Hey, I'm Not Gay

When I turned thirty, I cut my hair short and never looked back. While I wore it in varying stages of long for my entire life (with it almost to my butt as a young child), I was so relieved when I found out that short hair looked good on me, since I'm lazy in the mornings and it's so easy to care for.

As you may know, I've lived in several other places before landing in Seattle and in every other place I've lived, my sexual preference has never before been questioned to the degree that it has here in Seattle. While I know I'm not a Pretty Young Thing, I've never lived anywhere that when it comes to dating where I cannot get arrested.

Even in LA, the land of the superficial, I could probably do better than I'm faring here in Seattle. Although, it is possible that I may be deluding myself and looking at L.A. through rose-colored glasses. But believe me when I tell you - it's been very disheartening here in Seattle, a city that seems to be obsessed with hair. The men here have way too much of it in my book and that's just on their heads. Facial hair is also terribly out of control in this city and most men look like Grizzly Adams. It's definitely not coiffed facial hair.

Seattle is a city where you will also see women with hair that does not match their age. I am of the mind that as you age, your hair should get shorter and thus more tasteful. Not in Seattle!!

Here you see lots of women with long hair, and about half of them should cut it. Long stringy hair on an older woman is anything but flattering. "Look in the mirror!" I want to scream. But no one would listen if I did; I'd be preaching to the choir. Plus, I'm living in the land of Gortex, where sadly I've started fantasizing about purchasing completely water-proof hiking boots rather than the glam, suede high-heel boots I've been swooning over at Marshall's. The entire city could be on What Not To Wear.

Someone seriously needs to slap me. But, unfortunately, when it rains 7 months out of the year practicality takes over. As a last-ditch effort, I'm trying to save myself from becoming a fashion nightmare.

But, back to Seattle being a sucky place to date. In addition to stopping myself from thinking about Gortex, I've finally figured out part of my dating problem: my very short hairstyle.

In the year that I've lived in Seattle, only women have been knocking down my door.

My housemate recently confirmed my fears and she told me that she too, when she wore her hair very short, was completely ignored by the male species.

Fabulous.

We all know that men like long hair. Yawn. It just so happens that for several reasons, as well as the fact that my hair is super fine, that wearing it short seems to be the best solution. However, I can be proactive and have decided to grow it out to a short bob and see what happens. I'm approaching it as a scientific experiment. We'll see if any of the men in Seattle notice.

Thanks, Canada

After making it through my first year in Seattle at the beginning of August, I have to admit: I wasn't loving Seattle. It's not a very friendly city and I was starting to fantasize about living in other places.

Over the past several days, something has shifted. Not just one thing happened, but a combination of things that helped change my perspective.

On Friday I was excited because I had an audition for a national commercial. While I didn't get a callback or the job, it got my creative juices pumping and made me realize that the Seattle acting market is the perfect size for me given my experience.

Then on Saturday, I visited Vancouver, British Columbia for the day and I'm pretty sure that's what caused the paradigm shift.

What a freaking cool city! And, it's only 2 1/2 hours away. Yay!!

Having a city like Vancouver so close by has given me a new lease on life. I cannot wait to go back.

On Sunday, I auditioned for a play lab for a staged reading and while I don't know if I'll get cast or not - it felt so good to be acting. They were casting for 4 different plays and I got to read for all of them and the response was good. Really good. While I haven't heard back yet, and it's driving me batty, it was a good reminder that it's about the process - as actors we don't have much control on the outcome. We just have to keep plugging away and fighting the good fight.

I've also started writing a one-woman show with my much esteemed acting coach and she's just as excited about my project as I am and I believe her enthusiasm is authentic. She really feels I'm developing something worthwhile and it's nice to not only get the validation, but to be working with someone like her. She's a master at what she does and I feel I've found the perfect person to work with.

Being an artist isn't easy. Most people don't get us and there is no guarantee we'll get the reward.

Thank goodness, I've been inspired to keep going. My eye is back on the prize.

Dating In The Time Of Cholera

I once had a college professor who was a complete moron. I know you might find this hard to believe, especially at a school as prestigious as UCLA, but I assure you: the man was an idiot. During the quarter that I took his Sociology course, the only wise thing that he would mumble on occasion was, "We have to laugh, so we don't cry." This comment seemed to allude to his Mexican heritage in some way and it was implied that he felt he'd gotten the ethnic short end of the stick.

Who knew, this many years later (and it's been many years) that I would take this phrase to heart - particularly in matters of the heart.

While I didn't expect to find myself middle aged and single - guess what? Here I am.

Fantastic.

Actually, no - not really.

When I lived in Los Angeles (where I lived for 18 years), dating was challenging. While I have friends who have succeeded in finding admirable mates, I tend to think of the dating mores in LA and get hives. It's not uncommon to be talking to someone of the opposite sex, say, at a party and for them to be looking past you: to see who better they can converse with.

It's frickin' depressing.

From there I moved to Las Vegas - a place I never intended to live, that in fact chose me. I went along for the ride kicking & screaming, but, once settling in I made the best of the situation and found dating in Sin City to be, well, surprisingly easy.

Even though my banker at Wells Fargo warned me when I first got to town to beware of men on the down-low and men who pay for sex (unfortunately I would later meet one of each variety), I found that any man who caught my eye would then ask me out. It was like...well...magic! I'd never experienced such amazing dating juju in my life.

Life in Seattle would beckon to me and I would follow, and after a few excellent dating years in Las Vegas I would find....in Seattle...

I can't get arrested.

Excuse me? What the...???

Okay, I know I'm over forty, but I look reasonably good. It's not like I'm an old hag or anything. I still think I'm sort of a....catch.

When I first arrived a year ago I tried online dating and met some truly vile men and decided it was time to move on and have faith that a man could appear in another fashion.

I recently got set up on a blind date as some of you know and....nothing. Apparently we weren't on the same page. I seemed to think we had a good time after spending 4 1/2 hours together. To me it seemed like a sign of success. Apparently, I was wrong.

I'm not stupid, and I've read "He's Just Not That Into You." And my friend Seven was kind enough to reiterate that "he's not into you." Thanks, Seven. I needed the reminder.

When I was in LA in April for a friend's baby shower I got together with a former flame and the sparks seemed to fly. He thought it would be a good idea to get together at a time in the near future and take me away on a romantic getaway. When I got home and my hormones had calmed down, I realized that it probably wasn't the smartest idea. My friend and I had attempted to date about 10 years ago and when I took the trip down memory lane, I realized that my agreeing to the tentative romantic getaway was most probably a serious lapse in judgment as Mark (as much as I love him) was hardly a smart romantic prospect.

We spoke again about 3 weeks ago and Mark (who is very sweet) asked me if we were going to take our trip. I kind of hemmed and hawed and well...kind of agreed.

And then today, I'm on Facebook and just happen to notice that he's changed his relationship status to...in a relationship!

