Chica Libre: Stylish Hobo Living

Getting a Job is Like Winning an Award

It finally happened. After nearly 300 job applications and two and a half years, my jobless streak has ended!  Over the holiday season, I pursued employment with the vicious tenacity of a pit bull in heat. Every morning before I got out of bed, I said outloud, “I am going to get a job today.” Channeling Annette Bening’s character in American Beauty, I exuded absolute confidence. It was a last ditch attempt and I worked it hard. And now I have work!

I feel like I won an award.

I would like to thank the academy for recognizing all my teeth-grinding efforts. The sore wrists received after writing dozens upon dozens of custom cover letters. The sleepless nights, the credit card debt, the hours of research and training in SEO.

I would also like to thank my legion of amazing friends who kept me buoyant when I was sinking in a sea of defeat.  Thank you to the freelance clients in New York, Seattle and Paris who also kept me afloat. And my city, Seattle, with whom I fell deeply in love again. And of course, my stellar yet kooky family who kept reminding me that I am smart, talented and pretty.

The job I landed is fantastic! Not just any job, but THE job.  I am now a civil servant working for the state. (that’s what M said: jobs in the government!) I’m the Web Producer for the Information School at the University of Washington, one of the top schools in the country.

Not only will I be working on redesigning their website, but I will also be working with experts in the field of information science, information architecture and user interface design.  I will go to work everyday and geek out on classifying, editing and organizing information.  Next month I start a graduate-level course in social media for higher education.

I’m in heaven.

As I sit in my sweet oasis of an apartment on Capitol Hill (with a stunning view of downtown), I think back to April of 2009 when all this chaos began. I lost a relationship, a house, a job and 90% of my worldly possessions. I’m so grateful for it. It shook me up and forced me to examine everything I was doing. I learned to travel well, to speak a different language, to cook amazing meals, to be more careful with my heart.  I learned more than I ever wanted to know about French history. I learned how to pack efficiently so I could move 10 times in 2 years.  I learned how to say no and how to take care of myself. Better late than never.

I think I will put this blog to bed and let go of all that was. Sweet dreams.

 

 

 

 

Holiday Memory Remix

Jenny wanted to mix everything in pantry at 8:15am. It didn’t make sense. I saw them carefully concocting combinations. There were measurement and additions. Shouldn’t we have a recipe or something for this kind of thing? I mean, I’m not a bartender yet!

But no, we only had a few minutes before my mom was going to come down from nursing the baby. We had to dump what we could in our Gatorade bottles. So we filled them haphazardly with apricot brandy, gin, grenadine, something brown with an illegible label.  And then we hoofed it to homeroom.

It didn’t taste that bad. Jenny gagged and handed me her bottle. I downed mine and stashed her bottle in my bag for the freshmen dance later that night. How I made it through Latin class, geometry, gym, lunch, English and Western Civ drunk, I’ll never know. But it was certainly foreshadowing for the many years that were to come.

The dance that night was magical. Or so I heard. Something about holidays and dancing with Shawn, who indecently had the haircut of the guy from Flock of Seagulls (I kid you not!) and then snow! Jenny walked me (stumbled me?) home in first snow of the season. I vaguely remember the crunch of our duck shoes on the crisp ground and how it enchanted my stupid, newbie drunk head. Such an amateur. A baby drunk.

But I was filled with the holiday spirit! Or some kind of spirit. I stumbled into the house, sure I would commune with my mom and step-father in a whole new way. Surely they would see my insight and share my excitement of the snow. Maybe we would all tumble out into the street and have an old-fashioned snowball fight, just like a family should. Mittens and all. Let’s make a snowman with a carrot nose!

But no, that didn’t happen.  We entered the house and suddenly there were so many SHHHH’s and confusion. Jenny sat me down and spoke in hushed tones to my step-dad. My mother came flying down the steps in anger. Disapproving faces all around. I got up and declared I would be fine and put myself to bed. As I sashayed (stumbled) through the great room, past the fireplace, I spied the glorious rows of holiday cheer lined up along the gorgeous carved wooden staircase. Poinsettias. Why do I not have these vivid, deep red flowers in MY room? The injustice! As I mounted the stairs to go to my room, I swooped down and grabbed a bundle of poinsettias at their base and pulled them violently out of the pot, soil flying everywhere.  I carried them to my room and plunked them down on my bed.  There! Holiday cheer was in my bed!

