. Main Street is a colossal hill, or more accurately, series of hills, descending all the way down to the ferry docks. She shrieks this news to her younger brother, announcing that they HAVE TO go sledding on Main Street! It's a once in a lifetime opportunity! I, boring, mean mother that I am, crankily brought up such foolish notions as, how would they get there, what about the fact that we have no sleds, that Male Offspring has no boots, that Main Street is about five miles from our house, and the like. No matter. Once in a lifetime opportunity! Adventure! Thrills! A journey of exploration and discovery! (Yes, she actually said that to me.)

Yeah. Main Street shrouded in snow. The gateway drug to skydiving and bungee jumping.

I'm so done with snow. I just wanted to go to Zoo Lights, plan some fun outings, and have a normal Christmas shopping experience. Is that too damn much to ask? Whatever. Anyway, for your viewing enjoyment, here's a taste of the past week's snow extravaganza.

Batman & Mason playing Find Your Toy in the Snowdrift


Mason gets cold easily.

It's never too late to support your local legislators and judges.
In fall, a campaign election sign. In winter ...

... custom candidate snowboards.


Male Offspring shredding the slopes on a piece of Formica.

Little brother gives the Bohemian a push as Batman looks on.

Batman isn't the most effective sled dog.

Teen Demon gives the Bohemian a good pull.

Male Offspring rides his Judge Lucas sign down an unidentified hill.

Some Rain Funk for My Rain Funk

I need some Wellies. Cute, funky ones. Maybe a cute rain coat, too, but definitely the boots. It would distract me and make me happy about jumping in puddles. Like that's fun or something.

Actually, it is fun, when you live in a place where it "rains occasionally". Like when it's warm, and you have a lot of sun for a long time, and then there's a big storm with thunder and lightening, and it's cozy inside, and then the sun comes out again, and that ozone smell makes life seem fresh and bright and green, and you go out and splash in puddles under a rainbow with a unicorn. That's fun.

What's not fun is when it rains every friggin' day for weeks and weeks, it's cold, everything smells of mildew, rainbows are the stuff of legends, and the unicorns have gone to live in Arizona, and when something called a sunbreak is what "happens occasionally".

Some cute Wellies would be a spot of brightness in a landscape of grey. The resulting lift of spirits would, much like my sunlamp, basically be a heavy dose of the placebo effect, but who the hell cares?

I have a picnic to attend today people. Yes, I said a picnic, an event for some of the kids in the school district. No, the weather has not changed, thanks for asking. Now ask me if I feel like going and standing around outside in the rain, in my poncho and scarf, eating potato salad, acting like I'm friggin' happy to be there. I need the rainboots today, goddamnit.

Seriously, aren't these just too adorable?

Bill Cunningham, NY Times

See? Cute! In boots like that, you might actually enjoy the rain. Even a rainy picnic. Then again, they probably live in a place where rain "happens occasionally". One of those places where you can say things like, "Yeah, it rained this afternoon." Inferring, of course, that rain is an event that doesn't happen all goddamn day, all fucking month long, ten months out of the year.

You see why I need the cute boots?

These babies scream SPRING!

That's hot.

Love these funky pink and black twirls.

And if the rain's really got you down, and you're looking for a whole'nother kind of pick-me-up, you can always go for something like these:

Personally, just looking at those makes me cold, but hey, if you live in a place where you actually experience that phenomenon known as a "warm summer rain", these might be right up your alley. So to speak. There is no such thing as a "warm summer rain" here in Seattle, not even in summer, let alone June -- or as they've been calling it, Juneuary -- so I will not be sporting these hot cloppers, but I may show up to work one day in some of those other puddle stompers.

Nothing like a bright and shiny distraction to keep a girl from flying into a homicidal rain rage.

The Never-Ending Story

Cloudy and 52* with light rain this morning here in Seattle. Looks like the rain and chilly temperatures will be continuing throughout the week, so don't put away those umbrellas yet!

It's apparent to me that weather announcers here in the Puget Sound region are either 1) from here, and this seems normal, 2) are getting paid obscene amounts of money to chuckle and sound cheerful, or 3) are operating on heavy doses of Prozac.

Theoretically, they could also be sun-hating, fun-sucking vampires.