You'd think that I'd be happy. Relieved, in fact, and feel that he's done me a favor and that now I can slip out of our tentative commitment.

Hell no!

The very least the motherfucker could have done was told me he'd met someone! We've only been friends for twenty years.

Oh, I was pissed. And, I called him a motherfucker in the email I sent. Followed by: "I'm happy for you and I hope it works out."

What has happened to chivalry? I'm afraid it might be a rhetorical question.

Most likely, it's dead.

Today I'm A Salad

When I first found out there was a Korean spa in the Seattle area, my heart skipped a beat. I was ecstatic. It had been years since I'd frequented such a place and when I made my first visit a few months back, it was everything I'd hoped for and more.

I must say, spending the Fourth of July getting completely pampered was just what the doctor ordered.

Now, if you've never been to a Korean spa before, and aren't European - know that it isn't for everyone. What I mean by that, is that even though you're given a robe, you'll be spending a lot of time au naturel. It's not a tony spa environment where everyone is robed and shuffled in and out of their spa treatments. At this type of spa, you are laid down on a table buck naked before you are scrubbed or moisturized by a Korean woman in a black utilitarian bra and underwear.

After a morning of soaking in the various tubs, sitting in the steam room and sauna and getting a couple of treatments, I ate lunch in the restaurant and then hopped from room to room. The spa boasts room of different temperatures - varying degrees of hot - that all promise different healing properties and are supposed to regulate different bodily processes. All good, of course.

From the way they advertise it, if you spend enough time in each room before you leave, you're guaranteed not only extra vitality and energy, but also years added onto your life - just as long as you don't get hit by a bus when you leave.

After baking in one room that warns against staying in it longer for more than five minutes, I went into the cool room to "chill" and stared at a poster of a penguin family. After all the heat I could take in the rooms, I showered - as told to do by the woman who would be in charge of my moisturizing treatment - and then sat in the dry sauna. I could only stand it for a few minutes before I had to get out. It had been a long day of a lot of heat. I did pop back in (I can obey orders) for a few more minutes before Eve came and got me.

I was then ready for my moisturizing treatment. And as it turned out, I had no idea what I was in for.

For fifty minutes, Eve's intent was to moisturize the heck out of me. And that she did.

She slathered me in separate coats (and poured hot water on me in between) of olive oil, milk and honey.  After the honey was applied, she then packed my face with iced cucumber and left me to marinate.

For a really long time. At least 10 minutes, maybe longer. It felt like an eternity. And after a while, I was ready to be rid of the honey and cucumber on my body. Seriously, I had turned into a salad.

When you're lying there, wrapped up like coleslaw, you lose sense of time. It wasn't like I could see the clock - because each eye was covered by a slice of cucumber. What is supposed to be super relaxing, after a while becomes a tad annoying.

Finally Eve returned and hosed me off and sent me on my merry way. She told me not to go near water the rest of the day. I could drink it, but it couldn't touch my body. I was now as soft as a baby's hiney, so I didn't care.

On the drive home, though, I noticed there was quite a slick streak of honey on my left forearm. What do do? I promised to stay away from water. However, I think given the gargantuan ants that I've seen walking around my kitchen and bedroom lately (that I think stowed away in the peonies from the market), that it's safe to apply a damp paper towel to my left forearm. Eve doesn't need to know.

Connections

Usually when I sit down to blog, I have a plan. Something I want to write about, some topic, whatever it may be. Today I don't really have a theme or a topic. I just feel like writing.


Last night I had a dream. While not a recurring dream in and of itself; I've had many variations of this dream over the years. The dream was set on Dayton Road in Redding, Connecticut where I grew up. In the dream, I was looking for the house I grew up in. I was having a difficult time locating the house (I wasn't really walking in the dream, but kind of drifting which of course you can do when you're dreaming) because there were lots of additional houses that weren't usually there.


I was able to locate our next door neighbor's house, it looked the same. But even with their house being recognizable, I still couldn't find our house.


Finally I found it. I've had variations on this dream, where I was in my old house, even though other people now lived there and for several years it seemed like the dream was recurring. It turns out, my mother also had similar dreams.


Sometimes I wonder why I've dreamed about this house in particular, when I have lived in other places and dwellings? Probably, because, this house signifies "home." The place where I lived from the age of 8 to 16.


After to moving to California from Connecticut in 1988, it would take many years for me to return to the east coast. It wasn't until my late Great Aunt Estelle threw herself a 90th birthday celebration that I would return. It was a good 9 or so years later that my parents and I would find ourselves in front of our old house. It looked pretty much the same as it had always looked, although the new owners had painted it white.


Our next door neighbor's house, however, looked remarkably different. Joe Burke and his wife Sharon had lived next door to us for the 8 years we were in our house, with Sharon's two children - Terri and Brian. The outside of their home was always attractive, with some nice landscaping and flowers. All these years later, it was obvious to us that the Burke-Garlock family was long gone. It looked like Sanford & Son had moved in. It was quite ghetto.


Because the appearance of their former home was so scandalous, it was all my parents and I could talk about the rest of the trip and we wondered what had become of our former neighbors. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about Brian Garlock - the son of the family. While I didn't know Brian well, after Terri got married at 18 and ran off to California, Brian replaced his sister as our babysitter. For some reason, the memory I have etched in my mind is of Brian eating Doritos. He would put the entire chip in his mouth and chomp down. It used to make me laugh. I was unable to shake the thought of Brian and found myself thinking about him non-stop.


When I got back to Los Angeles, I was in between jobs and was asked by a friend to fill in for her at Disney while she took a trip to Maui. I was at her desk for a week and on the second day, an email came along with information about t-shirts for the remake of "The Parent Trap" - the movie that Disney was promoting at the time. In the email, it mentioned the name of the person from the marketing company who was supplying the t-shirts. Her name was Terri Garlock.


I called the phone number in the email and an older woman answered the phone. She was Terri's secretary. I told her that what I was about to say might sound strange, but I was wondering if I might know Terri. I gave her my information and 5 minutes later she called back. She was excited and relayed her conversation with Terri. It turned out, that indeed Terri was my former next-door neighbor from Connecticut. The woman told me that when she'd told Terri that I had called, that Terri was so surprised that she nearly ran off the road. I also found out, that Terri was on her way to the Disney Studios and would be there in 20 minutes.


I was like a little kid. I made sure that I was in the right spot to greet Terri when she arrived. We laughed, we hugged each other and we caught up. Terri was pregnant and told me that her first marriage hadn't worked out. She was happily married to husband #2 and I told her to never go by her old house, if she were to find herself in Connecticut, but rather remember the house the way it used to look. She thanked me and told me that her Stepdad, Joe, had told her the same thing. Then, she proceeded to tell me some really sad news.


Her brother, Brian, had been killed in an Amtrak wreck when he was 21. Her mother ran away and no one had heard from her since.


