Happ Father's Day 1988

In 1988, I spent the summer working in London. London is where I was for Father's Day that year. When my dad passed away, my mom gave me all the letters and cards I had sent him over the years that he had kept in his dresser drawer.  This is the letter I sent him that year.


Dear Dad,

This seems odd, writing to you.  But I feel the need to, and so I do.

I miss you.  Does that strike you as odd? I mean, I find it normal to miss home, and my parents - but I miss YOU. I miss sitting at the dinner table complaining together about how mom is on the phone or that dinner isn't cooked quite right.  I miss asking who is on "Johnny" tonight and making you stop changing the channels so I can see someone you've never heard of before.

I miss knowing that you are worried.  I don't know exactly what you're concerned over for me - I know you care and are concerned, but I don't have the specific thing and I miss that.

I'm really enjoying myself. I'm poor. DIRT poor. I live in a "ghetto". But it's such an experience, I wouldn't trade it.  Tomorrow I'm taking a draw on my salary (they said I could, because I just missed payday...) So I shan't be poor for long.

I've started saying "half" as though it rhymed with "cough" - I like it.

There is talk that I may be able to help open the Paris store for Joan & David - I would love that! My French is almost eight years old but it would help me live in Paris! That would be too much to ask for. But it is still just talk.

I feel so distant from you and all my family (and clean water, and clean air!) but I feel that this is most likely part of growing up and taking on my own responsibilities. I mean, I sometimes felt (as I'm sure you have) that I've never be able to actually handle life on my own.  I'm pleasantly surprised - I CAN do it!!

Anyway - HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!! I would've phone you but i heard you were out of town...

I love you dearly - and miss you terribly.

Love, Jim


For the record, I didn't go to Paris for work. I didn't live in a "ghetto". The water in London left a strange scum on the top when you made tea and when I blew my nose the pollution from the city turned my boogers black. Even after taking that draw on my pay, I was broke. I still can't really handle my own life. And I still miss my dad.

Where's Waldo?

It's been 4 months since my dad died.  It's been 3 months since our dog died. I'd like to think that I am moving forward.  Perhaps there is proof that I am since I no longer cry as I fall asleep and I no longer cry as I'm waking up. But I still cry. The sharpest pain has diminished to a dull ache, with smaller moments of sharp pain.

Every day there is an ad for upcoming father's day.  Every day I get an email from a pet store. Every single day something reminds me of the pieces of my life that are missing. I can't bring myself to form the words that explain my loss.  I can't say the dog's name. I can't look at photos.  I can't breathe.

I am lost. Don't get me wrong, I know where I'm sitting right now (though some days when I'm waking up I'm none too certain what city I'm in...). But I 'm lost in an entirely different place. Most people who go through all this have some routine to return to.  A sense of "normalcy" that I haven't had for a few years. Without that root, I find myself adrift.

I don't want people to worry about me. I don't want you to worry about me. I put on a brave face and I post one pleasant thing each day on Facebook or Instagram.  Even the worst day always has one good thing happen.  Coffee - good. Found a quarter - very good.  Sunset - excellent. Ice cream - freaking fantastic. Then there are the other 23 hours and 45 minutes to deal with. If I'm lucky, I can sleep through 6-7 hours.  Which is an improvement from the four hours I was getting when I having vivid dreams about my dad and/or the dog.

Previously when I was drifting, I assigned myself tasks. Tasks like laundry, bake bread, create a book based on a vacation, etc.  I'm doing laundry.  I'm in Palm Springs so it's mostly t-shirts and swim suits. It takes a couple weeks to really build up a full day of distraction. We are borrowing a friend's house.  It is not outfitted to really go to town and bake.  Besides, I've lost my appetite and my ability to follow an entire recipe.  I've tried making a list of things to work on, but I can't seem to finish making a list. Even writing this post has petered out and I can't remember where I was headed when I started it, and so I don't know how to end it.

I'm killing time.  I'm letting myself heal.  At least I hope I am.

Two Questions

1. When did my parents get so short?
2. How do I stay so much younger?

Parisian Street food

My dad was stationed in France when he served in the military. He doesn't tell many stories from then, but he always talks about the time he ate snails. The story always ends with a sour face, tongue sticking out, and that sound, "Bleah-eh-eh-eh-eh" followed by a body shake.

Because of this story, I think every one in my family has tried snails, just to tell my dad we ate one.