There's pretty much no other way to explain how a person can actually chuckle and engage in light banter about this situation. Like it's normal. Since moving here, what's become normal for me is to flip obscene hand gestures toward my radio and loudly curse it while driving through drizzle in my always-on heated car seat.

My personal reaction to this morning's weather report was to grab the plastic butter knife in my desk drawer and start sawing away at my wrists, but it wasn't very effective, and the weather gods apparently don't give a shit that I'm about to flip the fuck out because it's still raining.

They're probably up there chuckling too.

So I tighten my winter scarf (thanks Tony), turn on my sunlamp and check my email to take my mind off things. Oh look, some friends have written -- let's see what RG has to say, he's always good for some conspiratorial bitching. What's this? Oh ... it's a link to Boston weather ... looks like folks are getting sunburned and having sweatfests there. Thanks, RG. That's fucking great. Hope you had fun at your softball game. Sun, beer, and hot guys ... this isn't helping, goddamnit. Watch it buster, or Cheery Radio Bitch won't be the only one on my short list for a healthy bitch slap.

At least he took up a "sunshine collection" for me on his site. It's not working, but hey, it's the thought that counts, right?

Salt in the Wound...

Also, this morning I attended a staff meeting in our coldass conference room where I had to take my blanket (yes, we keep blankets at work here), and learned that a colleague who has been on sabbatical for the last academic year is not coming back.

She's staying in Costa Rica.

Hide the sharp objects people, I'm about to hit my limit.

You Wanted a Rant?

Still raining this morning in the Seattle area, we're expecting a high of 56* today, with clouds and continuing showers throughout the day.

I am about to snap here, people. I'm am seriously feeling fucking foul. As in a weird version of claustrophobic, no joke. Like I'm on the verge of suddenly breaking into a full out scream and running until I pass out or hit sun.

I think we all know which would happen first.

I'm not kidding. I wonder if I'm skirting around the edge of a panic attack. I've never had a panic attack, but if it's something like you want to jump out of your skin and the whites of your eyes are visible and there's a scream stuck in your throat which keeps you from breathing, then that's it. How stupid would that be? "Seattle area woman's panic attack resulted from excessive rain." Right. I handled divorce and all other kinds of shit, but no, it's the never-ending, wetass grey that's about to put me over the fucking edge. How lame is that. I don't need anti-depressants, I need some sort of sun pill.

I know you all think I'm extreme on this subject, but come on -- we are exactly 14 days from Summer Solstice, and we were arguing about turning on the heat last night. If it weren't so goddamned expensive here, I'd seriously have it on at least 10 months of the year.



I was watching Candy Crowley on the news last night. It's the middle of the night there in DC.

There were bugs flying around her.

That means it's hot where she is. As in actual summer.

It looked weird. Just seeing those few little bugs flying around made me think of warm nights on my old terrace, where at 11pm the big tiles still felt warm under my feet, and my beer would sweat, and the bottle would feel good against my forehead, and I could sit in the chair in nothing but shorts and a strappy top, and the chair wouldn't be wet or cold, and the breeze was warm, not wet and cold, and I could spread out and breathe without having to pull into myself and wrap up in something. It even smelled warm there.

That was back when I owned a fan.

Anyway, I was surprised at how seeing those bugs flying around at night hit me, how foreign that looked to me now.

Such a little thing. I wouldn't even have noticed it before.



This morning as I was getting out of my car, fumbling with my book bag, purse, coffee, umbrella, and car keys, feeling my hair go limper and flatter by the minute while a big drip of water slid down my neck, I had the urge to just sit down in the parking lot and cry. "Fine! I give up! You fucking broke me, Seattle! UNCLE for fuckssake, now just bring out the goddamn sun. Please."

Of course, I didn't. But that's what I was thinking. You never know what's going on inside people, do you?

I make it into the building, feeling so foul and discombobulated trying to hang on to everything and close my umbrella at the same time that I only glare at the three flights of stairs and head straight for the Fat Woman's Sanctuary, aka the elevator. Which only makes things worse.

I'll never make it until Male Offspring graduates.

A Weather Rant.

Photo Credit: Melanie Connor, NY Times

Here's what I heard on the radio on my way in to work this morning. Before caffeine. Keep that in mind.

Cloudy and showers continuing today and on through the weekend. We're looking at possible highs in the upper 50s this afternoon.

I'm sorry, did you say upper 50s, Cheery Radio Bitch? What is this, March?!