Terri then asked how my parents were doing, and revealed that she married a Jewish man and credited my Dad in making a good impression and actually influencing her choice in a spouse. Way to go, Dad.


It's funny how life turns out. We never know what will happen. Right now a lot of my friends are having babies. It seems like I'm the only person in my group of friends and family without a kid. Maybe it's got me thinking about life, and death. Or maybe it's because my parents (like everyone else's) are growing older and I find myself wondering how long I'll have them around for.


When my Great Aunt Estelle came down with dementia at the age of 94 it was devastating. However, I suppose her situation wasn't as bad compared to some others who are afflicted, even though it was terrible for us. She was as sharp as a tack until she was 94 and died at 96, not knowing who any of us were. Today, I heard from a friend who I've known since I was 5 - who is dealing with her Dad, who has Alzheimer's, and is in a home. She's having a hard time.


Do I have a point here? Not really. Just the thought that we are so connected, whether we realize it or not.

Seattle, A Ginormous Backpack A Purse Doesn't Make

This morning I rode the bus downtown for an early morning meeting. Because parking in downtown Seattle is a complete pain in the ass, not to mention expensive, I take the bus when I’m going into the heart of the concrete jungle.

This morning I noticed when a fashionable young woman, clearly a young professional, got on the bus and sat down across the aisle a few rows in front of me. Her outfit was super-cute and I nodded approvingly to myself, giving her a silent thumbs-up for such a fab ensemble. She was decked out, head-to-toe, dressed to the nines with a professional polish – fantastic leather high-heeled boots, a pretty gray pleated flared skirt and a nice wool coat. In Seattle it’s not unusual to see well-dressed women. The men, on the other hand, as a general rule – are a hot mess.

We’ll save them for another time.

What I did not approve of, was that this well-dressed young woman, instead of carrying a purse or a briefcase (something you don’t see enough of in Seattle) was hauling (and I mean hauling) a backpack the size of Jamaica. It wasn’t a purse in the style of a backpack, say in a nice black leather. Oh no, it was a ginormous, North Face ordeal that you would take on a camping trip with all of the doo-hickeys sticking out of it. It looked like it could carry a small family. And she had to position it so it wouldn’t fall off her lap, which it tried to do. It was awful and I had to divert my eyes.

What was this woman thinking, I wondered? And where are the fashion police when you need them? Seattle needs some serious help.

From riding the bus on occasion, I’ve learned that the backpack to purse ratio, among well dressed women in Seattle, is way too low. If a man is carrying anything more than his cell phone, he will most definitely be carrying a backpack. While not the most attractive look, you will never see a man purse in Seattle. We’ll let the guys get away with carrying their crap in a backpack. I don’t care about how they look – I’ve given up.

But the women? It’s shameful, really. Seattle women need to take a field trip to New York and realize that Seattle has a bizarre fashion sense all its own.

A friend of mine, who also grew up in Connecticut, recently relayed a disturbing fact to me. She said that it’s trendy in Seattle to shop at stores like REI and The North Face – all the places that sell camping gear – and buy the brand-named camping clothes, even if you’ve never camped a day in your life and aren’t ever planning to do so as a fashion statement.

You heard me. Some poor fool will spend their hard-earned dollars at Columbia or The North Face buying a fleece pull-over and waterproof hiking pants just to be cool. As if that’s an acceptable look. And most of them don’t buy the attractive versions of these clothing items or sizes that fit right. You should see these faux camping folk! They look terrible.

I’m sorry, but this isn’t just disturbing to me, it’s downright frightening.

Who knew that it would take me moving here to become a fashionista? I’m on a mission. Stay tuned…

Just Another Saturday

This past Thursday, my friend Debbie and I met at my new favorite Seattle restaurant Tavolata. From there we went to see “Limitless” with our Cinema meetup group. I arrived before Debbie did to take advantage of Tavolata’s fabulous happy hour and have dinner. Debbie arrived a bit later than me. She’s on a weird diet to determine whether or not she has food allergies. So, while I enjoyed my second glass of wine, she downed a bowl of watercress drizzled with olive oil.

We caught up, I filled her in on my week and she filled me in on hers. We had a good old time catching up and then walked a block and a half over to The Big Picture – one of the coolest places to watch a movie in Seattle. The Big Picture has private rooms and that’s where we met up with the meetup group. Debbie and I were drinking water while the rest of the people were enjoying their cocktails (The Big Picture has a full bar). I’m counting points and had already consumed all I could allow in good conscience at dinner, so it was on to water and lots of it. This would prove to be a mistake, when during the climax of the movie, I had to run out to pee.

One of the fun things about this venue is that there are several lounge areas with couches and oversized chairs on which to socialize. Before the movie started, we chatted with some of the other meetup folks. One guy who we’d been talking to, sat himself next to me in the theater. I found him to be extremely friendly and just a tad creepy. He told me he was sure this would prove to be my movie. I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but he seemed harmless enough and I didn’t feel the need to bolt.

On the other side of Debbie sat Michael. When we arrived, he was chomping on some pizza and we chatted with him. It turns out we’d both decided he was just delightful. We enjoyed the movie.

Tonight the cinema group is seeing “Jane Eyre” and I invited Debbie. She said yes. From a conversation I had with Debbie this morning, I learned that she has a crush on Michael. I could see why. He’s a cutie-patootie. And while, I admittedly also had a crush on him – was willing to sacrifice my crush and pimp for Debbie. I’m that kind of friend.

Yesterday I’d noticed that when Michael had rated the meetup, he’d also made a comment saying he had a great time at the movie with the people he saw the movie with; that would be me and Debbie. It looked like things were boding well for Debbie and Michael.

So, today, I decided to send Michael a note letting him know Debbie and I were going to the movies and invited him to join us. I made sure to mention in the email that I wasn’t stalking him (this is Seattle and I didn’t want to freak him out by being overly-friendly) and I also mentioned that he might already have plans and that “Jane Eyre” is kind of a chick-flick.

While I was emailing him, I still had the meetup page open on my computer and went back to his profile. That’s when I saw it – and got the biggest laugh I’ve had since arriving in Seattle.

Michael also belongs to another meetup group. Namely, the Another Gay Social Club!meetup group. After laughing my ass off, I wondered how I – such a huge fag hag – didn’t see this one coming. Maybe this is why I’m a fag hag, because I’m drawn to gay men even if it isn’t obvious. Our impression of Michael was that he was fabulous. He was cute, friendly and chatted us up. I shake my head in shame. How could I not have known? He isn’t obviously gay, so I had such high hopes for him and Debbie. He was dressed in sweats that night, but didn’t look sloppy. On the upside, he might just be the fabulous gay friend that Debbie and I are both looking for.

Now Steve, the guy who planted himself next to me at the movie is another story. While friendly and a bit out there, comes across as a mess, physically. When Debbie and I were talking this morning (Debbie is a native) and were comparing notes, she was being polite and laughed when I told her what I really thought of him.