So, to my dad on his 81st birthday, I give you this photo taken at the Christmas market on the Champs-Elysees. Look dad, look what the French are eating on the street!

Oops, I missed something...

Ever have those months (or years) where things go by so quickly you don't even have time to wash your clothes in between, let alone blog about it? Yeah, that's been my December and January. Today I am washing shirts that came home in the luggage from Vegas. I think this means I haven't done the shirt laundry for a month. Socks, underwear and jeans I am not so picky about so they got done a few times in between. On the bright side, this tells me I have plenty of clothes. On the down side, I was missing my favorite shirts as they were at the very bottom of the laundry pile.

So, where were we? Oh yeah, I missed a couple of big deals on this blog. I was too busy out living them to sit down and write about them. Technically, I didn't miss them.

My dad celebrated his 80th birthday on December 21st! I was very lucky to be able to fly to where my parents live and celebrate with the rest of my family in person. The way I see it, my dad will only turn 80 once (I on the other hand, plan on turning 42 a number of times).My father's family. Rosie, Alice, his father Christ, his mother Katherine, and in the front row, his twin brother Ed (on the left) and my dad Ted (on the right). Ted & Ed are around 8 years old.

Slow forward 72 years and here are Ed & Ted on their birthday:
The day started off with breakfast with the extended family of aunts, uncles and great aunts, and peaked with an open house at the senior center where more relatives and friends dropped in for cake and coffee. You know, one of those days where it all becomes a blur of faces and hugs and impossible to remember all that went on. I got so busy, I forgot to get my camera out. Luckily my brother Scott took many photos.

Then everyone left. It was a Monday. People had jobs to return to and Christmas was just around the corner. Since I had flown in, I made the plan to stay until the next day. That night my parents took me on a driving tour of the county to see all the Christmas lights. (You'd never know it from this blog, but I kinda enjoy Christmas decorations.) We toured our way to a small town called Everson and went for German food to celebrate my dad's birthday.
With the word "schnitzel" in the title of the restaurant, I knew I'd have to have some. Though I come from hearty German heritage, somehow I had NEVER had schnitzel before in my life. I only know about it from the song in the Sound of Music, "Raindrops on roses, and schnitzel with noodles..." I ordered the schnitzel with noodles.

It's pork. It's covered in sauce. It's delicious.
I know, the photos doesn't look all that appetizing, but trust me, I would eat some RIGHT NOW. (and you know what a food snob I am.) The portions are huge, I took half home.

Since it was my dad's special day, we HAD to get dessert. Apple strudel with ice cream and a sparkler.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY (again) DAD!

I flew home the next day, and suddenly, it was Christmas.
Our friend Erica and the Buche de Noël from our favorite neighborhood French Bakery Maison du Pain. I'm sure you can tell from her expression, why she and I get along so famously.

Christmas nibbles for a casual cocktail party.

Nutcracker, candy, cookies and assorted delightful decor displayed on the bar in the dining room.

That's some of what "got away" from me in December. Oh sure there was that trip to Puerto Rico, New Year's with friends, decorations, undecorating... oh my head... stop, stop, STOP! I can't remember anymore. It's all going blurry...

Parental Visitation

My parents came to town for a week. It's been three years since they were here last. My mom always says it's easier for me to come see them, then I counter with they're old and have nothing better to do than travel. We then sit down with a calendar and start to go over the year available.

January: I'm busy with work
February: It's gross here and it rains too much
March: We usually travel
April: Perhaps we'll travel twice this year?
May: Mother's Day and my mom's birthday
June: Too hot here for my parents
July: Too hot here for my parents
August: Too hot here for my parents
September: Too hot here for my parents
October: Work is very busy for us.
November: Thanksgiving
December: Christmas

So you see, there aren't a lot of times that work. Happily, October worked this year, and my parents took the train from Seattle to Los Angeles. a glorious, glamorous 36 hour ride on a train. I think they are crazy.

They arrived on a Tuesday night and on Wednesday we went to the Getty Center.

My dad got stuck in an artsy shot by me.

I showed them the panoramic view (that was hemmed in by fog at the outer reaches) and we did a small tour of the more modern paintings the Getty has.

Vincent van Gogh, View from the wheatfields.

After two hours, my dad said, "I'm done." That's about my endurance looking quietly at art as well. Looks like I come by that honestly. So we stopped and had a snack and some water (it's important to keep the parents fueled up).

