Niff.Dot

I’m furrowing my brows at passers-by. Grrrrr.
I’m still at work so I know I won’t be provoking a knife-fight or anything.
My desk is in a main thoroughfare so I’m getting in a lot of good brow-furrowing traffic.

Grrrrr.

“Is your email working?”

I don’t get email often. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t notice.

“I dunno, let me check.” I have to pick someone to bother.

To: (Insert hapless victim here)
Subject: Test
Body: My email is not working. You didn’t get this. You were never here.
DON’T LOOK AT ME!
GAH!
(Insert read receipt in the event they’re too perplexed/annoyed to reply)

Jennifer Lankenau
Generic Office Title
Generic Office Phone Number
Generic Office Email Address

*click* Ctrl+enter

No response.
The recipient appears at my desk. Laffy Taffy in hand. Bewildered expression complete with contrapposto stance.

“????”

“hmmm?” Furrowed brow.

“I am not bringing you any candy!”

“Fine then! I am not ordering any more!”
(I am responsible for the sugar/fat/caffeine supply in the office).

This was considered heavily for a moment.

“Banana, strawberry, cherry or apple?”

“String cheese.”

Sigh. Shifts weight to the other foot. Still looking puzzled.

“Um, was I supposed to reply to the email?”

“I think you did.”

Satisfied, they trudge off to their desk with their Laffy Taffy in hand, safe in the knowledge that all is well in the world.

Type type type (coffee) *click* *click* type…

“Hey, do you have the label maker?”

Ok, here’s the thing: we have, in our office, a section entirely devoted to the containment and storage of office supplies. This includes paper, pens, staples, scissors, ibuprofen, bubble wrap, even Velcro. The only problem is, it’s completely inaccessible. Not via armed forces, or sentries, or even a curmudgeonly chihuahua…no. The reason people can’t acquire the tools they need is because they can’t find it. It’s an epidemic. They open a cupboard, stare into it blankly, and then give up all hope. There’s just no use. Reinforcements needed.

“Hey, Jennifer…do we have any thumbtacks?”

“Did you look for them?”

“Yeah, I don’t think we have any…”

Gah.

“Far right, second drawer down.”

“Oh.”

Anyway, label maker.

“Yes, it’s in the top middle drawer.”

“Ok, thanks.”

15 minutes later, he brings it to me. “Here you go.”

“I don’t want it, put it back in the drawer.”

Confused look.

“Uh, ok…”
I hear several drawers being opened and closed.
Sigh.

Walk into the kitchen. Immediately understand the reason for the labeler request.

Refrigerator: “COLDNESS”
Freezer: “REALLY COLD”
Water faucet: “WATER”
Microwave: “HEAT”
Apple: “APPLE”
Coffee machine: “COFFEE”

Everybody’s a comedian.

Voulez-voulez-vous “BLOG”

1/11/11 has been seriously trying to steal my 11/11/11 thunder. People have been rather excited about this whole thing. I’ve been biting my tongue as I do not wish to squelch their enthusiasm.

I was shot several disapproving looks this morning when I relocated myself on the bus upon discovering the woman sitting behind me was on the verge of hacking up several layers of lung tissue. Apparently sparing her feelings was more important than preserving my health. I shot them a raised eyebrow sneer and went back to my Scrabble game on my phone. Triple word score. I will conquer this passive-aggressive Seattle bullshit if I have to start kicking them in the shins as they disembark from their morning commute one.by.one.

I noticed none of them volunteered to sit next to Typhoid Mary.

I recently signed up for Foursquare with the specific purpose of being able to appoint myself the Mayor of my favorite local hangout which, apparently, would only take me three visits to do so. At any rate, with the iPhone app, this basically allows you to stalk your friends (with their permission) so when they check into any given location it sends you an alert on your phone with the name and address of said establishment, in the event you wish to join them in their revelry or crash their get-together. The trend I have noticed is that my friends seem to have a copious amount of free time on their hands, checking into cafes, restaurants and bars at all hours, some at 11 am, 3 pm, 3 am…

You can learn a lot about a person by being privy to the establishments they frequent. You can even learn who they spend their free time with. For instance, two of my friends just checked into the same nail salon, concurrently. One could possibly assume they are getting manicures together. I don’t think people keep this in mind as often as they should…

I really don’t have much else to write about at the moment. Which is just fine, since my lunch break is wrapping up. I just noticed a time lapse between blogs that I felt I needed to remedy. I figured the interesting photo would compensate for the sub-par material.

