He's So Vain

When I was in college I met David. He had a winning personality and it didn't hurt that he was attractive. Gregarious is an understatement. He can schmooze the pants off of anybody, and small talk is most definitely his forte.

We were initially attracted to each other way back when and he asked me out. We had one date.

Since it was so long ago, the only part of the evening I clearly remember is him inviting me back to his place (I'm assuming he took me out to dinner somewhere first) to show me "Bambi Meets Godzilla," an animated short, in which after just a few short minutes our beloved Bambi gets squashed by Godzilla. David thought it was hilarious and I remember how excited he was to show it to me. I have to admit, I thought it was pretty funny.

That was over 20 years ago. In fact, it was nearly 25 years ago. Gasp. Where in the world has the time gone?

Because I was young and stupid, I agreed to David's request to become friends with benefits after he decided he wasn't interested in dating me. I put up with it for a while, until I decided that the person this relationship was benefitting was him and I removed sex from the equation. Our friendship didn't suffer or falter, and we were the best of friends. The best of friends, I suppose, that a man and woman can possibly be. We've all seen When Harry Met Sally. He would talk about his subsequent girlfriends and I would listen. I supposed I talked to him about the men I dated, but really, I can't remember.

What I can remember, is there got to a point in our friendship, about a year after I graduated that I decided I was through with the friendship. It wasn't serving me at all. In fact, I felt like the friendship was on his terms entirely and I was tired of the dynamic. While I wasn't overly familiar with the term narcissistic or Axis II personality disorders back in 1994, I knew I needed a break from David.

He was obsessed with women, and not just any women. He was always looking for a woman who was the best in at least one area i.e. the smartest, best looking, most accomplished. You get the idea. While I was rather average, or maybe above average, in most areas - I didn't come close to the perfection he was seeking. Perhaps that's why he wasn't interested in dating me. I was just your run of the mill nice girl who wasn't bad to look at. Mind you, I'm not knocking myself. It's just that what David was looking for was always a superlative and that was not me.

Ten years after I ended our friendship, I started looking back at our relationship through rose colored glasses and wondered if he was the one that got away. Silly me. Time can be sneaky that way. After not being able to shake the thought of him for a month straight, I remember the day like it was yesterday - at month's end - and will never forget it, because frankly it was spooky. I was standing in front of the mirror in my bathroom in my apartment thinking: "I'd really like a boyfriend." Then, boom, the phone rang. It was David. We hadn't seen each other or spoken in 10 years and he said he'd found me online.

I couldn't believe it. My therapist at the time, who would turn out to be a complete idiot, encouraged me to get excited over David and even suggested that he could be the one. He and I chatted on the phone for a while and then he suggested we meet for lunch, soon. He bragged about owning his own advertising agency as well as his brand new BMW.

When I arrived at his office for lunch, on time, he kept me waiting for half an hour. I was pissed. I was tired of waiting and had been licked to death by his dog and thought it rude that he kept me waiting for so long. I made a semi-snarky remark that since he'd kept me waiting, I was expecting he'd take me to Spago for lunch. He laughed and said no, we'd be going to an Italian cafe down the street and we'd be taking the dog.

So, me, David and his gargantuan greyhound traipsed down the street to an outdoor cafe in which there wasn't enough room for the dog at all, but that was classic David. Over lunch, he reminded me why I ditched him as a friend 10 years prior. To make a long story short: it was all about him, ad nauseum. He bragged over lunch about the 21 year old Asian girl he was banging and he didn't lower his voice at all. I was supremely embarrassed and couldn't wait for lunch to be over and escape back to my life which all of a sudden wasn't looking so bad.

For some reason, we are Facebook friends. Yesterday, I noticed it was his birthday so I wished him a happy one. He just turned 46. I know this, because I'll be 44 later this year. When I went onto his profile page to respond to his response to my Happy Birthday message, I nearly fell over. There was a photo of him. His hair is long and his muscles are so pumped he looks like he's on steroids. And, that's not all. His girlfriend, who's in the photo with him, doesn't look legal.

I really needed to vent today. It's been rough. While I know that nobody loves the idea of aging, I mean really?? Where is the sense of propriety?

Oh, right. I guess there isn't any.