Nope, guess again. June in Seattle, kids! That magical month when the continuing rains and cool maritime breeze set your teeth to chattering. The time of year when, approaching the summer solstice and full of hope, you shed your knee socks, shave the bottom of half of your legs, paint your toes, and, like a dimwitted Pollyanna, don your kicky capris and filmy summer top ... only to see your exposed, sickly pallor break into a landscape of goosebumps.

Yeah, that little summer fit lasted about five minutes. Same as the "sunbreak" that brought it on.

And those of you from Alaska, don't even try. It's supposed to get up to 70* in Fairbanks today. I hate you. Even those of you in Greenland don't have a legitimate gripe: yes, we're at about the same temperature today, but you bitches are under "partly sunny skies", while I haven't seen so much as a sunbreak in days. So take your partly sunny and shove it where the sun doesn't shine. Oh, that would be Seattle!

Actually, you all may be interested to know that the place most similar to Seattle's weather is Iceland. No, I'm not joking. Reykjavik could be our sister city today, with 52* and overcast.

Oh wait, they have higher humidity, so it feels warmer. My bad.

And ... it just started raining. Are you kidding me?

So, with 52* and overcast -- as opposed to Seattle's 48* and pissing on my head -- Iceland's weather is a better bet than Seattle. I'm thinking Cheery Radio Bitch was working under a heavy dose of optimism with that "upper 50s" bullshit.

And you all wonder why I'm a bitch?

Weekend Rain Phenomenon

Q: What are two rainy days in Seattle called?

A: The weekend.

pink umbrella photo by photographer Jef Maion

It's a gorgeous sunny day here in the Puget Sound. Of course it is. It's Monday. Well, virtual Monday, yesterday being a holiday and all. The rain gods knew I didn't have to work yesterday, so the usual Monday sunbreaks were delayed until Tuesday. Because they're sadistic bastards like that.

At first I thought it was my imagination, this idea that it somehow always rains on weekends, sunshine being doled out on the days when I'm trapped in my hermetically sealed office.

I told myself to stop being such a Debbie Downer, that there aren't really rain gods up there, high-fiving each other and laughing at me, down in my soggy grey existence, every weekend.

Surely I only thought it rained more on the weekends because that's when I notice the rain. Right?

"Suck it up and drive on, Cowbell," I admonished myself, "Quit being such a whining baby, it's just your imagination."


Except it wasn't.

There actually is scientific evidence explaining the rainy weekend phenomenon:

The fine particulate matter produced by car exhaust and other human sources of pollution form cloud condensation nuclei, leads to the production of clouds and increases the likelihood of rain.

As commuters and commercial traffic cause pollution to build up over the course of the week, the likelihood of rain increases: it peaks by Saturday, after five days of weekday pollution has been built up.

In heavily populated areas that are near the coast, such as the United States' Eastern Seaboard, the effect can be dramatic: there is a 22% higher chance of rain on Saturdays than on Mondays.

How about that. Our hellish commuter situation is contributing to our hellish rain situation.

Further research turned up a story on KOMO-4 news where our own Steve Pool, of Double Doppler fame, analyzed several years of rainfall records specifically to investigate the weekend rain phenomenon. The findings? Yes, Virginia, it does rain more on Saturday and Sunday than any other day, with Sunday edging out Saturday. Friday -- of course -- is the driest day of the week, which I can see nicely through my 20" wide office window.

Imagination my soggy, chapped ass.

This Old MotherFucking House: Episode I

Episode I: Colder Than a Witch's Tit

Welcome to the TOMFH Series. Coming soon to the DIY channel.

It's cold. And I can't turn my heat on. Actually, I don't want to turn my heat on, because it is madcrazy expensive to heat my house, despite these facts:
1) my house is tiny
2) my house has newer, double-pane, vinyl windows
3) my house has a programmable thermostat, which goes down to 57* at night and while we're at work/school
4) this is Seattle, not Minnesota or Siberia. It only gets so cold, people.

Regardless, I can't turn my heat on yet, even if I wanted to start pulling gold doubloons out of my ass to hand over to the the local Public Utility District. Yes, its acronym is PUD. Those of you from my generation and/or with Midwestern roots, go ahead and have yourself a good snicker at that.


