The Bachelor: Hello, Sister Wives

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Jimmy Kimmel gets some one on one time with The Bachelor.

Right before I sat down to write this post, I decided to take my dog for his pre-bedtime walk. I put on a coat I borrowed from Hagrid over my TV watching outfit (people who know me will assume I am perfectly put together always. This is not true.) of a WWE t-shirt and paisley pajama bottoms, paired with UGGs. It is a charming ensemble, meant only to be worn in the dark of night and seen by my color blind dog. My brain, fogged over with Prosecco and visions of Kmart Kardashian’s thick, false eyelashes peeling away from her eyelids, didn’t think to pick up my keys and I locked myself out of my building. So, I stood outside in a horrible outfit, repeatedly dialing my landlord, who put me in touch with the building manager WHO DID NOT ANSWER. I stared down at my dog, considered whether or not being small gave him feline reflexes and maybe he could scale the wall and…no. No. Too many bubbles floating into my mind grapes. All sorts of terrible eventualities popped into my head and I was mere seconds from ugly crying, when an elderly Russian woman carrying a snifter of Brandy shuffled towards the door. I shouted “I AM LOCKED OUT, WILL YOU LET ME IN?” at her.  She looked me up and down, and said “I save you” and then smiled and let me in.

As I walked up the steps to the 2nd floor and bathed in the warmth of my apartment that is almost never really that warm, I thought “you know what? The women who didn’t get roses tonight? They were saved, too.” From a life of being with someone so incredibly boring that he makes Jimmy Kimmel bearable.

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The Bachelor: “I was like, ‘this thing is really slow'”

IMG_2435A couple months ago, I went to an incredibly depressing Petco. It was in an otherwise bustling strip mall, but the Petco itself was empty. A grooming salon without dogs looks like a sex dungeon, and the straps swayed slightly in the air conditioned breeze. A handful of stray cats from a local rescue wandered an enclosure out front, pawing at a moth eaten fabric mouse. Behind a display of Princess Leia Slave dog costumes was an end cap of hamsters. There was one hamster in an exercise wheel, moving incredibly slowly. I watched it for a while, probably longer than I should have, when a Petco employee came over and asked if I wanted to see the hamster. I said “No, he just looks so sad.”

“No, he’s just always like that,” replied the teenaged boy matter of factly. “Just moves slowly.”

As I watch this season of The Bachelor, I am reminded of that hamster. I looked at Chris’ eyes as he contemplates which Palisades/Betty Ford Clinic escapee to keep around for another week, and I can almost see the tiny hamsters slowly walking on the exercise wheel that fires off synapses in his brain.

This week’s thoughts:

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The Bachelor: When You Cut Them, You Peel Them Back

1417726783_chris-bachelor-560I never, ever agree with the fan favorite contestant for the next bachelor/ette, but my faith in the collective ability of American women to successfully choose a man who would at some point say “I love you” to them has been restored with the selection of Farmer Chris as this season’s Bachelor. I must confess that I find Chris to be boring and maybe a little bit dim. I mean, he seems sweet, successful, close to his family, and likely charms little children and old ladies with a bashful flash of his pearly whites. Adorable bluebirds probably help him put on his Carharts every morning. But not a single one of those characteristics provides for good television, and it makes me wonder how someone like him could still be single. Though I’m all in for a wonderful fairy tale love story, complete with trips to far flung destinations and dates that seem like they are crafted by throwing romantic words against a whiteboard, I am not in for three months of schmoop fest.

Because Chris is aggressively boring, it is clear to me that the producers of the show will distract us with an army of women culled from psychiatric wards across the country, and we will watch as they guzzle wine and test the limits of their liver vs. the anti-psychotic meds they are obviously taking and/or in need of. Then, the producers will edit out the real connection between the genuinely good dude Chris and some super sweet girl (a la Sean Lowe and Catherine Giudici) until the very end.

In any case, let’s dig in!

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Hometown Glory: Best Place to Be Today

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The view from the Seattle to Bainbridge Island Ferry

I’ve never been the sort of person who welcomes fall—I don’t have a Pinterest board devoted to its charms, I’ve never used #sweaterweather on an Instagram post, and I am ambivalent about the return of Pumpkin Spice Lattes at Starbucks. So, you’d think that today, the first day of fall in the northern hemisphere, would be a particularly sad one for me. And you’d be partially right—I will miss cool, misty mornings that melt away into the languid heat of a Seattle afternoon, days where the sun sets well after 9 p.m., and the colorful array of sundresses that I’ll now shunt to the back of my closet. I love summer, and it will always be my favorite of the four seasons. But I’m beginning to understand the charms of fall, too, and that’s why Seattle is the best place to be today.

Sunday was a gorgeous day in Seattle—beautiful, sapphire blue skies, warm breezes, and temperatures that soared just past the comfort zone for most Seattleites. But by early evening on Monday, those skies had faded away, and were replaced with slate gray cloud cover that shrouds Seattle for most of the year, a fitting first day of fall. And rather than muting or dampening the landscape, the clouds provide a foil for emerald evergreens, the first leaves turning jewel toned hues, and the jagged peaks of the Olympics and Cascade mountain ranges boasting their first streaks of snow in several months.

