Scales From My Eyes

My long-time friend and former college roommate glees in giving me old things. Not the vintage variety, just stuff she no longer has use for — she feels virtuous in passing her castoffs along, like I'm her personal one-way Buy Nothing Group. 

For my birthday, she gave me an empty cardboard taffy box, with (in her mind), ‘cool graphics’ so she couldn't bring herself to recycle it. Another time, knowing I wanted a serger, she offered one that she got for free. Upon inspection of the coveted machine, I discovered it was missing irreplaceable parts. And once, while I was helping her clean out her beach home garage, she unearthed a bathroom scale and insisted I take it, even though I prefer not to weigh myself. Dutifully, I toted it home, cleaned it up and tucked it under the bedroom sideboard. 

A few days later, I dragged it out and stepped aboard. To my horror, it revealed that I gained seven pounds since I weighed in at the doctor’s office last year. From that day on, I became obsessed with trying to get the scale to resume my previous poundage — this without exercise or dieting. I tried hopping on before breakfast, after bathing, right before I slept; I removed my clothing, house slippers, glasses; I tiptoed, edging towards the front or back of the platform. These tactics failed to bring about the results that I wanted. 

Then I discovered that if I oriented the scale different directions, I could achieve a modicum of weight loss. With the top pointed south, I tipped the scales. But just a quarter turn to the west and voila! Instantly, three pounds vanished. Orient it to the north and lo and behold, I’m back to being a porker. And with just another pivot to the east, I’m svelte again. 

Prior to owning this scale, I rarely checked, never cared. Now I found myself sneaking into the bedroom to see if I could manipulate this device into showing me the numbers I wanted. This yo-yo situation started weighing on me — was it me or the machine? The inconsistency was mind fucking and gnawing at my self-esteem. 

The other morning, many months after my friend’s largess, I was doing yoga on the bedroom floor and could see the evil scale peering out from under the credenza, just waiting to depress my day. And it occurred to me, as I hummed through the ‘Oms,’ that the ‘gift’ wasn’t generosity at all. Just like all the other junk she sends my way, it’s really something I need to say ‘No’ to ... and perhaps it’s time for me to value myself more and accept less from certain people. 

Since this epiphany, I haven’t stepped on the scale again. A few days ago, I went to my doctor for my annual wellness visit. With much dread, I bellied up to the office scale and held my breath as the digital numbers displayed my true weight. “Good ... only two pounds different from last year,” the nurse remarked as she ticked her chart. With a silent “Humph,” I made a mental note to toss that piece-of-shit scale, and just maybe, the friendship along with it. 

 

 

Some Bunny Loves Me

There’s something about a bunny that makes me go all soft inside. The mere inference of the cuddly creature is calming and reassuring, yet I know if I were to hold a rabbit, one big sneeze fest would ensue. For now, I’ll comfort myself with this line drawing of a bun bun, courtesy of my niece Sam-o-rama when she was five years old.

This Saturday, July 9: Spam-O-Rama

No miss Japantown fun, “Nihonmachi Nites,”
Satahday, July 9 wit Spam-O-Rama at Momo
Okay, so we keep dis to da point:

1.     Momo fun going happen from 6-8 includingmusubi contest, if you like entah, see da scoop below*

2.     Leland (not our Leland) and friends going play Hawaii kine ukulele

3.     Uddah stuff going be happening around da Japantown ‘hood

4.     Godzilla 2000 movie going staht aroun’ dusk (9:45-ish) in da pakking lot at 5th and Main

5.     Foa little moa info, check dis out: nihonmachinites.com, and dis too: seattlechinatownid.com

* Scoop on da Musubi Making Contest: Momo give you one can Spam if you like. Pick up befoh da contest, or we give you one back dat night. At home, make your best, most ono-licous kine Spam musubi like your granma use to to, or make up your own kine. Bring dem into Momo, make enuf for da judges to try, so come wit at least tree musubi, moa would be okay, too. Be at Momo by 6:00. Yes, we going give prizes including Momo gift certificates, you bet!

Yuri Turns 40

Luddite that I am, I’d been long perplexed as how to share these humongous video files of Yuri’s May 1st birthday when Sally from J-cizze mentioned that she posted videos to her blog. Today I tried it and Voila! Here they are. Please share in the joy of Yuri blowing out the many candles on her cake, and the touching moment after. That Yuri, she is a peach!

Treasured Memories

“Aurghhh, Matey.”

“Aye Aye, Captain!”

To celebrate our Lucky 13 year of marriage, Tom and I discovered a pirate’s plunder of relaxation on the Oregon coast. We stayed in Manzanita, a picturesque town off the radar from the cotton-candy crowds up the way and dined in Nehalem, a working man’s whistle-stop with the finest restaurant in the region.

Finally, the sun on my face.

Tom in the dunes, or is that love in the dunes?

Cheers to the next 13 years.

Cherry Disposition

I caught Tom the Kitchen Sculptor at it again, this time using fruit as his medium. The wire rack on the altar is just the place for ripening cherries, so using his amazing finger dexterity, Tom carefully dangled a couple, then bemused about how they looked, strung up a few more. Viola! Edible art.

