Monthly Archives: September 2012

My Excuse This Week…

Blogging is hard this week. I actually sat down and tried to write something thought provoking, but…it didn’t go well. Believe me you don’t want to read the shite I came up with. So let me work on it next week, which should be a bit more normal than the last few and get back to you.

In the meantime here are some lovely pictures!

Best Doctor ever. Seriously, I wanna marry him and make little time lord babies.

Ahhh, Torchwood. If you don’t watch it you should. I wept like a child at the end of Season 3. Jack & Ianto are my favorite.

I made this for Jack’s Halloween costume this year. He’s going to be Toadstool and I’ll be Mario.

Yes, I’m going to be Mario, not Princess. I don’t need to be rescued, thank you very much!




A Rant: Drive Slow!!!!!!

Once a week (or so) I go to my friends house in Greenlake to watch Game of Thrones & True Blood. In their surrounding neighborhood there are signs that just bug me every time I see them. They say something like this: Drive Slow! Your friends and neighbors bike and walk here!

I. Hate. This. Sign. I also really dislike the folks who “walk and bike” in that area.  What the sign should actually say is “Drive Slow! Your friends and neighbors don’t pay attention to what the fuck is going on!” Seriously, it’s not just the responsibility of those behind the wheel to watch out. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve stopped for pedestrians or bikers in that neighborhood that don’t even look before they cross only to have them mosey across the street like I’m not even there. I don’t get a wave or a smile and I have to sit there forever while I wait for them to slowly walk by. Don’t even get me started on “diagonal crossers.”

I don’t mind driving slowly in a neighborhood. I get peeved when I see folks flying down my street at 40 miles an hours, it’s dangerous. However, when I walk in my neighborhood, I keep my son close. I teach him the road is dangerous, it’s a place for cars and when we cross the street, even if there is no one waiting for us to cross, we cross quickly. Because it’s polite, it’s common decency, and we’re less likely to be hit by a car and die.

One evening my sister and I were driving to my friends house, so we had to drive through the “Drive Slow!” area. We slowed down and stopped at a Yield sign because we noticed a biker was coming to cross in front of us.  We stopped and yielded to the biker, who slowly peddled past, scowled at us and pointed to the yield sign. I was a bit puzzled by her actions since we’d been going about 25 miles an hour, and come to a complete stop at the yield sign in order to allow her to cross in front of us. This is what I hate about this city, that elitist feeling about EVERYTHING! (Ooooo I eat organic only! Oooo I knew about that band before they were popular! Ooooo I bike or walk every where! It makes me want to punch people.)

If people could walk and bike in that neighborhood and not be so douchy about it I might not hate that sign as much as I do.

Fun Times in Puerto Vallarta: The Passport

I woke up very, very early on Tuesday, August 28th to fly to Puerto Vallarta Mexico. I had done all my last minute packing the night before. I had one bag to check and one to carry on. Normally when I travel I pack a small purse in my carry on bag so I don’t have to keep track of a purse and a bag. I keep my iPod and book in the front pocket of said carry on for easy access. This has worked very well for me in the past and I expected to work very well again.

As usual Alaska had decided to be douchy and oversell the first leg of our flight from Seattle to San Francisco. I was among the last people to be allowed to board. This was ok with me because I was travelling with friends and Erin was one of the last to board as well. We chatted and laughed while we waited to board the plane. I took out my iPod and put it in my pocket. Then took out my book as well so I could just toss my bag, quickly, in the overhead compartment when I got to my seat.

Finally we were on the plane. I looked up and saw that the vast majority of overhead bins were closed already, meaning “no room, find another place for your bag.” The ones that were open had only tiny spaces available. I bristled when I saw sweaters and purses jammed up there. (Rant: Seriously folks the overhead bins are for big bags not your stupid cosmetic cases, or coats that fit under your fucking seat. End rant.)

Erin couldn’t find a place for her bag either so we brought them back to the front of the plane and checked them. The flight attendant said they would be available to us at our final destination. We nodded took our claim stubs and went to our seats. I settled down with my book to read.