The world seems more quiet, and still. Because the sun is so rare here, a warm summer day encourages a frenetic pace amongst the citizens of Seattle, people eager to soak up vitamin D and store it away for the months ahead. But now, we’ve all hunkered down, and life has returned to normal. Contrary to popular belief, it doesn’t rain all the time in Seattle—most natives will smugly tell you that it rains more annually in New York City than it does in the Emerald City—and the weather right now, crisp, early autumn with cool breezes, is perfect for long walks accompanied by the perfect playlist of mellow music, preferably penned by a Seattle musician. What I will lack in sidewalk café visits on long summer nights will be more than made up for in cozy coffee shops around the city, in restaurants with fireplaces, and the serenity of a long walk through the forest-like park near my house.

More than anything else, the return of fall makes me appreciate small pleasures that slip right past you in the heat and movement of summer—a Sunday afternoon spent wandering through Seattle’s main public library that also doubles as a beautiful work of art. A ferry ride to Bainbridge Island, emptied of tourists and filled only with commuters who still express awe over the view of the city from water. A chai latte, not iced, with maybe one pump of Pumpkin Spice. The heat from the cup reminding you of summer, but warming you for the cooler days to come.

Sweetness: My Way

photo(3)A couple months ago, as I eyed this basically abandoned blog, I told myself I would write an epic recap of my twenties on the last day of my twenties. Weeks went by, and now I’m here, staring at the thing that terrifies me most in the world—a blank Word document with a cursor, blinking at and taunting me. Every sentence I have started sounded like a terrible cliché—a series of sad tropes that people trot out on milestone birthdays. “30 is not that old!” “30 is the new 20!” “You’re still young!” And here’s the thing—I know 30 is not that old, and I know that 30 is relatively young (I hope that 30 is not the new 20, unless it involves me having the metabolism of a 20-year-old and living in Paris). But I’m not here to make apologies for my twenties (because, as ol’ blue eyes said “regrets, I’ve had a few.”). I’m here to tell you that my twenties were an alternately joyous, terrifying, soul-crushing, dreamy, enchanting, and maddening time—but I didn’t fully realize how much I’ve grown and accomplished until one Sunday night this past May.

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Bittersweetness: Dancing On My Own

Processed with VSCOcam with f2 presetWith the big 3-0 now less than three months away, I’ve been taking a close look at my life so far, and where I wanted to go. In all the lists and goals I’ve made this year, I never once mentioned things I wanted to accomplish in my personal life—relationships with my family and friends, and, most difficult of all for me, my love life.

My love life is a romantic comedy come to life, only without much romance, and super heavy on the comedy bits. Dark comedy. Earlier this year, I hid behind a tree to avoid having to speak to a cute guy I regularly see at work and who regularly speaks to me. Late last year, I went on a date with a man who, after having me pay the bill, slid a pair of nipple clamps across the table at me and gestured towards the bathroom. Last summer, I attached myself to someone who wanted no attachments at all, and I hovered around for months, hoping for scraps of affection that would never arrive.

Despite all of those pitfalls (and that is the abridged, highly edited version of my dating life), I soldiered on, recently picking up a pseudo relationship with someone who was unavailable in every conceivable way possible. My feelings were very real, but this past weekend, a new complication in an already difficult situation made me re-evaluate just what I was allowing myself to accept. The self-love that has pushed me to achieving fitness and health goals, that drives me to succeed at work, and to nurture my friendships, simply doesn’t extend to my relationships with men. I have settled so many times, and I always, always end up broken-hearted, listening to Amy Winehouse on repeat, and wondering why these broken men always seem to choose me.

After graduating from college, my classmates and I moved to the big city. Or, the big city for Washington state, Seattle. Some took a brief break from academia and then went off to graduate school; others joined the military, but by and large, most people quickly settled into office jobs, and then, as if Noah himself had summoned them forth, everyone paired off and got married.

I’ve known since I was a little girl that I wanted a life of adventure. I wanted to live in a big city, preferably above a pizza shop, and near a movie theater, and write books. I wanted to travel the world and see all the things I’d read about. But love and marriage and children were never things I thought of, and were never priorities for me. Watching everyone around me fall into lockstep made me feel like the choices I made for myself were incorrect—like I was doing something wrong and just didn’t realize it, and that I was obviously unworthy of being loved if everyone else was finding it and I wasn’t. I never allowed myself to revel in the glory of being single, to truly enjoy a DVR filled with Real Housewives of Orange County/NYC/Atlanta/New Jersey, to relish Saturday mornings spent in holey t-shirts, and to take my twenties to truly know and understand and love myself before getting into a real, lasting relationship.

So, I threw myself into half-baked relationships that satisfied a baseline understanding of being coupled up, but were never real in any substantial way. I wasn’t secure enough in the choices I made about my life to understand that the things I’ve been doing for the past seven years were by no means perfect, but they allowed me to grow in the ways that I needed to grow. I let so many things have power over me, and never valued myself or my choices enough to respect that I am where I need to be right this instant, and my journey is no one else’s journey.

