It was Steve Pavlina's idea that I commit to updating every single day for 30 days and today is the last day. He didn't specifically say, "Kristin you are to post daily on your silly blog for one month." But he promoted the general idea. (And I had a 90% compliance rate -- not bad.) Today I have no freaking clue what I'm going to be doing with my life, or even next Tuesday. Thusly, I thought it apropos that my final entry in this experiment be a link to his brilliant article, "10 Reasons You Should Never Get a Job". Enjoy. See you in September.

It comes down to the fact that I feel I'm better than this.

It's amazing how similar I can feel about my jobs and my relationships. I'm fucking awesome and if you don't know that, then fuck you -- I don't want to work for you anyway.

I'm... insulted.

And the ironic part is that I don't even want this job anymore. I would stay if they could offer me a part-time position, but I doubt that will happen. It's just that this guy has had over a month to make a decision about whether or not to hire me when my contract is up (September 7th) and just this afternoon he asked someone else on the team if they had my resume. What they gave him is the paragraph the temp agency wrote about me concerning my experience at my last job. I only know this because I have access to his email inbox. Two years of hell distilled into twenty-seven words. Nevermind that he could have asked me a month ago for my real resume, which I would have gladly supplied.

I have never in my life left a job without giving at least one month notice. I would never give less than two weeks. Yet here it is, five days before my last day of work, and the guy is casually asking around for my resume. I've already interviewed with him. And he keeps coming around all nicey nice, pretending to be my friend, smiling at me and joking with me and asking me to do shit for him.

I just feel -- so -- guh. This is total ego. But I've been here for six months, busting my butt and going above and beyond, and he's not sure if I'm good enough to organize his fucking calendar for him.

I like this anger though -- it's the same emotion that drove me to make positive steps toward career decisions not involving doing someone else's bullshit. Like in June, when I had to cut my four-day (unpaid) vacation to Boston down to three-days, paying $150 to change my flight to Saturday, because one of my coworkers decided she had a photocopying job for me to do Friday afternoon.

Things have not changed in NINE YEARS! I was writing this exact same bullshit nearly a decade ago when I graduated from college and was working as an admin at Fleet, making the same exact measly hourly rate.

Not that it's anyone's fault but mine, but it is enfuriating to see that I've moved absolutely NOWHERE career-wise in ten years. I've actually been working backwards since 2002, when I was an actual writer getting paid 50K a year. A month later I was a program assistant making HALF that. And this position pays me less than my previous position. There's something wrong with this picture.

Hence, the school.

I will open my own practice and/or spa and as the Boy said last night, hire my OWN assistant to schedule appointments and do my laundry. Except I will offer them medical benefits, even if they work part-time, and they will get paid days off, and I will treat them with dignity and respect because I've been on the receiving end of the bullshit for far too long. And if I decide to fire them, I will give them two weeks notice like any human being should have.

Okay, I'm done. I think I need an (unpaid) lunch break or something.

(from some publication I've repressed the name of...)

MEOW MIX to Open First-Ever Cafe for Cats in Manhattan

NEW YORK -- Cats all over New York City have the date Aug. 17 scratched in their calendars, say the makers of Meow Mix cat food.

Meow Mix is "spurreading" the word that Aug. 17 will be the most anticipated day of the year for felines. Because that's when they'll be rubbing their owners' legs for the chance to be among the first "customers" to dine at the new Meow Mix Cafe and get their first taste of Meow Mix Wet Food Pouches.

The 3,500 square-foot Meow Mix Cafe, 489 Fifth Ave. (between 41st and 42nd streets) will be a store with 3,500 square feet in the heart of Manhattan.

Besides offering cats "a unique culinary experience," as Richard Thompson, "self-described "Top Cat" at Meow Mix (chief executive officer in human parlance), puts it, the Meow Mix Cafe will offer fully interactive games, their themes base on the entrees for cats and their owners.

The cafe's menu will showcase "the highest-quality ingredients" for patrons, both quadrupeds that purr and featherless bipeds. Feline entrees will feature seven varieties of new Meow Mix Wet Food Pouches, including Cluck-a-Doodle-Doo, Maine Attraction, Wing and a Prawn, Deep Sea Delight, Fillet Meow, Gobbliscious, Hook Line & Sinker, Upstream Dream and What's the Catch?

For each Meow Mix flavor, owners can enjoy a comparable dish. For instance, while cats eat Fillet Meow -- beef in gravy -- their owners will be offered tenderloin of beef with horseradish sauce on a baguette.

The cafe will feature toys and games for cats and owners alike, including scratching posts and catnip-filled toy mice for the felines, plus special games based on new Meow Mix flavors, such as Hook, Line and Sinker, where owners -- with help from cats -- can fish for valuable prizes.

