Seattle is so beautiful even I can't screw up the photographs.

Search google for “Seattle tumblr” and you find (page one) long lists of tumblrs that do nothing but post pictures of Seattle (really?) and (page two) you find posts about all those tumblr authors meeting up. In bars. In Seattle. To talk about how great Seattle is. And presumably to compare the silk percentages of their favorite hiking socks and stroke each other’s facial hair and create a living Escher sketch with all that plaid.

Seattle-ites who are stupid or restless or ambitious enough to move to other cities have a reputation for being obnoxiously proud. Like: I was surprised other parts of the country were allowed to have salmon and crab. I’m still unsure about ordering it in restaurants here. Here. In San Diego. We aren’t exactly landlocked. 

My ex-boyfriend thinks he really loves Seattle, having gone to University of Washington, and having expressed a desire to live there for the rest of his life. I just smiled at him pityingly. It’s really cute that he’s enlightened enough to recognize its inherent greatness, but he just does not even know.

I mean, that’s the thing: we think Seattle is great, and we’re sort of amazed the rest of the world hasn’t caught on, but we don’t really want you moving there. You’ve seen the articles, right? About how Seattle natives are friendly right up until you actually want to talk to them or do something? In a lot of ways, it’s easier to move to New York and make friends. 

I’m hoping I won’t have that same problem as a Seattle daughter who’s returning, but to be honest: I’m a little nervous. And to be honest: my pedigree isn’t as watertight as it could be…

As in, my parents aren’t from Seattle. No one in my extended family has ever, in fact, lived in Seattle. My dad and mom moved to Seattle, following my dad’s job, in 1978. They lived in (don’t tell!) Bellevue for a few years (fun fact: on their street lived a very young Carrie Brownstein) before moving to a nice little neighborhood filled with doctors and lawyers by the University of Washington. 

home

So I’m not what you might call a Seattle purebred, not compared to the people whose grandparents and great-grandparents grew up in Seattle, went to University of Washington, and handed down their houses in that neighborhood to their kids. Not compared to the group of boys I went to grade school with, who grew up to pledge the same fraternity house at UW that their dads had pledged, after playing for the same high school football team their dads had played on– together. Not compared to the families whose cousins and second cousins and third cousins are all Huskies, whose basketball and football tickets have been in the family for generations. 

There’s a reason Bill Gates built Microsoft in Seattle. There’s a reason articles on Amazon always mention that Jeff Bezos is not from and has no ties to the city. Did you see that Dick’s Drive-In was named the “most life-changing burger joint“ in a poll done by Esquire? It beat out In’n'Out, Five Guys, Shake Shack. It beat everybody, by a margin so large as to be laughable. Seriously. Look at the graph. For those of you who want to say that Seattleites are just really, really fierce about online voting: sure. But isn’t that the point? The poll didn’t ask for the best burger in America (not that Dick’s isn’t, put down the pitchforks!). The poll asked for the most life-changing burger joint. And for most Seattleites, native or not, Dick’s actually has changed their lives. Can In’n'Out say that? Can Shake Shack? 

Dick’s Drive-In is the first place you go when you get off the plane in Seattle, if you know. It’s where all the kids go after prom. I went there after softball games as a 4th grader. It was, even in the early 2000′s, when you would think all such places had died out in the world, the place where you could go on a Friday night and be guaranteed to run into people you knew– including, maybe, the guy you liked. I went there after a long day of moving into my first post-college house. Even now, as an adult who doesn’t live in Seattle, I always wonder if I’ll run into someone I know. It’s not an unreasonable thought. People go there after their weddings on the way to their receptions. Remember when they put the first bathrooms in? Sure you do.

most life-changing burger joint in America

You know what else is world-class in Seattle? The coffee. The bookstores. The parks. I know the parks system is Seattle is world-class because I’ve not only played sports in most of them, I’ve made out in almost all of them (I kid you not). (But seriously– a parks system good enough to lure teenagers with picnics of Dick’s Drive-In burgers and walks along the water and kisses under trees? Every city, every parent of every teen should be so lucky.) 