My house was built in '55. It was owned by a little old lady with an incontinent little dog for ages. Before I moved in, it was owned by a single dad who put everything he had down and bought the house as an investment. He had it two years and made $100K. Thus was the housing market in Seattle. I borrowed money from my dad, thinking to get in on this lucrative deal, live tight for a few years, and possibly retire before I am 93.

The first weekend in the house, the newspaper headline screamed HOUSING CRASH! Fuck. See, this stuff never works for me. Houses in my neighborhood now sit on the market for months with "Price Reduced!" signs on the lawn. Retirement is still on schedule for sometime mid twenty-first century. But I digress.

We did rip up the carpets, by the way. That was one nastyass little dog. At some point, I need to learn how to refinish wood floors, and replace the trim. I also have to redo the the single "cozy" bathroom if I ever hope to sell. I've already replaced the toilet (don't ask), but the 80s cheap wood fixtures remain, along with the linoleum, cracked sink bowl, and peach paint. The brown & olive laminate kitchen countertops will have to go too, along with the oft-painted kitchen cabinets and their coats of many colors.

Again, I digress. This house is just one bigass digression.



In order to change the furnace filter, one must first descend through the Portal to the Unknown at the back of the garage:

Once through the Portal, look left to see the water heater, also conveniently located sub-daylight. The passageway to the furnace is just beyond the water heater, another left:
The photo, cheerily illuminated by camera flash, is misleading. In reality, the crawlspace has more of a horror movie ambiance. You know, where the ditzy blond cheerleader goes down into the creepy cellar alone? Like that.



So, head on down past the water heater, and hang a left into this creepy passageway:
At this point, I am in full-on crawl mode. No crouching in the furnace passageway, no chance of a fast get-away. Luckily, I have yet to see any rats, possums, or the Undead. It's dark as fuck back in the furnace passageway. A flashlight is not a luxury in the bowels of my house's underworld, folks.

Finally I reach my objective. The furnace. Seen here in all its glory, innards exposed:

That cage, wrapped in blue, surrounding the motor is the "hammock". The blue is the actual filter. Right. Those framed rectangular filters that slide into a slot on the side of your furnace? The one conveniently located in your utility closet? Yeah, I can't use those. My furnace requires a specialty filter, called a "hammock filter". Of course it does. These usually come in rolls and, I learned, must be special ordered.

This most definitely is your father's furnace filter.

Here's how it works: cut a length from the filter roll, wrap it around the hammock, attach both ends to said hammock by screwing on the special "hammock clamps", and slide the whole shebang back around the motor.



Here is a photo from last fall, when I first discovered all of this. Behold, the previous owner's disgusting hammock filter:

The filter is actually a green-blue shade. That grey fluff? Dust. Filth. All manner of allergens, carcinogens, and all around funk. Nasty! How many decades was dude working that filter?! Actually, the previous owner rarely used the heat, so I suspect Nastyass Little Dog's owner wasn't one for crawling through the Portal of the Unknown. She probably died of Lung Funk. Which could, actually, explain the state of the carpets; who knows how long Fifi had to wait to be rescued.

Here is a picture of the hammock with the filter I had rigged up last year. This was taken yesterday. After a year of use:
Yeah, big difference. "But Cowbell," you may ask, "Why is one of the hammock clamps right smack in the center of the hammock? Aren't they supposed to be on the ends?" Why yes, and they would be, if this were an actual "hammock filter". Which it isn't.

See, last year, I didn't know shit about hammock filters. I didn't even know they were called hammock filters, let alone that they came on rolls, so when I went to Home Depot and Lowe's, no one knew what the hell I was talking about. They looked at me like I was crazy. Or stupid. One asshat even suggested I "have my husband take a look at it." Bastard. Fuck you, Mr. Macho, Middle-Aged, Home Depot guy. You probably still live at home with your mom. Why don't you have her take a look at it? Orange-apron-wearing assclown.

I tried the Internet, but, didn't turn up anything with search terms like furnace cage, wrap-around filter, extra large furnace filter, metal filter holder, filter cage, stupid motherfucking non-existent Methuselah-assed furnace filter ...

I came up blank.

Anyway, we had to have heat, so I bought the two biggest filters I could find (not from Apron Guy), used one of the hammock clamps to connect them in the middle, cleverly fastened the end corners with two of Teen Demon's hair clips, and called it a day, as shown in the photo above.