"Cats are such a key part of so many people's lives, yet there are very few public places that are cat-friendly," Thompson said. "With the Meow Mix Cafe, we've turned this situation on its head, with the creation of the world's first cafe that literally caters to felines and, incidentally, is owner-friendly as well!"

Meow Mix Cafe will have a gift shop, where "cat-sumers" can buy all seven new flavors of Meow Mix Wet Pouches, as well as their traditional dry favorites, such as Original Choice, Seafood Middles and Hairball Control Formula. It will also offer cat toys and accessories, such as ceramic kitty bowls, plush pillows, puff balls and stuffed animals.

All proceeds from the grand opening will be donated to the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA). In addition, ASPCA will conduct cat adoptions there Aug. 18 and 19.

Visit Meow Mix at www.meowmix.com

I'm sleepwalking. Eleven post meridian is post my bedtime.

Just went to see "Little Miss Sunshine". DevotchKa did the soundtrack. You must see it. Go now. Go.

Mt. Rainier from UW Campus.

The Tractor in Ballard (of all places).

Rob Dickinson at the Tractor was just... amazing. LOVE him. My heart is still a little achey a few days afterward -- that's a good show. Here's the video I shot of Rob performing (most of) "Future Boy" off the Catherine Wheel album Adam and Eve. You can also download it here -- right click to save and watch on your computer. That will probably run more smoothly. I'll write more about the show tomorrow. *sigh*

So Friday I was relayed a message that there was a position opening up at the shelter in Lynnwood. Just to recap, my current employment involves a 6-month temp job as an administrative assistant, and a part-time seasonal position at Cat City, which is a smaller branch of the Lynnwood shelter. Pretty much everything right now is temporary, and not just in the Buddhist sense of the word.

I've been waiting for this stupid temp job to come to fruition. Except my intentions have changed over the past week. My contract is up September 8th -- in two weeks. I was expecting at the end of the six months to have a permanent job (read as: benefits, security, health insurance, paid days off, etc.) or be released from the position all together. What I discovered is that they are intending to extend my temp contract another 3 - 6 months (is a year-long position really "temporary"?) and then decide whether or not to keep me on as permanent staff. Grrrr.

I was initially kind of pissed about this turn of events. I expected this week to know where I stood employment wise, and I had every intention of accepting a full-time position at my 9-5 office gig a least for another year. And then do what -- I'm not sure.

But lots of things changed Friday. I received notice of this open position at the Lynnwood shelter. And that launched me into some mental gymnastics. Because my first reaction was that I don't want to work in Lynnwood, and I don't want to work at the central shelter full-time. The commute is unnecessary, and the environment there is overwhelmingly negative, emotionally draining, and bleak. I want to run Cat City.

This lead to a discussion of running cat city with another staff member. To make a long story short, it's impossible because of the division of labor there (for example, one woman has worked the Sunday shift for seven years). And even if I did work Cat City full-time, in the winter the hours are cut back a lot, so it wouldn't even be technically "full-time".
So now what? If I don't really want to work full-time in Lynnwood, and I can't work full-time at Cat City, what does that mean for my animal welfare employment as a career? And should I continue to set my sights on Paws when I'm not gung-ho about the options?

Seattle shelter had a position listed last week as well. It was for a full-time animal control officer, essentially the same job as the one being offered at Lynnwood. I realized I didn't want to do that job either, and it's not because of the commute, which was my initial misgiving with the other position. So honestly, I don't think being an animal control officer, up to my neck in poop and surrounded by disgruntled members of the public, is the best dedication of my resources. I feel like I need to be doing something... more.

So I came to the realization that yes, I do want to continue my work in animal welfare. But that work does not have to be full time to be fulfilling, and it does not have to be at the shelter, whether in Lynnwood or Seattle. I have my web site that is nearly complete, and I have the book I have begun writing on City Cats, and I can volunteer a few hours a week at Cat City. And perhaps that would be enough to satisfy that area of my life.

Because even if I did "pay my dues" by performing shit work for crappy pay for a year or two at the Lynnwood shelter, if I were to move (which I no doubt will in the next 5 or so years) I would be starting from scratch at another location. Shelters just don't have that many paid positions, and the ones they do have are usually filled from within by people who have already been employed there or have been volunteering for some time.

This was a lot to think about on Friday.

I decided to revisit Plan B, which you may remember, is massage therapy school. My application is already in at Brenneke and I had my admissions interview at the end of June. I told them I needed some time to see where things were going with the shelter before I committed to school this fall.

The money issue was the main one holding me back. In order to pay for school, I would have to work full-time while going. I know from experience now that this won't work. That's why it ended up on the back burner for the past two months. But I finally broke it all down and called my parents and said, "You said you'd help me go back to school. I'm sorry that I don't want to be a nurse like you wish I did, but this is what I'm going for, and I need to know if you're willing to still help me out." It was uncharacteristically direct of me, but what the fuck. I feel like I've been tiptoeing around people my whole life. I'm ready to ask for what I need. I need money to go back to school. If they can't swing it, or they don't want to contribute to my life of prostitution as a body worker, fine. But I need an answer. I can't live in half-truths and shadows and stories that I continually tell myself to feel better about a situation where I'm not accepted for who I am.

