Daily affirmations of a word mercenary
Observations Category
I’ve studied Sociology both in college and out in the field. It’s about about observation. This is also known as “people watching,” but much more academic. Oh yes. So much more academic. (And no: I’m not being serious.)
I was sitting at Cafe Ladro revising one of the chapters for my book proposal. It was the essay that would be Chapter 1, the one about HOME. Long story, it’s a chapter about finding places to fit in and safely take a shit without feeling guilty for the smell.
I’m sitting at the little cafe bar, and every now and then I turned a glazed-over eye to the window for some peoplewatching (witnessed the desperation of Seattle, where a woman will wear flip-flops if it’s 50 degrees out). I can see the Sunday paper framed by the newspaper box on the sidewalk. The lead headline says “DREAM HOMES: A WINDOW INTO HOW WE’VE CHANGED.”
Syncronicity pleases the poet in me.
Uncharitable
28
Feb
2004
In: Observations
A couple years ago, I donated $40 to Planned Parenthood. After a few months, I wished I could take my money back because it started to look like every cent of it was going towards direct marketing mailings that showed up several times a month. Planned Parenthood not only buried me in junk mail, but they also sold my address to other organizations who then sent even more junk mail.
Don’t charities understand that they’re actually DISUADING me from donating again? It’s so stupid. I don’t want my money to go towards filling my own mailbox with crap! Grumble.
Disgusting American Foods
15
Feb
2004
In: Observations
Steve posed me this question: “It seems most other cultures have some food/beverage items that are…difficult to stomach. At least for Americans. At least, initially. But what does America produce that’s comparable?”
I theorized that, since Amercan food is designed to appeal to the lowest common demonator of tastes (SWEET! SALTY! GREASY! YES!), it was hard to say.
Then I looked around on the net and found this gem: The American Food FAQ. Dear God. I love the use of third person.
Anyway: I’d love to hear from my international readers. What’s the most disgusting American food out there? I’ve got some theories, but please: englighten me!
New Term
10
Feb
2004
In: Observations
Commuterate
Derivative of commiserate. Used to describe the drive-time cell phone calls between miserable commuters looking for a little company.
Women’s
9
Feb
2004
In: Observations
On Saturday I went to grab a new shirt for this two-week copywriting gig I’m doing. As usual, I poked around the Juniors section. Nothing. It was all low cut jeans and t-shirts that said things like “Princess” and “Bitch” and “If there’s grass on the field, let’s play ball!” Then I wandered past the Women’s section, and suddenly there were things I liked. And they all fit me.
I suppose that 15 months from 30, I shouldn’t be surprised that I bought a shirt from the Women’s section, but it’s taken me almost two days to come to grips with it. What’s next — Metamucil?
Constellations
30
Jan
2004
In: Observations
One of the few advantages of myopia is that when I step out of the shower, all I can see clearly is a microcosmos of steam particles in the air. The floating droplets of water a few inches from my nose dance around my face as I let my weak eyes take in the beauty of their smallness.
Dishwashing Gloves
21
Jan
2004
In: Observations
What is it about gloves that has made me stop loathing the daily chore of washing dishes? I have always hated washing dishes, and now all it takes is a set of cheap rubber gloves to make me change my mind? Now I kind of look forward to dishwashing. Snap on the gloves and use obscenely hot water. Grease melts off! My hands get all toasty! Hell, if I put lotion on my hands right before I slip them into the gloves, my hands come out all soft and toasty and squishy. And the dishes get done!
O fickle woman. Fickle, fickle dishwashing woman.
Dog Gone
25
Dec
2003
In: Observations
When there are no small children around for Christmas, it’s up to the dog to go digging through hidden bags to find gifts. My aunt’s welsh terrier somehow found the toy I’d bought for him…dragged it out of my bag, and proceeded to drag it around the house, showing off how smart he was.