You know what makes me sigh and want to yell at the same time? Driving across Montlake or even the I-5 bridge over Lake Union on a clear day with mountains on all sides, views of the University of Washington, Gasworks, Mount Ranier, sailboats, Queen Anne, the Space Needle, bridges everywhere you look. Doesn’t that sound nice? 

Of course, the traffic gives you plenty of time to slow down and look. 

And there’s this: the story of my sister’s co-worker, who “said she often goes to Solstice but she’s too embarrassed to bring her travel mug because it’s from Starbucks and she’s afraid the hipster hippie snobs working at Solstice will judge her. So she gets a paper cup.” My sister asks: What is wrong with this picture? The worst part is, none of us are surprised. (PS- I love Solstice. It was hands down my favorite coffeeshop in college. Also: needless to say, Starbucks is a local business in Seattle. And Seattle has one of the best independent, local cafe scenes in the world. So let’s wrap that hatred up about how they ruin everything, because clearly there’s room for everyone. You don’t have to go there, but STFU.)

And there’s this, too, there is this terrible thing which is totally on me: I feel like people are smarter in Seattle, because

So great even the locals love the tourist traps.

they wear glasses and dark colors. I can’t see their bras. They don’t fake tan. So I feel like they’re my people. I feel like they read good books and have good conversations. But how do I know? I don’t. And I’ve met plenty of vapid hipsters in my day (points finger, names names).

Seattle’s filled with all kinds, like any good city. Yes, there’s something extra tricky about navigating its dressed-down, oh-so-casual social scene. But there’s also something exciting about what might happen next, who you might meet on the street.

A professor at University of Washington once very pompously and insultingly gave my class an impromptu (and unprompted) lecture about why he’d chosen to stay at UW when he “could have taught anywhere in the world” (self-proclaimed, natch). He said that the established places (Harvard, Yale, etc) are complacent. They’re at the top, and they’re so busy maintaining that status that they’ve forgotten how to work, how to strive. We (UW students, presumably) are second. We’re hungry. We’re excellent but not proven. We’re like the younger sibling, desperate for approval and willing to take risks to get it. We’re close, but not so successful that we’ve forgotten how to play (be playful, experiment, make a play for it). 

And, of course, we’re loyal. To a fault. I like loyalty. There’s something inherently stubborn about it. You need stubborn if you’re going to go out every day in the rain. You need loyalty if you’re going to wait through the gray for those rare, wonderful days, when the sun comes out, when Seattle’s the most beautiful city in the world. 

Am I unsure about moving back to my hometown, to my parents’ house, while I figure out what’s next, does it feel slightly like going in reverse? Sure. Am I smug and superior about it when talking to friends who can’t yet move back or haven’t yet decided to or possibly never will or even people who will never live there, never know? You bet.

Love,

MM

Photo credit: Rotten in Denmark

I’ve decided that what this blog needs is some witty back and forth between me and a fed-up partner who doesn’t understand me and whom i purposefully misunderstand, preferably a house-husband. Like this, which is one of the funniest things I’ve read in a long time.

Now obviously I sometimes use my sister in this role, who is a good sport about it and not only lets me say things about her on this blog, but also very helpfully points out every single typo I make on this blog. And sometimes will helpfully say things like, “It would be funnier if…”

And sometimes will even extremely helpfully say things like, “Well maybe what your blog needs is to…” which always amounts to one of two things: 1. maybe what my blog needs is to be famous. 2. maybe what my blog needs is to be entirely different / appeal to more people so that it can become famous. The thing that kills me is I agree with her, and then I hide from writing anything for several days because of the shame spiral.

I come from a very supportive family. You’d think we’re WASPS but we’re not, we’re Catholic, so.

No, really, my sister is great, and she lets me call her when I’m crying and tells me to watch terrible TV for a while, which is great advice for almost any situation, and we spent over an hour last week talking about the sex, race, and class issues in and around The Hunger Games, so obviously I need her desperately. Also: we’re practically activists.

