Tacoma

Gone Seattle-ing ⁰

It’s basically the same as “Gone Fishing” just with less tackle and more people wearing North Face jackets while complaining about Saturday’s Gonzaga game.

Speaking of apparel, I’ve decided to take a blog-cation while I’m back in Washington this week. This means I’ll be posting my attire on the fashion page, in lieu of writing a daily post. I hope you’ll go check it out, if only because I busted out my trusty, albeit rarely used iron for such an occasion.

(It may not seem like a huge deal, but me actually pressing my clothes is an occurrence even rarer than Haley’s comet. Just ask Scott.)

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I promise this is the last post about Sheila. (At least for a while.) ³

When it comes to fashion, I tend to be a bit extreme. I’m either dressed to the nines, or schlepping around in a pair of sweatpants that may or may not have half a dozen condiment stains on them. Lately, I’ve been guilty of the latter. Can you blame me? I’ve had an exhausting schedule at work, plus I teach five group exercise classes a week which leaves me covered in sweat half of the time, anyway. This means I’ve been finding it challenging to muster the motivation to look presentable, which has resulted in me showing up to work video conference calls looking a little something like this.

Uh…it was casual Friday?

Fine. This was taken on a Wednesday. (At least I had the decency to Photoshop my three giant pimples out of this photo. I think I deserve a little credit, people.)

Unfortunately, this has not been the only video conference mishap to occur as of late. Take last week, for example, when despite showing up for a meeting dressed in my Tuesday best, I forgot to make sure my backdrop was prepped and ready for a professional meeting.

Oh, heyyyyyyy, Sheila!

Luckily, I was only a mere ten seconds into the call when I realized my favorite armless woman had decided to crash my morning meeting. Thank goodness the meeting was with a coworker who also happens to be a good friend. She giggled uncontrollably through the entire process of me, moving Sheila to a more appropriate location, before continuing with our business.

The following day, I decided to relay the story to another close friend whom I work with.

“Oh, yeah.” she casually responded. “That mannequin was there for, like, a couple of days I think. I definitely noticed it but didn’t even think to say anything.”

Oops.

I spent a good sixty seconds creating a mental list of colleagues who had potentially seen Sheila in all her C-cup glory over the past forty-eight hours.

Eventually, I stopped trying to remember. It would be far less painful to pretend it never happened and erase my accidental lapse in professionalism from my brain for good. Ignorance is bliss, right?

The good news? I’ll be back in my Seattle office next week, which means no more Skype snafus. (Hopefully Sheila doesn’t decide to tag along and flaunt her curves during any more meetings. Something tells me it might damage my professional credibility.) This also means I’ll be forced to get dressed everyday, which is going to be a much-needed change in my morning routine. It’s been two months since I’ve worn a pair of heels…that’s just depressing on a variety of levels.

Here’s the part where I reveal that I’ll be taking a miniature Blog-cation while I’m gone. I’ve decided that spending my evenings catching up with coworkers, friends and family takes priority over whining about the airport or detailing the bizarre garage sale gifts my father always has in store for me. So, I’m taking a week off from posting.

That being said, I won’t be totally disappearing from the blogosphere. Because there’s no knowing when the next time I’ll consecutively dress myself for five days in a row will be, I’ll make sure to update the fashion page on a daily basis. It’s kind of pathetic (yet also kind of marvelous) how much time and energy I’ve put into planning each of my “in-office” outfits.

(Hint…there’s an obnoxiously bright pair of floral pants involved.)

(Which might actually be worse than rolling into a meeting with a naked mannequin, but I simply can’t resist a good pair of statement trousers.)

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At least we didn’t get shot ⁷

For this former Washingtonian, the Denny’s in Parkland brings back floods of fond, maple syrup covered childhood memories. Whenever my parents felt like an evening out, the six of us would pile into our wood panelled station wagon and make a pilgrimage to “America’s Diner”. Before the waitress even had the chance to hand us menus, my father would order six $1.99 grand slams and six waters. ”It’s the best value.” he would sternly say.

As we cleaned our plates, I dreamed of one day working at Denny’s–earning a king’s ransom in tips through exceptional service and witty banter with my customers. Free pancakes and popcorn shrimp would obviously be an added bonus.

Over the years, the restaurant of my youth has declined–or perhaps it’s always been crappy and I never noticed. Either way, I still secretly love eating there, despite it’s rough demeanor and questionable breakfast meat.

All this is to say, when my sister sent me the following text last Friday, I wasn’t exactly shocked.

Apparently, she wasn’t either. ‘Ish like this really isn’t out of the ordinary in our ‘hood.

Speaking of P-town, the next morning I found myself back in my old stomping grounds–my parent’s house, to be exact. I had made plans to take my mom to breakfast prior to attending a wedding later in the evening.

ME: So…where do you want to go eat, mom?

MOM: Let’s go to Denny’s!

ME: We can’t go to Denny’s…two people got shot there yesterday–it was a drive-by. Let’s go with something a little less violent.

MOM (completely unphased): Oh…okay. Wagon Wheel?