On the tram that takes us back down to the parking area, we saw the vineyard on the hill of Bel-Air, The Moraga Vineyards.
It seems so surprising to find "farming" right there in the middle of the city, between the freeway and million dollar mansions.

When I asked my parents what they wanted "to do" while in town, they told me, "Just sit and visit. We don't have to go anywhere." Of course my response was, "No, we have to go somewhere, I can't talk to you both for 7 days with no break."

We took a driving tour out to Fillmore to buy pumpkins for Halloween. We drove out to Pasadena to see if we could see where the Station Fire had been in September (couldn't really see anything). We drove through downtown and Chinatown and around the Staples center. My parents enjoyed "tour by car" and only walked when I forced them out and into stores. We ate at Gladstone's on the beach in Malibu. We went out for dinner for our anniversary. We left them at home and went out for dinner another night for our anniversary. We ate a lot.

I watched the baseball playoffs with my dad.

Did you read that? I couldn't believe it either. But I did get smart and recorded it on Tivo so I could fast forward over all the commercials. Man, there are a LOT of commercials in baseball!

We had a Tupperware party.

My mom has been selling Tupperware longer than I have been alive. She is the Tupperware Queen. In an effort to give people a reason to come over and see/meet my parents, we had a Tupperware party.

My mom sent Tupperware down to my house in advance, and then supplemented her display from what I have in my cupboards. I have a lot. After the party, people went into my kitchen and looked in the cupboards and accused me of just putting everything away in Tupperware because my mom was here. I had to confess, no, I live like that every day.

Tupperware Prizes!

On our last day, the weather was gorgeous and I took my parents down to Venice.
That's quite a range for the outside temp, 68-84. I guess you're bound to be right at some point.

Dad was not amused that I kept shouting, "Don't jump! Don't jump!"

Baywatch Barb(ie).

We drove back through the canals of Venice. Something I had not down before. I want to go back. It was pretty.

You knew there were canals in Venice, CALIFORNIA... right?

Late last night I caught my mother doing something I NEVER thought I'd see. Seriously. As long as I've been alive. I NEVER THOUGHT I'D SEE THIS:

My mother with a Ziplock bag!

Is it weird that I'm saying I'm happy to be sad today? My parents left this morning and I wish they had stayed longer. I'm glad it wasn't the other option. My parents left this morning and I was wondering why they stayed so long.

So before you know it, I was back at the train station in downtown Los Angeles and my parents were being whisked away for another 36 hour ride home.

They never moved so fast all week!

Wedding Belle Blues

Today I am feeling very "unprotected" in my own home. If anything happens to either Lyle or me we have no recourse, no connection, no bond, no safety net according to the law of the land. Don't give me any bullshit about legal papers or contracts between individuals. Time and time the system has shown that there are people who will ignore those and you are left to fend for yourself.

Since I can't put all I have in my head down on paper, I will share these photos with you.

Lyle's parents wedding.

Jim's parents wedding.

My sisters wedding.

My brother's wedding.

Our wedding.

I started saying this last November, I define my life. I am married. I have a husband. You can legislate against me and deny me my rights, but I define my life and will continue to do so.

Drinking again.

When I was a child (and not just childish like I am now) we spent every Christmas Eve at my grandpa Don and Grandma Mable's house. It was a massive undertaking. EVERYONE was there. The main family of my mother's siblings and all their families would all be at Christmas dinner the next day, but Christmas Eve brought out all the aunts, great aunts, uncles, great uncles, great grandparents, cousins, cousins twice removed and everyone else we only saw at potlucks at the lake during the summer. If you're old enough to remember the reference, we looked like the King Family Singers.
It has colored my impression of what a holiday should look like for the rest of my life.

As the family would gather at my grandparents, everyone got a "Snowball". If you were a kid, you could have a snowball without the vodka. My grandpa Don would stand off in the corner of the kitchen with all his supplies ready. Ice. Ice crasher (not a crusher - this was a long handle with a ball bearing at the end surrounded by a rubber ring that he would use to "Whack" the ice cubes into his hand and smash them into smaller pieces). Whipping cream in a carton. 7-Up. Alcohol. Snowball glasses.

I can still picture it exactly in my head. Right over there in the corner by the fridge, in front of the cupboard that held my favorite glasses that had antique cars on them and of course the "farm glass" that had a drawing of barn and barnyard animals that I would "drown" when I filled the glass with grape juice up to the weather vane.

