THE RED SLUT:

That's the day I didn't ride.

The other Kristen offered to drive me home after we discovered Celeste rim-deep in the squall. This is us braving the blizzard. Heh. Blizzard.

Well that was enough excitement for one night. Think I better go to bed and quit while I'm ahead.

Tell me that's not the most brilliant idea -- giving each month a theme! Oh what fun awaits me in 2008!

I joyously showed my calendar to my coworker Bean, who immediately sat down to compose a list of suggested Themes for 2008. Here is what she came up with, in no particular order:

• The Golden Age of Disco
• Plaid
• FD&C Yellow #5
• Dressing Cats as Famous Lounge Singers
• The Hokey-Pokey
• Only Making Left Turns
• Writing Backwards
• Cute Scooter-Boy Mechanics
• Saffron
• Leg-Warmers & Slap Bracelets
• Break Dancing
• Dingos
• Protesting Spandex
• Winking at Strangers

Dingos, legwarmers and cute scooter mechanics. Like I said, fun awaits in 2008.

Then we moved into a house with a King size bed and a Tempurpedic mattress. The bed was so enormous that I had to send postcards just to stay in touch. I luxuriated in the excessive leg room and notable dry warmth, which had also been lacking on the S.S. Octopus of Loooove. For a few months, I fell asleep and stayed asleep until at least four a.m. It was the most bizarre feeling to wake up after 6 solid hours of sleep. I felt like I was arising from a coma. The only problem was the Jasper alarm, which went off at 4:30 every morning, demanding fish-flavored breakfast.

Then I got rid of two of my three "bed partners" - as the Swedish Sleep Institute calls them on the 45 page questionnaire I completed today. My remaining bed partner has been trained to sleep on the floor, on a cushion that was supposed to be for meditation but is now swathed in agouti fur. So I have a queen size bed to myself, and the problem has shifted from "up all night" to simply "UP."

I get in bed at 10 or 11 and it's often 2 or 3 a.m. before I fall asleep. It's maddening. I have tried Tylenol PM, Kava kava, Valerian root, chamomile tea, Benadryl, Dramamine, melatonin and skullcap, in varying combinations and strengths. I've tried meditation and chanting, Reiki, massage therapy, hypnosis, bright light therapy and -- in desperation -- prayer. The only thing that works is Nyquil, which for obvious reasons is a problem. (As Denis Leary says, "I'm high as a kite and my teeth are green, Merryfuckingchristmas!")

In an exasperated session with my doctor last week, I told him I was beyond his revolutionary suggestion of warm milk. I told him I don't drink milk. He said, "Maybe that's your problem." He also informed me that people of Nordic heritage are genetically deficient in caffeine. Then he prescribed me Trazodone, which he assured would help me sleep until I could get to the Swedish Sleep Clinic. It is not habit-forming (I really like to form habits) and isn't part of the Ambien crowd. I took one at 9:30 p.m. on Thursday and woke up two days later. My alarm had been going off the whole time. When I finally got out of bed, the side effects included blurred vision, lack of coordination, loss of motor control, confusion and forgetfulness. And this is better than insomnia HOW?

This morning I went to the Sleep Clinic for an evaluation. Within 30 seconds I wanted to slap the woman. I truly despise the medical community to begin with, and the more time I spend in doctors' offices, the more material they give me to work with. Problem is, I didn't have a box on her sheet to mark off -- insomnia, restless legs, apnea, etc. -- some quick and convenient diagnosis. She couldn't quite figure out why I can't fall or stay asleep during the week but on Saturdays I often get 14-16 hours of sleep. That makes two of us.

The Sleep Specialist offered me still more pharmaceuticals. "What's causing it?" I pleaded with her. She didn't know. When I told her, like my doctor, that I preferred to examine the root cause of the issue instead of the decidedly Western method of applying drugs to the symptoms, she looked totally offended. "Then I'm not sure I can help you," she said, slamming my file closed.