No sooner had I considered the ironies of the phrase ‘dirt nap’, did my mother come storming into the room with an unexplainable look on her face. 

“Missy, you are in big trouble! Go to bed. I will deal with you in the morning.”

From far away, I could hear my infant brother crying.  This was not supposed to happen.  I was supposed to be celebrated and held up. I could sing. I was in honors classes. We were a family now. Who was this baby brother: a squirming, pooping, widowed-peaked  interloper? He looked like a plucked chicken! He was ruining everything!

But who cares? I had a poinsettia in my bed and all was right with the world. Until morning.

Pennsylvania winter morning. The sun glare off the newly fallen snow can be as beautiful as diamonds on white velvet. Or, it could cut into your head like a diamond-tipped drill bit. This morning, it was the latter.

Mother woke me early and dragged me to the farmers’ market at the Allentown Fairgrounds. I normally love the farmers’ market. The butcher with his rows of pork and ring bologna. The Amish bakery with its shoe fly pies and long johns (yeast risen oblong tender things with soft, perfectly sweet and creamy vanilla icing – donuts I still travel across the country for.) The candy stand, with its barrels of licorice, Swedish fish, rock candy, Mary Janes and endless, colorful taffy by the pound. The delicious amalgam of smells mingling together: funnel cake, hot dogs, fresh baked bread…and to a lesser degree fruits and vegetables.

But this morning, everything was vile. The funnel cake was oily vermin. The candy was sugar poison. The long johns were just mean. They mocked my spinning nausea and called me a fool. My mom bought two anyway and said, “You’ll want one later.”

I begged to differ.

When we arrived at the butcher, my resolve to defy my mother disappeared. I could simply not feign normalcy when he passed me the slice of ring bologna like he usually did. I turned and ran to the bathroom and heaved my guts out. She won and took me home.  But not before a trip to the seafood store. Yeah, she’s that cruel. 

But I still love her. 

Good Job Hunting OR Will Work for Arm Warmers

I have been marginally employed for 2 ½ years. Underemployed. Partially employed. I’ve been paid in food, wine, arm warmers, housing, massage, boxing training sessions and tickets to concerts. I’ve traveled to other cities and countries for work. I gave walking tours, cooked, cleaned, wrote, edited, sewed, nannied and organized. And I even shot pictures at a bar mitvah in Paris. First bar mitvah. First photography gig. All in French. 

I’ve applied for nearly 300 jobs and officially landed a handful of contract online writing/SEO gigs thus far.  Jobs used to fall from the sky like manna. Web marketing manager. Online marketing manager. Internet marketing manager. Web producer.  Content strategist. I used to be able to practically take my pick. With over 13 years of experience, I was a hot commodity.

Lacking the opportunities of the past, I’ve humbled myself and formally answered recruiters’ inquiries about jobs at that giant software company across Lake Washington. A less desirable option, but in the words of those beloved LOL cats, “I needs a money.”

And still, recruiters call on me, work me up into a frothy, money-hungry lather, speak of health benefits and 401ks…and then drop out of sight like money that “goes missing” in so many ponzi schemes.

The bounty days are gone. I stand on the shore and wave my little white handkerchief at the ship of jobs leaving the dock. Bye jobs. I’ll miss you.

One way of looking at it is this: I should just settle into this groove and get used to the hustle and the uncertainty. Freelance opportunities have kept me afloat for this long. Maybe I should just go with the flow and turn this freelance MoFo out. Get business cards. Build myself a website. Use those marketing skills I’ve let various company pimps use for so long on promoting myself.  

But I can’t seem to let go of this idea that any minute now, JOB IS COMING. Job will ride into town on a white horse and pick me up and save me and give me health insurance and an decent salary and a cool office downtown with stylish co-workers that I can share ideas with and feel smart again. We will have cocktails at bars with names like Spur and Clout and I can finally wear the other half of my wardrobe from the “professional” side of the closet and reserve the yoga pants for yoga only.

Any minute now. Bueller. Bueller. Bueller.

Ok, maybe not. Where did the jobs go? We might need Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out. Even government experts have openly stated that “the rise in unemployment is a mystery.”