After my grandfather passed away, Christmas Eve moved to my family's house. Less extended family came by and more friends dropped in. My dad took over The Snowball Business.

Can I help? I'd chirp next to his elbow.
"Nope."
Why not?
"Because."
Because why?
"Because I said so."
Why'd you say so?
"Because you don't get to touch booze."
Can I make one without?
"Nope."
But I won't touch the booze.
"You don't know what you're doing."
Can I watch?
"Nope."
Why not?
"GO HELP YOUR MOTHER!"

And then I would take a step back and spy on him anyway. We all did. The Snowball was shrouded in mystery as to how it works. Once we were older and closer to college age we would sneak into The Snowball zone on Christmas Eve while my dad was talking in the living room and try to make them ourselves. My dad would come back and shoo us away, "You don't know what your doing. You're just wasting all the ingredients. Here, I'll make you one. JUST ONE."

And then we got brave enough to try them on our own. I remember it exactly. My brother and sister were going to have a Christmas party that would start at my brother's apartment and finish at my sisters. They lived about two blocks apart and we could all walk between them. My sister would be doing all the food at her house and my brother announced he would be making The Snowball. I think my response was "Can we just do that?"

By this time we had all had a turn making snowballs on Christmas Eve behind my dad's back. When friend's would arrive and we didn't want to drag dad back to the kitchen, or tell him we had friends who drank alcohol.

The snowballs at my brother's house were amazing. They tasted just like the kind dad made at home with a hint of something illicit. We were officially adults now and we were still in our 20's!

I've carried this recipe with me in my head all these years and recently a cousin asked my mother about "the drink of our people" and my mom said "ask Jim." So I tried to write it down as best as I can. I think it's a visual. Impossible to write down. And yet I will try.

Be warned, this is a difficult recipe... Not because of the ingredients, but the technique it seems to require. I have a theory that you you must experience a “master” maker and an “apprentice” maker before you should attempt. For instance, in my group of friends who have learned from me (an apprentice level) they have all seen my dad make them (the master level). And I watched my dad when he was at an apprentice level and learned it all from my grandpa Don who was the master of the recipe (for all I know, he invented it!).

That being said, I am trying to share it anyway! This recipe has never been given away and I may even take it back later. My friend Gina McGowan is the one who coined the term "The drink of your people" in reference to this amazing cocktail and as such I feel very proprietary over it.

Not one ingredient or direction can be altered. (and trust me I have tried and failed)

Start with a tall straight glass glass.

In the bottom of the glass add three or four crushed ice cubes (or buy your ice crushed and add a handful) about three fingers measure from the bottom of the glass when you wrap your hand around the tumbler.

Then you pour one shot of Vodka over the ice.

Then one shot of whipping cream over the ice.

Now the tricky part!

Get a spoon (longer is better) and with one hand you start to jiggle the ice. With the other hand you slowly pour in 7-Up. DO NOT USE SPRITE. DO NOT USE DIET. (I don’t know why, but they don’t work!)

So, as you are pouring, and jiggling, the ice will start to free up from it’s place in the bottom of the glass. Jiggle a little more, then begin swirling the mixture. Still pouring the 7-Up slowly. The mixture will froth and foam... It will expand towards the top of the glass. SLOW DOWN! DON’T POUR TO THE TOP. Pause and give it all a good swirling and wait for the reaction to catch up and see where the foam is headed. If it stops just below the rim of the glass, pour a little hit of 7-Up through the foam to give it a bump up. If it has overflowed (like a root beer float will), wipe down the glass and serve it with a cocktail napkin.

Or perhaps you have stopped just right and... VOILA!

Two perfect Snowballs.

Updated: My brother wrote in to add these fine points on The Snowball.

1. The colder the ice is, the better it works. A little water on the surface of the ice, makes the drink fizz a little less. (so you should always rinse out the glass for a new drink)

2. The key to the drink, is the aroma of the vodka suspended in the foam at the top of the glass, therefore, better top equals better drink.

3. Don't use expensive vodka. It's best if you use whatever Dad brings. It's even better if he wins the bottle at the Elks club.

Updated 2:

Use a metal spoon.

The Snowball season is strict. Snowballs may only be consumed from after Thanksgiving dinner through the end of New Year's Day.

I showed this little "blooper reel" to my family this weekend.