Because I apparently have nothing better to do on a Saturday night, I agreed to a sleep study. I'm still unsure exactly how this is going to help. Let's see. You hunker down in a hospital bed in your PJ's, hooked up to machines with suction cups on your forehead, eyeballs and ankles, and night-owls in lab coats stare at you through a two-way mirror -- and you're supposed to SLEEP?

By far the best part is that I cannot have coffee on Saturday, and will also be denied my drug of choice on Sunday, when I have a "nap study". They put you down and tuck you in for little 20 minute naps every two hours to monitor how long it takes you to slip into REM sleep. I never nap. If I fall asleep during the day I wake up in a panic attack, certain the world is about to end. Take away my caffeine, and I'm certain it will.

When Mon Frere was living with me, he had a fish tank in the living room, two doors away from my bedroom. The aquarium was quite beautiful and featured a tiny stone dragon that filled with bubbles. When the air built up inside the dragon, it would release a puff of bubbles from its nostrils at random intervals. That freaking dragon kept me up three nights straight until I finally yanked the cord out of the wall yelling, "No bubbles for you!"

So I'm not sure how Dr. Blind Cavefish in the basement of the Sleep Lab thinks he's going to get me to slumber care-free while wired to his devices and machines.

Though they did say I could bring my teddy bear.

I had to book a crowd pleaser event. Last year we played Srabble at a German pub. That was also my doing, and I was told that this year there better be sports. The pub played good music and Scrabble does not require athletic coordination, of which I have none. The one benefit of this year's venue is that at least I'm only a few blocks from home once we get there. Maybe I can sneak out the back door and go to Twice Sold Tales. Nobody would even notice that I'm gone. They certainly don't notice much of the work I do when I'm around.

Last night I took the bus to the Vespa Club meeting, which was painfully ironic. Then I threw up in a garbage can at the bus stop on account of the motion sickness. At least I managed to contain myself while on the bus. Oh dear lord how I detest the Metro bus system. I pine for days of smooth-rolling subways that ran every 10 minutes. Air conditioned in summer, heated in winter. I do give the Metro a few thumbs up, though -- a lot of the buses run on veggie oil or are electric, and you can put your bicycle on the front so you don't have to ride up Denny.

Speaking of vomit-inducing transit, the SLUT began serving everyone in biotechland today. I picked her up at Hooters and rode her all the way downtown. I took a picture of the purple trolley about to make its maiden voyage. The marquee said "Hello Seattle!" which was cute. The driver waved to me while I was standing in the street like a moron with my camera phone. (I don't know why I bother -- I can't figure out how to get the photos off my phone without paying Sprint my firstborn child.) By far the best thing to come of our shiny new SLUT is the "Ride the SLUT!" t-shirts:

I must have one and I must get one for every friend back East who doesn't believe that they're really calling our new public transit the SLUT.

Does anyone else find it totally ridiculous that we now have a Monorail that travels one mile to Westlake Center, and a Trolley that travels one mile to Westlake Center, yet I still can't get from South Lake Union to Capitol Hill without 2 buses, 2 transfers, 45 minutes and vomit?

Oh and don't bother recommending all those motion sickness "cures" you've heard about. I tried them ALL, including this high-tech shock therapy bracelet that delivers an electronic pulse into your arm while traveling. The only thing that works is Dramamine, but then my sense of humor gets very strange and I crave chicken McNuggets. It's a bad scene all around.

Crap. Time to go bowling.

I was pretty excited for Saturday. It was the Westenders Bright Shiny Things! Rally (officially, the Holiday Lights Ride) and I was talking about it all week. I can't stand Christmas, but having been a crow in my former life, tinsel and purple star lights make me giddy. This was a very well-planned ride, and Orin even put together a highly detailed Google Map of the route and distributed a time table for each leg of the tour. Boy after my own heart. We should get matching visors. The ride included much chicken soup for the scoot lover's soul, like donating toys to the Children's hospital and canned goods to Northwest Harvest. Then on to Green Lake Path of Lights and Luminaria. I think I'm changing my name to Luminaria. Although out of context it could be mistaken for an STD.