So I asked my friend M, who is working on a project for the Department of Labor, “What’s the skinny? Gimme some inside information.” This is by no means illegal.  He tossed out a few cavalier statements (off the record, bien sur) about the job explosion in the government. 

Where are the jobs? In the government. I’ve been barking up the wrong tree all this time! But do I want to work for the government? A little birdie tells me that’s like signing up to work on the Titanic. No thanks.

There’s no security or safety net in this society. The big company is no longer looking out for our well-being. They are like those “friends” we have with secret agendas and drug problems. Those who say they care about us and then steal our grandma’s jewelry when we turn out backs for a minute.

With jobs like these, who needs enemies?

Even if JOB doesn’t come and rescue me, I’m pretty sure I can buck up and rescue myself.  I have brains, experience and marketable skills. I’ve got a fantastic community of friends and family all over the world. I still have my sense of humor and love in my wounded heart. And I have my tenacious hobo spirit which gives me adaptability and street smarts. Hustle and flow, bitches.

More Tender Vittles

Where did the jobs go?

Pictures from the bar mitzvah

LOL cats teach us about moneys

 

 

Limbo of the Lost

Sometimes limbo is fantastic! Like when you’re at a thatched-roof bar by the ocean and there are delicious tropical drinks with pineapples and mangoes and you can feel the sand between your toes as you shuffle awkwardly under the stick that is held by two shirtless surfer boys. (Mmmm, imagine…)

And sometimes limbo really sucks. Like when you have been unemployed for almost 2 years, have traveled in search of work, spent all your savings and are right back where you started, in the stupid house that is either going the way of a short sale or foreclosure. And all you can do is endlessly apply for jobs, cross your fingers and wait. 

My days are filled with wondering, filling out paperwork, thinking about what to do next. I have to figure out what to do next. Nothing is clear. My lawyer says that Bank of America may takes months and months to decide on the short sale deal. My real estate agent says it may take as little as 45 days. No one knows. 

A young woman just made an offer on our house for 180k. We owe BofA 307k. I’m no mathematician, but that’s a fucking huge gap. 

The good news is that we were just assigned an actual human being to handle our account. Her name is Sandra Nunez. 

When I was in Phoenix last week visiting my sister, we drove past a gigantic Bank of America building after we had a few margaritas. I insisted, comically, that the person who was going to resolve my housing issues was in THAT building and we should bake brownies laced with peyote and infiltrate it, planting said brownies in every kitchen, on every floor. In hopes of what? That the people toiling away on anonymous accounts would eat the brownies and suddenly shed the corporate shackles and become human and give the homes to all the people in some utterly non-business-minded psychedelic trip. I’ve seen such transformations and they are brilliant.  

She laughed at me. And so did her friend, who works for a short sale/real estate lawyer and told me in earnest: 

“There is no office of short sale for Bank of America. No office exists. The whole thing is a shadowy, amorphous operation. You can’t actually find a person and an office for this branch of the company.”
 
But then, WHY? A week later my real estate agent sent me the contact info and yet another request for paperwork from a one Sandra Nunez, 1515 W. 14th StreetTempe, AZ – the same building we drove by was the office that my assigned officer spent her weekdays in. My instincts were correct, in a random and bizarre way.  

But no matter. I never made those mystical brownies. 

Instead, I have lost a huge chunk of my normally inherent positive and productive motivation. I’ve become a bit of a recluse. I prefer to go home early from a party and lay in my (super cozy) bedroom and knit. I just learned how to knit. I knit 2 rows a night and it comforts me. At this rate, I will have a scarf by next winter. 

This is the 9th bedroom that I’ve had in a year an a half. When one exercises muscles repeatedly, one becomes good and proficient. I’m good and proficient at making a comfortable bedroom. This might be the best one yet. Ironically, it’s the room in the very house that I made my big escape from a year and a half ago. But its reinvented. Totally unrecognizable. Yes,  still the 10’ by 10’ square, but utterly transformed into an inviting womb of a room. 

So inviting, I never want to leave. I’ve spent a few days here in protest of the world. I ignore calls and even desires to go and mingle with people. I lay among the cushions, watching 30 Rock, reading more about Parisian history and also stories about Russian gypsies and fantasizing about living in an Airstream. I dream about abandoning ship and disappearing for real. Like Benjamin Briggs abandoned the Mary Celeste in 1872, never to be seen or heard from again. 