I'm sure I'm in big trouble for showing it here.

But I posted it anyway, didn't I?

Just part of what makes me fascinating...

Vote No on Prop 8, November 4th!

I am in Bellingham celebrating my parent's 50th Wedding Anniversary!

I once voiced to my mother, some unhappiness I was having in a relationship. I said I was so angry that I could just pack it all up and walk out the door.

"Don't go just because your angry," said my mother.

What? I should wait until I'm deliriously happy and then leave? I replied sarcastically, Who would leave then?

"Uh-huh..." hummed my mother.

But if you can't leave just because your pissed off, and you'd be a fool to leave because things are making you happy... then what? You can just NEVER leave?

"Ah-ha..." said my mother.

Well that's not fair. There must be some reason that would allow you to leave, I spluttered. I was, after all, pretty unhappy and looking for any excuse.

"Leave because you don't feel anything at all." came my mother's advice, "if you're mad, that means you still care, if you're happy then things are working. But if you feel nothing, then it's done. And that is the only time you should leave."

I'm still with him past 19 years now. My parents are celebrating their 50th anniversary.

She's kind of a smart lady, that mother of mine.




Vote No on Prop 8, November 4th!

Happy Father's Day!

It's not easy living with me, just ask Lyle... no wait. Don't. But my parents suffered first and earliest (and to my siblings reading this, shut up). I have great love of making those around me suffer for my own enjoyment. I like to think they are enjoying themselves as well but I really do amuse myself more than anyone else I know. My mom seemed to get this and suffer willingly. My dad on the other hand has taken his own sweet time getting used to me. I love making him have his picture taken. And you know what they say about a tough audience? Well once you can get my dad to smile and play along you know you've made it.

VIKINGS!

When I was growing up (not done yet) every year we would take a family vacation for two weeks. Twice we drove to Disneyland in Southern California. On both trips we stopped at the Andersen Pea Soup factory/restaurant along I-5. On the way there. On the way back. That's four trips to Andersen Pea Soup land. We'd stop there for lunch and no matter what you ordered you also got as a starter a large bowl of split pea soup. YUCK.

But my dad loved pea soup and ate his happily. Then he ate my sisters bowl. Then he ate my brother's bowl. Having survived cafeteria rules that wouldn't let you go out to recess unless you ate all your lunch, I begged him to eat mine as well which he did. Then the waitress came back and picked up the empty bowls in front of each child.

"Wow, you really cleaned your bowl! Would you like some more?"
No, thank you.
"Would you like some more?"
No, thank you.
"Would you like some more?"
No, thank you.

And then she came to my dad with his fourth bowl of soup in front of him only half finished.
"Aw, you didn't like the soup? Looks like someone could take a lesson from his children."

This picture was taken a few years later at the Andersen Pea Soup restaurant/factory along Highway 101. It's nice to have a friend to play with!

I kid you not

Since I've been working on some photos for my mother's party I thought I would just air some of my dirty laundry right now. I was once a child. There I said it. And now here is the proof.

That's me in the middle. I love Christmas.

Here I am working the deep-V and clearly some lip and cheek stain. Either that or it was very cold outside and no one thought enough about me to bundle me up.

Our finest moment. Jesus gazes upon us and weeps for the future. That is all my sister's own hair. I threw a fit moments before this picture because when I was told I was going to be in the wedding I was promised a "monkey suit" and clearly this jacket had no tail like the monkeys had in the "Wizard of Oz." THEY BROUGHT ME THE WRONG SUIT!!!

Same church a few years later. Now we know why Jesus was crying all those years before.

I'll be there if The Price Is Right

Have I mentioned my extensive television work? I've just compiled my "reel" and wanted to post it here so everyone can see how the camera truly loves me. I'm not a featured player. But I do play an integral part. I'm wearing the bright blue shirt.

Next to me in the plaid shirt is my dad and just behind me in the floral is my mother.

Flashback

I am not in my twenties.

So there I was working on a little project for myself when I stumbled across some older photos.

WOW. Was that me? Over there, on the far left... With hair by Duran Duran.
It's my brother's graduation from college. Guess which one he is. And there's my mom, sister and dad all looking so much younger. I think I must be 23 in this picture. I guess I need to stop claiming I'm still 23. This is what 23 looks like, twelve.
Of course we had out matching Vuarnet Sunglasses. It was really exciting for me to wear the cap as I didn't graduate from high school. Shut up, I got my G.E.D. and got a college degree. I just never had a big ole' ceremony.