Voulez-voulez-vous content fail.

I’m treating insomnia with iPhone fed Wikipedia Loops. I only have a desktop computer so I’m forced to use my cellular device as a means of amassing ridiculous amounts of trivia. For instance, on this day in history, in 1808, “Ludwig van Beethoven premiered his Fifth Symphony, currently one of the most popular and well-known compositions in all of European classical music, at the Theater an der Wien in Vienna.” and that “Aquila bullockensis, an extinct species of bird, is the oldest known true eagle from Australia.”

I figure if nothing else, I could absorb random pieces of information completely inapplicable to my career path and general daily life. I theorize this will improve my “Jeopardy” skills, though I don’t have television so I may have some difficulty testing this. I’m also filling up pages in my sketchbook with more (wait for it…) rose windows which, again, isn’t altogether useful, since I have two commissions leaning against my apartment walls. But in my defense, they won’t fit in my bed and there’s no way I could handle a paintbrush with Doppler’s opinion that both the bed and my torso make a suitable trampoline.

There are a combination of factors that have been contributing to my sleeplessness as of late:

1. I have annoyingly loud, boisterous, hyperactive neighbors above me that seem to enjoy engaging in Sumo-wrestling like activities beginning at 10:00pm and carrying on well past midnight. I have no evidence that they are engaging in Japanese full-contact sports in their living room, I’m just deducing by the amount of noise and thumping from overhead, though in their version there is much more laughter and shouting. There are often intermittent jogging noises up and down the hallway. (Pardon the pun, but it’s similar to the Doppler effect of “thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka…”) Very “Poltergeist”. I’d actually feel better if it were a result of paranormal activity. The dead have a hard time controlling themselves. See zombies. Due to my growing irritation and distaste for these nameless, faceless entities above me, I have assigned the blame for the “Free Project” in my hallway to them solely, whether they be the responsible parties or not.

That’ll learn ’em.

2. I am convinced I have some sort of naturally-occurring chemical in my body that causes my energy levels to spike beginning at 7:00 pm. This would be ideal were I a bartender. However, my waking hours range anywhere from 5:30 – 6:15 am, depending on how little sleep I’ve gotten. I also suspect nanotechnology, or genetic markers.

3. My intensely uncomfortable Winter Dry Skin Syndrome coupled with the inability of my feet to stop wiggling when I am attempting rest.

4. My dog, too, has become nocturnal. Which involves the following:

1. Jump on the bed
2. Jump off the bed
3. Pace the kitchen floor (clickety-click, clickety-click.)
4. Crawl under the bed, making sure to thump around a bit so I’m surrounded by “ka-thunks” on all sides.
5. Bring me toys
6. Bring me his empty food/water bowl.

I fear in my sleep-deprived madness I will end up duct-taping him to the wall.

So I end up saying “fuck it” and instead engage in mindless albeit restful activities. Watching The Big Lebowski has become a fast favorite. Coupling. X-Files episodes. Playing Scrabble on my phone. Debating whether or not Frosted Flakes really are “Grrrreat”. Staring at the ceiling wondering if my glare and obvious rage is penetrating my ceiling and thus their floor manifesting in a swarm of bees or a case of leprosy in their apartment. Then I realize, no wonder I can’t sleep. I’m a goddamn anger-ball.

Voulez-voulez-vous “Sleep is like the unicorn – it is rumored to exist, but I doubt I will see any” -Unknown

So, yeah. I completely zonked and missed the lunar eclipse last night. Although, I’m not too broken up about it. I caught one in 2007 at Burning Man which, in all actuality, is much more impressive than watching one from the intersection of 8th and I-5 in downtown Seattle. Concurrently, it happened to be the same time the nutjob decided to set fire to the Man early causing all kinds of ruckus (at Burning Man, not last night). I suppose we were all distracted by the stellar event.

