shades of gray

I've said before that I could never live in a place that never has clouds. Blue, sunny skies are boring, not to mention very mean to my pasty epidermis.

Not that there has been a shortage of sun here this summer. There's actually been a perfect amount. And I haven't yet made it through the fall and winter months, when the sun allegedly hides itself and doesn't come out to play till late spring, but I'm digging the clouds so far. They are splendid in their unpredictability.

Seattle has brought to my attention just how many shades of gray there can be, as far as clouds go. Gray can be, in fact, absolutely beautiful, and it's not a boring color at all. There can be a seamless, solid blanket of your typical gray cloud-cover, or pretty, bubbly gray patches with various textures. There are multiple hues of gray-violet, as well as countless gray-blues, and even warmer shades of pinkish gray or with tinges of orange, depending on the time of day. There are infinite various patterns of holey clouds, where sun rays can peek through, giving that majestic look to the heavens, if you like that kind of thing (I, in fact, do). And there's your everyday wispy or puffy cottony whitish clouds, when the sky feels like being a conformist.

In conclusion, clouds are the bomb and people who say this town is too gray can suck it. That's like saying that Quebec is too snowy in winter, having never experienced the joy that comes with playing in the fluffy deliciousness of it. Or like saying there are too many nuts in banana bread. Which is clearly impossible.

pop quiz

Q: What do you do when there's leftover salsa in the bowl after you've finished your cheese-loaded, delicious, incredibly filling homemade quesadillas?

A: Make more quesadillas to finish the salsa. Duh.

making a house a home

Once upon a time, there was a girl who couldn't make up her mind where to live. Her roots were in Texas, and there had been stints in New York City and Iowa. There were those few months in Quebec, and a few more in Atlanta. She liked them all (mostly). She couldn't choose. (This was a very fickle, indecisive girl.) Finally, she decided to head west.


After 3,299 miles and 4 days of driving, she arrived in Washington, only to find the saddest little hovel waiting for her there. Them's were the suburbs, and they were pretty effing ghetto.

She cursed the cultureless strip-malls and miserable abode cried. Then, a stroke of luck landed her the perfect apartment in Seattle. She just had to wait out the month of July so she could move in. So, she endured more ghetto....

...until finally, the day came when she could, at long last, (after four long, urban-less years,) settle herself into a real city (for longer than three months),

and (after five long months on an air-mattress,) sleep in a real bed,

and bake in a real kitchen, sit on a real couch, hang pictures on real walls (that didn't smell like a mix of mold and kitty pee).

And, the girl was very happy, indeed.

...for now.

(to be continued...)

hallelujah

Over the weekend, I was melted and crushed, only not in that order.

Thursday and Friday were such big days in the clinic that afterward, I felt like I'd been hit by a truck. But that didn't come until the next night, when I was navigating home after a promising night out with new friends. Through Seattle I ventured, down diagonal downtown streets, until one unknowingly illegal left turn later (Texas, meet Seattle, but first hold onto your fucking britches), and SMACK. A Ford truck - or maybe it was a Dodge...my head was spinning and pulsating too fast to really notice - at 30 mph, bit into my little Camry, and gave my upper body a good jarring.

Fifteen minutes of shock later, after trading insurance info with the other driver and double-checking that I was not fatally wounded, I found myself in the midst of a post-adrenalin-surge emotional eruption. Upset, in disbelief, frustrated that I could have let this stupid shit happen, and worrying about my already-been-through-eight-car-crashes poor little neck, I was a complete mess. So, to try and ameliorate the first signs of the inevitable whiplash soreness that would soon follow, I rigged myself a cervical collar outta frozen fruit and masking tape:

freaked out, but smelling fruity.

...and after a good laugh at the ridiculousness of sticking blueberries and pineapple to my neck, and the realization that I could get x-rayed and adjusted at work on Monday, that my atlas would eventually be just fine, and that it could have been a LOT worse, I proceeded to calm the hell down.

And then came the hearts in my eyes (and ears)... some relief-granting news and sweet words from a friend served to sooth a healing salve into freshly-traumatized sprains and strains, and patch up the shock-induced mental anguish I'd just endured.

I further self-medicated by reconnecting to Jeff Buckley's Grace, immediately followed by feeling like a total fucking girl: my heart actually tingled and I allowed myself to disintegrate under his poetic words and melodic voice...

and love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
...

it's never over, my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder
...

broken down and hungry for your love, with no way to feed it
...

too young to hold on, too old to break free and run

His lyrics and gorgeous tunes, mingled with the sweet smell of thawing pineapple taped to your neck, is enough to make a girl go 'uuhuuhhhhnnnnhnh...'

I wonder if there's a way to prove that angelic voices and unfathomably beautiful guitar riffs have healing powers, scientifically speaking.

thursday night equation

a roller-coaster Wednesday
+
a massive Friday to-do list
+
my first 40-patient day at the clinic (!)
+
second glass of wine?
=
I wish I could sleep for 15 hours.

something tells me...

that this IKEA bed would be assembled a lot more easily if I was drunk.

I'm not saying it was the voice of logic, but I'm off to find some cheap booze. Because I do what I'm told.