An Unprecedented Heat Wave

This may seem a little over-the-top, but I would cut off my right arm for some air conditioning right now. That’s right, my writing and throwing arm. I’m serious about this, people.

I admit it: I’m a baby, a big ol’ fat one. I must have officially become a Seattleite, because I am woefully complaining about things that really aren’t that bad in the scheme of things. (Thankfully, however, I still know that Seattle traffic is about ¼ as bad as traffic in Los Angeles or the SF East Bay, so you won’t hear me whining about that anytime soon…) But it is 102° right now, with about 75% humidity, and I think I just might die. The hottest day in recorded Seattle history, and the city is not equipped to deal with extreme weather conditions, which the snow storms this winter proved.

Seattleites seem to have this strange amnesia with regards to the things they’ll need in certain weather. Every time the weather changes, people seem surprised: “Oh, look! The sun’s out! I’m going to need to buy some sunglasses!” “Oh no! Snow! I’m gonna have to buy chains!” “Wow, do you feel that? It’s really hot! Maybe I should buy a fan…?” It’s like everyone forgets what happened the year before. This is why all the fans are sold out of every store in the Downtown Seattle area because, apparently, no one ever thought they’d need to keep one around just in case.

Apparently, people are remembering that being hot and uncomfortable really frickin' sucks.

Everyone is walking around like this is the end of the world, looking grossly sweaty and lethargic. The shops and restaurants (that are lucky) have scribbled window paint that reads “COME IN! WE HAVE A/C!” The streets seem empty, and the people that dare venture out quickly hustle into their destinations, relieved to have made it inside alive. This must be what it feels like when zombies attack. Though right now, I’d welcome something devouring my brain.

My apartment is in a brick building, my windows facing east—lucky, because this means I only get morning sunshine. The 400 sq. ft. box that is my studio retains all heat, which means that if it’s 100° outside, it’s likely 95° inside. The air is stagnant, and my little tootsie-roll-like oscillating fan, placed about a foot from my face, lazily blows the sticky, hot air towards me. My body is rejecting fluids, and the world cares not.

Ennis is plotting my death as we speak. Oh, he knows the heat isn’t my fault, but being cooped up all day in an oven is, and on top of that, he isn’t allowed to come anywhere near me. He’s covered in fur! That would be like lying against a sweater! No thank you. He’s clearly hoping to be taken home by my friend Sarah, who has been coming in this week to walk him while I’m at work. She’s both my and Ennis’ personal savior. He gets out, and I get to stay in.

He has a new mom now, and she’s much more fun. This isn’t Ennis’ first experience with the heat of summer, but our camping adventures in Del Valle didn’t compare to this. At least with the dry heat of California, there’s some solace in the shade and a cool breeze every so often. But this Northwestern humidity is relentless, and there’s no way to escape. Humidity is just one of many reasons why I don't know how people could voluntarily live in the South.

Maybe the pups and I should go and sleep in the car? There’s A/C in there.

But maybe if I keep giving him ice cubes, rinsing him in a cold shower, and holding a frozen wash cloth to his hyperventilating chest, he’ll put off killing me for another time.

The Federal Mile

Yes, I recognize it's been 3 months, and no, I'm not going to fill in the gaps. It's a new beginning, a new focus, and a fresh start. No going backwards. Only forward. Changes spark a re-commitment, and I'm going to work all the harder to keep myself on track. It's mightily important, and I'm shifting gears...

So. Hello. I am now, officially, living on my own. For the first time. No roommates, no sharing, and no bedroom. :) Just a little doggie, 400 sq. ft. and a new neighborhood in Capitol Hill that is severely out of my price range.

Winter in First Hill was pretty brutal, and not particularly conducive to getting out with daily walks for Ennis. Sure, the frequent Plymouth Pillars trips tired the pup out as needed, and he's made tons of friends (and some enemies, poor Boris), but walking has always been therapeutic and meditative for me. That has been lacking, because First Hill is anything but peaceful.

He needs the walking time, but I need it more.

My current apartment building is located one block from Volunteer Park in North Capitol Hill, which is a tad bit special. The houses, it's safe to say (even in this economy) are well over $1 million mark. There's one for sale right now that looks like a Spanish villa, two blocks north, that's selling for $5.4 million. I know. The roads are flat, the grass is green, the flowers are blooming, and the rich couples bring out their designer dogs in flocks. Okay, lots of rescues too. This is Seattle, after all.