Of course, Steve is interested in me. Isn’t that the case, when as a woman, you couldn’t be more disinterested yourself? Steve has been emailing me since yesterday. His initial email was, to say the least, interesting. He told me that I’m a Ferrari disguised as a Prius. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. He then made a reference to “Limitless,” which is about using full brain capacity in his opinion and drug addiction in mine, and it seemed to me was suggesting that I’m not reaching my full potential. Anyway, that’s how it came across and I found it annoying since he doesn’t know me. I asked him if he’s a life coach.

He’s not a life coach. He’s a self-proclaimed Metaphysician and follower of Tony Robbins. Um, puke. While I have nothing against Tony Robbins personally, people who are followers of anything other than themselves don’t bode well with me. And to introduce oneself as a Metaphysician, I find to be spiritually arrogant and somewhat fishy. People who are truly enlightened don’t advertise.

Hey, and I’m a Shaman. Let’s meet for drinks. Not.

I know this may sound a bit harsh, but have you noticed how almost all of the spiritual kooks out there are men?

Really, I’m not bashing men. I’m not a hater. I like men just fine. It’s just that in my observation, it seems that when some of them start off on a spiritual path or are well on their way (as in “My name is now Swami or Baba Whatever” since they’ve denounced their given name and have started wearing all white and a turban and they’re as white as their turban), combined with the male ego and hubris (often one and the same), they think they rule the world. As if it isn’t bad enough already.

Steve came on way too strong for my taste and I had to tell him to back off. Fortunately, he took it okay and is respecting my wishes to stay away.

Ah, just another day in the life of Yours Truly.

Aren't Yoga Teachers Supposed To Be Nice?

Is it just me, or isn't there an unwritten law that yoga teachers are supposed to be nice? While all may not be overly warm and fuzzy (I've been fortunate enough to have several who have been) yoga teachers tend to have that nice thing going on. The drill sergeant type usually isn't drawn to yoga, although I've never been to a Bikram class so I could be wrong.

After all, yoga is a practice based on the union of body and soul. There's spiritual stuff going on here is my point. While all yoga teachers aren't necessarily yogis - meaning that they embody what yoga is truly about (that union, once again), I've been fortunate to have been taught by some really special teachers. Recently I encountered a faux yoga teacher at the gym, but it's rare to find a true yogi or yogini in a class taught at the gym, but then again I've experienced that as well. Call me lucky.

Okay, so maybe I'm just spoiled. But hear me out on this rant of mine.

Most of the yoga teachers I've encountered have been lovely, gentle souls. Warm, nurturing people who make you feel good. A true yogi or yogini just makes the yogic experience that much better.

A couple of months ago I tried the Tuesday night class at my gym and was thrilled. It was a really good class. Again, you never know what you're going to get at the gym. The club I belong to also replaced the faux Monday night teacher and replaced her with someone truly fabulous. Things were going my way.

Then I couldn't make the Tuesday class for a couple of months due to my schedule.

Not a big deal - the class ended and it's back to yoga.

Today I noticed something in myself that worried me a little. I'm afraid that I'm slowly losing my friendly nature here in Seattle, where people (I've been told I've been hanging out in the wrong neighborhood) in my observation pretty much ignore those who they don't know. When I first got here I was still in super friendly mode and would on occasion strike up a conversation with a stranger. This, my friends, is radical in Seattle. It's just not done.

So, I started to worry that I'm becoming like them - the frozen Seattle-ites (reference to the "Seattle Freeze" - the state of unfriendliness in this city). It's a city founded by Swedes, so they're not the friendliest bunch to begin with. And then, I've heard, even the friendly people cave in and conform. I've been told they just can't bother to keep up the friendly game. Now, I have met some super-duper friendly people (and are friends with these people; I'm not stupid), but they are not the norm.

Okay, so back to yoga.

Tonight I got to my yoga class early and noticed that the teacher was sitting less than a foot away from me while the step class was finishing up. I decided to make a bold move and actually speak to her. Now, I'd taken her class once or twice before and she may or may not have recognized me. However, what I told her suggested that I'd taken her class before.

Brace yourselves when I tell you what I did. I decided to pay a compliment to a stranger.

Lord, what was I thinking?

At the risk of becoming like the rest of Seattle, I decided to actually open up my mouth and speak to someone, who's well - a stranger. I decided to tell the yoga teacher that I like her class. I even went so far to produce more than one sentence informing her that I couldn't attend for a while and was so glad to be back.

Can you imagine someone being so friendly, for no good reason?

Apparently, she couldn't. She didn't respond. No, she just looked at me - like I had two heads, sucked in some air and turned red in the face.

She's a friggin' yoga teacher! You would think she could squeak out a "thank you."

Okay, maybe I'm being hard on her and she's shy. But really? She couldn't even crack a smile. It would be a first, that I know of, if I've offended someone with a compliment. I'd really like to think that a yoga teacher, in a city other than Seattle, would have been happy to hear that someone likes her class.

Her class was good, and I'll go back. I just won't ever compliment her again.

What was I thinking? Saying something nice to a virtual stranger? That's just so southern California of me.

Okay, I Can Eat Crow

Yesterday I wrote a post making fun of my parents because they were disappointed with the way I treated a stranger who I’d written about in an earlier post. While it felt justified and quite okay doing what I did at the time, I can admit when I’ve been less than nice. If there wasn’t a kernel of truth to it, I wouldn’t have written a post lampooning my dear old parents in the first place.

Now let me be clear, I’m not apologizing for my behavior.

While I can’t undo it, or necessarily want to undo it, I’m not apologizing for it.

I had had a few drinks when I said what I said to the guy in the bar.

Could I have left him alone?

Sure, if I’d wanted to.

But I didn’t want to.

What I’ve since realized, is what the motivation was behind it. And as any good actor knows, that’s the important part.

I was coming from a place of contempt towards closeted gay men.

Am I proud of it?

No, not really. But I’m not losing sleep over it, either. I do believe, in part, that the anger was justified. Take all the women who are in sexless marriages with gay men who are being lied to on a daily basis. I had a friend who was married to a gay man and the repercussions were beyond devastatingly painful and sad. Is that right or fair? I don’t think so. I also don’t agree with protecting closeted gay men just for the sake of protecting them.

But, is it fair to take it out on some poor sap I don’t know?

Probably not. But if you know me well, you’ll know my bullying tactics go back years. Oh, all the way back to when I was about 5. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, nor bothered by. It’s just part of who I am and I’m okay with it. Am I trying to be a better person, day by day, and doing my best to evolve? Absolutely.

I’ll admit, the rant against me that was made on Facebook yesterday, by someone I’ve only met once, pissed me off. I felt that her long lashing of me was a bit much and obnoxious (maybe not that different from the way she perceived me to be?), so I de-friended her. It is, after all, a free country. And I am a Scorpio.