I’m having a battle with unknown persons in my apartment building. I’m getting to the point where I’m considering writing my memoirs of all the goings-on in my building. Aside from the cracked-out chick and the infamous bloody-doorknob break-in, and the vagrants that populate my front porch on food bank days, I feel as if I should get a hazard discount on my rent. As a bonus, there is a halfway house next door, whose residents somehow have a telepathic connection to my mini blinds, know when I’ve dared to open them, thus opening their own and blatantly staring in my windows. I’ve designed a pleasantly written sign that reads “piss off” which I adhere to the windows in such circumstances.

The most recent series of events involves a John Denver’s Greatest Hits album, a Neti pot, several pieces of clothing, dishes, “Class of 1993” champagne glasses, and a bright green file cabinet. Somehow, the mailboxes (which happen to occupy the wall just outside my door) have become the urban residential version of the “free” section of Craigslist. Granted, I *did* place a basket of unwanted DVD’s which disappeared within 30 minutes, but there seem to be new residents who, instead of depositing items at Goodwill or in some circumstances, the dumpster outside, have taken to disposing of unwanted items not only atop aforementioned mailboxes, but also on the floor surrounding them, sometimes even blocking my door. In a fit of frustration, I placed a sign on the corkboard above reading, “Two words for you, people: Good Will. Really.” (Yes, I know Goodwill is one word…it’s been segmented for emphasis.) The sign had disappeared by the following morning and as if in a fit of vengeance, the number of rejected items increased twofold. The toddler in me got good and pissed.

In my own act of juvenile vengeance, I decided that since my apartment hallway had become a prime location for people’s unwanted shit, I was going to take it all the way. No foolin’ around man.

I took one of Doppler’s dog shit bags, which, luckily, happen to be labeled as such, complete with a cute cartoonish pooch on the front. As I lived in the vicinity I wasn’t going to permeate the locale with the scent of canine feces, but I still wanted a bit of realism. I had some pathetic–looking figs in the refrigerator, daintily plopped them in the bag, and proceeded to stealthily add them to the pile, specifically upon the bright green, two-drawer file cabinet.
Some hours later, when I took Doppler out so he could generate the real deal, the file cabinet had been claimed, the small green doggie bag lying on the floor. It had been removed by the next morning.

Then things got really irksome.

Suddenly there appeared a large kitchen bag full of trash and a paper bag full of PBR beer cans.

I’m SO moving when my lease is up.

I’m convinced the awesome maintenance man who helped me with my bathroom flooding debacle has been disposing of all the nonsense. I do hope he is informing management so they can distribute ineffective notices on everyone’s door.

In the meantime, the hallway is clear save for a ceramic pair of cowboy boots, with a large piece broken from them. The piece is included.

Voulez-voulez-vous adventures in urban living.

When I was editing obituary photos at the Seattle Times, the words written by families that came across my desk would always strike me – some sad, some touching, but out of the thousands I processed during my tenure there was one that I found incredibly inspiring, not just personally but also historically….so much so, in fact, that when it went to print I clipped it and kept it pinned in my cube up until I was laid off over a year later. I memorized her life’s motto and still pass on to this day. Actually, noticing her quote on the FB page of a certain bartender friend of mine is what made me think to search for her obituary…I had a very surreal moment of, “I know that quote…I use that all the time-HEY!!”

So, thanks to The Ballard News Tribune from 2008 (she died only weeks before her 100th birthday) I can share her with all of you.

Mildred Rhind

Mildred Ahrenius Rhind

1909 – 2008

Mildred Ahrenius Rhind passed away peacefully at Vashon Community Care Center on June 25, 2008 after a very long, full life and a short final illness. Mildred was born in 1909 and lived most of her life in West Seattle. Her life reflects the changing role of women in the 20th century. In the 1920s she was a flapper; she danced the Charleston on roller skates for a Pathe newsreel and drank bathtub gin. Mildred attended West Seattle High School (Class of 1927) and shortly thereafter started her long career with the Union Pacific Railroad. She began as a switchboard operator and ended as a ticket agent at the downtown Seattle office when she retired in 1969. Following her retirement from the Union Pacific, Mildred had a second career working part-time for Washington Mutual Savings Bank in the school savings department. Throughout the Great Depression, she hid her first marriage to avoid a railroad policy of not hiring married women. After WWII, she refused to give up her job to accommodate veterans returning to the workforce.