And how rare is this, I'm not totally mugging for the camera! These photos must pre-date my future as a complete camera hog.

Oh. Christmas tree.

The house isn't done with Christmas until the tree is up and decorated.

Today I'd like to take you back in time to my childhood.

I grew up in the Pacific Northwest. North of Seattle. You know where Canada and the United States meet at the Pacific Ocean? Right there.

Every year we, as a family would bundle up in our waterproof parkas, pick up the saw from the garage and load into the station wagon. We would drive to Fullner's Christmas Tree farm. Out towards my grandparent's house, then a bit further. Towards Mount Baker, over the Nooksack river, turn left onto the Lawrence pavement, past the church where my parents got married, to the curve in the road where instead of following the road, you turn right, pause for the railroad tracks then continue to Fullner's Tree Farm (see this link for map that shows it just how I remembered).

On the drive out the discussion was always the same.

Can we have a really BIG tree this year?
"No."
What about a really TALL tree this year?
"No."
What if its not too tall, but really big AROUND?
"NO! God Dammit! You can only get a tree as tall as your mother. Once the stand is on it gets taller and you'll break the tree topper!"
(which did finally happen one year which validated everything my father had always warned us with a "See? I told you so!")

And then I'd sulk.

Once we got to the tree farm we'd see that the prices hadn't changed since last year:

under 6 feet - $8.
Over 6 feet - $10.

I remember there was a lot of grumbling the year that over 6 feet went to $12. We always seemed to get an over 6 foot tree. My mother by the way is not 6 feet tall.

Because it was the Northwest if it wasn't raining when we went to get the tree then it had just stopped or was about to start. Either way you needed your big rubber boots to wade through the muck.

We pull up, the family pours out of the car. My dad, mother, brother, sister and me. Everyone files out into the field of trees in an orderly fashion. The type of tree we like is towards the back. Everyone except me. I begin to zig and zag through every tree no matter what size, shape, color or condition.

How about this one?
Can I have one for my room?
Look at this one!
This one needs a home!
Can I have a bigger one for my room?
Can I have one if it's smaller?
This one is perfect!
No, this one! Hey!
Over here! OVER HERE!!!

But no one is near me. They are still walking with a purpose towards the area with the right type of tree in the right size category.

I'd make my way back to the family. Annoyed that no one listened to me or cared which tree I liked I'd start to cry. Seriously, every single year.

Then my dad would yell at me to stop crying and I would run away to find a better tree than any of them would ever choose. I'd show them all. Except they wouldn't come look. Seriously, every single year.

Finally all the family (except me) would have it narrowed down to 4 trees. My mother would have left Kleenex tissues on each one so we'd remember which ones they were. Then I would walk around and around and around them picking them apart.

There's a hole on this side
"Put it against the wall."
It's got two branches right at the top.
"We'll cut one off."
The branches go right to the ground, it won't fit in the base.
"We'll cut them off."
There won't be any tree left!

and off I'd go on another crying jag. Seriously, every single year.

So against my will we'd pick a tree and then came the sawing of the tree. I'd start to feel guilty that we were killing this poor innocent tree but excited that we were finally getting a tree, then angry that it wasn't the tree I picked out, then thrilled that Christmas was really happening, then sad because soon it would all be over and all that would be left to look forward to was the bleak dreary blah gray skies of winter rain.

My dad would tire from sawing and then my brother would step in. Then he would tire and I would take a turn. We really should have brought a better saw but this was the "tree saw" that hung in the back of the garage all year long just waiting to go and get covered in pine pitch then get hung back on the wall rusting in crud until the next year when we'd need it again.

Finally! The tree toppled over and my dad and my mother would each grab an end and we'd make our way back to the car. As we walked past every tree we hadn't taken I would make a mental note of how much better each of them looked to me and know that it was now too late to change our plans as we'd already cut this one down. My mother would ask my sister to collect the Kleenex off the trees we hadn't chosen so we wouldn't be litterbugs.

Then the tree was measured, oops, over 6 feet again! "God dammit, I told you this one was too big!" And we'd wrap it in an old sheet we'd brought and stuff in the back of the station wagon with the back window down for it to stick out and drive it home.