But I will also admit that I did have an epiphany yesterday. I realized, that for the work I’m doing (a book project), that it’s important to approach the subject of closeted gays with compassion, not contempt. Yes, unfairness abounds, but they can’t be happy where they are. They just can’t be.

So, while I’m not perfect, I can do my best to be kind. Grumble.

Why Can't Parents Behave?

You would think that as a grown adult that my parents wouldn’t get to me.

You would think.

But, no.

When I started this blog and named myself “Sassy in Seattle,” I thought it was clear the sassy part meant I have somewhat of an edge. Kind of badass. You know what I’m sayin’?

Isn’t it obvious that I’m not for the weary of heart?

Leave it to one’s parents (mine in this instance) to reprimand you for something you write about in your blog.

When we exiled my parents to Whidbey Island last summer, you would think there would be enough shenanigans going on on that island to keep them busy for the rest of their lives. But, no. They have to worm their way into my blog.

Hey, while I think it’s great that my elderly parents (you hear that Mom and Dad, I’m threatening you by calling you elderly?) read my blog, what I write about isn’t up for discussion, unless it’s a compliment. My ego just can’t take it. I should have made that clear from the beginning.

Yesterday I was in a fine mood. Great, in fact. I’d just found out I’d won a trip to Whistler, British Columbia and decided to share the news with good old Mom & Dad.

Dad answers the phone and semi-grumpily says hello and then wastes no time getting right to the point – that he didn’t like one of my blog posts.

“What?” I said. “Yeah,” he said, “I thought you were kind of mean.” What the heck was he talking about? He said that he thought I was mean to the guy in the bar that I accused of being gay. Why didn’t I just leave him alone, he said. “Why did you have to pick on him?” Excuse me, but when did my father become the defendant of seemingly closeted gay men? “You don’t understand” I said. “Oh, I know all about the gays” he said. “I’ve been around them for years,” he said, like that was supposed to make me feel better.

Then my mother gets on the phone. “Hello dearie,” she says in her super-duper British accent. “Hi, ” I said. “Dad’s been telling me how he didn’t like my blog post.” She didn’t even try and fluff it off. She agreed with him! So, she thinks I’m a meanie, too.

The nerve!

Remember how I mentioned they’re on an island? We should have put them on separate islands, with the two of them agreeing with each other! You do something nice for your elderly parents and they turn against you.

I suppose my parents have a right to their opinion, but they’re living in island paradise. First off, they’ve been married to each other forever. They have no idea what it’s like in the brutal, dating world.

What’s a girl to do?

Only what a sassy girl can do. I’m sticking to my guns. While I’ll still have a tough exterior, I just may have to give little gay guy a peck on the cheek (thanks for the guilt M & D) should he ever again cross my path.

Why I Won't Write a Screenplay & Interact With Strange, Random Men Who Troll the Internet

Recently a random guy read my blog and sent me a message on Facebook complimenting me on a recent post.

I had no idea how this guy had stumbled upon my blog. Because he contacted me on Facebook I thought perhaps we had a mutual Facebook friend so I checked it out. No mutual friends. I even went so far as to look through all his friends. I didn't know any of his friends and besides, he lives in Northern California. Nowhere near me. So, then I asked him how he'd come upon my blog and he said that he saw in on SheWrites.com where I re-post.

He also said that he had tried contacting someone on the SheWrites site because he was looking for a female collaborator for a book. I admit, it piqued my interest. So, I googled this random guy and he writes for a police website and is a former cop. He seemed legit.

For about a minute I thought I might be interested in writing with him. No one had ever approached me to co-write before and I thought it might be a cool idea. He suggested we write either a novel or a screenplay.

That's when I knew I was in trouble.

For one, I'm not a big fan of the novel. Unless it's really good and has been recommended by someone I know and who's taste I trust, when it comes to novel reading - I don't do it. I much prefer non-fiction. And when it comes to writing a novel, I wouldn't have the foggiest idea on what to do or where to begin. Oh, I know from English class you can add foreshadowing and you're supposed to have an arc and a beginning, middle and an end, but I wouldn't even know how to get started. But trust me when I tell you I'm not egotistical enough to think I have a best-selling novel in me.

Or screenplay, for that matter.

I remember years ago, when I thought I might want to someday write a screenplay. My mother introduced me to the sister of someone she knew who was a professional writer in Hollywood. I was living in L.A. and the woman was kind enough to meet me for lunch and allow me to pick her brain on screenwriting. She had managed to get to a place where she was successful and it had taken years. It took her writing seven scripts before she sold one. Did you hear me? I said seven.

To me, it also seems arrogant - and why don't we add stupid into the mix - to think I could collaborate with this random dude who has never sold a script and write a screenplay that would sell. I knew it was a bad idea when I mentioned to him that I was having misgivings about writing a screenplay and he didn't understand why. It's amazing how many people think they can write a script and sell it. I have friends who are writers and I know it isn't easy. And, I happen to know diddly about writing a script of any kind.

But a funny thing did happen, something that I did not see coming. From blogging and writing these posts, an idea for a non-fiction book has emerged, quite to my surprise. For now, I'm not sharing the idea. I'm just going to write the thing and see where it goes. The other day I was feeling inspired and wrote the preface and the first four chapters all in one fell swoop. The inspiration has seemed to have temporarily dried up. I'm hoping the rest of the book will come to me. I'm trying to be patient and trust the creative process that the rest of the book comes. But really, it's out of my control.

Today I was reading "The Funny Times" and came upon something particularly amusing by the humorist Dave Barry. I then looked for the article online to repost and it led me to his website, where I read something by a screenwriter. It made me realize that I did the right thing, turning down the offer to write a screenplay that is "sure to sell" with someone without a track record. It was written by a screenwriter named Josh Olson and it's called "I Will Not Read Your Fucking Script." If you want to read it, click here.

Incidentally, I mentioned this random guy approaching me to several friends and a few came back saying they had a bad feeling about him. Even my Dad said he thought something was fishy. Another friend went so far as to say she thought he could be harmful. Note to friends and family for future reference: please speak up and do so in a timely manner. If you think something bad could happen, don't wait a week to check in to see if I'm still alive. I'm just sayin.'

Way more than 10% of the population is gay

Thank you to my friend Zee for turning me onto this. This underscores my belief that way more than 10% of the population is gay. It just hasn't been properly documented and with all of those closet doors shut, how can it be?

The Gays Need To Get With It

I am still on the search for a fabulous, gay friend in Seattle. Male, of course.

This closeted gay thing is getting old and since I can't find any good metrosexuals to hob-nob with, the idea of outing people is starting to become more and more attractive.

I even tried it out for size last Saturday night. Just because.

I was out with my new friend Tara, who is also from Connecticut, and I left her mortified when I called it like it is. At this point it is unclear whether Tara will ever hang out with me again, but that's okay. We're in a crisis situation here.