I’m pretend lost or wannabe lost or a little bit lost, anyway. Lost in limbo. 

I’ve become acutely aware of my pull between 2 worlds. One in which I get a job in my industry and be a good worker bee and write engaging copy that sells loads of software or whatever bullshit product that exists AND one in which I drop out of mainstream society and live in an Airstream, travel the country and write and write and write. One is familiar and known. One is unknown and scary. 

I usually know what to do, even when I outwardly feign uncertainty for sheer entertainment. Now I know nothing and feign nothing. I lay bare to the world and flounder. In the absence of direction, I bake cookies with quail eggs, learn Velvet Underground songs on the guitar, stare at the cherry blossom tree in the front yard, apply for jobs, sit on the dock at the lake, walk in circles around this cursed house and wait for a sign. 

Maybe an island escape with the better kind of limbo would save me from the tedium of this modern bohemian angst. St. Lucia anyone?

Short Sales and Hardship Tales

Waking Up from the Nightmare of Home Ownership

Tomorrow I meet with the lawyers to get down to business with this house crap. There are several options to choose with a “distressed property.” And none of them are looking too good.

If you bought into the whole myth of home ownership within the past 5 years and got a bunk bill of sale in return, I’m right there with you. I should have paid attention to that uneasy feeling I had when we caught the home-buying fever, engaged in bidding wars, waived the inspection and signed the 200 pages of paperwork. The feeling was this: “I think we are just signing up to basically rent from the bank with an interest rate added on for good measure.” My pal VB said as much, but I had visions of sugarplums and gas fireplace inserts and paint colors dancing through my head and dove right into the mortgage madness.

Now our house is worth over 100k less than we owe on it and we are several months behind on our mortgage. And despite the fact that we have one of the best real estate agent teams in the city, the house is slipping into the sea of foreclosure.

So, short sale, anyone?

We filed for a short sale with Bank of America in November of 2010. The account is still not officially open due to…I’m not sure what. The first round of 40-pages of paperwork wasn‘t enough for them and they requested more. Please bitches, I lived in France. I know this game. Bring it. I will bury you paperwork.

Speaking of paperwork, this is what a hardship letter looks like:

November 9, 2010
Bank of America
Fax: 866-808-5050

RE: Hardship Letter - Short Sale for Lisa G and X
Address
Seattle, WA 98108 

Dear Creditor:

Since April of 2009, we have experienced profound financial difficulties that have now made us incapable of meeting most of our financial obligations, including our mortgage.

When we bought our home four years ago we never thought that we would find ourselves in this situation. X was gainfully employed as a union Ironworker, working 40-60 hours a week. I was a marketing manager for over 3 years at a non-profit organization. My 14-year career in promoting and redesigning websites seemed to be on solid ground. We were gainfully employed and successfully met our financial obligations each month.

Then almost overnight everything changed. The economy dried up, I got laid off in April of 2009, and X’s job has been whittled away to occasional part time work, if at all. I wish we had the means to weather this storm, to keep the house, and pay all our bills, but that does not appear to be possible now or in the foreseeable future.

Due to the dramatic decrease of home prices that have affect the entire country for the past 2 years, we currently owe more on our mortgage than the home is actually worth. We unfortunately had poor timing when we bought this home at the height of the market, in an all-out bidding war.

After having our current financial situation carefully analyzed, we have concluded that it is no longer possible to comply with the original terms of the agreement. Despite the fact that we modified our mortgage in January of 2009, it still remains out of reach for us due to the fact that our income has been diminished by nearly 75%. Letting go of our home is a very difficult decision. We have no choice but ask you for your help on avoiding the foreclosure of our home.

Please consider allowing us into your Short Sale Program so that we can lower the price, sell the house quickly before it goes into foreclosure, and be granted a full release from our mortgage agreement. This will allow us to settle our financial obligation to you and have a chance to get back on our feet, without having to file for bankruptcy.

Please understand that financial hardships can occur and are often not a choice; a fact that I’m sure you are well aware of. This past year and a half has been the worst time of our lives. We deeply appreciate your help in this matter. If you have any questions, or need anything further from me, you can contact me at 206-xxx-xxxx.

We are enclosing our bank statements, tax returns, credit cards statements, unemployment receipts, and X’s last 3 pay stubs. I have no pay stubs to supply, as I’ve not had an employer since I’ve been laid off. I traveled to other states to find work, but despite applying for over 220 jobs and getting a couple of freelance clients, I’m still not employed full-time.