They said yes. They would help me. I would not need to be employed full-time in order to go to school. 20-30 hours a week would be sufficient.

I called Brenneke on Monday and told them I wanted to move forward with enrollment. They were pleased as punch, and the admissions director said she loved to see people actually take time out to think about their life decisions, and she thought I'd do well since I'd done the thinking and weighed the choices and was making a conscious commitment.

Classes start September 6th, the day before my last day at my office job.

The remaining battle has been deciding what I want to do for part-time work while going to school. Because I could take that position at Lynnwood -- it's Friday, Saturday and Sunday. School is Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. It would work out time-wise. But -- I just don't know. I see the possibility of sitting on my ass for a bunch of four hour shifts at a desk for $15 an hour, juxtaposed with cleaning dog crap on my hands and knees during an eleven hour Saturday shift for $10 an hour... and I think, how about that office job? Because while it might not be as "rewarding" to work at the office job, I don't need my part-time job to be rewarding right now because I'm going to school for something rewarding. And school itself is a noble purpose and will fill me with a sense of direction. So why not just have an easy job opening mail and answering phones for twice what I'd make at the shelter, minus the back pain, minus the emotional strain, minus the forty-five minute commute?

There's a lot to think about.

I applied for two part-time positions today. I have one interview on Thursday. I am interviewing for the Lynnwood shelter job tomorrow. I told them I was interested, and since I'm not 100% certain where I'm going, I thought I'd at least interview and leave the opportunity open for myself. I applied for this awesome job today at an environmental landscaping company a few blocks from my house. It's 30 hours a week, and $17 an hour, and they want someone with "wordsmithing skills" and someone who can type *really* fast. Is 110 WPM enough? They said they were reviewing my resume. I honestly don't think they'll be able to resist me.

My head hurts. I've been doing so much Thinking, and it's all Big stuff, and it's all happening quite fast. But that's how I function. When there's decisions that need to be made, I jump in and make them. They're not always the best decisions, but I'd rather make a bad decision than sit on my hands and procrastinate taking charge of my destiny.

Know what I mean?

The dreamy Rob Dickinson will be playing a live in-studio on KEXP at 11:00 this morning, Pacific Standard time. Stream it here. If for no other reason, listen because he's British and says things like, "Can I pinch a fag?"

I'm going to see Rob Dickinson of the Catherine Wheel play solo tomorrow evening at the Tractor in Ballard, of all places. I just discovered this evening that Rob has a Wikipedia entry, which is entertaining. (Wishville has its own entry, too.) They also allude to his familial relation with Bruce Dickinson of Iron Maiden. Naming bands after medieval torture devices apparently runs in the family.

I'm looking forward to the show. While I wasn't ready for his previous performance at the Croc many months back, I think I'm over the whole Fresh Wine For The Horses let-down. Oh and Rob has sent me a friend request on MySpace so I figured I should go to his show. It's the least I can do.

Maybe Rob and I can hang out and reminisce about Toad's Place back in '97, crica Adam and Eve.

Pics to follow. The Tractor has flattering red lighting that is kind to aging rock stars.

And their aging fans.

We went to Leavenworth today, on the other side of the mountain pass. It's a Bavarian-themed town. Leiderhosen, bratwurst, streudel, the whole nine. We had lunch at a place called Drake and Ducks. There was taffy, and sunshine, and mountains, and for some reason many small dogs. Many. Very small dogs. Dachshunds especially. On the way home we stopped at a Yakima fresh fruit stand for melons and golden tomatoes and the sunflowers were ten feet high. To top it all off, it was 96 degrees. Which for this Northwest wuss is a hot time in the old town tonight.

Also many big fabulous changes going on in my Life this weekend. More to follow on that. In the meantime, fotos of das strasses.

P.S. The Boy is 6'3".

Tis the season.

But then I remembered. And then my battery di...

(It's the only explanation I have.)

Bill, our marina manager, won Most Disorganized.

The Regatta Photo Album is finally up and available for your viewing pleasure. It's a conglomerate of several photographers. I'm warning you, they're not attractive pictures. They show the true nature of humans -- cheating and backstabbing -- and the fragility of our exteriors when confronted with a sinking boat and sheets of rain -- bare feet and soaked jeans. Viewer discretion is advised.

I don't know why, but I found the sunshine on my breakfast this morning quite beautiful. I was moved enough to go get my camera and try the macro setting, which I rarely get to use. I'm glad I took it right away because just minutes later, the sun had moved and was no longer running across the galley table at the same angle. Sunshine. Nectarines. Sunday morning. Does it get any better than this?