The point is, it might be time for me to let her off the hook. And the only reasonable solution then is to make up an imaginary boyfriend for the purposes of this blog. Weird? Yes. Potentially off-putting to new suitors? Definitely. Creepy when some creeper on the internet decides to make himself in the image of said imaginary boyfriend? Yes…but also– maybe awesome when I realize I have the power to make humans redesign themselves into my idea of them. (Side benefit.)

I’ll name him Frank.

Frank, by the way, thinks this is a terrible idea, but I think he’s just nervous that I’ll tell you all about how he secretly likes Ashton Kutcher, although he’s very upset with him right now for that whole thing with Demi. I keep trying to tell him it’s ok to express his emotions but he just glares at me and turns on hockey so he can pretend he’s crying because his team is losing.

Apparently Frank is Canadian. Apparently one of the side benefits of having Frank around is that I have cable again.

This is working out even better than I thought.

xxo,

MM

Valentine’s Day is Tuesday and given how my life has been going (inefficiently) I thought I’d do my Valentine’s day post today. Plus I have about twelve other things I should be doing, and procrastination by blogging is second best only to procrastination by cleaning (I’m coming for you, vacuum cleaner).

Ahhh Valentine’s. We love to hate you, don’t we. People who are single hate Valentine’s Day, people who are just starting to date hate Valentine’s Day, people in relationships hate Valentine’s Day…. in fact, at this point, the people I know in relationships might hate Valentine’s Day more vehemently than anyone else. The expectations! The cost! The impossibility of getting a reservation! The false notion of loving someone more on an arbitrary day of the year! The pressure not to fight, not to squabble, not to complain! The idea of waking up and watching the person you love as if there are flying, buzzing hearts like little tiny non-stinging bees flying about their sleep-addled, puffy, same-as-yesterday face. Plus, it’s February, so they probably have a cold and are in the process of excavating snot out of their nose.

Whereas single people everywhere have been effectively shamed out of hating Valentine’s Day. Who wants to be the girl running around in tears on February 14th bitching about how no one will ever love her? I’m pretty sure that at this point, no one ever wants to be that girl. (And sometimes it happens, I get it, look, you just want someone to come over and open every jar in your house before listening to that weird sound your car’s making and then sexing you up good). And then collectively everyone’s decided that it is a hundred times worse to be that girl on Valentine’s Day.

Look, if you’re going to watch Dear John alone on your coach with a bottle of wine and a box of tissues to yourself, you keep it to yourself at this point. Also, let me suggest Mean Girls instead and a box of Girl Scout cookies to help wash that wine down.

Personally, I find Valentine’s Day way less stressful than other major holidays— like New Year’s Eve. God, shoot me now. At least on Valentine’s Day there isn’t a DESIGNATED KISSING TIME. In which it’s acceptable to maul strangers? Potentially? Except that never happens. So then we’re all disappointed we’re not being sexually assaulted. It’s a seriously twisted holiday.

And now that we’re all adults and once we admit we like each other we can make out, or….you know….just make out kind of whenever…we sort of don’t wait for Valentine’s Day to roll around. So I’m pretty sure the idea of having a “secret” Valentine that you didn’t know about has been eliminated.

Right? Like if you’ve got a stalker, you already know. I’m pretty sure the last time I got an anonymous Valentine was in 6th grade– which, by the way, totally backfired. If it’s ANONYMOUS, how was I supposed to KNOW who it was? What did he think would happen? I would dust for his fingerprints on the cut-out letters he pasted in there? (Super sweet. Also rather assassin-y.) Nerds. Too smart for their own good.

By the end of the school day, after listening to me whisper to my girlfriends all day about who it could be, he finally walked up to me, turned a fantastic shade of red, flipped his rattail over one shoulder, and said, “It was me.”

I said, “Oh.” Then I said “Thanks” and got on the bus, trying not to throw up.