Once it got home and decorated you could never find that hole (placed against the wall for concealment) and the extra branch at the top would be cut off with a dull steak knife (why didn't we ever have anything sharp?), and the bottom branches would be cut off to make room for the stand (I'd take the branches and try to lash them together into a sad Charlie Brown tree for my room which would dry out in a few days, turn brown and all the needles would fall off which inevitably led me to cry all over again). But it was good that those bottom branches were gone because that left more room for all this presents under the tree.

All this is shared to explain away why shopping for a Christmas tree is not a simple task for me. Lyle and I went out today and went to two tree lots. Prices ranged from $120 to $350. Yes, we are looking at getting something over 6 feet.

Last year after we'd finally got our tree and I had finished crying I begged Lyle to go by himself this year. But I just can't seem to let him. Today in the tree lot we had to leave quickly. I was just about to cry. Its never just a tree for me.

My favorite tree ever was the one that grew wider and wider and took over the archway entrance between the dining room and living room. That tree had to be cut up inside the house to get it out the front door.

Me, my sister and brother, I'm about a year or two from the beginning of my tree crying expeditions.

To my father, mother, brother and sister - thanks for putting up with me I know I was not easy. But you must admit that through my keen future gay artistic eye, we always had the best tree. At least that's the way I see it.

Don't be our guest

My parents live in a four bedroom house. Or rather they used to. Now they live in a one bedroom house with three storage rooms. All without moving.

But on my last visit, I subverted their plans. I changed back one storage room to a guest room.

My mom: "No one stays here."
Me: "Because no one can."
My mom: "Your brother just slept in his sleeping bag on the living room floor last time."
Me: "That's his problem. I'm not sleeping on the floor."
My mom: "What's wrong with the twin bed in your old room?"
Me: "I'm over (redacted) years old. I no longer sleep in twin beds. Why can't you just let me do this?"
My mom: "But then people will want to stay here."
Me: "And that would be a problem because...?"
My mom: "I don't want people to stay here."
Me: "Do you want me to leave?"
My mom: "Of course not. I want you to stay here."
Me: "Am I not people?"
My mom: "Your father doesn't like his space invaded"
Me: "Am I invading?"
My mom: "A little. But it's okay. Your father can put up with you."
Me: "Put up with? Do you want me to leave?"
My mom: "Of course not."

And it went round and round...

So I built a guest room for myself.

Since my old room has boxes in it, I took my sister's old room. It's upstairs and the most important feature of her room is it has a heat vent in it. My old room has a heat vent in front of the door, not inside the room.

Up until a year or so ago, her room was filled to the gills with junk. But when my parents decided to get new windows and insulate the upstairs (that's right, it wasn't insulated the whole time we lived in that upstairs as children. Go ahead call Child Protective Services.) we all pitched in and cleaned the upstairs out.

Here is how the room looked halfway into the clean out. It had started with boxes stacked to the ceiling.
What can I say, my sister had excellent taste when she 14. She later made a quilt and pillow cover to match the rainbow pattern. She lived with this paint and color combo until she moved out after college.

After we threw out everything that had been stored in the room, we also tore up the grey shag carpet. No seriously, go back up a bit and look at it. Two shades of grey with white. In a room for over 30 years. You'd throw it out too.

That left the hardwood floor that was (coincidence?) painted grey. A long time ago. There was no way I was going to sand it and refinish it.

But first, the walls. Wallpaper over what I lovingly refer to as cardboard walls. Some sort of pressboard. About 1 inch thick. My brother could punch his fist through it without harming himself. Can't imagine how I might know that.

I wasn't even going to try and get wallpaper off that. There was also a fair bit of mold on the walls from where the boxes had been pressed up against them for so long. My mom had sprayed the walls down with bleach and other cleaners when we had finally revealed them during the clean out. My mom and I went out and bought a primer/sealer that would cover all mold.
Walls taped off, floor covered ( I was still trying to figure out if I could leave them grey and spare myself having to paint a floor). On the side wall you can see the wallpaper covering nicely. On the back wall, you can see the dark mold spots that took two coats of primer to cover.

I chose a color that would be bright because there is only one window facing north to get any light into the room. And I chose a color I could live with because I was doing the painting. In the end I did wind up painting the floor a dark brown. Then after a day and half I had to go into the room to close the window and left shoe prints in the paint.

The day I left, I touched up the floor paint. I figured no one would be going in there for a couple of months.