I gotta tell ya, Saturdays are not update days for me. Jasper is sharpening his claws on my computer case. He's beginning to develop all sorts of negative attention-getting behaviors. I'm riding it out. Even the 2:30 AM yowling sessions where I'm convinced someone is removing his whiskers with a blowtorch and tweezers. Actually, he's trying to tell me 5:00 AM is not early enough to be fed, and he's much prefer 24 hour room service.

I don't usually update on Saturdays because they're so darn full and I actually use my computer very little at home. I spend so much time staring into it 9-5 that I can't wait to get away from it. But I went to email someone about goose poop cleaning tomorrow and it occured to me that last week I missed Saturday as well. And so.

Right now I am being serenaded by the lovely sounds of squirrels on crack and puppies in a blender. Otherwise known as, the Asian Wedding Band from Hell. They play every weekend, usually until late into the night, Japanese versions of "Unchained Melody" and even an occasional "Play That Funky Music Whiteboy", interspersed with traditional Asian fare. It's ridiculously loud, to the point that we can't listen to music in the house because it overrides the stereo. We've given in after listening to this three nights a week all summer. I can't accurately describne to you exactly how awful this music is because you would think I was exaggerating. And most people do, until they are actually standing here, listening to this crap, saying, "My god -- you're right. It's just... so... BAD."

The best part is that around 11:00 when all the lightweight family members of the Asian bride are all good and liquored-up, they do karaoke. There's also what sounds like an auction, but it's in a foreign tongue, but from what we ascertain, these weddings are very much like a game show.

Jasper is still sharpening his claws on my laptop case. I think the music upsets him.

Some nights we get a really great bonus, and the families stick all their kids out on the balcony that overhangs the marina, and the kids scream wildly and throw things of the balcony. Flip flops, cigarettes, those party bomb things with all the colored ribbons inside. A few weekends ago the entire dock was covered with colored ribbons.

It's intermission now, so a brief respite, but that just means more time for the band to smoke their crack or whatever it is they do to make their voices sound so unnaturally bad.

We're going to see DevotchKa tonight, who if you're just joining us, is one of my favorite bands. I love them in the way you love candles on New Year's Eve, the way you love a rainy Sunday afternoon with nothing to do, or oatmeal cookies fresh out of the oven. They are truly an incredible band, and they sound like gypsy sunset nights and barefoot dancing, and love, love, love. Neumo's is hosting the show, which is a relief as they last played at Crocodile, the venue I now vehemently boycott because of its awfulness. Neumo's is a really great venue, very much like the Paradise in Boston, meticulous sound, good views, well ventilated, and they book lots and lots of good bands. It's second only to the Tractor Tavern. I was just saying how I wished they were playing at the Tractor (because nothing is every good enough for me) and between that and Hattie's Hat, if I still ate burgers & fries and drank No Depression Ale, Ballard of all places would be a serious contender for my residency. I absolutely love Ballard, but the part of me that loves it no longer exists -- the up-all-night listening to great music and barhopping with the coolest people ever and sleeping in till noon -- that me has been killed off.

Instead I rise at 5 AM and see the sleepy city yawning -- Capitol Hill catching its first breath of sunrise across the water, and I ride down to Denny Way, the streets silent and empty. I'm enjoying quiet lately. Slowness. Ease.

In fact, while the band is taking five, I'm going to go get some fresh air and say goodnight to the sunflowers.

In preparation for my afternoon shift at Cat City, I was reviewing some of the closing procedures. I actually ran the place by myself last weekend, including doing the cash register and making a bank run, supervising volunteers, closing up shop, and returning frantically an hour after closing because I forgot to turn on the alarm. I loved it. I would do it every day if I could.

But I was reading through my staff guide, and I came across something that just totally encompasses the attitude of PAWS and also makes any corporate job I've held seem, well, inhumane: You get one full day paid bereavement leave if your companion animal dies. I didn't even have one unpaid day for a human at my last job.

I'm going to try and remember to take some pics of Cat City tonight if we're not ridiculously busy (adopted out 14 kittens and 4 adult cats last weekend). I'm helping out with write-ups and photos for our Petfinder.com web site stuff, too. Think I can include some of those shots in my portfolio?

Have a great weekend. We'll see if I remember to update tomorrow.

P.S. Chelsea was my first intake -- I got to worm her. And I named her!

We held the 1st Annual China Harbor Dinghy Regatta last weekend. It got a little bit out of hand and there was foul play involved. The Westlake Pirates won the Doubles Challenge heat: race up to the dock with only one oar (and not a kayak oar, either) and race back with no oars. We smoked everybody by about 3 minutes cause I got down to my waist in the water and started paddling like a lunatic. Nobody else thought of that. Julio tried gondola style. Boats nearly tipped. Everyone got very, very wet. There will be a gallery up within a day or two, but for now, here's a sample.