Those “valegrams” came with these terrible caramel-apple suckers and I must have eaten about 8 of them that day.

But don’t worry, guys! About 7 years later we dated for three months. V. romantic. My guess is he would say the awful, awful anxiety he must have felt all that day and the days beforehand and the days afterward totally paid off.

Basically, everyone’s agreed that having a first romantic interaction on Valentine’s Day is up there with hitting on someone / being hit on while you have food poisoning. There’s a reason classic sitcoms like to have people forget it’s Valentine’s Day and accidentally make a first date for the 14th. Because it’s ripe for comedy! Of the horrible, awful, cringe-inducing kind.

All of which means that the best-case scenario for finding “love” on Valentine’s Day is if you’re the sort of someone who will go mope about the day in a bar by yourself, and happen to find a fellow moper, and then you can have mopey, droopy sex that will result in a relationship that will last a good 3 hours longer (of sobbing together) than the 2 minutes of idle chitchat it was meant to. For god’s sakes, stay home and keep yourself STI-free instead, ok? Have a caramel-apple lollipop. It’s hard to cry around those things, because your teeth spontaneously fuse together.

All of which does not mean that we should walk around hating Valentine’s Day! It means that we should eat some good chocolate, make ourselves some good food, be sweet to people we’re sweet on, and wait for my sister’s annual homemade Valentine to show up in the mail and make me feel inadequately crafty but also loved. Plus there’s usually a pun on it, and I love puns.

Anyway, it’s much better to retroactively focus your anger on New Year’s Eve.

MM

So fall is sort of a smelly time of year. Like pumpkins and that fall air (or fog if you live here) and, um, pumpkin. Cinnamon in the pumpkin! B.O. in Halloween costumes people never cleaned from last year.

I’m visiting on Nosy Girl today, curated by the excellent Elizabeth, who I had the pleasure to work with when I lived in Seattle. She likes to smell things. She likes to ask questions about what other people smell. I like to talk about myself. We struck a deal.

Go read it. I will give you no more here until you do.

PUMPKIN-FLAVORED HUGS,

MM

In case you’ve been wondering, Tron was fun to look at, but I’m starting to wonder why Hollywood thinks we can’t simultaneously handle pictures and plot AT THE SAME TIME. I know, I know, revolutionary concept.  I’ve got to stop thinking so outside the box.  On the other hand, I strongly recommend Body Heat, Night Shift, and gingersnaps.

Also fires.  In the fireplace.  Try to get a dog and get the dog to nap next to you.

My point is, Dear Mr. Postman will be back to regularly scheduled programming after December 26th.  I hope you all have a lovely winter solstice / Christmas / Chinese-food-dinner-and-movie-watching night.  I hope you all have warm socks and cute hats and hand-knitted gloves.  I hope you all have hugs.

Holidays cheers,

MM

Well, hi….  I, um, didn’t expect to see you here.  Weren’t you….?  I mean, I came because I thought….?

Well.  This is awkward.  How…are things?  Good?  Yes, it has been a while.  I’ve been good, yes, keeping busy.  Well, yes, Sunshine and I have been hanging out, nothing serious, we are thinking about moving in together, but that’s kind of a convenience thing, you know, since I had to move anyway and all…it’s not like it’s a permanent arrangement….just a few years is all, we think, we’re not sure.

But!  Really great to see you!  Really.  You look good.  Nice even color you have there, and streamlined across the whole sky– you’ve been taking care of yourself.  Who could resist a little fling?  You do look so nice to cuddle up with for a short time.

(And the timing—- Sunshine just happens to be out of town.  I wonder…..maybe…..but no.  No. It takes awhile before the deeper problems show up, but they’re still there: the inertness, the paralyzing inability to move faster than “the wind dictates”—-sheesh, who even buys that crap…. takes awhile before your darkness truly shows its day-to-day weariness….Well! I hope your new girlfriend, whoever she may be, has an irrepressibly sunny spirit.  And) I truly am happy to see you— you’ll be in town just a few days?  Right?  Right???