Having an expensive mini-Aussie makes me feel like I fit in somewhat, but I'm terrified to go out in my typical "scrubby" fashion, and even more terrified about forgetting a poop-bag! The last thing I need is some millionaire's wife scowling at me as she watches my lower-middle class dog pop-a-squat beneath her rose bushes, then walk away.

Oh, sweet Jesus, there might even be surveillance cameras!

My street is 10th Ave E. Walk down Prospect towards the park, and turn left on Federal. Then just keep walking. As far as you want. Ignore the BMWs, Audis, Mercedes and fancy Subarus as they pass you by, and simply enjoy the view.

The houses here are nothing if not Stately, and the flat roads and peaceful seclusion makes one feel miles away from the bustle of Broadway (which is, in fact, only 2 city blocks south). There is a community of dogs here, different from those closer to Downtown. There is a proper attitude, a polite demeanor when meeting others. The conversation is similar to other places ("What kind of dog is that?", "Sorry, he just wants to play", and "Thank you, have a good day"), but for a 23-year-old and her barky dog, there is a sense of being out of her element.

Maybe I should pick up jogging? Then I'd really fit in.

The people on Federal are young and old, but all successful and courteous. I do my best not to stand out.

I can be courteous, too.

Bloom

Bloom
—noun. 1) The flower of a plant. 2) A healthy condition; the time or period of greatest beauty. 3) The glossy, well-kept appearance of the coat of an animal.
—verb. 1) To produce or yield blossoms. 2) To flourish or thrive. 3) To be in or achieve a state of vigor.

Something changed this weekend. Perhaps it was the rain, which we haven't seen much of in the past two months. (This is Seattle, right?) Maybe it was having visitors from California. Not entirely sure. But the difficulty I've been feeling recently is slowly receding, making me less anxious and feeling less hopeless.

Spring is almost here. Buds are sprouting up everywhere, and it's been easy to forget that it's supposed to be green around here. The trees are barren, the bushes are dark and muddy. It's strange to think that in another month or so, the trees on the street will be so full that I'll hardly be able to make out the buildings.

But right now it's just some sprouts, and they sprang up virtually over night. The presence of sunshine and now the little bit of rain we're being blessed with is going to mean lots of bloomage. Color and light, rather than black dirt and wet sludge.


Tulips and daffodils seem to be the late-winter-in-Seattle flower of choice; they are outside almost every apartment building in First Hill, growing like weeds along the walkway. Perhaps it's because they can survive the freezing cold, and thrive despite constant downpour and cloud cover. Like Seattleites.

Considering it's only the first week of March, if this bit of bloomage is any sign of what's to come in April and May, our daily walks may actually got longer and more enjoyable. From what I hear, there's no place like Seattle in the spring.

Posts for these last few winter weeks have been a bit dull, and I apologize. But it's cold, people! And I'm still working for peanuts, so going places is difficult. I'm already doing my research on fantastic places for Ennis and I to go in the next few months.

Patience. The cold will end sometime.

The Ultimate Conversation Starter

Moving to a new city has not been easy for me. The combination of knowing nobody (besides my two roommates) and not having a serious job has made it almost unbearable at times. It gets lonely. And I love Ennis, but my dog can only comfort me so much. Human interaction is not only desired, it's necessary to my very survival here.

I admit: I'm not very brave. Meeting strangers doesn't come easily to me. I can go to the movies, a play, shopping, the library—all by myself. But bars? Restaurants? Not likely.

This is where the dog park has been my ultimate savior. Because what better conversation starter is there than to talk to someone about their dog? I mean, c'mon... everyone loves talking about their dogs, because it usually leads to them talking about themselves. People like that.

The important thing for me is to remember the human's name. I never have trouble remembering a dog's name. I still remember all of the puppies' names from my PetSmart Puppy Class, but never ONCE learned their owners' names. The same is true for almost every dog I've met. Sad. But I'm making a point not to be forgetful this time. So far it's paying off.

Ennis has made lots of friends, and I've definitely started good talks with people. Puppy play date, anyone?