Mon Frere on Capitol Hill.

Since I got a new computer, I am archiving and purging all my files. I came across this gem and just wanted to share it. It's appropriate, considering where I am in the Vein of Gold. My former manager has officially made my Monster Hall of Fame. Congratulations, RDR.

I left in all the grammatical errors because they're part of the charm.

EMPLOYEE PERFORMANCE EVALUATIION
Program Coordinator
7/12/2004 - 1/12/2005

Kristin is a very sensitive person. It's important somehow, sometimes to separate her personal emotions from her daily work and interactions with faculty and staff. She is easy to work with -- once you get to know her. She is quiet, which sometimes interpreted by some as unaproachable. She is very responsive to needs of her co-worker's and always willing to volunteer to some task. I would like her to be more pro active and continue asking questions, clarifying things which not clear to her. and continue to take initiative in following up items and updating her supervisor.

Kristin needs to prioritized and practice "timemanagement" on some of her workloads and somehow find ways to differentiate her role so she can focus more on task assigned to her. In the future, it's important all materials, budget projections or proposals need to be reviewed first before sending it to the faculty or going out of the department to avoid more delays, misunderstanding, and any possible problem.

God, I miss her.

If there's one thing that will make you appreciate a day off, it's working two jobs, six days a week. I think I may have to put my Sunday volunteer activities on hold for the time being, because I've been guarding my Sundays like a fat kid guards chocolate cake. MINE.

Sunday felt endless. It sprawled on for months. Fresh fruit and feline love for breakfast on the upper deck in the magical cool morning sunshine. Eight a.m. is just flawless this time of the year. It feels like when you've been camping -- dirty for days and sleeping on the ground, covered in mud and bugs -- and then you get home, take a hot shower and get in a freshly-made bed. That's what Sunday morning feels like to me.

I even got a nap in. Leisurely afternoon nap in filtered sunlight with a breeze off the water, the buzz of float planes occasionally entering my dreams.

In the later afternoon, we took a delicious open air scooter ride up to the University District. I've spent a chunk of my weekend distributing materials for the PAWSwalk in September -- our annual benefit with dogs and vendors and last year, a monsoon. So I have to go door-to-door, asking people to support us and hang up a poster in their window, or hand out leaflets to people on the street walking dogs, and so on. I had one more location to hit yesterday near the U, and then we spent about an hour milling about the aisles of the art store on 45th. Just walking through there inspires me, gives me so many ideas. They had casting kits where you learn to make a mold and then pour plaster into them. Hands, and a pregnant belly. You could make a cast of your unborn babe! How cool is that?! The rows of pearlescent paints stretched on, their pearly bottles in 150 shades.

I found the large sketch pad and two erasers I was after. My supplies list is now complete. I can begin to draw. Today, after work, I got to Wishville and do my first lesson in the Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain book.

I was reading the book yesterday for awhile, the intro and the "what you will learn" portion. While the original edition was published in the sixties, and I'm not sure brain research still supports the whole left brain/right brain school of thought (ha!), she had some very interesting points. She explains the shift in consciousness during creation as moving from left brain to right brain thinking. Supposing that scientists no longer believe that our brain is so neatly divided, with the left part being verbal and the right part being creative, I still relate to the changes she speaks of. She says left brain is reading, and shopping lists, and scheduling. And the right brain is art galleries and painting and making music. If you've ever created anything, even computer code, you know there's this "zone" you get into when you're totally and completely absorbed in it and the rest of the world -- time, space, meals -- falls away. While she calls that right brain thinking, I just call it the zone. And I finally really understood what JC was talking about when she said Morning Pages must be done by hand.

I always described the difference kind of clumsily, saying "it moves a different part of your brain". But I guess that's true. When I'm writing on the computer, typing away madly, I get good ideas and they are well organized and eloquent. But when I write by hand, the words go away, and it's just flowing from my brain onto the page with no filter. And afterward, I feel differently than when I sat down. I feel fresh. I feel like Sunday mornings.

Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain has been hailed by a million people as the resource for learning to draw. She says it's pretty much fool proof, and it's not manual dexterity that makes a good artist, it's being able to see. I am curious to find out new ways of seeing. Being a photographer, I definitely see the world differently than a non-photographer. And right now I see the world as a non-drawer. I wonder what would happen if I combined the seeing of photo with the seeing of drawing? Would my brain implode?