This year, I have hammock filters on order. I should've ordered them sooner. It doesn't matter though, because I couldn't turn on my heat even if I had them in hand. That's because I discovered this: It's a hole. In one of the heating air ducts. It seems someone in my house's past decided heat was needed in the garage. They cut through the wall of the garage, directly into the furnace ductwork, and put that vent in. When dude sold the house to me, however, he didn't repair it. He just closed the vent, covered that shit right up with some wood, foil, and duct tape, and called it a day.

Now I know why my heating bills were so high.

I can't get to the hole from under the house, so I'll have to tear off the wall panel (which may involve moving the workbench, which I believe is bolted to the wall), attach a piece of sheet metal with a specific type of screw (being careful not to collapse the duct), seal it with some heat-safe crap, insulate it, and replace the wall panel. I just love doing that stuff when it's grey and cold.

Also, my rain gutter is hanging off of the house at one corner. The one corner of the house that is about 18 feet up. Of course.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

The eldest daughter left to go back to college tonight. It was harder than last year. We both cried like babies. OK, maybe not babies, but whatever. OK, I did, but not until I was in the car. I hate airports. They could use it for a question on the SAT: Airports are to Cowbell what hospitals are to most people. With all the times we've moved, and with so many of the people in our lives leading the same traveling type of life, airports usually mean saying goodbye. For most folks, an airport goodbye is usually temporary, like a vacation or business trip or college. For us, it's more often permanent, so I guess I've got some sort of Pavlov's dogs reaction going on. This goodbye isn't permanent, the daughter will be back at Thanksgiving. But hey, Fido's still going to drool even if you don't put the bowl out after ringing the bell, right? Airports still suck, it's ingrained.

Where did the summer go? I friggin' hate Seattle summers. It's like you keep waiting for it to hit, and then it's gone. I just can't believe it's the end of August.

Praise Be to Ra

It's warm.

It's 11:35 at night, and it is warm. I am sitting on my porch with a cold beer.

I do not have knee socks on, nor am I wrapped in the big purple down blanket. I am not drinking hot tea.

I could get religion again for weather like this. Y'all just don't know. No, seriously, y'all just do not know. I have been so fucking happy the last few days.

Of course, the news stations are warning everyone about the Severe Weather Advisory! that will be in effect until 11pm tomorrow night. It may, you see, get up into the high 80s, or perhaps even (brace yourselves) the low 90s tomorrow. With no humidity and the ever-present Maritime Breeze, it will feel substantially lower than the numbers say, but no matter. This is a Severe Weather Advisory! event.

Many across the city have already commenced the wailing and gnashing of teeth .

I am not worried. I am ecstatic. I am going to pop another bottle of Black Dog Ale tomorrow night, and build that shrine to Ra.


* I have discovered something freaky. Go click on your scroll bar, and move it up and down really fast. See it? The sun's ray's are waving up and down. Optical illusion? I think not. The sun happy as hell because PNWers can finally see AND feel him? Oh yeah. Behold, the Power of Ra, bitches.

I Hope You've Learned Your Lesson, Missy!

So the sunburn peeled over the weekend. No, I will not post a lurid description of that process. Freaks.

I am left with tender new skin, itchy and ultrasensitive. Better than feeling like a Komodo Dragon, though. No peeling pics -- sorry -- but here's a pic from B-day, last Sunday.




If you look closely, you can see the strip of bright red between my Tigger pajama pants and my strappy top. Basically, I had this fire engine red deal going on with my shoulders, a blinding white back and ass, and this attractive crimson stripe, painted right across the lower back.

My son found the stripe particularly amusing. Hilarious, in fact. The boy actually had tears coming out of his eyes. I'm pretty sure I even recognized the "What the hell is up with white people frying themselves like that?!" look in his eye.

Whatever. It wasn't that funny.

Now why couldn't I listen to my own damn self? How many times have I told Teen Demon about the evils that could befall her while wearing a Too Short Shirt? Especially when paired with Low Rider pants! Anything could happen, walking around with Bare Midriff! There's a reason it's against the school dress code, Missy.

No wonder she smirked beyond what I thought appropriate. Brat.