All together, I think my mom spent about $100 on paint and supplies. I spent $100 on supplies. And down the road we'll need to get some nice 100% cotton sheets for the new futon that hasn't been purchased yet. Perhaps I've watched too many make over programs, but I think a new guest room for under $500 done in three days by a team of one, is fairly good deal.
I did put the twin bed in the guest room. My brother Scott offered up his futon frame from his basement. I thought that it was probably not the right color wood finish and maybe not the perfect fit for the room. Then I thought about how hard it was to get anything up the stairs that was of any large size and how the futon frame probably came apart. That and the price of "free" was right. So I told him it was perfect!

My brother that had to sleep on the floor sounds delighted that he won't have to do that next time. Which gave me a chance to give my mother a big "I told you so."

My mom: "But he said that was fine when he was here."
Me: "That's because he was too polite and didn't want to hurt your feelings."
My mom: "Then why are you telling me now?"
Me: "Because I'm not too polite. I guess you should have done a better job of raising me."

And finally...

Another moist successful trip to the land that birthed me...

It only rained this morning! I found where I got that hunch in my shoulders. It's from raising my shoulders to hoist my jacket higher while I run from the car to the mall. In L.A. I can never do that. The rain is much more tropical and gets through your clothes in a hurry. In L.A. I need an umbrella (ella, ella, ella).

I got up early, made a return from my room renovation expedition previously, then to the mall for a tour of stuff I don' t need. Found a lamp with shade for $15 at Target. Ah Target, my friend in any town.

Had lunch with birthday friends. Unbelievable crab and bacon panini. Really. Incredible. At the wine bar in the Chrysalis hotel in Fairhaven. I will be back.

My mom had a "Honey do" list for me while I was here. I have accomplished everything on it except for half a task left for tomorrow. Cardboard recycling is loaded in the mini-van and will be taken in tomorrow!

Gotta go pack and find out if those four new throw pillows are gonna make it home with me.

Bellingham is a great place!

Bellingham IS a great place... when it looks like this. That's in the summer.

Last night I primed the spare bedroom. I didn't bring any paint clothes, so I just painted in my underwear. Try and get that picture out of your mind for a while.

My mom keeps telling me she doesn't need a nice guest room. It will only encourage guests trying to stay at her house. I told her she wants me here, and I want a nice place to sleep.

I finished about 2 am. When I cam downstairs to wash off the paint on my arms, my parents were both still awake and doing stuff. I come by my night owl habits honestly.

Today I painted the wall, the trim and the floor. If the paint is dry enough by tomorrow I can do the final painting of the baseboards and I'm all done. I also picked up curtains. I'm a one man changing rooms tornado. Next visit I'm installing a bigger bed, a lamp and a table. Mark my words, It'll be all gayed up in no time!

Gross, gross rain.

Like, super duh, it was pouring when I got to Seattle. I was feeling so smug that I decided to fly the last leg to my parents town of Bellingham. Normally it takes about 90 minutes to drive but just 24 minutes to fly...

Unless something really sinister like, um, rain happens to the airport. Seriously, rain? It's like the Denver airport going, "oh my god! Snow! Shut down now!" So I was delayed for over 2 hours due to weather complications (in which time I really could have driven here) and just sat there in the Seattle airport. So fun.

But I have arrived and about half of my clothes somehow magically got drenched from the rain while INSIDE my luggage and INSIDE a plane.

The rental car company offered me a complimentary upgrade to a Hyundai Sonota and my reply was of course, "That's not a mini-van is it?"

Tonight I sleep back in my old room, on my old twin bed, surrounded by boxes that complete the "I don't really live here in this storage room" vibe the upstairs of my parents house is decorated in.

Oh, and I am raiding all the photos in the house to put together a little slide show movie for my parents 50th wedding anniversary in a year. Gotta get a jump on these things.

Headed North

I am going to visit my parents in Bellingham, Washington (North of Seattle, but not quite yet Canada) for a few days. If you know one thing about me it's that I hate bananas.

Oh, and I hate the rain as well.

Forecast for my time in Boringham:
Tuesday - 100% chance of rain. High of 60. Low of 46.
Wednesday - 70% chance of rain. High of 55. Low of 42.
Thursday - 70% chance of rain. High of 54. Low of 39. Uh, 39? May as well just place me inside the freezer.
Friday - 20% chance of rain. High of 53. Low of 43. Right, on the day I leave it most likely won't rain. But even then, no guarantee.