I picked up a couple other books of note. How to Make a Journal of Your Life was quite charming and well-done. It's a tiny little book about keeping a visual journal or a field guide. The guy who wrote it is entertaining, and it makes an inspirational read if you're afraid of drawing. It's filled with his own scribbles and fun interpretations of the world around him, his environment and his children. He's child-like himself. The other one, Everyday Matters, was done by a friend of this guy, who started drawing when his beautiful, Manhattan designer metro-hip wife got hit by a subway and was paralyzed from the waist down. Drawing became his outlet. I enjoyed his book as well because while he's cataloguing his environment, the intention and result are quite different. He draws lots of New York City buildings, some of my favorite drawing subjects. Not NY, just city buildings. Skylines. The book is surprisingly uplifting, and not in a new-age way, but in a normal-person-achieves-elevated-state way. When he left for work one morning, he was this young city kid hipster with his whole martini-riddled life ahead of him, and when he got home, his whole life had ended. The world as he knew it no longer existed. Now it was wheelchairs and physical therapy and wiping someone else's butt. But he managed to keep his head through most of the changes, and started drawing as a release. The book is filled with his actual art, casual and frighteningly human.

Isn't it interesting that when you're a kid, you know damn well you can dance, and sing, and draw and paint. And then you forget. Or you begin to tell yourself that you can't. Does it happen gradually? Or does it happen all at once, during some small soul-crushing moment of rejection? Like most children, my childhood notebooks are filled with tons of colorful drawings of animals and people and the world around me. When did I put the crayon down? Was it a conscious decision? As conscious as the decision to become a journal-keeper?

I used to love babysitting cause I could lay on my stomach in the summer grass and draw fish on the pavement with sidewalk chalk. And five-year-olds are easily impressed, so you feel pretty good about your impromptu art.

This memory just sprang to life as I'm writing -- these two amazing little girls I used to baby-sit -- they were identical twins, six or seven years old, and they were ridiculously creative. They also had their own language and spoke to one another in non-English. Their mom had to ask them to use English sometimes so she would know, because they'd forget and always talk like that. Amazing. So one night, I went over with my acoustic guitar because I had written a cute little song and thought, what a better audience to test it on than two mystical children? So I played and sang it for them, and they were the most responsive audience I've ever been before. They thought I was the best musician ever. I tried to show them a few chords, but their tiny fingers could barely even hold down one string.

A few weeks later, I was scheduled to sit them again, and their mom called me beforehand. She said, "Christina wants to talk to you, she has a request." She put her daughter on the phone and the little girl pleaded with me to bring my guitar so I could sing them some more songs. My eyes well up just remembering this.

I had expended my repertoire of children's songs (including the "Theme from the Little Mermaid" which I learned for them to sing along with me) and they said they didn't care -- sing anything. So I sang the Wallflowers for them, and Crowded House, the Cure, Jayhawks and the Lemonheads. They especially loved "Into Your Arms" and I taught them the chorus so they could sing it with me.

I was terrible. I cannot sing. Neither can I play guitar. I made sounds and strummed, and these two little girls were the biggest fans I would ever have. I pretty much stopped playing soon after that, to any serious degree. I did an open mic coffee shop in New Haven -- Kasbah, I think it was called -- with my friend Amanda singing back-up. I had to play someone else's guitar cause I didn't have mine with me. That was definitely my last public performance. Not that it went badly. I think the anxiety was just too much for me to handle without several drinks in my system.

I gave it up. At 12, the crayolas, at 20, the music. Of course, you'd have to cut off all my fingers and wire my jaw shut to take the writing away from me. So maybe I managed to hang on to a little bit of childhood wonder. I wonder if I can get the other stuff back?

A boatful of pirates. Fifty Japanese schoolgirls. In my parking lot. I live here.

Now that the annoying-bordering-on-dangerous Heatwave of 2006 seems to be waning, I feel it's safe to rub in the following: Accuweather Forecast for the Seattle area, for the next week: Sunny, 74 degrees, dry, breezy. Oh, and last week too. And the week before that. Actually, that's the forecast for July through September, during which the weather people go on vacation because there's nothing to report.

I'm not rubbing this in because I'm mean or I don't like you. It's just in defense of my beloved city, and to inform all the people who really think I'm lying when I say: It does not rain all the time. So while you were sweating your balls off, or hiding from thunder and lightning storms, I was relaxing on the upper deck with limeade in the 72°, dry breezy sunshine. While it was 103° in Boston, 104° in Washington D.C. and 125° in Tucson.

We did have a heat wave of our own a few weeks ago, and after two days of temperatures in the 80's, people started dropping like flies on the street. I saw a funny ad on the side of a bus yesterday -- I think it was for Tully's -- and it had a picture of an iced something, and said, "Cold and refreshing, for those three hot days this year."

Anyway, I don't want to hear anymore gloom and doom about weather in the Pacific Northwest because every morning and evening, I still wear a fleece. I don't need an air conditioner. And I will never have to shovel my non-existent car out from under two feet of snow. Or two inches, for that matter.

(Remind me to re-read this in February.)

I'm kind of sad. I follow the path of least resistance and I'm fairly confident that things actually do work out how they're supposed to, so I'm not wailing in mourning or anything. But I am a little sad.