In 1950 Mildred married the great love of her life, Orville Horace (Bill) Rhind. In the 1950s, she had her first and only child and continued her career so she and husband and son could have a duel income and enjoy boating. Mildred and Bill’s marriage lasted until his death in 1970. Over the years she was a member of Eastern Star, Peace Lutheran Church, Tyee Yacht Club, the Ladies Auxiliary of the Swedish Club and the West Seattle Garden Club. Mildred is survived by her son, William Rhind (partner, John Coleman) her brothers Oliver Ahrenius (Evelyn), Chuck Ahrenius (Joan) and many nieces and nephews. Her motto in life “Smile, say yes and do what you damn well please” served her well up until the very end. Mildred will be greatly missed. A private family memorial service will be held at a later date. Remembrances may be made to your favorite charity. Please sign the online guestbook at http://www.islandfuneral.com

Published July 2, 2008 in the West Seattle Herald.

Voulez-voulez-vous share and enjoy.

I have only had about eight hours of sleep since Sunday. Sunday? Yes. What is today? February? Who cares. All I know is that I am scheduled to see Picasso on Saturday. However, if this trend of sleeplessness continues I cannot fathom what the visual effect of cubism will have on my psyche. Mostly because I find myself staring at walls.
And the floor.
They are beginning to fascinate me.

I’m so sleep-deprived I became teary-eyed when I saw how long the line was at Starbucks when I went to order my triple-grande-five-pump-peppermint-latte.

Travesty.

Doppler has become nocturnal. In essence turning me nocturnal, though I am missing out on the whole “sleeping during the day” bit. Which is resulting in the “madness” bit. And the “staring at the walls and floor” bit.
They are still fascinating me. Though I am discovering that my madness is beginning to entertain others. Both sleep-deprived-induced madness and copious amounts of caffeine-induced madness.

I have a headache.

The Ukranians are having a lengthy conversation by my desk. Oddly, it is making perfect sense to me.

I need to remedy both mine and Doppler’s insomnia. I believe the latter would cure the former. Doping him with inappropriate amounts of Benadryl may be necessary.

I’m concerned about the bus ride home. I fear lapsing int a coma en route and ending up in Tacoma. I suppose there are worse things. Like Renton.

I still have a headache. I was hoping it would remedy itself in the last three minutes.

Thanks to the insomnia I have been at my desk since 6:30. I felt as if I should get out of the house this morning, and due to the torrential downpour and blistering wind, a walk was out of the question. Due to the lack of sleep and subsequent decreased brainpower, iPhone Scrabble was also out of the question. In all fairness it should currently be 2:00. I feel as if I’m in some sort of temporal wake.

I wonder if anyone really knows what the Ukranians are plotting. I’m thinking of joining their cause now that I’m aware of the situation. Although I’m afraid if I start getting more sleep I’ll be out of the loop.

There is bizarre poetry on my Facebook wall. There is bizarre stuff everywhere. I think I’m beginning to hallucinate. At the moment I’m having to consolidate tables in Access but the cells are beginning to undulate. Hence it’s taking longer than it ought. It’s a sad state of affairs when Ukranian is making more sense than databases.

Voulez-voulez-vous “Oh you can’t help that…we’re all mad here.”

I’m in a Philip Glass loop. Violin Concerto #1, 2nd movement. I was introduced to this piece at the Seattle Symphony last night as a prelude to Ravel’s “Bolero”, which is what I was really there to see. And since I have a tendency to play something to death when I realize I like it, here I am. In a loop. Of course, when I Googled him upon my return home I was delighted when I saw his face, being a supreme fan of Chuck Close. It’s amazing how things are linked.