About halfway through the flight my stomach began to growl. I thought I’d grab some breakfast in San Fran. Then realized my wallet was in my carry on bag. “Oh well.” I thought. I’ll just wait, or have someone cover me. I read a few more paragraphs when the horrible, horrible truth dawned on me.

My passport was in my carry on bag…which was now a checked bag…that would be available to me in Mexico. Shit.

I pushed my call button and ripped my ear buds out of my ears. The attendant arrived and turned off the call button. “How can I help you?” she said.

I told her what had happened, the full bins, the checked bag, the passport inside, the fact that I was heading to Mexico. She assured me she would talk to another attendant and get things straightened out. She took my name, boarding pass and a description of my bag (black, of course it’s black).

After a while she came back and assured me my bag would be waiting for me on the jetway when we arrived in San Francisco. I apologized for being careless and she told me it wasn’t my fault at all, but theirs. Well I couldn’t argue with that.

Once we landed in San Fran I waited till almost everyone had deplaned before I got up. I hoped my bag would be there and it was. It stood waiting for me, I joyously grabbed my bag, thanked everyone again and took it into the terminal. Once inside I opened my bag. I took out my purse and put my wallet and passport inside then slug it over my shoulder. Good thing there was a stop in San Fran, otherwise I’m not sure what I would have done.

Remembering the Malecon

Sunset in Puerto Vallarta

As I step onto the jetway the air wraps itself around me like a moist blanket. It feels so thick it seems if I drug my nails through the air they would come away with grit underneath them. I breath deep, it’s warm and oppressive, but I love the feeling of the heavy air in my lungs. We make our way through customs and security checks. There’s a relaxed feeling to it, which will be utterly different when we return to the States. I let myself relax as we make our way through the airport. I smile as we’re assaulted by salesmen and women trying to throw timeshares at us…as long as you’re 30 years old that is. We make it through to the taxi booths where people wave yellow signs with the word TAXI printed across them. Perhaps there is where we get a taxi? I chuckle to myself.

We are driven to our hotel. I don’t feel the need to put on a seatbelt, even though the driving is more chaotic here and I have no idea what the traffic laws here. But it seems no one else does either. Even though the cars and taxis flit around the street it seems less scary than six years ago. I gaze out the windows drinking in the sights. While I recognize very little of it, it still feels familiar. Then we get to our hotel and that is one thing I couldn’t forget.

Almost nothing at this hotel has changed. In fact the only difference I notice is there are iguanas living there now. They’ll come up and eat your leftover food if you leave it by the pool.

We spend time by the pool, in the sun, playing beach volleyball. We go into town, we eat dinner, chips & guacamole, we drink Corona’s and margaritas. It’s very similar to the trip six years ago, but the town feels different in very subtle ways.

It feels less authentic, maybe a bit more run down in a tired sort of way. There seems to be more English speakers this time, I notice a lot more children this time. The clubs are all different, even the Malecon feels and looks different. But it’s still the same Malecon I walked down six years ago.

The Malecon reminds me of my life. It looked so different six years ago, but it’s still the same path. As I walk through this city and recognize things and recognize the differences I feel a twinge of sadness. I feel the empty place in my heart ache as I remember. A few times I feel it threaten to bubble up behind my eyes and leak out. The whole trip is a bit out of body. It feels as though I am calmly watching myself walk through this trip while I float nearby.

The one floating nearby was the girl that stayed. I feel so deeply the loss of not staying. Six years ago Jordan and I wanted to stay in Puerto Vallarta. I wonder how things would be different if we had stayed. Perhaps we would have stayed for a year and come back. Maybe we would have stayed longer and raised our children there.

I loved my vacation. I loved the relaxation, the heat, the monsoons washing the whole earth clean each day. I loved being cut off, away for awhile, really away. But I couldn’t shake that melancholy, that epic regret, I couldn’t stop wishing that things were different.