I made a list of the perfect car for me and started looking for it. That was after coming to grips with the fact that I might actually need a car, which wasn't easy and was a whole hullabaloo on its own. So I made the list, and started searching craigslist every day. And then I found it. It had 9 out of 10 of my requirements, 10 being a sun-roof and should it be that dire, could be installed after-market. It was a 2000 Honda Civic hatchback, white, with a CD player and less than 55,000 miles on it. And they were selling it for under $10K.

The ad had been up for a few days, which on craigslist is an eternity, so I didn't have much hope but emailed the lady and asked her if it was still available. Turns out she posted the ad and then went on vacation for a week, which was pretty stupid (and perhaps should have been noted more heavily as dramatic foreshadowing of the retardation to come).

So the car was still available. I was very excited. She said I could test drive it and come see it. So we drove all the way to Issaquah, which is a big hike, to see the car. We took it for a healthy test drive, and it's exactly what I want, wonderful, and I just need to get it checked by a mechanic because I know nothing about cars.

I do some research and find a place that does pre-purchase inspections, make an appointment and give the lady the after hours drop-off paperwork. I pay for it myself. Then I spend half my day getting a loan for the car.

Up front I told her the list of demands the bank had. Now they had a lot of stupid ones, but they're trying to protect against fraud -- against you saying you're buying a car with the money and instead getting a few kilos of heroin or something cause the car is their collateral. One of the legitimate requirements was that the person selling the car had to be the registered owner. And this registered owner needed to be present, alongside me, to sign the bill of sale before a notary.

Pain in the ass, but I arranged for it. Got a local mobile notary and made the appointment. Meanwhile, the woman selling the car was still looking for the car title and paperwork because she apparently wasn't actually ready to sell it and just wanted to put it on craigslist for entertainment.

After a week of appointments, and paying for mechanics, and getting the loan, and filling out DOL paperwork, she just writes me and says, "Oh sorry -- the title is in my parents' name." Of course, they couldn't live in Portland, or even San Francisco. No. They live in ALASKA.

So no car for me, after all that work and complication, and after getting pretty excited about it and making plans in my head. I'm sad. And the thing is, I can't just go find another car, because the loan was specifically for this car, and I'd have to go through all the bullcrap again with a new car, and I think their requirements are just too burdensome to deal with.

Now it's back on the GhettoSkoot®

Pity party for Kristin, and you're invited.

My friend Mags has a photo gallery titled "Summer in Somerville" that I just visited for the first time and was pleasantly startled to see my porch and my battered old Broadway front door (hey! I know that mailbox!). And my Thai restaurant with Ronconcomo Rangoon. And the dude at Powderhouse Convenience. And Beeee and Shellfish. Check it out. Not only is Mags a gifted photographer, but she gives amazing massages.

This just in, from the Boy. Yet another reason why SubPop rules.

One of the best parts of doing one of JC's programs is the sudden appearance of synchronicity. It's not that the synchronicity has suddenly appeared, it's that you've just begun to recognize it. The general idea follows that if you want something, you put your request "out there" and step forward, and what you need naturally steps toward you. The words are printed in gold letters above my desk at Wishville: Jump, and a net will appear. Or as JC says, "Pray to catch the bus, then run as fast as you can."

This morning while writing at the place I spend most mornings, the Grand Central Baking Company, who by the way does not even pretend to sell bagels, I started musing on whether or not it was synchronicity that I'm having a dastardly hard time selling my piano.

Cause maybe I'm supposed to be playing it.

Over the past couple of months my creative desire to indulge in art forms outside of my "native" territory of words and photographs has begun to grow like an excited little wave inside of me. My whole life I have wanted to play bass in a Go-Go's cover band. And lately I have been downloading and examining the tabs for Cyndi Lauper songs. I absolutely worship Cyndi. The first concert I ever went to and one of my closet obsessions, right up there with Crowded House. (There's not really much else from the 80's I'd have a desire to retain.)

There was the Go-Go's cover band, and then I got the idea about two years ago that I wanted to play in an oldies cover band, but play punk rock versions of the songs. It would be an all girl band called "Ex-Girl Collection" and we'd play hard fast versions of "Runaway", "Earth Angel", and "Why Do Fools Fall In Love". Cause I think there is a lot of anger and built up rage in those types of songs that actually give them an eerie calm on the surface, and they'd really come to life at the hands of more energy, distortion and bar chords. Like listening to the Beach Boys Pet Sounds and realizing how sad and heavy it really is underneath the bright arrangements. Plus songs from the 50's and 60's are all under three minutes -- perfect for a punk translation.

It's largely my Dad's fault. I grew up in a house where music was important, and my Dad's record collection was to die for. Hundreds of original 45's, their vinyl protected in original sleeves. We listen to oldies day and night. We even went to Cruise Night in the summer, when all the folks with restored classic cars drove them out and parked them in a giant lot and went around drooling on each other's '57 Chevy convertibles, or the hard-tops with the upside record player on the ceiling.