I’ve been staring at this 5-foot canvas in my apartment for a week now. I’ve been waiting for it to tell me what to do, but so far communication has been nonexistent. I’m beginning to take it personally. I’m thinking it’s resentful that I let Doppler lick it. Sorry, I didn’t think it would be so offended. Although, in it’s defense, I think anyone would feel this way. I do find myself discouraging this behavior when he engages in it with houseguests. Sorry, canvas.

I also think it’s miffed that I’ve been spending more time with my new iPhone than I have with it. I think Doppler shares this sentiment as well. I get the impression he intends to destroy it while I’m sleeping. I’ve caught him eying it menacingly. He’s even been head-butting it while I’ve been organizing my icons and browsing apps. Okay, so perhaps it’s a problem. I admit it. Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. I can put it down any time I want to. For instance, I’m writing this on my desktop as opposed to my shiny new handheld device. Oooh, wait…lemme see if there are any app updates; one sec…

It better not snow. Everyone’s squealing about the snow potential. But they don’t have a car that protests frozen precipitation, a commute to Lynnwood, and a 4-week-young job in which they’re still trying to impress their employers. Gah. (“Gah” has been my impulsive response every time the mention of “snow” has occurred today. It’s all I’ve been able to muster.)

…and I’m still looping.

I would love to be able to play the violin. But I can’t even figure out what the hell to do with this canvas and I’ve been painting for years, so who am I kidding?

Bloody hell. It’s snowing.

Voulez-voulez-vous Gah!

So, yeah. drank too much. here’s my surprised face:

You are permitted one (1) free alcoholic beverage on your date of birth (given that you are over the age of 21) according to the Washington State Liquor Control Board. At my favorite bar last night, there were two (2) bartenders on duty. This involved one (1) Manhattan Mule from my Favorite Bartender in the World, followed by a Friday Collins by the Second Favorite Bartender in the World, followed by a waitress, once we were moved to a table, who messed up my second (2nd) Friday Collins and brought me one (1) *not-what-I-ordered-so-I-got-it-for-free* Collins, followed by one (1) vodka and soda with lemon gifted by the delightful Matt and Molly, wrapped up with one (1) proper Friday Collins du Mark.

I *think* there was food involved in there somewhere, but I can’t be certain.

We had to abandon the bar (sad) because eleven (11) people ended up being the grand total and I didn’t want to monopolize the domain of the aforementioned “Favorite Bartender in the World”. That aside, communication on all fronts would have been exceedingly challenging.

Bugger. I didn’t get any photos. Given how much I consumed, perhaps it’s for the best.

So, I rallied and determined NOT to have a birthday I would pout about in a goddamned blog entry next year. It went well. Guests both expected and unexpected made appearances making it delightful and memorable. I was pleased.

Until this morning.

I think the phrase, “Oh, fucking hell, what??” was uttered incoherently when my alarm went off.

And then I stood up.

Repeat above phrase. Increase volume and clarity by 200%.

The two (2) Friday Collins’, one (1) *not-what-I-ordered-so-I-got-it-for-free* Collins, one (1) vodka and soda with lemon, and one (1) Manhattan Mule had sucked portions of my skull down into the pit of my stomach, resulting in swirls of pounding-ness every time I moved, and not just one (1) but two (2) nauseating trips to the bathroom before I had to haul my sorry, now thirty-five (35) year-old self, to work this morning and maintain some sense of full functionality.

I determined, after only five (5) minutes at my desk, that this was going to be the longest work day EVAR. Spirits were low.

Fortunately I work in the software development industry, and developers require a steady diet of sugar, salt, fat, and caffeine to survive. I found that one (1) can of flattened Coke and one (1) small bag of Lay’s classic potato chips aided in the pissed-off-ness of my stomach, and the ginormous bottle of ibuprofen in the office supply cupboard became my salvation.

Lunch break is over. Gotta jet.

Voulez-voulez-vous “and this is called…having a good time.” -Bill Cosby

Jennifer is living on a steady stream of Starbuck’s French Roast and ibuprofen.
Jennifer is displeased at the constant 72 degree temperature in her office environment.
Jennifer’s excessive caffeine consumption is resulting in persistent leg-bouncing and frequent non-sequiturs.
Jennifer is having a pronoun crisis.
Jennifer needs to taper off of Facebook.