I have not bared my midriff since setting foot back in the States. Well, okay, maybe that first summer, but not since then. No friggin' way. For one thing, my midriff is more like the dreaded muffin top these days. Second, it's too damn cold here. Tank tops? Are you freaking kidding me? Only as an undershirt. Which I always have on, even in summer. And the closest I've come to shorts in three years are cargo capris.

Cargo capris are found at any Old Navy store. They are casual, loose fitting, and sport an abundance of pockets. More often than not, they are also low riders. Last Sunday, what with the freakish heat wave and all (sarcasm, Puget Sound readers), I donned my cargo capris and a strappy top. (These things were actually stored away under my bed. That's how often I wear capris. I had to shave my damn legs, too.)

I was feeling exposed and out of my comfort zone, what with no undershirt on last Sunday, arms and a bit of lower back open to the elements, but what the hell! It was hot! I was happy! Actually I was manic, truth be told. So, out I went to mow the lawn in my cute little summer ensemble.
You know the rest of the story.

Rain, Rain, Go Away ...

... screw with me some other day.

Betty Udesen/The Seattle Times 2006

It's raining again.

Goddamnit.

It will continue for the rest of the week, although we could see occasional "sunbreaks".

The newscasters last night breathlessly announced that comfortable sleeping conditions would once again grace the Puget Sound area. They seemed actually relieved that real summer conditions were apparently just a fluke. Flash in the ol' pan. Fuckers. I wish they could see me flipping them off through the TV.

In other news, my sunburn is worse than I thought. I'm slightly feverish. I actually stayed home from work today. (yeah, yeah, you told me so. Whatever. Still worth it.)

You know how when you lose a buttload of weight, and it takes a while for the mental image you have of yourself to catch up with the new physical you? Like even though you're now thin, you still feel fat, you still think of yourself as fat, you still carry yourself as fat, you still won't tuck in your damn shirt? I think I've got a similar thing going on here with the whole sun tolerance thing. I still think of myself as one who tans easily, doesn't burn much. You know those skin guides? Very fair, light, medium, olive, deep -- that deal? I always thought of myself as toward the light end of medium.

Medium, however, was taking into account a certain level of base protection with the old melanin, there. Medium is long gone. Seattle has brought my Norwegian genes to the surface.

I didn't think I was out that long yesterday. My former self would never have burned after that length of time. I guess I have to face the reality that I am no longer that person. My mental image of myself is not matching reality. I keep getting burned because it hasn't caught up. I am apparently more like those porcelain skinned red-heads who lobster up after 15 minutes. Except I don't have red hair or porcelain skin. Figures.

--------- Time out: A Sunbreak! --------------

So, is there something wrong with me, that the heat from the burn actually feels good to me? Is that sick? It feels like a built-in heating pad on my back. As long as I don't scratch it ...

The SunWhore Gets a Fix

Thank you, thank you, thank you Seattle Weather Spirits. Or Ra. Whoever.

Finally! Finally, holy shit, the sun is out! And warm! One could even say hot without being a whining Seattleite baby today! Ohmyfuckinggod, it's actually sunny today, and I can not even tell you how amazingly fucking HAPPY that makes me.

You guys have no idea; I would dose up on sunshine with a crack spoon. I don't know if it's a genetic thing that people either have or lack, but I'm pretty sure I'm predisposed to sun addiction. It is practically orgasmic for me to lay out there and feel the HEAT soaking down to the bone. I get goosebumps, no lie. In this heat, I get friggin' goosebumps it's so damn good.

I mowed the lawn, did the weedeater, planted some flowers, lay in the heat, and now I'm on the porch with my dogs, my flowers, the Buena Vista Social Club blasting some Cuban beats, and a cold beer, with no schedule. Holy shit people, if that's not orgasmic, tell me what is.

Scratch that.

Well ... only if you feel like it.

I sweated today. I'm surprised my sweat glands weren't permanently blocked up. Apparently, still functional. I got sunburned! Not good for you, I know. After nearly four years in Seattle (shootmenow) I have no base pigment. None. No protection whatsoever. My melanin has given up the ghost. In fact, "ghost" pretty much covers my look. I mean, I know I'm white, but damn. If there were paint chips based on my skin tone, I've moved past Fish Belly and am currently about at Corpse White.

Not appealing.


It pretty much pisses me off that skin protected with sunscreen, sporting a nice blotchy pallor is actually the healthy way to go, because damn, it looks so unhealthy.