We, (Lisa G and X), state that the information provided above is true and correct to the best of our knowledge.

Sincerely,

Lisa G and X
Address
Seattle, WA. 98108
Account #: xxxxx

Pretty good, huh? It’s sad and all true, but I left out the most salacious part. I’m saving that piece for the lawyers tomorrow. Let’s hope for a positive outcome. My mantra is this: financial ruin averted. Wish me luck. 

 

Swimming in Winter

In the middle of winter, I'm feeling springy. Today I saw crocuses and euphorbia peeking out of the warming ground. My ground is warming up to. My roots are nestling in, twitching and shifting and taking up nutrients. It feels nice. The results are starting to bloom and burst forth. Abundance on all fronts. 

I'm beginning to think that all that chanting to Lakshmi might be paying off. A great wave of energy has been moving towards me and I'm starting to realize the fruits of my long labor. And by fruits, I mean flesh and money.

Several opportunities have landed in my lap. And I like them there. These projects revolve around Paris supper clubs, au pairs in Paris, love stories, erotica and porn (what's the difference, really?), editing, traveling and photography. And the chance to work on a project with a major D.C. policy maker and media commentator for CNN, NPR and Al Jezeera, among others.

Also: Chance meetings with influential people. A dinner on Bainbridge Island, a free 88-key digital piano, possibly being co-captian on a double masted sail boat. Lunch at the Sorrento.

Free tickets to the opera. The Barber of Seville. Sneak peak at Teatro Zinzanni's new show. Singing again at a baby grand with a view of the lake. And champagne. 

Baking a galette des rois and sharing with friends at the mansion. A tiny ceramic Charlie Chaplain feve in said cake. No broken teeth.  

Secret meetings about the nature of sexual dynamics. Interesting conversations about submission and dominations. Reading Love in a Dead Language and contemplating the complexities of the carnal and the intellectual. Priests and whores love money the most. (Note to self: expand your definition of "whore")

Dipping my toes back in the water. It's not as icy as I had anticipated. I want to sink into the warm waters and be surrounded, up to my ears, dangerously. 

It's possible that I've created the exact life I've always wanted. I feel a sense of freedom that I've never felt before.

My Agenda (aka, Belated Resolutions)

Keep manifesting. Keep pushing limits. 

Smile, even at my suffering.

Allow the moon to reflect herself in my still waters. 

Let go of my cows; keep simplifying life. 

Breathe and be kind. 

Expand professional portfolio. 

Make plans for the next trip. (What country should I go to?)

Offer loving kindness to the peeps. 

See my family more this year. 

Cook for friends. 

Move through space in different ways. Dance class? 

Practice knife throwing. 

Draw, paint, write. 

And inspire you...

 

Next post: a pictorial of winter activities. I promise. 

Regarding My Inheritance

I wanted to meet you again and see how you were. For years and years. I really did. Rarely a week went by without a thought of you. I imagined, in sleep and waking, what our meeting might be like. Would you recognize me? Would I recognize you? Would we hug? Would we cry? Would we even like each other? Would you kill me? 

Earlier this year, I dreamed that I was driving on 15th Street. I looked in the rear view mirror and I saw your mom, my essentially unknown and deceased grandmother, driving a van. An unrecognizable man was sitting in the passenger seat. I tried to dodge the van, and ducked into a parking lot of a grocery store. But she pulled up near me, got out of the van and approached my car. I got out and met her in the middle. Two men climbed out of the van and she introduced them to me; they were my uncles that I never met. In real life, I learned that they had both committed suicide when I was too young to form memories of them. Yet, here they stood in my dream; 3 figures who had all passed on. I asked your mom if you were in the van and she said, “Yes.” And I wondered if you were coming out. She said you were not going to come out, yet I knew what this meant. They were all dead and so were you. 

I woke up, absolutely certain that you had died. And 2 weeks later, S, my long-lost cousin, sent me a message on FB out of the blue. She was haunted by my eyes, saying that I looked like her deceased uncle’s daughter Lisa. Was I that Lisa, she wanted to know. That’s how I received the confirmation that you were dead. First in dreams, then on FB. Sounds weird, but that’s par for the course in my life.  