I was never a big Sex and the City fan—but a love of Pinterest has taught me that the show was full of invaluable bon mots, a treasure trove of quotes to pin and repin, and many of which are applicable to my life. But one I stumbled across recently was one that fits the most with my current state of mind:

“Later that day I got to thinking about relationships. There are those that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you can find someone to love the you you love, well, that’s just fabulous”

 

Until very recently, it never occurred to me that my friends might all be getting married not just because they wanted to, but also because they were mentally prepared for all the challenges that being legally and emotionally bound to someone entails. And how could I honestly expect someone to value, respect, and love me in any real way if I didn’t also feel that same way about myself? The men I attracted and have been attracted to are all indicators of my mental state—human, male barometers of perilously low self-worth.

On Sunday morning, I woke up early, took a long walk with Nigel Barker, and evaluated where I am, and where I want to be. I have an amazing job, a great apartment, a passport filled with stamps from the places I dreamed of going as a child. There are things I can improve upon, of course, but by and large, I have so much to be proud of. And if I am truly happy where I am, as a single woman in the city, who lives four blocks from both a movie theater and a pizzeria, I should love myself enough to not settle for just anyone who deigns to send me a flirty message on Facebook.

I sat in front of my computer, turned on “Dancing On My Own,” and wrote an incredibly long-winded email explaining my feelings, and hesitation about continuing the relationship, and asking to take a break from contacting each other. And while the break won’t make up for the years I’ve spent not valuing myself enough, it’s the first time I’ve ever pulled back from a relationship and truly evaluated it for what it is.

The toughest part about growing older isn’t the act itself—it’s when you stop and take a painful look back at all the mistakes you’ve made and the opportunities you missed without even knowing it. But the bittersweet beauty of growing older lies in the moments of reflection and clarity, looking at the journey so far, and taking the opportunity to use that hard earned wisdom to make a better future.

The relationships I’ve had thus far have mostly served as fodder for stories to make my friends and family doubt my sanity, but that doesn’t mean they have lacked value–I’ve learned what I will and won’t accept, and, as corny as it sounds, I need to love myself before I can expect anyone else to really and truly love me. So, while I’ll keep dancing on my own for the foreseeable future, I’ll be learning to love myself. Starting with a date with a bottle of wine and a one woman dance party, with Nigel Barker as a back up dancer.

Sweetness: Pie Bar

Way back in January, when I kicked off my lifestyle change, I knew the biggest battle for me would be bidding adieu to dessert. For the first month, I skipped all sweets entirely, and then, afterwards, I made them a special occasion type deal—I wouldn’t eat dessert through sheer force of habit, and only when I really, really wanted something and when that something was extra special.

That something special has presented itself in the form of Pie Bar. I Processed with VSCOcam with f2 presetlearned about Pie Bar during my now regular nightly “Evening Magazine” viewing. The bar, located in Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood, is just what it sounds like; pie. And booze. Opened last May by twin sisters, Pie Bar serves as a tribute to the duo’s recently passed father. I don’t know their father, but the bar is a fitting tribute to anyone who appreciates pastry and delicious adult beverages.

Processed with VSCOcam with f2 presetThe location itself is cozy (read: super small, but still comfortable), tucked away on the western slope of Capitol Hill, away from the maddening crowds of Broadway. Despite how filled the little room was, it was actually pretty quiet–easy to hear my friend’s dating stories and to discuss the pros and cons of Tinder. Décor is a mixture of rustic Pacific Northwest glory and classic glamour—I was entranced by a row of miniature crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. The bar itself is 21 and up, but pie fans who aren’t of legal age, or those who just want a slice to go, can take advantage of a walk up window. Our first server was warm and friendly, and the pie? Well, that was spectacular.

The menu offers up a la carte pie, both sweet and savory, a full list of alcoholic beverages, Processed with VSCOcam with f2 presetas well as the choice to pie/drink pairings. My friend chose strawberry rhubarb pie and the Old Fashioned, a chocolate stout beer served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, like an adult root beer float. I chose banana cream pie paired with a pecan pie martini–which was served with crumbled pie crust on the rim of the glass. Both choices were divine, and though it would be incredibly easy for two sweet drinks to kick you into a sugar coma, both were incredibly balanced—and the topping on my pie tasted like fancy Cool Whip.

And to make you feel even better about a healthy dose of alcohol and sugar, the restaurant is holding a fundraiser to benefit the victims of the recent landslide in Oso, Washington.

Processed with VSCOcam with f2 presetWhile my lifestyle change means I can’t indulge in coconut cream pie every day, it doesn’t mean I can’t have a little cheat day every now and then—especially when it involves pie and booze, and a slight hike to and from my new favorite sweet escape.

Pie Bar
1361 E. Olive Way
Seattle, Washington 98122
(206) 257-1459
Monday – Sunday: 5 p.m. to 2 a.m.