Conversely, beautifully browned skin, which looks so goddamned healthy for the first howevermany years, is actually the one that will reward you with cancer or leatherface. Bastards! Fuck.

A tan covers a multitude of unpleasantries. Think about it -- zits, those black circles under the eyes, blotchiness, cellulite -- a nice tan just glosses right over that shit.

Nature's airbrush.

A girlfriend of mine and I used to have a saying, "Tan fat is better than white fat." That pretty much covers it. You all know what I'm talking about.

I know there are those pale waifs with flawless milky complexions. Usually they have huge dark eyes and dark hair. Or green eyes and red hair. They're practically translucent. They're usually the chicks who can go bald and look friggin' awesome . Gorgeous. Yeah, whatever. Too bad they make up about .01% of the population. For some reason those people never have the blotchy thing happening on their skin. I pretty much hate them.

That look does not work for me. Regular Caucasian-type folks just look healthier with a bit of a tan, I'm sorry. It feels better. The offspring have been making note of my Seattle-pallid look. I wouldn't go so far as to say they're rubbing it in my face, it's more of a subtle smartassery, but it's there. Brats.

Anyway. I got sunburned today in my zeal for getting some vitamin D. Ask me if I care.

Okay, I'm out of here, I've got to finish that shrine to Ra.

Raising the Bar

Second Born Daughter is in the midst of track season. She does high jump, and also runs in the 4 x 200 relay.

Yes, this blog includes bragging about offspring. I've got the stretchmarks, I'm goddamn well bragging.

Track meets last a long, long time. It was friggin' freezing this time. How is it possible to jump over that bar when you're shivering like Jell-O? I don't know, that's why I'm a spectator, not a participator. Meets are fun when it's warm and sunny. On colder (or rainier) days, spectating requires coffee. Lots of coffee.

Shots from the latest meet:

Got the perfect camera shot, but at the starting height, 4'4".

Nice shot, though, eh?

Next, 4'6"

Nails 4'8"

And out at 4'10"
("But I jumped it twice in practice ... when it was sunny ...)

You go girl!

A SunBreak in the Life...

Yesterday it was sunny. I mean for the whole day. Also, you could feel the sun, in addition to seeing it.

Today, of course, it is grey again, although (thus far) not raining.

Yesterday was such an unusual event 'round these here parts, I played hooky. Seriously, I took a vacation day from work simply because The Sun Was Out. I did not pretend to be sick, nor did I make up an excuse such as "Male Offspring has broken his leg in three spots, I'm at the hospital". I told my boss, "I'm taking a day off because the sun is out, and I need to mow the lawn, bathe the dogs, plant some flowers, and get some friggin' vitamin D before I kill someone." She was cool with that. It is not unheard of 'round these here parts.

This is the pathetic reality of my life. Not good for an admitted sun-whore.

Yesterday I skipped the a.m. hit of caffeine altogether, took the canines on a two-mile walk and played tennis ball with them. (His name is Batman; it's been one day since his last ball.)

I mowed my lawn with my brand-spankin-new Craftsman lawnmower. 6.5 torque. Mulching mower. Foldable handle for storage. On sale. Pretty damn fancy.

I gave both canines a bath, and brushed their winter fur out until my arms gave out. I pretty much spent the whole damn day outside. Then I actually cooked a decent dinner and watched a movie with the offspring.

Yesterday I wore only two layers: the usual undershirt, and *gasp* a shortsleeved shirt. These arms have not seen the light of day since last August, and that probably only happened three times. They are about the shade of a fish's belly. As is the rest of me.


Anyway, yesterday I was manically happy. My dear friend called me at 11pm last night.

Phone: Annoying Ring! Annoying Ring!

Me: How do you know I wasn't asleep?

Dear Friend: Because you're probably just now coming down off your sun high.

Yeah, well.

The Daughterly Offspring went to track practice yesterday. She hit 4'10" at the high jump bar. This qualifies her to compete in a track invite on the other side of the state. She told her coach it was the weather. It's like absorbing an energy drink from the air.

The other track kids were lying on the ground, panting and dying of heat stroke. It was maybe 72*. With the famed maritime breeze.

Daughterly Offspring says she may apply to the University of Arizona for college. If she ends up being a Wildcat, I am so turning into one of those Stalker Moms who follow their kid to college.