A few months after that, S and I met up while I was living in NYC. She gave me some of your things: your high school portrait, newspaper ads for your band, a broken ceramic ornament of a child-angel holding a bird. She also gave me the low-down on the family. It was enlightening, to say the least. I had heard stories over the years, bits and pieces of incredible dramas and hard times and she confirmed all of those too. 

But I still wanted to see you in person. Look into your eyes. Observe how you walked and moved through space, to see if I could recognize myself in you. I wanted to hear your voice and hear you sing again. I can’t remember your voice anymore. I wanted to watch you eat and laugh and cough and sleep and negotiate deals on used cars and make a grilled cheese sandwich and catch a fish. Anything that would illustrate that small place in me that has been missing all my life. A connection, a piece, a something. To explain a part of me that I can’t access or understand. So I can nod and say, “Oooohhh, right, that thing. I get it now.” 

But I don’t get it and I never will. You are dead and gone and I missed my chance. Also, you were schizophrenic. That would have put an awkward damper on my fantasy epiphany meeting, don’t you think? Imagine: Eat, Pray, Love meets Waiting for Godot meets One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Now THAT would have been an interesting scene!

I wrote a song for you years ago. I had to write it in French because the lyrics were too hard to sing it in English. And, ironically enough, I found out about your death when I was living in Paris, studying French at The Sorbonne. Struggling so hard to learn the language and the culture, and inevitably, something more about myself. 

I think you would be proud of how I turned out. I’m a kind and generous person with many wonderful friends to whom I am very loyal. I like to commit my time to non-profits and work for causes. I’m a domestic goddess that has rarely found stable domestic bliss. I’m a wanderer, an urban hobo, a seeker of adventures. I have an energetic and creative spirit. 

I have your voice, well, not yours exactly; I’m a soprano. I sing standard jazz and Brazilian jazz and sometimes I can bust out an Italian aria. I’ve been known to do that upon request, serenading friends and strangers. Once, in Positano, Italy, I was at a nightclub built out of a cave along the sea. My friend insisted I sing to the skeptical Italians we were having drinks with. I opened up my mouth and let them have it! I think I sang a Bellini art song. They loved it and bought us several glasses of wine afterwards. I’ve sung for my supper, so to speak, everywhere I go: in Little Italy, NYC, at fabulous gnocchi place in Turin, in a gallery in Los Angeles, in dives bars in Seattle, in San Francisco, Minneapolis and Philadelphia. But in Paris, after learning of your death, I fell silent for a while. 

I must admit that I was relieved when I found out how you died. After all that messy family suicide shit, you toughed it out through divorce, homelessness and severe mental illness to die of a stroke and heart attack. This may sound odd, but I salute you. You kind of rock. 

Actually, I’m not sure you rock, but I do know this: it wasn’t your fault. All is forgiven. My heavy burden of childhood memories is cast off, my heart is free and there is no more to be concerned or upset about. I release all thoughts of confusion, anger and pain into the universe, where they effervesce like an Emergen-C powder in water, pink frothy bubbles floating to the top and disappearing. 

Concerning my inheritance, I’m grateful. I’m left with the following: a few pictures of you, that supposed-Alexandrite ring you gave mom and my voice. The pictures aren’t fully you; they are old and don’t tell the whole story. And that ring, well, I got it appraised and it’s fake. But my voice is real and strong and something you left me. It’s time to start using that again, don’t you think?

RIP, DBP.  

To Nest or Not to Nest (AKA Infinite Nest)

Group house living. Music pulsing in the room next door. It’s soft and guitar-plucky and perfect on this rainy day. Conversations drift through the halls. “Pancakes! Do you want some?” Bikes and  polo mallets. A dog named Turtle. Piles of shoes at the front door, next to a basket loaded with colorful terrycloth slippers. A long table that seats 20-something set in front of a long church pew. The table is covered with festive, Mexican oilcloth. A piano in the living room. Roller skates on the built-in bookshelves next to the fireplace. A board with notes and keys and chore lists. Things checked off. Three fresh eggs nestled in a wire carrier on the kitchen counter.

Miss Havisham the chicken returned last night after getting rousted from the coop and chased by two raccoons. Susie the dog from Guatemala forced the unwelcomed scoundrels into a tree and Miss H went missing for a day. She must have hid in the bushes all night, the poor thing. She’s missing many feathers but we expect a full recovery. We bring her special feed from beautiful downtown Burien. She and Estella will never want the ghetto feed again after this.