Not on my wishlist
17
Dec
2003
In: Observations
Cold sores are like the world’s worst advent calendar. Each morning for about two weeks, you wake up and see what new awful development has happened on your face. Every day a new surprise of disgustingness and disfigurement! What is the sore doing now? Is it smooth and bulging? Crusted? Oozing? Contageous? Cankerous? Festering? Gross enough to frighten away cute animals and small children? Every day a surprise!
Normally, I only get cold sores when I’m unfathmably stressed. This means I’ve started school numerous times looking like a lip-leper (most recently in NYC summer of 2001. Coincidence that the fashionista assigned to sit next to me moved her seat, and never spoke to me after that first day? Crusty McCrusterson THINKS NOT!) I usually move to new cities looking all nasty and cold sore-y, great for making good first impressions. I’m not sure what I’m so stressed about right now, but dear god. Hide me in a hole. Please.
Over the last couple years, Seattle’s Ballard neighborhood has became the new Williamsburg. We had brunch there yesterday with TC and Sarah, the the neighborhood (formerly known for aging Scandanavians and baby strollers equipped with latte holders) was filled to the brim with bottle-black haired hipsters, sculking about in their black hooded sweatshirts, vintage Ts, and carefully studied hangover scowls. Andreas, who lived in Ballard when I met him in late 1997, was stunned.
“Maybe I was a member of the shock troops of Ballard gentrification,” he mused. Perhaps. Or maybe everybody just couldn’t deal with Capitol Hill’s street kids and notoriously bloated rents.
Now I know why a woman at work said to me, “Ariel, you live in Ballard, don’t you.” in this way that implied it wasn’t a question because she already knew the answer. I was totally confused. Did I smell like lutefisk? Was the new haircut really that bad? When I said, “No, I live on Capitol Hill…?” the response was a little disappointed and I couldn’t figure out why.
I understand now that it was because I had proved that I really wasn’t a hipster, which is really fine with me. Hoopster yes. Hipster? Eh, not so much.
- 4 Comments
- Tags: ballard, hipsters
I was sitting at Cafe Ladro revising one of the chapters for my book proposal. It was the essay that would be Chapter 1, the one about HOME. Long story, it’s a chapter about finding places to fit in and safely take a shit without feeling guilty for the smell.
I’m sitting at the little cafe bar, and every now and then I turned a glazed-over eye to the window for some peoplewatching (witnessed the desperation of Seattle, where a woman will wear flip-flops if it’s 50 degrees out). I can see the Sunday paper framed by the newspaper box on the sidewalk. The lead headline says “DREAM HOMES: A WINDOW INTO HOW WE’VE CHANGED.”
Syncronicity pleases the poet in me.
Uncharitable
28 Feb 2004 In: ObservationsA couple years ago, I donated $40 to Planned Parenthood. After a few months, I wished I could take my money back because it started to look like every cent of it was going towards direct marketing mailings that showed up several times a month. Planned Parenthood not only buried me in junk mail, but they also sold my address to other organizations who then sent even more junk mail.
Don’t charities understand that they’re actually DISUADING me from donating again? It’s so stupid. I don’t want my money to go towards filling my own mailbox with crap! Grumble.
Disgusting American Foods
15 Feb 2004 In: ObservationsSteve posed me this question: “It seems most other cultures have some food/beverage items that are…difficult to stomach. At least for Americans. At least, initially. But what does America produce that’s comparable?”
I theorized that, since Amercan food is designed to appeal to the lowest common demonator of tastes (SWEET! SALTY! GREASY! YES!), it was hard to say.
Then I looked around on the net and found this gem: The American Food FAQ. Dear God. I love the use of third person.
Anyway: I’d love to hear from my international readers. What’s the most disgusting American food out there? I’ve got some theories, but please: englighten me!
New Term
10 Feb 2004 In: ObservationsCommuterate
Derivative of commiserate. Used to describe the drive-time cell phone calls between miserable commuters looking for a little company.
