Nom de Plume

Seattle is not a good place for the directionally-challenged.

Unfortunately, Steve and I both fall into the category. Put us in a car in an unknown setting, and chances are we’ll be lost and fighting within the hour. Okay, maybe not fighting exactly, but since he refuses to stop and ask directions, and I refuse to study the map at every intersection, it does make for some interesting times. I’ve come to the conclusion that we’re horribly unsuited for each other, because there really ought to be at least one person in a relationship who has a good sense of direction. Then again, he’s cute and I love him.

Seattle is the only place I’ve ever been where there is a South exit to a freeway, but no North. Or that has signs that say “No Parking North of Here” when you’re actually pointing East. It’s also got the zaniest street numbering in the world. Sure, numbered streets run E-W and numbered avenues run N-S sounds perfectly logical, until you take into consideration the winding streets (or would that be avenues?) and the fact that nothing–I repeat, nothing–is marked.

There isn’t a single sign on the Alaska Freeway that tells you that this is the last exit for five miles. There isn’t a sign that you can bypass the 99 by going under the bridge that veers to the left (and seemingly defies that rush of oncoming traffic). There’s no way to know that downtown Seattle is a maze of little one-way streets that end abruptly and start going, quite inexplicably, in the other direction. To get to Steve’s work, you get off the 99, turn right, then left and you’re there. To get back to the 99, you turn right, then right, then right, then left, then right, then left.

ARGH!

Maybe normal people find this easier to deal with. Steve bought a compass for his car to help with our mutual inability to get where we’re going. THe first time we tested it, we’d been in the car for an hour and were both a little grumpy. He looked at it. He shook it. He shook it again. Finally, he said he had to take it back to REI because it was defective. In my infinite wisdom, I tried to explain that compasses didn’t work like that, but he just fixed me with a glare and told me to get back to my map reading.

Job interview went well, made it to the second round. Had the weirdest interview question ever: “Would you rather be a lemming, a sloth or an earthworm?”

Any votes?

Job interview with a market research company.

Good thing, because my poor little car is revving really high. I called Hurless Brothers in Boise, and they walked me through checking a couple of things. I was immensely proud of myself; I went under the hood and looked at the air filter, pushed oily things and checked the radiator fluid. Brett assured me it was probably something really simple, but to take it in. So I took it to the place five blocks from the house.

Then I wandered around for two hours with oil smudges on my face.

From the Inbox

From: Mike Hurley
Subject: Why a Mikey?!?!?

There are just too many long hairs around for me to miss you yet- almost
strangled myself taking a bath the other day. Do you train those things to
lie in wait and then strike?

The main reason I don’t do Victoria’s Secret–and what happens when you get your first VS pushup bra at the age of 8.

For those jonesing for a new Harry Potter, may I suggest Jenny Nimmo’s Charlie Bone series?

I have finally gotten around to changing my phone number. So it’s official. Off to get biz cards printed up now.

Great short story, by the way, from the December issue of The Atlantic monthly.

O frabjous, frabjous day! The University of Washington has EVERY SINGLE BOOK I need for my research on Razia.

I found a couch!!!!!

Project Couch: An Update from the Front

Yesterday, we went to IKEA. IKEA’s a frightening, frightening place. Their couches aren’t even that reasonably priced–and we would both prefer to buy a used couch with a little bit of personality. That’s the thing about IKEA: not only is it jam packed and impossible to get out of, I felt like any personality I had going in was leached out in a matter of seconds.

Today, I hit four thrift stores down the road. There’s nowhere to sit in the living room–and I read until the wee hours of the morning, while S is in bed and fast asleep by nine.

It’s an exciting life.

Woohoo! It’s starting to feel very, very official. Now I just need to change my number.

Another dog parlor name:

Hair When You Need Us

I’m here!

Mike peeled off to visit a friend and will be meeting up with us tonight after his conference. We had a good trip–and Snoqualmie Pass was absolutely georgous, even at night.

Those who know my car will be relieved to know that it made it here safe and sound.

In fact, it did much better than I thought it would–other than the first 130 miles, which I drove with the parking brake half on. (With that statement, I just joined the annals of female driver jokes, I know.) No wonder the engine was shuddering and I was getting such lousy mileage! But after that, it cranked.

All my rugs were piled up on top of other stuff in the back seat, and the gas guy in Oregon asked if I were a rug salesman.

Akbar’s Rugmobile:

This is it–came down to Dawson’s one last time to check e-mail. Now off home to wake Mike up, ask if he’ll be ready to leave in an hour and a half … And then it’s the open road.

Goodbye Boise!

I’m not really sure why Janet Jackson’s breast is such a big deal. It’s a BOOB, for crying out loud. Half of the population has them–more if you count fat men with man boobs. Personally, I find the little outfits Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera prance around in to be far more offensive than just a plain breast.

Stopped by Chris’ the other night to say goodbye to my dog and the father of my dog. He wields a mean digital camera; I couldn’t get away from it.

The happy family:

She still loves me best!

And then, of course, there’s Jenny the demon dog:

What do these two comments have in common?

“I did not have sex with that woman.”
“There are weapons of mass destruction in Iraq”

Impeach Bush.

On my way back to Boise on a one-way ticket, I was tagged for a special security check. For those who have never had the pleasure, it consisted of being x-rayed and then hand x-rayed, and my bag, shoes, scarf, wallet and laptop being x-rayed and then hand searched.

Then I was told to have a seat. My laptop tested positive for nitroglycerin.

To be a little more precise, it tested positive for hand lotion. You see, lotion contains glycerin, which comes up as nitro.

Doesn’t matter though: bomb materials or soft sexy hands, my information was all duly noted. Name, address, driver’s license number.

Not only did this process take a good 25 minutes, it really steamed me. I did raise my concerns to the guard about having all my personal information taken. The response was that it was for overall security and my information would not leave the airport, but is put in a system so if I ever set off the alarms again, they have a record (which says to me that it DOES leave the airport, but anyway). I was then informed that this happened at least a couple times a day.

Hold on.

A couple times a DAY? So these machines that are so sensitive can’t distinguish between hand lotion and bomb materials? This is not security; this is harassment. This is me having to give up my civil liberties in order for some schmuck to get re-elected because he’s making the country feel safe.

The thing is, it’s all an illusion. The fact of the matter is that if someone wants to get through, it’s not that difficult. I traveled last summer with one of those wine openers with the two deadly prongs in my backpack, and no one said a thing. But now my laptop tests positive for lotion, and I am treated like a criminal.

I was very interested to know what percentage of the people the TSA pulls over is a legitimate threat; my hunch is that there are very, very few. After all, how many times do you hear about them pulling someone off a plane? So I gave their Security and Violations Hotline a call. I waited on hold for five minutes, and then hung up after the music mysteriously switched off and there was no one on the other line. Then I gave their Office of Civil Rights a call, but a voicemail message informed me no one was available.

I leave you to draw your own conclusions.