Bingo Diva

I’ve never won anything in my life. That is, anything left to the luck of the draw — until last night. I was a Bingo Virgin then, but today, I’m an experienced winner of the $100 prize for the green game. Arrayed in my Hawaii tankini (it gives me so much coverage, it’s like swimming in a gown) I attended Beach Blanket Gay Bingo, reveling in an evening of cabaret, Cabernet and oh-so-gay. One of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence confirmed my card, bestowing me with the big bucks. I can feel that it’s the beginning of a winning streak.

Altared State

I am a clutter magnet. A pleasing arrangement of my own ‘stuff’ leaves me content, even better if the collection is made up of small offerings from friends. Every day I look upon our kitchen ‘altar’ and see a pious nun from Bernie — given to me in a time of turmoil — a sculpted bottle-opener bird from Sarah, the brass handle from a garden hose excavated from Harry’s belongings, a squirt bottle Mary from Dorit, glass bubble vases from Charlotte (filled with 50th birthday rosemary — now taking root!) and an angel postcard, so long ago mailed to me from big sister Carrie. Smooth rocks and geodes found along the way ... all remind me of life’s happy little moments.

Pointing Fingers

Tom will absolutely kill me for posting this picture but I think it’s a classic. (So maybe I won’t send him the link?) It was taken on a walk at low tide at Birch Bay during one of the only vacations we’ve enjoyed in the recent. We blame Alane, Phil and Carrie for the relaxation opportunity, as they gave me the Semiahmoo Resort gift certificate for my birthday — thank you, family, we needed that!

Transition

It’s happened. On this sunny spring morning, I leaped out of bed, put on my slippers and padded to the kitchen for a cup of coffee in the bunny cup. I didn’t notice until many minutes had passed that I had on two different sides even though they don’t feel the same. Uh-oh ... I think I’m on the path to true absent-mindedness. At least I have on comfortable shoes.

Aglow at 50

I’ve known Ms. Monica since she was 19 years old and looking at this picture, you’d think that was just a few short years ago. But no, she follows me in becoming 50, making the five-decade mark simply fabulous. For her hallmark birthday, 10 of us reveled in champagne and cruised in a limo, hitting Seattle hot spots for a progressive evening of apps (List), dinner (Barolo) and dessert (Cicchetti), a celebration fit for a queen. Even the finicky Mr. T loved Barolo, so we’ll be back. Happy 5-0, Ms. Mo!

Just Browsing

First parking tickets, then jaywalking citations and now this. The city continues to generate revenue in ingenious ways. However, I’m relieved to see that I can sleep in until 7:00.

Unintentional Stardom

When friends Jay and Kyoko touch down from Kyoto, our little lives suddenly open up — they take us to international destinations, even within our own Seattle city limits. Usually, Mr. T and I spend our evenings at home or working at Momo. In the company of J + K, we find ourselves dining in friendly neighborhood Italian restos and tapping our toes to African drum beats. Tonight, we were transported to Mali. In the safety of my seat in Dimitrou’s Jazz Alley, I found myself swaying to Habib Koité and Bamada, hitherto unheard of by me or my musically worldly hub. After a few songs and glasses of wine, Carol the Travel Agent pulled Kyoko and me up to the side of the stage to unabashedly undulate among other female fans. Woo hoo! Before you know it, Carol is on stage — way to go, girl! And yet another woman is up there dancing ... and then, oh no! The cute and mesmerizing percussionist, Mahamadou Koné is beckoning me. Who me? No, no, no, yes! It was the most agonizing, embarrassing and exhilarating 60 seconds of my life, writhing on that platform in my purple tights. Afterward, numerous people congratulated me on my African dancing technique. Thank you, Jazzercise.

Swede Deal

Hearty is how I’d describe the pancake breakfast held every first Sunday from 8:30-1:30 at the Swedish Cultural Center (1920 Dexter Avenue North; 206.283.1090). Hearty, as in the generous portion of slightly chewy, eggy flavored crepe-like pancakes, sided with ham and topped with lingonberries or strawberries (or both) and a big dollop of hand-whipped cream. Hearty, as in the robust women zealously pumping their accordions so enthusiastic dining dancers could twirl about the floor. And hearty, as in the feeling of Swedish pride and passion that filled the sunlit room on a happy Easter Sunday. Coffee, juice and seconds — if you can — are included, all for $8.

Second Cup

I’ve come to accept that coffee means something different to me than it does to Tom. That first cup is not just something to drink with breakfast, it’s a way of greeting the morning with a quiet re-entry, a gentle jolt of energy to get me started, and warm companion to keep me company as I get ready. I remember when I was growing up, Mommy used to make a big pot and drink it throughout her day, absent-mindedly leaving behind a trail of cooling, half-sipped mugs as she went about her chores.

Happy to Serve You

In all fairness to Tom, he spends a lot of time in the kitchen washing dishes. His morning ritual consists of tidying vestiges of the day before, including rinsing and wiping dry my orange bunny cup and filling it with steaming coffee. He presents it to me like a warm offering, setting it down on the vanity in the bathroom while I get ready for the day.

Logic

I love Tom. And sometimes his thinking escapes me. Like the other day I was washing dishes and spotted this kitchen sculpture he built at the side of the sink — Ittala glass stacked with a rice cooker pot, crowned with a sieve. When I queried him, his sensible answer was that he needed to get things out of the way and that everything on top of the (expensive) glass was very lightweight.