ME: Yeah. Wagon Wheel.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the hot spots of the 98445 zip code, the Wagon Wheel is a 24-hour Parkland institution that sells beer for $1.50. They’re famous for having delicious, chicken-fried breakfasts, and a large, obnoxious sign.

Unfortunately, we made quite a disappointing discovery upon rolling up to “The Wheel.”

They had up and gone out of business.

ME: Look mom…they’re closed. For good. Do you just want to go to Starbucks and get pastries?

MOM: No, not really. I’m still kind of in the mood for Denny’s. Is that OK?

Long pause.

ME: I guess so. I mean…if someone just got shot there, chances are it won’t happen again for at least another month or so–statistically speaking, our odds for survival are actually pretty strong.

MOM: Right. And Starbucks doesn’t have good bacon.

She had a point. Five minutes later, we found ourselves seated on opposite sides of a booth in an extremely crowded dining room. Apparently, the people of Parkland are more than willing to risk their lives for a three dollar omelet.

Being that this could potentially be my last meal, I decided to go all out with a short stack of blueberry pancakes (extra butter and syrup), hash browns, sausage links, scrambled eggs, and several cups of coffee. Mom had the same.

MOM: Why does coffee always taste so much better when you don’t make it at home?

ME: I know. This coffee is totally worth a bullet wound. So are these pancakes.

MOM: Especially the pancakes.

We wolfed down our food, caught up on our gossip, and complained about my dad and his ridiculous pants collection. We felt totally safe — like the drive-by shooting never even happened. I even worked up the courage to use the ladies’ room before we left.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, our bellies full with grease and simple carbohydrates, I breathed a sigh of relief.

ME: Well mom, we didn’t get shot.

MOM: At least not yet. Hey–wanna go to the Quilt Shop?

ME: Not really. I kind of needed a few things from Target.

MOM: Yeah…but we’re far less likely to get shot at the Quilt Shop.

She was right. Worse case scenario, one of us would get stabbed with a crochet hook–but those things aren’t that sharp anyway. We probably wouldn’t even need stitches…just maybe a tetanus shot.

With an argument like that, I couldn’t really say no.

Well played, Mom. Well played.

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I survived my class reunion ⁷

The grandiose gesture of me, flying back for my 10 year high school reunion was typically met with one response.

“Wait a second…you came all the way here from Minnesota just for your high school reunion??”

Yes. Yes I did.

Kind of.

To my friends and coworkers, I simply responded with, “Um, yeah. My class was kind of awesome.”

To my classmates at the reunion, I went with something along the lines of “Oh…uh…I’m just back here for work. I timed it so I could…er…come to the reunion, too.”

Technically, I did spend two days at the office, so this wasn’t a total fib.

But really? The main reason for the trip was the reunion. Judge all you want, but I loved me some high school.

Perhaps it’s because Romy & Michelle’s High School Reunion is one of my favorite movies of all time, but I’ve been looking forward to my own reunion for years, and I wasn’t going to let a mere 1,500 miles stop me from attending. I booked three ticket (yes, Jolie made the trip to Washington), and that was that. We were going to reunite with the Franklin Pierce High School class of 2002.

(“We” as in Scott and I…Jolie stayed at my parent’s house.)

(Although I was seriously considering bringing her until several people pointed out how crazy it would make me look.)

(Plus, Jolie probably would have claimed she invented Post-Its and ruined the entire night, so leaving her behind was definitely wise.)

As soon as I arrived in Seattle, I started doubting my decision to come out. The more people I talked to, the more horror stories I heard about reunions gone wrong. Comments like “Only twenty people showed up to mine,” or “Mine was a huge disappointment — we stayed for fifteen minutes and then left”, made me question my entire journey. I also started realizing that most people nowadays don’t even attend their reunion. Panic began to settle in as I realized I had just dragged my entire household halfway across the United States for a tradition that many would describe as “lame” or “overrated.” Had I done something completely pathetic? Had I spent years looking forward to something that was going to end up being a huge let down?

“Look on the bright side,” Scott suggested, “At least you’re not going to show up wearing that awful banana dress.”

The man had a point.

********

Fast forward twenty-four hours. After a whirlwind of spray tanning, teeth bleaching, and last-minute jewelry shopping, Scott and I walked into a room full of familiar faces. I knew right away that coming all the way out here had been the right decision.

I really wanted something hilarious and ridiculous to happen, and wish this blog post was a lot more snarky and over the top, but if I’m being totally honest, it was a completely pleasant evening. There was no scandal, no unfortunate incident — not even a catfight! To top it all of, I even followed all three of my high school reunion ground rules.

In fact, I only had one glass of wine over the course of four hours.

One glass of wine.

I never only have one glass of wine, you guys.

Truly, this can only be due to the fact that I was having so much fun catching up with old friends, I didn’t even care about wine.

That my friends, is how you know it’s a successful reunion.

Also? There was a taco bar.

This really made me wish I had in fact brought Jolie.

(Just saying.)

While travelling from ‘Sota to Seattle for a class reunion is quasi-ridiculous, I don’t regret it for a single second. It was a night of great conversations, great memories, and great people. There was no one-upping or weird reunion shenanigans. It was simply a group of people who were all genuinely happy to reconnect.