We went barhopping in the part of my 'hood, lower Queen Anne, which is where the young, trendy people hang. The yuppies are just up aways, on the "hill." Believe me when I tell you it's two different worlds. I prefer my yuppies up on the hill.

When we arrived at Peso's, our last watering hole of the evening, we found two seats at the end of the bar. Next to us were three, pretty gay-looking, straight-acting guys. While Tara would later shriek at me that I have no filter and cannot just tell someone they are gay, that's actually not quite how it went down.

One of the three guys, a cute, short little guy in a green sport's jersey was about to pass me on his way out. I touched his arm and said, "You should live in LA." Little guy stopped dead in his tracks. "Why do you say that?" he asked. "Because," I said, "you have an LA vibe." That's all I said. "You have an LA vibe." I was being nice.

I didn't say, because you are obviously gay and West Hollywood would be the best neighborhood for you to live in. I just said he had an LA vibe and left it at that. Then he asked me "are you saying I'm gay"? How he made the correlation between LA and gay came from his own mind, not mine. Mind you, I wasn't trying to be the Gay Whisperer and wasn't trying out any of my extrasensory powers on short little guy.

Of course I answered "yes." I'm an honest Injun. That's when he told me, "I'm not gay."

Okay, if you say so was what I was thinking. He repeated it, about four or five times before he left. But, before he departed, he made sure he told me he thought he came across as rugged and manly. Rugged and manly?

You should be proud of me, because I did not laugh. Even though I wanted to. Desperately. It took everything I had to keep a straight face, because short little guy was about as rugged and manly as...well, me.

He looked like he was about to cry before he ran out of Peso's. That's when Tara laid into me. What did I do that's so terrible? Maybe ten years from now, when short little guy is still in denial, married to a woman and unable to get out of the opium den he's chained himself to in Thailand, he'll remember my words and they will set him free. Or maybe not. The bottom line? It's not my problem. I just tell it like it is.

Where's a Metrosexual When I Need One?

First off, I need to define metrosexuals for my readers (namely, older relatives who may not be familiar with the term). Let's see if Merriam-Webster has a listing. Hmmm. Whaddya know? They do!

Here's what it says: a usually urban heterosexual male given to enhancing his personal by fastidious grooming, beauty treatments, and fashionable clothes. The term is said to have been coined in 1994.

You may not know this about me, but I'm pretty metrosexual-friendly. In other words, I hate sloppy men, AKA slobs. This also sets me up to be one, first-rate fag hag. Put a straight-seeming, good looking, fragrance wearing, well-dressed gay man in front of me - and I'm in love.

I know, it's pathetic. Yes, I'm sure I've dated a bi guy or two, and probably at least one gay man in my life. If you're thinking, "Maybe that's why she's still single," hush.

I have lately wondered: do true metrosexuals really exist? Men who are neat, tidy, clean, and...straight, without one gay bone in their body?

If I think about most of my friends' husbands, some are slobs and yes, some are metrosexuals. A friends' late brother definitely fit the bill. He was handsome and dressed well and had his eyebrows waxed. While I don't know if he was in danger of a unibrow if left unwaxed, he was definitely a metrosexual and very heterosexual if you know what I mean.

I have another friend whose husband is also a metrosexual. He is well-groomed, well-dressed and has better taste when it comes to decorating (she's the first one to admit it) than she does. Again, nothing gay about this guy.

The reason for my existential angst?

Because I'm in Seattle & the rules are different here. I'm pretty sure that almost every metrosexual is indeed gay. The metrosexual phenomenon isn't as nuanced here as it is in other places I've lived. For starters, Seattlites aren't exactly known for their fashion sense. In fact, most should be hauled off by the fashion police (if only they existed!)

Yes, it's dreadfully stereotypical here. The prototypical male wears a plaid shirt and has a scruffy beard and longish scraggly hair. Yuck! As a fag hag, I find this horribly offensive. I can't tell you what the rest of the outfit consists of because I stop looking at this point and divert my eyes to anything else. Even my 80-year old father makes fun of them. It's depressing.

Then there are the hipsters. Puke again. Luckily they are usually out of my age-range and tattooed and pierced. Really - could you get enough tats & studs? It's not like there's just one and it's tasteful. Usually they're covered in both ink and jewelry. So not attractive in my book.

Then that leaves the rest of the male population here in Seattle. Let me just rant for a moment - I've never come across so many closeted gay men in my life! Let me just tell you, Seattle is not as progressive as Seattle thinks it is! Yes they recycle - great! Yes they ride their bikes - get the fuck out of my way! Yes they compost - good for you! But on a regular basis, I'll see an obviously gay man with a wedding ring on and wonder (after living in LA for 18 years), "Where's his husband?" and then gasp in shock when a woman appears. I want to shriek, "Does your wife know you're gay?"

It seems like after living in LA, where I know gay men who have adopted children (God bless them!), that I'm ruined for the Pacific Northwest. When I lived in Vegas, I dated three delightful metros. Just delightful. I'm feeling out of sorts here. I need a metrosexual fix.

Somebody, help!

I'll Have a Shirley Temple, Please

On New Year's Eve, my housemate Donna showed me a column in the local paper.

It was written by a Mother of a student at Donna's daughters' school.

It was about adopting a "Dry January."

This woman wasn't talking about staying out of the rain in Seattle. She was talking about not drinking.

I got the feeling that Donna wanted to give it a try. I told her that if she wanted to do it that I'd be willing to do it with her. You know, for moral support.

Tomorrow is February and I've had a mostly dry January.

For the exception of 3 occasions.

When my friend Karen visited from Vegas earlier in the month I met her for dinner at a Moroccan restaurant. The food was exotic and pretty tasty, but by the end of the meal we were both tired of eating with our hands.

That's not why I resorted to consuming an alcoholic beverage, though. I had decided before Karen even arrived at the restaurant that I would order a glass of champagne. I was even neurotic enough to send her a text message while I was waiting for her (she was detained coming from the airport) asking if she drank champagne. She said she did and I was looking forward to breaking my vow with her.

It's not like I'd been miserable since I hadn't been drinking. Really, it was quite uneventful as I'm not a big drinker to begin with.

Karen recently published her first article as a writer and I wanted to celebrate her success. I also wanted to celebrate me getting back into acting. When Karen arrived, we each ordered a glass of champagne, toasted each other, then embarked on our strange meal. While I love international cuisine, not so much with the Moroccan food. I don't know about Karen, but that glass of champagne helped the meal immensely.

Then I went back to being dry until this past Saturday night when I had dinner with my friend Debbie at our favorite Seattle Thai restaurant. Again, I had decided in advance that I wanted some champagne. Now, this is coming from someone who rarely drinks champagne. I again felt the desire to celebrate with a friend. This time the reason for celebrating was because I had gotten confirmation from the talent agent that I'd met with last year that she indeed wanted to represent me for Film & TV work. I'd waited to tell her I was in Seattle until I knew I had job security and flexibility, which luckily I do.