So, the 35th birthday is Thursday. Over the last few years I’ve come to dread the birthdays. When you’re single, no one really plans anything for your birthday. And unless I beg someone to hang out with me, or have a drink, I end up spending the evening alone. This is really pathetic, because I have a ton of friends (?) who, thanks to the marvel of Facebook, are aware it’s my birthday. Yet they’re supposed to magically know that I don’t have plans. Because I’m the center of the goddamn universe, dontcha know? Did I mention that I hate my birthday? (Insert pity party here ______). Jesus, I feel like I should be doing this on LiveJournal. Anyway. So yeah. I say friends (?) because it’s one of those situations where I’ve known these people for years, I’ve camped with them at Burning Man, I see them at parties, hug hug, kiss kiss, but I feel like I’m just not one of them, you know? Don’t get me wrong, they’re kind and wonderful and loving and amazing people and I adore them immensely. I just wish I could spend more time with them without feeling as if my requests to do so weren’t so bloody philanthropic for them. As in, “Oh, Niff’s feeling left out…” rather than, “You know, I think it’d be great to spend more time with Niff…” etc etc…
The funny thing is, in this massive community, there’s quite a few people who feel the same way I do, it’s just no one talks about it unless I bring it up, and then they’re so relieved that they’re not alone in how they feel. We’re the most popular lonely people in the world. It’s an amazing social paradox.

Of course, there is a high probability that I have created this entire situation by isolating myself, that my theories are flawed, that my lack of self confidence has led me to the conclusion that people do not prefer my company and this has infiltrated how I relate to others. I do tend to clam up in social situations in public when I want to impress people and oddly enough, for some reason as of late, I’ve been trying to improve my friends’ opinion of me (mostly due to past drama which I will not delve into here…). I do also tend to talk too much when I’m nervous, which turns people off. Perhaps I should send out a survey and see what people like about me, what they don’t like, and see if they are personality traits that I, too, believe need tweaking, and work on them for the next half-decade of my 30’s. I already know I talk about myself too much. Even I find it annoying…I see myself doing it, I see their faces when I’m doing it, and it’s something that needs to be addressed. I’m also very critical. I need to work on that as well, but I think I’ve been getting better as I have been making a conscious effort on that front. But I feel like when I’m at a party, and I try and enter a conversation, the participants look at me with that, “and just who do you think *you* are??” look. Sigh.

I think most of this self-realization (criticism) has spawned from the reflection that comes from the hours spent alone when one lives on their own for the first time, ever. I moved into my own apartment back in June after having never living alone. I went from my parents, to my ex-husband, to housemates, to an ex-boyfriend’s, to housemates again. I knew the living alone would be beneficial. I knew I had some last bugs to work out and that this would be the good kick in the ass that I needed. It’s a good kick in the ass, to be sure. I’m finally getting used to it. The solitude is becoming a comfort rather than an inconvenience, even though I do still miss having default company around. I strategically opted for an apartment near my community so I’d have my friends nearby and also so I could still commute bipedally, (Microsoft is telling me that’s not a word but fuck ‘em) to Capitol Hill so the solitude wouldn’t be so devastating. I do entertain the idea that this new living arrangement contributes to my belief that I am less than included in my community. When I lived with my housemates, I felt included by default. I spent time with friends just by living there. Now I spend time with no one unless I’m part of a mass email invite. It requires adaptation on my part, which isn’t a large part of my particular skill set.

Fortunately I do have this amazing new job which has directs my focus elsewhere and energizes my self-esteem. I’m starting to feel truly independent, which is incredible for me because since my divorce almost five years ago I’ve felt as I’ve been floundering, not quite sure what the hell I’m supposed to be doing exactly. I do feel immensely fortunate, however, to have fallen into such a community of amazing people such as the one that I have. I have seen and contributed to amazing art projects being built, I have participated in shenanigans and tomfoolery of such hilarity that I’d never thought possible, I’ve been exposed to music and art and dance and love and beauty that makes me value being who I am and where I am. So I do appreciate that I have them in my life at all.