When I was young and naive, and oh say 20, I wondered if we might wind up together. Today's reminder while walking down memory lane was a rude awakening that not only will it never happen, and really, I'm okay with that, but also that some men just don't grow up. While whining to my friend Sharon today, she reminded me that I could play the Cougar card if I wanted to. Uh, no thanks. For me, it's just too distasteful. I can't do it. I'd rather wait around for an older guy. Hopefully, there's one out there for me who isn't too decrepit. God, can I just meet him while I still have my eyesight?

Oh, and if you're wondering, like the song, if this blog post is about you? Yes, it most definitely is.

Boo Hoo, He Was Too Good To Be True

Originally posted on skirt!

A few months ago I was at an audition, when lo & behold - there he was.

The man of my dreams. Most definitely. Perfection, for an older guy, in human form. He looked pretty darned tootin' good. As in, he could be a model, which I would later find out he happens to be.

We chatted, but not for too long since we were there for the business at hand: the audition.

My memory retained every moment of my time with Mr. Perfect and even replayed the interaction over and over again in my mind and enjoyed watching the movie. I decided if it was meant to be, that I would see him again. And just for fun, Universe, wouldn't it be jolly if we were to meet in the same place we met the first time?

You can imagine the thrill when he who will hopefully not remain nameless appeared. My prayers had been answered. Literally. When he walked into the foyer, ready to embark on what would turn out to be a shady sales scam, I was ecstatic.

I wasn't going to let this precious and most perfect opportunity slip away and I confidently seized the moment. After some initial small talk I asked if he remembered me. He said, "Oh, yes, you were the one who was annoyed with that guy." He was referring to the idiot Director from the project we'd previously auditioned for who didn't know what he was doing and who had zero time management skills and kept me and several other actors there for hours. We then took our seats and our conversation had to come to a halt.

After the sales pitch was over, he and I both ran out of there while everyone else went back in to prove why they were right for the job. I told Mr. Dreamy that I hope he didn't think I was a bitch the first time he met me and he laughed and said "No, I thought you were right." We were now on a roll and it felt like we were starring in a Katharine Hepburn/Cary Grant romance.

Then I took a chance. I told him that I don't know a lot of other actors in town (this is true) and asked if it would be okay if I gave him my card.

That evening he sent me a friendly email saying it was nice meeting me again and how he couldn't believe what suckers the other people were at the sales pitch. I was hoping he'd want to get together.

You know, for a cup of coffee at the very least.

He didn't ask. So I did what any other well meaning 21st century woman would do: I cyberstalked him.

And guess what...???

I came across his wedding registry. To a man. Larry. There was a reason it was called Rainbow Wedding Registry. He and Larry are getting married in Maui.

Good for them. But wait, why is it that gay men are my crack cocaine? Not just any gay men, but gay men who are straight-seeming, good looking and well dressed. If they smell good, it not only doesn't hurt, but only adds fuel to the fire. Why can't I be attracted to slovenly straight men? I'm sure I'd get a lot more dates.

That is not a rhetorical question.

The Audition From Hell

Look, don’t ever go to an audition drunk. It’s not like I was drunk, drunk. It all happened innocently enough.  You see, I was at the ballet, Don Quixote, in fact. Sitting next to me was a six year-old hellion who wouldn’t shut up. No one had taught her to use her ballet voice, you know, whisper? Her grandmother was very nice and said, yes, the little dear was rambunctious and longingly gazed at the perfect child sitting in front of us and asked why her grandchild couldn’t be like that?

             

By the second intermission I couldn’t take it. Oh, and did I mention that the two women sitting behind me were also going at it as well? Talking, that is. They wouldn’t stop. The lights go up after the second act and I make a beeline straight for the bar and order a glass of champagne. By the time I got back to my seat, everything was all right with the world. The little cretin’s voice didn’t bother me at all. In fact, I just laughed. Everything was so much better.

            

 After the ballet, I left McCaw Haw and crossed Seattle Center to where I had an audition for a short-film. This director was supposedly a big deal for Seattle. Even though he was originally from New York, he had attended Evergreen State College where he befriended Kurt Cobain. He befriended him, not the other way around. And we all know Kurt Cobain was a drug addict. Maybe this director was no great shakes after all. One thing I should mention, though, he was the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship. That’s a big deal. This was someone I want to know, right?