This is Ennis and Barnaby. Seeing Barnaby at the park was a bit of a trip, and I got a tad over-excited. I love Aussies (obviously) and, well... he looks like a certain someone I also kind of like. His owner Ann was nice enough to take this and send it to me. Hopefully I'll see him again once it's sunny more.

Up top is the apple of little Ennis' eye: Holly. Her owners Tom and Nicole are really amazing, and we've agreed that our pups are pretty madly in love. Ennis is a bit of a player, with girlfriends all up the West Coast, from Malibu to Fremont to Oakland to Arcata... But Holly can hold her own.

Plymouth Pillars has some frequent visitors, and Ennis is lucky enough to see many of them regularly when the weather is good. Sarah with Harlow (um... Whippet mix?), Tony with Baxter (Burnese/Border Collie mix), Lou with Foxy and Bear (Shiba Inus), Chris with Rupert (Bassett Hound)—lots of people with precious dogs, all of whom seem just as eager to meet fellow dog lovers as I am.

In a city with nearly 45% more dogs than children, it would behoove a new Seattlite to pony up the bucks and get a pooch to help him/her mingle. Especially in Capitol Hill, where so many young people are getting their footing in the world and building up their sense of responsibility. What better way to do that—to help learn your place in this busy, complicated world—than with a warm smile and a friendly, "Wow, your dog is beautiful. Boy or girl?"

Dog Park: Plymouth Pillars

I thank my gods every day that there is a "dog park" within easy walking distance of my apartment. As most locals describe it, it's more like "a glorified dog run", but it doesn't make any difference to me. Two things matter: I can take Ennis' leash off, and he can run. Bonus point: With other dogs.

Obviously this is the point of a dog park. But when you're talking about an area of Seattle that is less than one mile NE of Pike Place Market and amidst the apartment complex mayhem of South Capitol Hill, you'll be grateful for any amount of off-leash time your dog can get, particularly if you don't have a car to drive to the 9 acres that Magnuson has to offer.

There is no grass and no dirt at Plymouth Pillars. It's kind of like an English beach: pebbles and rocks, dusty and dirty. Some larger rocks surround a little hill that the little dogs especially love. Many complain about the rocks—"They hurt my dog's feet!"—but I assure you, they're harmless. I know Ennis loves them, and he has little feet. They give when he maneuvers, and I think he enjoys that. But who knows.


Online reviews have said that no one ever comes to this park, but as someone who has been coming every single afternoon that the sun is out (which has been quite frequently lately), there is always at least one person/dog, if not a dozen or more of them. The great thing is that almost everyone is in their 20's and 30's—and everyone lives nearby. The dogs are all well-behaved for the most part, clearly excited and thankful to be running free outside of their small apartment walls. Ennis is among these happy frolickers.

The guy who maintains the park, which has gone through major transformations in the last two years, is around almost every afternoon, snapping pictures of the dogs and sometimes their owners. Yours truly and her faithful pooch were snapped several times: 1, 2, 3 and 4.

What a stud.

Between the fence and the freeway is a little hill that currently has sunflowers planted. There are sticks along the fence with a dog's name on each one. Each stick has a sunflower. So come spring, I can pick mine! It's a very nice idea, and it'll be beautiful once they all bloom. Just imagine the view from the freeway! I can't wait.

Plymouth Pillars isn't much in terms of space, or to look at, and there is the occasional drug dealer or flagrant hanging around. But there really is a sense of community with the people who bring their dogs. Not a lot of stuck up people with prissy, designer dogs, which is nice if you actually want to strike up a good conversation.

No judging each other. I like that. Kind of like being a dog.

Plymouth Pillars Park
Boren Ave. at Pike St.
Seattle, WA 98101
map it!

Travel Sickness

After a bit of a drastic hiatus from writing—everything, not just this blog—I feel as though I’ve finally gotten my life together enough that I can once again start on a writing schedule I can actually stick to. Plus, it’ll give me added reason to get out in my new city and explore, which is entirely the point anyway.

I’ve been in Seattle for almost a month now, and I’d like to think that given my limitations (it's winter, people!), I’ve been pretty good about getting out with Ennis. Sure, walks could certainly be longer, and maybe I should be working on his training more thoroughly (he’s so close to playing dead!), but the guy is taken care of. He is, really. But distractions happen, and that’s life.