Ok. So, I’ve done a whine-post. Goddammit. My claim to fame is that I don’t do whine-posts. I hate that my birthdays affect me like this. Maybe I need more coffee. Maybe I need bourbon in my coffee. Anyone got some bourbon?

Voulez-voulez-vous 11-11.

Trying to write a blog, sleep-deprived, on a Monday, during your lunch break, after a maniacal weekend, with the fluorescents buzzing overhead and a near-empty coffee cup staring at you ineffectually, is just an exercise in daftness.
So I shall refer to myself as a “daft git” and carry the fuck on.

I’ve been spending an increasing amount of time in downtown Seattle over the last few months. I had attempted (now unsuccessfully) to begin a “sketchbook project” whose subject was to be “Seattle Architecture”, and as such my research took me to the streets in search of interesting and unique elements for my undertaking. As a resident of the Capitol Hill region of Seattle, I seldom ventured east of I-5, as that side of the fence teems with tourists, retailers, vagrants, overpriced restaurants and shopping centers, thus holding no sincere appeal for someone like myself whose budget limits me to Fred Meyer and Value Village. It is a completely saccharin universe…I prefer my tattooed-pierced-patchouli-saturated-hippie-gay-tree-hugging-Burner-freaks on my side of the hill I can haz plz. I adore it’s *authenticity*.

So, architecture. Walks. People.

When I still worked at my old job up until two weeks ago, I walked to work the long way in order to take in as much of the local scenery as possible to accomplish my artistic goals. However, before I realized, “the long way” was resulting in a 6-mile round-trip on-foot daily commute. However…there was a certain amount of discovery involved on my urban walkabouts that I wasn’t prepared for.

Trekking around the city, the grand majesty of the buildings, the sounds of it, the busy-ness of it, the smell of the ocean, the breeze on my face, always puts me in a fantastic mood, clears my head…very “Ohmmmm”. And I love talking to people, which is what makes walking through the city so ideal, because it’s infested with the crazy bastards, sometimes with dogs in tow, which makes it double-plus good.
I just adore the movement and the sound and the art that is Seattle; every single sense you have is stimulated; bad mood vanquished, spirits lifted, I am alert and aware.

I learned very quickly that if I am going to talk to anyone, I need to wait until I get to Pike Place Market to do so. The vendors are always in the best mood and are great for a laugh first thing in the morning; they’ll sell you a mean pomegranate and let you sample anything. And the Market is deliciously quiet at 7am during the week; the booths are still being set up, the trucks are unloading, bread is being baked; crayfish are plotting escape, cheese is being made, it’s incredible just to take it all in at once along with the sound of the gulls overhead and the sun rising over the mountains and the ferry boats on the water…

Then I started noticing something.

With Bach’s Violin Concertos in my ears, walking down the sidewalk, I’d sidle up next to someone at a crosswalk and smile at them. (This is in the business district, mind you.) And these people I smile at?
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
Huh. Ok, just cranky. No worries, moving on.

Couple streets down, take 2.

Stop, turn, smile.
Scowl.

Who are these people?
I’ve even tried talking to them. I swear to god they looked offended.

It started becoming more and more common. I was getting good and pissed. Then I learned it was a “thing”. Seattle Freeze.

Terrific.
Guess I didn’t get the memo.

So.
Is it arrogance? Shyness? Abject terror? Psychosis? Vitamin D deficiency? I’m going to start fucking asking them. To hell with them. I’m a native. I have the right to know why people in my state are representing us so poorly. Honestly, when it’s an actual condition it needs to be addressed. “Seattle Freeze”. Really?

Have we become so antisocial because of commuting and technology that we’ve forgotten how to relate to other human beings? Do we need people parks like they have dog parks? Or socialization classes? I don’t think it’s ubiquitous, I mean, that’s why I love going to the Market, despite the sheer madness of it; the tourists love to talk to you. Although in part I’m sure they’re just happy to have a Seattleite that’s not being a standoffish dick to them. But I’m just making an extreme theory based on my recent experience with the downtown locals. If these are the Seattleites that the tourists are being exposed to, no wonder we have a reputation. I mean, really.

I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Interviews, interrogations, I don’t care what it takes.

Voulez-voulez-vous Miss Golightly, I protest!