A tall blonde visitor from Poland who loves to cook is perched on the sofa, surfing the internet. She is gorgeous. Last week a dozen visitors from Victoria. Someone forgot their driver’s license and credit card - they lie forgotten in front of the liquor bottles. He lives in an unknown place in B.C.

My bike hangs in the bike room, among many others. My bike that I love and left here. I rode it when I first arrived, but now it hangs neglected. I have no fenders. Note to self: get fenders.

Big houses are cold. But there are so many covers on BW’s bed. She left the room spotless for me. I am as unobtrusive as possible. Neat piles of clothes in the corner. Everything in small bags, lined up in a nook next to the armchair. (They call me a bag lady!) I leave an organic chocolate bar on her desk, next to the framed pictures of loved ones. I hope she likes chocolate.

I steal internet from the neighbors and sit next to the window, watching people come and go on rad-looking bikes. I must respond to one of seven requests for writing samples and web marketing proposals. Many prospects are finally rolling in. Work is coming, I can smell it.

On Friday, I was in a photo shoot for Starbucks at the new place on Summit and Denny. I got paid in food and coffee. I recommend the Clover. It’s outrageous. 

Last night, a private supper at Dinette with LD. The brilliant culinary world of Melissa Nyffeler. Delicious coq au vin! 

Tomorrow, maybe a visit to IP’s studio downtown. She is a unique and skilled artist who speaks Russian; a gypsy-kind-of-girl who works hard and commits to everything creative. She can teach me glass enameling on copper in trade for some production work on her fabulous reversible enamel pendants and belt buckles. She needs help, as she just got accepted to the Pike Place Market and must build inventory. Just in time for Christmas.

Tomorrow night, I may sleep elsewhere. The Madrona mansion? IP’s funky house next to the renowned taco truck? RM’s cozy Beacon Hill house/studio? Who knows?

I’m getting a bit used to this pace. Friends tell me I seem oddly unaffected by the wandering, hobo lifestyle I’m leading. But I am really nesting on the inside. Like Miss Havisham, I was rousted but then I returned. Will I find a good place to nest for a while? I can feel the clock ticking on this hobo experiment. I wonder how much longer I can last.

Bag of Tricks #1

These days, I am moving around from place to place, switching bags and gathering an array of odds and ends from friends. I must look like I need things like coupons, granola bars, eye cream and Vegemite because this is what people are bestowing upon me. And so I take what I get and put it in my bag. 

Sometimes, I just dump my bag out and see what interesting objects I find within. This activity reminds me of Ally Sheedy's character in the Breakfast Club when she says, "Yes, I always carry this much shit in my bag. You never know when you have to jam."  

Indeed, I jam. And I have time on my hands. So I made up this fun activity you can do yourself. It combines the benefits and health and beauty with the ease of a quick meal. Of course, you will have to be home-free for a few months and be willing to live out of a suitcase and move from city to city. But it's loads of fun!

So much fun that it makes me want to change my name to Augusten Octavius Bacon.

Stylish Hobo Living: Bag of Tricks #1

What can you do with a granola bar, a packet of cranberry Emergen-C, witch hazel, nutella, Arborio rice, half a Xanax, an array of fancy Kusmi teas from France, baking soda, kaolin clay, Vegemite and a bag of random vitamin supplements?

Take a b-12 supplement. You are going to need the energy.
Boil water. 
Make some nice peppermint and chamomile tea. Make it double strength.
While the tea is steeping, spread the nutella on the granola bar and eat it. That is your main meal of the day. Enjoy it.
Take the tea bags out of tea cup and put them in a saucepan halfway filled with water. 
Bring that to a boil. 
Wash your face. 
Remove boiling water in saucepan from stove and steam face.
If you are lucky enough to have a towel, drape that lovingly over your head and saucepan. 
Mix kaolin clay and baking soda with a bit of water to form a paste. 
Spread across face and sit down. 
Take that Xanax. 
Wait for a while.
Sense that you need more energy and shoot a spoonful of Vegemite into your mouth. 
Gag. 
Drink tea. 
Mix the packet of Emergen-C with water. 
Wash clay mixture off face with the bubbly effervescence of the emergen-C water. Feel the pure vitamin C penetrate your pores, washing away the years of hard living.
Drink tea. 
Stop and realize that the tea was meant for something else. 
Mix remaining tea with the leftover witch hazel to make a refreshing facial tonic. 
Spray that on face.
Sit and look at Arborio rice and contemplate how good risotto would be right now. 
Optional: make the risotto with a packet of chicken broth you found in your friend's cabinet. 