Best,
MM

Today is your birthday and I miss you.  I wish you were here with me in Rome to go shopping for your present. Or I wish I was there.  Yes, I would trade Rome for your birthday with you.

And I hope it’s a wonderful day.  And an even better year.

Love,

MM

I’m leaving the country.  Please be patient with irregular letters as I rub it in your faces that I am in Italy for the summer.  Writing poetry. Like a boss.

Love,

MM

Today, on your birthday, I would like to say: I am glad I know you.  This is a relatively new thing, me knowing you, and it’s related to very special circumstances which we will remember the rest of our lives, barring a case of virulent amnesia.  We have, in fact, the most special, wonderful, ridiculous reason to know each other, which is that we are in poetry school. Also, now, in a very exclusive poetry motorcycle gang which consists of us wearing leather jackets to poetry readings and poetry classes and sometimes poetry dances (aka Friday nights).  Also we are in a cookie making club, which consists of you and I making cookies sometimes before, during, or after watching awesome/lame movies out of the 7-eleven RedBox DVD Rental. Also sometimes we watch Western movies together, but that’s sort of against our will, so we’ll put that aside for now. But all of these things came about because of poetry school.

But it turns out, dear heart, that we’re actually friends because of a lot of other reasons– which is better than just being poetry friends.  We are real friends (not just facebook or school friends).  We’re friends because we have sisters, and parents, and people we need to talk about to each other– not because we gossip, but because people are interesting and sometimes they need to be talked about with someone, and good days and bad days, and hugs. And senses of humor. And perspective. And sometimes when I just cannot get through class I reach out and poke you and you look at me with wide I KNOW eyes and I sigh super dramatically and then we continue on. So we both ground each other down and float each other up, and that’s a Very Nice Thing Indeed.

You are silly and optimistic and very, very kind to the people around you.  You tell funny stories and don’t take things too seriously (like yourself and me) but take some things very, very seriously (like words and fruit) and that is as it should be. You have curly hair and boots and funky jewelry.  (Stating those facts count as compliments.) And you read this blog, which is nice, because I know you’ll get this very public letter.  Also you’re a jukebox junkie and I like those things you play.

So. HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAILOR! I hope it’s a good day and I’m glad I’ll be witness/participant in your coming year.

xoxoxo

MM

You and I, we haven’t always been on the best of terms. When I was a kid, I loved simple foods: aka toaster waffles, rice krispies, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Sometimes I could be talked into eating ham on whole wheat with mayonnaise. No mustard. No lettuce. No cheese. Dinner was hard, for both the chef and I– would I eat it or not? Would my mom cave and make me something else if I didn’t like what everyone else was eating? Could I get away with pushing my food around on my plate, loudly proclaiming, I’m Not Hungry….and then suddenly, mysteriously, be starving just before bed and eat toaster waffles (again)? Or would I get yelled at?

I had patient parents. And yes, my mom often made me something else to eat. And I was never sent to bed without eating, even if I had refused to eat at the time or prepared meal of dinner.

Now in college, just about anyone can tell you the worst dorm food of the day is dinner. And when you live in an apartment or a house for the first time, it’s pretty easy to get yourself a bowl of cereal in the morning, a sandwich or bagel for lunch and then….then you have to COOK. Or be really, really wise in your choice of roommates and really fond of doing the dishes.

I love doing the dishes. If you want to cook me dinner, I will do the dishes. I will do the dishes so well you will want to cook me dinner all the time. I will clean up the whole kitchen. Unless you’re my mom, then I probably abuse the system (hi, mom, I’m sorry).

So last year, out of college, I lived with a roommate who was a fabulous cook. I was dating someone who can look at a refrigerator and make a meal. My sister and her roommate made dinner almost every night. Plus I had Wednesday Night Dinner, where a group of friends gathered at my sister’s house every Wednesday and took turns making dinner. Not potluck! –we all took turns each week making dinner for one another. Then we played games or sang karaoke in the safety of their living room. You know you’re jealous, don’t try to pretend to be too cool for school.