I was okay, 2 for 2 with the champagne. It was consumed with food and didn't leave me feeling horrible. I went home, got a good night's sleep and woke up the next day and went to yoga class.

Everything was fine until last night when I decided to imbibe once again. This time with some red wine.

I went to a concert at my favorite jazz club and had eaten dinner before going out. I had decided beforehand that I might have a glass of wine. Other than my new champagne habit, I prefer red wine over white so I ordered a glass of Pinot Noir. The waitress brings it, I take a sip and I tell the woman sitting across the table from me (Ann, I believe her name is) how lousy the wine is. She says that maybe it's a cheap table wine.

It hadn't occurred to me that maybe something was wrong until the waitress came back to tell me she had Cabernet on the brain and brought me the wrong wine. Great. So she returns with the Pinot, I take a sip and am happy.

I drink the glass of wine. I sip it. And I drink about 20 glasses of water.

For those of you who have been around me when I'm out and having a drink, you know how I go through the water.

I'm sitting there, listening to WAR, a band who was big in the '70's who was known for their hit "Low Rider." I'm enjoying the music and the wine is definitely helping. Since I was born when most of their songs were written, I didn't know a lot of them. But, that was okay. I was feeling good so I ordered a second glass of wine.

The waitress brings the wine. I drink it. Slowly. Again, I drink a ton of water.

After the second glass I realize I'm not feeling so great. It's not like I was feeling sick. I just wasn't feeling great and the thought of staying in my seat till the end of the concert didn't appeal. I started thinking about my car sitting in the parking structure next door and how great it would be to get out before those 200 other cars did. Now, I wasn't drunk. Luckily I drank enough water so that wasn't the case.

When I got home, I wasn't ready for sleep. That red wine was just sitting in my stomach. So, I wasted time until I felt ready for bed. I surfed the internet. I did the LA Times crossword puzzle online. Unfortunately, I never really felt ready for bed. Finally I popped a couple of melatonin and closed my eyes.

I woke up this morning feeling like crap. Moral of the story? I think my days of red wine, if not completely over, are definitely numbered.

Am I just getting old?

You know, you hear about people as they get older, not being able to eat the foods they enjoyed when they were younger. I've had problems in the past wine with red wine & sulfites and found that imported wines, that don't contain them, were much easier to handle.

It looks likes other than the occasional glass of champagne, I'm out for the count.

I guess it could be worse. Someone, invite me to a wedding please.

To Join or Not To Join?

Okay, so the Kiwanis are trying to recruit me.

It all started so innocently.

I was sitting at my desk at work today staring into space. It's been a week where I have a lot to get done. My golf event looms a few months down the road and while I haven't been hurried, I've definitely been focused. Out of the blue, appears Mike - my Kiwanis buddy, and he announces he'd like to buy me lunch. It was lunchtime, I hadn't eaten and didn't know what I was going to do for lunch as I hadn't packed my lunch this morning.

All of a sudden, lunch with the Kiwanis sounded like a fabulous idea.

Let me just tell you, it wasn't as much fun as their holiday luncheon.

Mike led the way to the boardroom and got me seated. I then noticed that my boss has also been suckered into lunch by his boss. I say hi to my boss & my bosses boss, our CEO, and made a crack that I've joined the Kiwanis. They both laughed. Who knew my joke could potentially be foreshadowing?

Also, FYI, I wasn't going to write another blog post so soon, but my lasagna is taking an incredibly long time and cook and well, you get the idea.

So, back to the Kiwanis.

I haven't attended any sort of gathering that was so organized in decades. Silly me - I thought I'd get to sit back and watch the Kiwanis do their thing.

Uh, no. We were all ordered to stand, whereupon we sang a hymn. Yes, a hymn.

Okay, a little annoying, but I can live with that.

Then we had to sing the flag song. You know, the patriotic one.

That's when I realized how seemingly unpatriotic I am, since I don't attend sporting events or any other such occasions where one might sing to the flag.

I don't even know what the song is called. That's how much I'm not a joiner of anything recognizably organized.

Then we had to put our hands over our hearts and say the, you, know... whatever you call it. The declaration of independence? You know, what they make the kids say in school. I could google it for journalistic purposes, but that would make me look like I know something and I don't. I am frightfully ignorant and apart from whatever it is that good, God-fearing Americans do. The Pledge of Allegiance! It just came to me. It's scary that it took a good half hour to remember.

Then there was the prayer. Said by one of the Kiwanis members, a solemn man with a beard. He freestyled it, made up his own prayer. Everyone said Amen.

Now, while I have nothing against prayer, it's just one of those things that makes me realize how not religious I am. At all.

It's at times like these, it seems more than obvious that I'm an oddball.

While the Kiwanis seemed like a good enough group for me to spend my time with back at Christmas time, with their fancy buffet spread, I was now starting to feel like I was in an AA meeting.

I ate my lunch, which was kindly paid for by Mike, and then had to listen to a pitch from a representative from the local Leukemia/Lymphoma Fundraising Chapter. What saved me from being super bored, is that I was able to think about someone I know who recently lost her husband to Leukemia. I know, not super cheery thoughts, but it helped the time go by. Otherwise, I'd be staring at my hands.

As soon as her pitch was over, I was outta there.

But not so fast.

That's when Mike moved in. With his sales pitch.

He wants me to join their group.

So, to join or not to join? That is the question.

His angle is if I join, they will provide me with a list of 100 other Kiwanis group locations and then I can spend my lunchtimes getting people to sign up for my causes. Hmmmmm.

Not a bad idea. But do I really want to become one of them?

The jury is out on this one.

Getting Some Perspective

After my last blog post, some of my readers (okay, friends - I admit all of my "readers" are personal friends - the masses don't know about me yet) were concerned that I was feeling lonely in Seattle. Don't worry friends! I'm okay! A fairly solitary person by nature, I'm fine. You won't find me crying anywhere in or around Seattle. Many people might not know this about me, but I spent my sophomore & junior years of high school at a dreadful private school in Connecticut where I was miserable.

I refer to the snooty prep school as dreadful because the school was populated by rich kids, many who drove Beemers to school, and I felt at age 15 that I was the only virgin in the school who wasn't snorting coke. I don't want my parents to feel bad when they read this, as they spent a lot of money sending me and my brother to this school. It wasn't all bad. In fact, I learned a lot. After spending grades 3 through 9 in the same public school system, I was terribly lonely when I arrived at St. Pukes (really, St. Lukes). In addition to the education being first-rate, I also learned a lot about self-reliance. My mother told me years later that she was impressed I tolerated the place, even though I was very unhappy.