*Please note: I would have pictures of this fun afternoon activity, but I left my camera on the East Coast. Hopefully, I will get it back soon so I can document the tragicomedy of late. 

Ho, Beau!

I’ve decided to embrace my obvious hobo lifestyle. It’s been over a year and a half since I lost my job and left my home. These days, I like to refer to myself as “home-free” and not “homeless.” It just sounds better. 

Since I’ve begun referring to myself as a hobo, I’ve learned some interesting facts about that word. A hobo is a worker who wanders. It differs from a tramp, who just travels. (The lady is decidedly NOT a tramp.) Its etymological origins could either come from the railroad greeting, "Ho, beau!" or a syllabic abbreviation of "homeward bound".

And so, I find myself once again in Seattle, a place that feels most familiar. There are many friends rallying around me in this city that is like a former lover. I've learned not all former lovers turn out this way. 

My mind keeps gripping the memory of CW and the most recent NYC excursion. The good, the bad, the ugly. The ecstatic. The lustful moments. The moments of strained submission...of glorious submission. The moments full of angst and confusion.  My conclusion is this: CW, you were not for me. 

I had hoped for the best when I flung myself out of that precarious Paris situation, into New York City; a place I had never wanted to live. It seemed big and unwieldy, like a massive concert with hundreds of bands playing at the same time and crowds being corralled like cattle all over the place. Over stimulated, my belated reactions seemed provincial. Wearing yoga pants and a hoody in the West Village was a little down tempo. My Paris walk seemed too slow. I was out of step again. And, again, with CW, who moves at a million miles an hour and working every day without rest. CW, who is firmly rooted in the material world and insists on dragging me into it, dangling shiny trinkets in my face. Luring me with tasty bites and restaurants and taxis and bejeweled shoes. Leaving money on the bedside table for mani/pedi while I lounged in the air-conditioning. Luxuriating in 500 square feet. 

Oh yes, the apartment. Let's be honest; it was a cave. A cave with Pottery Barn sheets. A cave with restraints. A cave with many mice, 2 windows, and one elderly, incontinent cat. Sweet as he was, he was quite ill, although CW refused to face it. As she refused to face many unsavory things in her world, around her and within her. 

Of course, she probably doesn't think that the seven deadly sins are unsavory. Nor does she find Fox news as repulsive as I do. Why did I think that I could live in an apartment with that asinine, shallow Martha Maccallum on an oversized TV? No wonder I was constantly nauseous. 

I do thank CW for all the Zantac. And the delicious meals. And the games and the stool. And the diamond ring. I probably won't hock that. And I thank you for taking a chance on us. We gambled and were rewarded with an awesome fling. 

However, I do not appreciate the attempts at censoring me. (Placing your finger on my lips and saying "less of this" and then placing your finger on my crotch and saying, "more of this" is truly recockulous.) 

I also don't appreciate the head games at the end. I was trying to be honest, afterall. "You're a stylish girl. Can't we end this stylishly?" I guess not. She had a tiger ego.

So, leaving NYC hastily, I offered myself to my friends in Seattle. And they are here for me, beyond my expectations. As was my amazing family in PA and BFF in Brooklyn, who literally got me on the plane at JFK at the 11th hour. 

Seattle seems like a sleepy town to me now. A week at The Biltmore on Capitol Hill, caring for an adorable dog named Lena and an old, impossibly sweet cat named Sophie. There is an impressive view of the Space Needle, the mountains and the Sound. 

Next, a week at CB's caring for a gigantic cat who sheds billowy clouds of orange fur. Job interviews, meetings with real estate agents and lawyers, bike rides around the Hill, free massage in Queen Anne, planning the supper club with LD, drawing and singing again. 

I had affairs with other cities. Seattle knows I cheated. I hope she can forgive me and come back into my sorry, tired arms. I promise I won't run away...at least for a little while. 

Land ho, ho beau!