I listen to the oldies station a ton, and I would listen to it more if it wasn't littered with obnoxious commercials. KEXP and NPR have spoiled me. My Dad gave me a chunk of his record collection, but I don't have a record player.

So the other night I had this dream, a deep colorful dream with a plot, character arcs, and a soundtrack. Toward the end of it, I was in Ex-Girl Collection and I was writing new songs, punk songs, that sounded like oldies. But it wasn't the kind of dream where I'm standing on stage in front of a million screaming fans. The part that I remember was just me sitting alone, writing music in my studio with the black Rickenbacker I learned to play on when I was 17. I was talking to someone about it quietly -- I don't remember who. It was a serene and lucid dream. I woke up sad that it wasn't real.

I was thinking about the music writing, and my recently reignited interest in drawing. Two things I've enjoyed since I was little. The drawing interests me especially now because I want my daily journal to be multimedia -- I want to be able to sketch my day, or draw the perfect stargazer lily that bloomed yesterday. I took a drawing class several years ago at the Cambridge Center for Adult Ed. It was fun, but not the kind of drawing I was interested in -- it was fruit bowls and bottles and stacks of old books. They had a cafe drawing class that I really wanted to take, but it was never offered at a reasonable time. It was a colored-pencil drawing class, and everyone would go to the cafe and get a cup of coffee and draw what they saw from their seat. That's the kind of stuff I could get into.

In a way, I think I was so attracted to photography because it allowed me to catalog my experience with little skill needed that I didn't already possess. My impulsive, impatient nature doesn't have the learned discipline to practice daily and get slowly good at something. If I can't figure it out in 30 minutes, I get frustrated and move on to something else. I'm like a four-year-old that way. But it's how I create. I'm hoping I can locate a balance between needing to be instantly perfect at something and spending a little bit of time honing my skill.

So about selling the piano. I haven't been playing as much as I'd like to. Because the walls at the loft are very thin and I have performance anxiety and don't care to have the concert classical guitarist upstairs listen to me fumble clumsily through the first movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, which is the piece I got the piano to learn to play. I shouldn't care, but I'm very aware of it. It ruins my session. When I'm there late at night, I play because there's no one else in the building. So the piano has largely become a source of guilt for me and I'm sick of looking at it and feeling badly for not practicing. That's why I want to sell it. I've been trying for over a month, but I keep getting response after response that falls through.

And strangely, I sold my book of Beethoven's Fantasies (which includes the Moonlight sonata) last week on Amazon, and the people said that wasn't the book they wanted and sent it back to me. Maybe I should hang on to this for a little longer and see what happens.

Back to my "native" art forms. I was thinking about how music has never been "mine" -- as a fan, yes, as a music writer, yes. But making music has never felt like it belonged to me -- even though I've recently written pieces for the piano and composed a bit when I was younger. I started playing guitar because it was easier to do in a group -- when everyone was hanging out and playing together, there wasn't always a piano handy. After awhile, I felt like "why bother?" because there were so many talented people around me that were a million times better than I, and it wasn't "my thing" anyway. My thing was writing. My thing was hiding behind a camera. I was always an observer, never a performer. And it didn't help that friends would hear my fledgling attempts to figure out a song and then they would whip it out perfectly, nonchalantly, the next time they saw me. I felt like it was a personal attack intended to keep me in my place. Which may very well be a warped view. But it felt very real to me and has remained one of my biggest creative blocks involving music.

When your closest friends are mostly musicians and your job is to be their cheerleader, sometimes they're too busy promoting their art to even acknowledge yours. It's a dilemma between the performer and the observer. One forgets they're not always on stage, and the other denies that they ever are.

The piano feels more natural to me than many of my other art forms when I'm playing. I almost instantly go into a trance-like state of Zen, my head shutting off like I can never seem to make it do in meditation. I've been playing since I was six, so I was playing before I was writing. Too bad the hulking instrument is not as portable as a one-subject notebook. I may have clocked more hours over the years.

My recent fascination with piano tuning & teching is so typical of me. I know I want to make music, but I haven't given myself permission to, so instead I'll spend all my energy making the instrument work better for someone else to play. I'll let myself in the bakery, but I'm not allowed to eat any cake. I can pick up the baseball bat, but I'm not supposed to hit any balls. Just shine up the bat for the next person who is a real player. Not an imposter, like me.

Although the piano is right now taking up the wall where I was going to start painting, perhaps I can acquire an old collapsible easel and coexist with it for a little while. Maybe I could even learn to play without caring that others could hear I was not perfect -- not even close. Maybe composing that piece that's been fluttering around in my head for weeks will help me break the decade-long creative block around music. Maybe I could let that piano stay at Wishville and make it my thing.