So what I'm trying to say is that those couple of years of character building served me well. They toughened me up. They taught me to enjoy my own company. Really, not much can get me down at this point. What I'm trying to say is, don't worry about me being sad in Seattle with the less than exuberant, unfriendly folk. I'll be just fine. I'll persevere.

Back in December, the President & CEO at my new job (who happens to be a member of the local Kiwanis chapter), invited everyone to the Kiwanis Holiday Potluck which was held in our boardroom. While I admit, the idea of hobnobbing with the Kiwanis' wasn't super enticing, the free food was. You should've seen the spread! Baked ham, salad, desserts galore! It was impossible not to salivate as I walked by the spread laid out on a table in our hallway. Who could resist!? I sure couldn't!

The next thing you know, I'm shoveling in the ham while singing "The Twelve Days of Christmas" with a roomful of Kiwanis, holding up a sign every time we got to my line in the song which I believe was "Three French Hens." It was a blast. The head honcho, a man named Mike, sat me and my co-worker next to him at his table. The other reason I was at this luncheon, in addition to the free food, was to sell raffle tickets for a 9L bottle of wine that was donated to my November wine event. Tickets were $50 a pop and I still had about 30 or so to unload. Sitting next to Mike was handy as I could ask him to make an announcement to the room. Even Mike, himself, pulled out a 100-dollar bill and wished me luck.

Mike and I chatted and we started talking about education. It turns out his wife taught Special Ed for 4 years and as some of you may or may not know, I also taught Special Ed. Middle School. I know. I'm still alive. We were saying how boring school is and he mentioned that his wife was looking for volunteers at the elementary school where she works and asked if he could pass my name along. Long story short, I am now a volunteer at her school.

Yesterday was my second meeting with my "lunch buddy." While I wasn't sure what I signing up for when I first met Mike, when I spoke to his wife Mary I was under the impression that I'd be having lunch once a week with a foreign student who needed practice with their English. When I arrived at the school last week for the first time, I found out that Mary is the school Family Advocate and that Destiny needs a friend.

Things at home are rough and at 9 or 10 years old, the poor kid needs someone to tell her it's okay to relax and have fun and just hang out. I can do that. Fun is my middle name. Funny, it's taken me a while  to get there. I was a lot less fun as a younger person, ironically.

During our first lunch, I asked Destiny some questions about school to get the ball rolling and to break the ice. She mentioned a kid from her class and I asked if so-and-so was her friend? Then came the kicker: Destiny told me that she doesn't have any friends in her class. I asked her how long she'd been at the school and she told me since Kindergarten. I now have a mission - to help find a friend for this kid.

I figured if I could survive a year of high school with hardly any friends due to a transition to a dreadful place, I can hopefully help find a friend for a 4th grader. Wish me luck. That kid from the book fair - he's so being targeted.

The "Seattle Freeze" - How Am I Gonna Defrost These People!?

When I arrived in Seattle, all gung-ho, at the beginning of August, I was thrilled to be in a new city. A city full of culture, and promise. While I missed the great friends I made in Sin City, Las Vegas was never a place I wanted to put down roots. Heck, I was there for 4 years and never changed my L.A. cell phone number. I knew Vegas was temporary. When I arrived in the Pacific Northwest, all lush and green, I was super excited. You hear about Pacific Northwesterners being progressive and cool. I figured it would be easy-peasy to meet people.

Well, I was wrong.

It's not that it's super difficult, it just isn't easy. Seattlites are polite by nature. It is one, big, polite city. Drivers let you in. If you are lost, people are friendly enough to give a stranger directions. Accessible? Not so much.

In Las Vegas, people were so super friendly. A new city, and transient by nature, people want to make friends. Maybe it has something to do with the successive months of rain here in Seattle, but I've moved to a city of introverts. That would be fine ... if I wasn't one myself. While I consider myself to be pretty outgoing and friendly, as I get older and get to know myself better, I'm realizing more and more that I'm an introvert. And now I'm living in a city with a million other people just like me. Great.

In the neighborhood I lived in in Las Vegas, if I walked out my front door and was spotted by any of my neighbors, I'd be bombarded with "hellos," "how are you's?" While I wasn't always in a chatty mood while backing out of the driveway at 8 a.m. or walking around the golf community, it was nice. I felt welcome. Here in Seattle, I've been at my new place for exactly 5 months and it's taken this long for the next-door neighbor to finally say hello.

The guy's only seen me a million times. He saw me move in, furniture & everything and enter and exit the house on a regular basis for 5 months. Once, a few months ago, he even spoke to me. He asked me to move my car because I was blocking his driveway. Did he say: "Oh, and by the way, I'm so-and-so, clearly we're next door neighbors. Nice to meet you." No, he just asked me to move the car. My Dad says because I'm living in a big city that I should expect the neighbors to be rude. Is it just me, but I think that's so sad. Living in Las Vegas spoiled me. Even living in LA, a city of assh@#$les, the neighbors were fairly friendly.

Last week, as I was fumbling for my keys to open the front door, you can imagine my surprise when the next door neighbor (who's name I still don't know) saw me, smiled and gave me a huge hello like we were buddies. I nearly fell over. "Oh, hi" I said as I picked up my keys and ran into the house. I was in shock. I wasn't prepared for words to emanate from his mouth. I didn't know what to do.

Luckily I work for a company that is chock full of nice people. I haven't met anyone yet who isn't super friendly, accessible and warm. There is a lot of camaraderie in the workplace. Even our CFO is super friendly & chatty and shoots the shit with me on a regular basis. Every time he sees me, he asks how I'm doing, how my weekend or holiday was and is ready to chat. The day I told him that I thought our health insurance plan sucked, he was very nice and listened and let me vent.

Seattle "freeze" or no freeze, I'm determined to thaw this city as much as I can while I'm here. How, might you add, me being an introvert myself? Even though I'm a quiet person by nature, I'm still somewhat whacky and I'm hoping I can do some damage that way. I'll do what I can to get these people to lighten up. It would be easier if you could get them to look you in the eye when you walk down the street, so I'll just have to resort to subterfuge.

And you know how I mentioned the perception of Pacific NWerners as progressive? They're not as progressive as they think they are. Oh they recycle, and ride their bikes, and the men fail to shave, and everyone has a tongue ring and at least a dozen tattoos, but they are a timid, wimpy people. Progressive people, as far as I'm concerned, should have personality, spunk and gumption. Seattlites lack that in a big way. And no one thinks outside of the box. That is evident with the Subaru being the state car. At least there aren't Hummers everywhere. Now, that's refreshing.

Oh, and everybody and their mother runs here. For exercise. Outside. Even in the lousy weather. I wish they would stop so I wouldn't feel so lazy. Oh, and don't get me started on the number of closeted gay men. I'll save that for another day.

But, overall, I'm glad with my decision to move to Seattle. It's a fun place to be and there are a lot of cool things to do. I just felt the need to whine.