Women’s
9 Feb 2004 In: ObservationsOn Saturday I went to grab a new shirt for this two-week copywriting gig I’m doing. As usual, I poked around the Juniors section. Nothing. It was all low cut jeans and t-shirts that said things like “Princess” and “Bitch” and “If there’s grass on the field, let’s play ball!” Then I wandered past the Women’s section, and suddenly there were things I liked. And they all fit me.
I suppose that 15 months from 30, I shouldn’t be surprised that I bought a shirt from the Women’s section, but it’s taken me almost two days to come to grips with it. What’s next — Metamucil?
Constellations
30 Jan 2004 In: ObservationsOne of the few advantages of myopia is that when I step out of the shower, all I can see clearly is a microcosmos of steam particles in the air. The floating droplets of water a few inches from my nose dance around my face as I let my weak eyes take in the beauty of their smallness.
Dishwashing Gloves
21 Jan 2004 In: ObservationsWhat is it about gloves that has made me stop loathing the daily chore of washing dishes? I have always hated washing dishes, and now all it takes is a set of cheap rubber gloves to make me change my mind? Now I kind of look forward to dishwashing. Snap on the gloves and use obscenely hot water. Grease melts off! My hands get all toasty! Hell, if I put lotion on my hands right before I slip them into the gloves, my hands come out all soft and toasty and squishy. And the dishes get done!
O fickle woman. Fickle, fickle dishwashing woman.
Dog Gone
25 Dec 2003 In: ObservationsWhen there are no small children around for Christmas, it’s up to the dog to go digging through hidden bags to find gifts. My aunt’s welsh terrier somehow found the toy I’d bought for him…dragged it out of my bag, and proceeded to drag it around the house, showing off how smart he was.
Not on my wishlist
17 Dec 2003 In: ObservationsCold sores are like the world’s worst advent calendar. Each morning for about two weeks, you wake up and see what new awful development has happened on your face. Every day a new surprise of disgustingness and disfigurement! What is the sore doing now? Is it smooth and bulging? Crusted? Oozing? Contageous? Cankerous? Festering? Gross enough to frighten away cute animals and small children? Every day a surprise!
Normally, I only get cold sores when I’m unfathmably stressed. This means I’ve started school numerous times looking like a lip-leper (most recently in NYC summer of 2001. Coincidence that the fashionista assigned to sit next to me moved her seat, and never spoke to me after that first day? Crusty McCrusterson THINKS NOT!) I usually move to new cities looking all nasty and cold sore-y, great for making good first impressions. I’m not sure what I’m so stressed about right now, but dear god. Hide me in a hole. Please.
Over the last couple years, Seattle’s Ballard neighborhood has became the new Williamsburg. We had brunch there yesterday with TC and Sarah, the the neighborhood (formerly known for aging Scandanavians and baby strollers equipped with latte holders) was filled to the brim with bottle-black haired hipsters, sculking about in their black hooded sweatshirts, vintage Ts, and carefully studied hangover scowls. Andreas, who lived in Ballard when I met him in late 1997, was stunned.
“Maybe I was a member of the shock troops of Ballard gentrification,” he mused. Perhaps. Or maybe everybody just couldn’t deal with Capitol Hill’s street kids and notoriously bloated rents.
Now I know why a woman at work said to me, “Ariel, you live in Ballard, don’t you.” in this way that implied it wasn’t a question because she already knew the answer. I was totally confused. Did I smell like lutefisk? Was the new haircut really that bad? When I said, “No, I live on Capitol Hill…?” the response was a little disappointed and I couldn’t figure out why.
I understand now that it was because I had proved that I really wasn’t a hipster, which is really fine with me. Hoopster yes. Hipster? Eh, not so much.
- 4 Comments
- Tags: ballard, hipsters
Hey there. I'm Ariel Meadow Stallings, a native Seattleite who's written my way up and down the Left Coast. Electrolicious is where I post daily randomata, but I also write for a living. My first book, Offbeat Bride, was published last year.
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