Traveling did not suit Ennis well. He is used to long car rides, having gone back and forth from Livermore to Santa Barbara, then to Malibu, and from the Bay Area to Arcata several times—the kid is familiar with the car. But at the same time he never has been quite comfortable in the passenger’s seat, unless he’s sitting on someone’s lap (preferably mine, but any ol’ comfy lap will do). He’ll sit there with his mouth agape, shaking ever-so-slightly, looking tired but refusing to lie down. As a result, his head will just hang slack. He also gets car sick, which is worrisome if you are the only one in the car. I’ve become strangely adept at sensing his oncoming hurls and catching it with something in the nick of time.

But Livermore to Seattle was different. The car ride was sensational. He was quiet and slept like a baby most of the time. He was curious, his head poking out the window when I would open it, but most just watching Kait as she drove. Yes, it was actually quite lovely. Little did I know that trouble was brewing inside my little one’s stomach.

Because he is nervous in the car, Ennis refuses to eat or drink. This is fine, normally, but apparently not when it’s a 12-hour car ride. Also, it probably didn’t help that I changed his food upon arriving in Seattle. What resulted was about a week and a half of chronic diarrhea, which happened without much warning at all.

And so began my exploration of the neighborhood with my pup, as he squirted his way along the streets of First Hill.

Those first days could have been worse, I guess. Sure, it was rainy and wet—even snowy!—and it takes a good 2.5 minutes to put all of my necessary pieces of clothing on in order to take my whining, pooping pup outside to do his business. But at least I wasn't employed! Therefore I could dedicate 100% of my time to making sure Ennis got better—good for him, but mentally draining and unsettling for me. Did I not just spend the last six months doing nothing but looking after this dog? Now he has to go and get the shits on me? Fantastic. What a jerk.

But he came out of it alright, thanks to my savvy internet searches on home-based cures for diarrhea, 'cause like hell I was gonna go find a vet and pay to get the little bugger fixed. Within two days, he was good as new.

Do-It-Yourself Doggie Diarrhea Remedy

First, cut off food (not water) for an entire day. Nothing goes in.

Then (if your pup is small, like mine) follow these instructions. Increase proportionally if your dog is bigger.

- 1/3 cup cooked chicken (try Kirkland brand, canned chicken)
- 1/4 cup cottage cheese
- 1/4 brown rice
- LOTS of water (separate bowl, obviously)

The key is nutrition. Don't worry so much about getting your dog to have solid poops. If he has diarrhea, it's probably because of a lack of water or something unsettling the pup ate. All of the above food is fully digestible, so your dog may not be pooping much at all as a result.

After two days, minimize the amount of fancy food slightly, and add a bit of your dog's kibble. Continue this for a couple days.

This cleared Ennis' diarrhea completely. If it doesn't for your dog, seek a vet's opinion. It's worth doling out the money if it means keeping your dog's runny poops off of your roommate's bed sheets.

8

I'm taking a break from my normal fare to touch on something very, very important.

With a little less than a month before the election, my attention is slowly being drawn away from defaming television ads, political femme fatales like Sarah "Wink 'Cause I'm An Idiot" Palin and Cindy "The Position of Satan Was Already Filled" McCain who talk so seemlessly out of their asses, and, of course, McCain and all his bullshiting glory.

I absolutely hate doing what I'm about to do because I absolutely believe in jinxing, and I'll never feel completely confident until it actual happens, but I'm just gonna say it:

Barack Obama will be the next president of the United States of America.

But James Carville said it best. "Call in the dogs, piss on the fire, the hunt is over." Or something like that. And it's true. End of story. *insert feeling of uncertainty here*

What worries me now is the threat of Proposition 8. This, of course, is the prop that wishes to overturn the California ruling that legalized Gay Marriage. To vote YES on this prop is to take away this right.

I'm suddenly afraid that people aren't really seeing this as a serious threat. According to various articles, some about Mormons and others about sad sad sad young people, there are huge movements underway to see that this prop passes. It frightens me to no end that something so great for gays and lesbians can all of a sudden be turned over and thrown back in their faces like they are nothing, like their lives and loves mean nothing.