And, ok, I know how to cook a few things at this point. But I knew, when moving to a new city and living completely, entirely alone for the first time, that the hardest part was going to be eating dinner alone. There’s just something about it. I grew up in a family where we all ate dinner together every night. Dinner, despite my best efforts to avoid it as a child, is a meal. You set the table, you serve food, you sit, you eat, you talk, you catch up on your days, you take a break from doing homework. My eyes are tired from looking at a computer screen all day, dinner is when I want to take a break and focus on the mid-range points of my plate and whoever is sitting across from me.

Eating dinner alone makes me feel lonely. What can I say? We all have our moments.

Also, I HATE grocery shopping. It’s confusing and nothing is ever sold in the amounts that I need it for and there are so many choices. Finding recipes for one person, by the way, is just not possible. They don’t exist. Recipes are made for four. And some are indivisible. Like when a recipe for four calls for one egg. And ok, once I open a can of something– tomatoes, pumpkin, coconut milk, chipotle peppers, chicken stock– if I don’t use it all, chances are it’s not going to get used. Unfortunate but true. I tend to decide what I want to eat, then find the ingredients, make that. I am not a refrigerator chef. I can’t just look at what I have and create something delicious. It’s a skill, a talent, one I greatly admire, but I’m not there yet. And don’t get me started on leftovers again.

So, now I am here, living alone, in the new city of San Diego, and eating dinner alone. Often. It helps that I really enjoy being in my kitchen. My kitchen is lovely. It has pretty little painted knobs on the cupboards and display cabinets at the end of the counters. I have a little table that sits just 2, or me with a couple of stacks of books, and a window that looks at my banana tree and out over a brick wall to more trees and buildings in the distance. And my kitchen has a plant, now, that sits against the wall and is green with reaching white flowers, and a map of Paris up over the stove, and the refrigerator has pictures of people I love on it. It’s a nice kitchen. I like to be in it.

Also, I have some tricks up my sleeve. When I really don’t want to cook and eat dinner alone, I go across the street and get a wood-fired Italian pizza. I sit in the warm skinny restaurant while I wait and people-watch. Or last week I knocked on my neighbor’s door, and carried my food into their kitchen and ate with them. Then we played cribbage. Sometimes, when I first got here, I would talk to my mom on the phone while I cooked and ate.

But I’m writing this letter, now, dinner, because I feel like you and I have healed some of our rift. In the last two-three weeks, I made dinner most nights. I made delicious, good-smelling food. I turned on music, and I looked up a recipe, and I halved it or not, and I cooked. I sat at my little table and I ate. I made good food and I had good dinners and I did not hate the process.

Like anything else, it took practice. But I’m practicing, and I’m learning, and hey– who doesn’t love learning something new? And I really, actually like cooking. And I like being able to choose what I will eat for dinner. Turns out I’m hungry at dinner time more often now, and therefore not so desperate for toaster waffles just before bed. All picky eaters should just be forced to learn how to cook.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m going to Seattle in a week, and I could not be more excited to have somebody else decide what to make, go grocery shopping, and cook. It is going to be heavenly. HEAVENLY.

And if you would like to have me over for dinner, I will do the dishes.

And, actually, if you live where I do and would like to come over for dinner– my table only fits 2, but picnics are always fun and I have a lovely circle of floor that would do. I can roast a mean chicken. And after tomorrow night, I’ll be able to make a butternut squash and potato pie with tomato, mint, and sheep’s milk cheese (thanks to The Wednesday Chef). Yep, when I’m trolling for ideas, I go to the food blogs.

What can I say? I’m a girl who likes a little narrative and some pictures with her recipes. I hope, dinner, that you and I will continue to grow in fondness and familiarity.

But first– today– something I will always love making and eating more than dinner: chocolate chip cookies.

xoxo,

MM