Anyways.

JJ had enthusiastically agreed to ride bitch with me, in part because it gave her an opportunity to get all cute and dolled up and sit on a pretty bike and flirt with everyone. Which is fine by me. Having a cute chick riding behind you increases your own attractiveness tenfold, statistics show. Two cute redheads on a gorgeous modded two-stroke are virtually unstoppable.

On Thursday I dropped Celeste the Frankenstella off at her favorite home away from home -- Soundspeed Scooters. My new clutch had arrived at long last and she had a date with Jeb to get set up. I was almost as excited about the clutch as the upcoming ride because my clutch was getting to the point where I spent more time praying fervently than shifting. I had begun waiting at the bottom of Mercer for the light to turn green, then gunning it up the hill and making the turn onto Eastlake so I wouldn't have to stop on the incline. On more than one occasion, a pedestrian decided to take a leisurely stroll across the path of traffic, stopping the line of cars halfway up the hill once I was already in motion. I had to loop three or four times around the block before I actually made the left turn under a yellow light. It's all jolly good fun, I assure you, but I was looking forward to a slightly more reliable mode of transport.

So I dropped off the scoot and planned (there's that word again) to pick her up Saturday morning, and we'd be off to the rally at noon.

I'd been having Stella electrical problems for... oh, about 8 months now. The fine folks at Ducaca were clueless about why my battery died nightly, despite having the bike for 3 weeks in attempt to find the problem. The battery had died a final death a month ago when I stubbornly tried to start with a fouled sparkplug. I could kick start, but I noticed when I put a turn signal on, there was only enough juice to illuminate one light at a time, resulting in a strobe effect between the headlight and the blinker. I like disco and all, but it was annoying. While the Frankenstella was in for the clutch, they were going to charge the battery and see if they could find the cause of the drain. Ducaca had kept the bike for a month and failed to diagnose the problem; Soundspeed discovered it in an hour.

JJ and I arrived on Saturday and the battery was not quite done charging so we went to REI to get warm weather gear (see above picture). I was informed mid-shopping that the scoot was presenting some technical difficulties. She's such the problem child. We returned to Fremont and after killing several hours cruising the canal, Jeb said he needed more time to untangle the mess of my wiring harness. It was already almost 5:00 and nearing the end of the Westenders ride anyway, so I left the bike in his care for the weekend to purge the last remaining bad karma out of it.

On to "Plan C". JJ and I decided to drive to Green Lake and meet up with the Westenders on foot for the final stop of the scooter rally -- the Pathway of Lights and Luminaria. We found parking and like freshly-hatched sea turtles, we made slowly for the lights in the 33 degree night.

I was yakking on about how the DCFC song "Blacking Out the Friction" made frigid winters okay ("I don't mind the weather - I've got scarves and hats and sweaters..." ) because if Ben Gibbard didn't mind the weather, how could I? when JJ slipped on the cobblestone street and flailed to the ground, landing all of her weight on one knee. She screamed obsceneties while dragging herself onto the sidewalk out of the flow of traffic like an injured animal.

The Emergency Room at Swedish on a Saturday night is pretty exciting. I got to race JJ through the halls in a wheel chair. While she was being x-rayed, I entertained the nurses by hosting a mock home-renovation show in the ward - This Old ER. ("Amenities are plentiful but the rents are a little steep.") I prowled the halls in search of the medic we passed in triage who was head-to-toe ink and sparkly piercings. He stood out in the sterile hospital hallways as clearly as I in my vampire red hair and black & white striped scarf.

Despite a headache I'd been nursing for nearly three hours, it is impossible to get aspirin in a hospital. A hospital! I'm in a hospital and I can't get a freaking Tylenol. Meanwhile, put on one of those little bracelets and they're handing out percocet left and right. I felt like I was underage in a bar. It's easier to score drugs in Chinatown than in Swedish.