It's been a long time since I've been actively involved in gay and lesbian rights; I feel a little detached from the community in the last couple years because my gay friends have gone off for other things. And even though there are only a few people who read this, for some reason I feel it's necessary for me to reach out and plead that everyone VOTE NO ON PROP 8!!

Tell your friends. Remember to vote. There is a very, very real possibility that this will pass. That cannot happen. It cannot. We can't let this state -- this country -- take another step back, as a result of hate and fear.

Elections must stop being driven by people who are afraid and who judge others.

Remember: Vote NO.

The Host — Stephenie Meyer

Leave it to Stephenie Meyer to write something that forces me out of my book review slump. It's been months, and around ten books have gone uncriticized. Hopefully, with summer approaching, this will change.

But back to business. Meyer's first book outside of her unfathomably successful (and addicting) Twilight saga, as well as her first novel geared toward adults, has immediately found what I assume will be a lasting home on the New York Times bestseller list. People are unabashedly drawn to this Mormon housewife's thrilling narratives, and it's getting less and less embarrassing to admit it. Stephenie Meyer is taking over the world.

The Host branches away from mere fantasy fluff and into the more socially relevant realm of science fiction: aliens, space ships, a struggle for humans to survive. What sounds like regular, run-of-the-mill 60's Sci-Fi movie plot devices are actually a basis for one of the most interesting and emotional stories about love and loyalty that I've ever come across in modern fiction—fantasy or otherwise.

The plot is as such: An alien race known as Souls come to Earth and take over the human race, using the bodies as hosts. The human minds are extinguished while the Souls—an entirely "non-violent" race—live to rid the world of all violence and sickness. Wanderer, a Soul living her 9th life, but first one on Earth, finds that her host, Melanie Stryder, is unwilling to fade away; Melanie remains as a voice in Wanderer's head, reliving her memories and emotions, forcing Wanderer to develop passionate and unnerving feelings about a past that was never hers. She "remembers" Jamie, Melanie's younger brother, and Jared, the love of of Melanie's life. Wanderer and Melanie become unwilling allies, yearning for the same man, and inevitably Wanderer consents to allow Melanie to lead her in a search for the family she knows are still in hiding.

And that's just the first 100 pages or so. And that is a simplified explanation. The next 500 pages reveal more remarkable characters, along with painfully conflicting kinds of love and loss that make this an intensely thought-provoking book. The Host, essentially, is an ode to the complexity of the human condition. The power of emotions, the strength of family bonds, and the irony of a fight for peace.

The strength of Stephenie Meyer's writing, aside from her ability to tell damn good stories, is how she enables the reader to feel exactly how the narrator does, every step of the way. When Wanderer is in pain, in love, feeling sadness or joy, we are right there along with her, and the confusion in her heart is reflected in ours.

And if you are a woman and you can actually read the last line of page 605 without shedding a single tear, you may not be human. I'm just warning you. I cried, and in the best way possible.

The first part of the novel is a bit slow, as Wanderer and Melanie spend most of the time "alone." And if you're an obsessive fan of Twilight and Bella and Edward, you may be a little anxious for a devotion of that same magnitude to creep out of the pages. Rest assured, it will come, but in a much more profound and human way. The writing really is pretty spectacular throughout—far more advanced than her previous three books, which were clearly aimed towards young and new readers—so I urge you to barrel on through the exposition. As Meyer has said, she "can't tell a short story." This is evident here, but well worth the time. After 200 pages, you won't put it down.

I loved this book. It shows love in a different, more complicated, less black-and-white light than Twilight does (though Eclipse comes close). Read this book and, like me, you'll begin an eager wait for the sequels.

****/*****

Meditate

I don't pretend as though Oprah and the things she presents to the world don't affect me. I love her (though, and I won't go into it now, I do have my issues with her), and even though she needs to stop acting like Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth is some sort of new concept, I have come to love Eckhart too. (I don't blame him -- how can I? He's ego-less!)

In the Week 5 class for A New Earth, Oprah read this. It's beautiful. Thought I'd share.

"Lost" by David Wagoner
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you,
If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

It sounds a little like the monologues in my plays. But maybe that's cause the word "listen" is its own sentence. Not sure.

Road Trip Pictures

Just for those interested (and without Facebooks), here are links to all the road trip albums.

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI

I have nothing entertaining to say with this post. Just sorry. I promise there won't be another mention of this road trip. Ever.