          

 So, I go to my audition and while I wasn’t anywhere near drunk, I was, let’s say, a bit more relaxed and exuberant than usual. I was friendly. When I walked in the director mentioned that I had impressed him by sending him a headshot for the part of the nurse where I was dressed, well, as a nurse. That’s where the compliments started and that’s where they ended. It all went to hell after that.

             

He gave me some direction and when I went in to deliver my line (which involved me moving, walking actually), I didn’t cheat the camera enough and I wound up with my the back of my head facing the camera. You know, the kiss of death for an actor. We all know that’s the #1 think you don’t do. Ever. That’s the first thing you learn in Acting 101 for crying out loud. Shit, I knew better. Luckily he let me do a couple more takes, but the damage was most likely already done. Fuck. Just shoot me now.

Feeling Like A Heffalump

My friend Navjit just launched her fabulous new website, and her new company Tenderlogic and she is offering a challenge which also happens to be a contest. If you know me well, you know how I love a contest. But that isn't why I'm entering. I'm entering because one of her questions spoke to me. And it didn't speak to me in a friendly sort of way. In fact, it haunted me.

The question is this: What habit or behavior is blocking you from your higher self?

Initially, I thought I'd answer the easy question: Do you think you're funny? Well, of course I'm funny. I'm sure if I decided to put the time and energy into answering that question I could have come up with something hilarious. Heck, I could have even written a new knock-knock joke, the likes that no one has ever heard before and know that my dear friend Navjit would be roaring with laughter. While I do enjoy making people laugh, (and who wouldn't want to make Navjit laugh?), that would have been the easy answer and honestly, the thought of answering that question didn't make me feel funny at all. Had I decided to answer that question, it probably would have had some ego attached to it.

So, instead, I'm choosing to answer the difficult question. The one I don't want to look at. It surrounds an issue that gnaws at me on a regular basis, weekly in fact. I enjoy writing down goals each week, more specifically the things I've accomplished after I accomplish them. Each Sunday starts a new week. I'm a doer. But not in the area I'm having trouble with. That area is exercise.

If I could only just get my butt to the gym!

I have a membership at a swank club and each week I imagine that I'll go there, take a yoga class, go for a swim, maybe even take a zumba class.

But I don't go. I have gone to the Saturday yoga class before, but it's been months and it's been even longer since I've gone during the week after work. I've thought about canceling my membership, but I don't want to. I don't want to give up on myself. The thing is, I know that if I just show up that the exercise part will take care of itself. It will happen because I'm there. That I know. However, getting myself to the gym is the tricky thing. And because I live in the Pacific Northwest where it rains 10 months out of the year, a gym membership is a great thing to have because of the weather.

If I could just get there once a week I'd be ahead of the game. Three times a week and I'd be ecstatic. Five, and....oh!!! Stop! Let's not put the cart before the horse. See, I can easily work myself up about my fantasy workouts and get excited just by thinking about them. While I'm sure if a trainer showed up at my house every day and forced me to exercise I wouldn't like it. In fact, I'd probably resent it. I want the freedom to choose when and how to work out. I just need help getting there. Getting to the gym that is, and just getting started. It's not like I don't exercise at all. I do. Sunday mornings I walk with friends along the Burke-Gilman trail, no matter what the weather, and then take a yoga class. On Saturdays sometimes I'll hike. What I want to do, is not let my gym membership go to waste.

The Seattle Freeze

Seattle, you're not as progressive as you think you are.
Oh, you compost and you recycle...
But what about the gay men who come here and hide out in marriages to women? Hey, Mister, you're much more transparent that you think you are. I see you.
With the Subaru being the state car, you're much more conformist than Portland and not that creative.
While it's admirable that most of your citizens are card carrying library members, and walk around with a book in hand, would it kill them to open their mouths and speak to a stranger? Just because?
The chill infuses everything and everyone.
Oh, and I've heard different excuses: the constant rain, that the city was founded by Swedes. Boring, boring.
Unfortunately the Seattle Freeze is real and people think it's okay to act that way. Even if they were friendly at first they eventually succumb and conform. It's not okay.
What makes a city is its people.
Smiling and looking someone in the eye doesn't happen here.
And that's what it's about, for me anyway. Connection. The older I get the more I want to be a part of something.
Perhaps I need a smaller town in order to feel a sense of community.
Seattle chose me for various reasons and I obliged.
Perhaps, the next time, I'll choose differently with what's important in mind.

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.