I made JJ tell me stories all night to keep her occupied because the pain was unmanageable. In between rants about her Republican parents and her over-educated ex, she screamed quietly and cried. I'm surprised we both didn't get kicked out of there with our potty mouths but she did remarkably well suppressing the four letter words. I warned each nurse who came toward her that she might bite them, and the nurse would look horrified and JJ would say, "But only if you ask nicely." They weren't quite sure what to do with us.

Her x-ray returned sans broken bones, so they packed her in foam and sent us on our way. The rest of the evening was spent with me driving her car all over the city in search of a 24 hour pharmacy and/or a key to her parents' house so she wouldn't need to drive all the way home. Turning up empty on both accounts, she dropped me home and made her hyper-alert drug addled way home to whimper in her own bed.

My scooter is still in the shop. I was trying to come up with vanity plates for when my registration renewal is up: BROKEN, BUSTED, FUBAR or perhaps BADKRMA. But I'm confident Celeste the Frankenstella is in good hands and will return to me when she is fully restored, and I can drive off into the night sans disco, with working headlights and horn, and a new clutch, and maybe actually see some Luminarias. Luminaria? Luminariums. You know what I mean.

I really, really hate Seattle drivers. Not just hate, fear. When navigating the streets of Boston, the Massholes drive while applying either the gas or the horn. They will tell you where to go and how to get there, but they won't kill you in the process. They drive in snow, sleet, freezing rain, and sunshine -- drive like maniacs, but they know how. Here in our fair city of Seattle, the streets are mobbed with passive-aggressive roadragers in SUVs who don't know their ass from their elbows.

In case you haven't been glued to the weather station, December has delivered some truly outstanding precipitation. We got several inches of snow (!!!) Saturday, freezing rain Sunday, and floods Monday. A few streets were washed away. The roads are a mess. I stayed clear of them until it was time for work on Monday.

It was pouring -- I mean, quick-build-an-ark raining, and I was travelling delicately down from 15th on Capitol Hill. Aloha was blocked for some reason, so I took Republican, which was a bad move in 20-20 hindsight. Republican is not a main thoroughfare and so not as clear of hazards like, say, piles of wet leaves. I descended the wickedly steep side street toward 12th, and was blinded by the headlights in my mirrors from an aforementioned passive-aggressive roadrager in an SUV. He was flashing his brights because I was taking too long to get to the stop sign at the bottom of the hill. Water was rushing by on either side of me, soaking the floorboard of the scooter, and my shoes. I was having a hard enough time seeing through the downpour, nevermind worrying about this cretin riding fully up my ass. He flashed his brights again, and while checking my mirrors to see if he was going to overtake me, I hit a big, fat, wet pile of leaves.

I saw it coming but it was too late to avoid, particularly on the incline: Total Wipeout. The scooter went down and me with it, tossing me into the middle of the street. The SUV in question blew his horn at me and drove up on the sidewalk to pass me. I sat there on the pavement, dumbfounded, rivers of rainwater rushing over me.

I managed to drop the bike in the right direction -- away from the engine and the throttle -- as it went down. I muscled the sodden Stella back to an upright position and pushed it to the side of the street to take stock of the situation.

The scooter was unharmed due to the superior padding of wet leaves it landed on. My legs, not so lucky. Oh, I had been wearing a skirt. Brilliant, I know. Nothing appeared broken so I started back up and finished my commute.

I was in a dour mood for the rest of the morning. The behavior of people toward their fellow humans baffles me. It honestly does. In what world can someone sleep at night after running a poor girl off the road on her scooter and then reprimanding her for blocking the path to the next red light? How does that work?

This morning was nearly as wet but Aloha was open so I headed cautiously down and arrived unscathed. I do, however, feel like I was actually run over yesterday. My hips and ribs hurt and my left leg (the one with the 16" steel rod in it) is quite bruised and road-rashed. I try so hard to let go of all the roadrage I encounter here. I try to be like a well-oiled duck, letting everything slide right off me. But it's getting more and more difficult. I don't know if I'm becoming more sensitive, or the world really is becoming angrier.

Either way, here's my new riding jacket: