If our siblings were here they would be our friends.

Sometimes I feel like I do a lot of work to maintain friendships. It can get exhausting. Last month I decided I'm not going to plan nearly as much, just for this very reason. I was sick of being the one to always ask to hang out and never getting much in return.

Dominic and I seem to have this conversation every now and then:

"We're cool, right?"

"Oh yeah, we're like the coolest, funniest people I know."

"So how come no one calls us to hang out on a Friday night anymore? Did we get old? Are our friends lame? What happened?"

"I have no idea, but let's go back to talking about how cool we are."

When I talked to my sister today, she complained of the same thing. When I talk to Dominic's sister about this, she too says she has no friends either. What the fuck? Both of these people are like the best people I know. And if we all lived in the same city I'm pretty sure they would be the ones to actually call me on any given night just to see what I was doing. Heck, they might forget to call and just knock on our door. Because that would be something they could totally do, not just because they're family - but because they're our friends.

And I miss my friends.

Why do all crackhead women sound exactly the same?

Right now it's a pretty amazing day in Seattle. I've got a few things lined up for next week that actually involves getting a paycheck. A town not far from here that I love closed school for the day due to sun. And in a few hours I'll be celebrating a friend's birthday in the only way you can celebrate it - with hot dogs and yogurt and asian desserts.

And as I type this I'm sitting at a park where the variety of people is up there with what you would see in the middle of Central Park. Except this park is about .00000001 the size.

To my right there's an Asian mother and son. The stupid kid is running circles around a water fountain, while the mother stares and shouts things I can't understand real fast like.

Next to her is a grizzly man who hasn't shaved his beard in about 50 years. He keeps sneezing and says to himself, "Bless me." He's about 15 feet away from me, but I can still smell his lack of showering.

Behind me, there's someone sleeping. I can't tell if it's a guy or a girl because he/she is covered by a huge red sleeping bag. It looks like he's been sleeping since yesterday. And it's 2 pm right now.

Behind him, there's a wheelchair. There's no one in this wheelchair of course. It's just there. Hanging out.

Then there's a normal looking guy, with his shoes off, simply relaxing. I wonder if he's been recently fired like me. I see a lot of people during the day, now that i have the luxury of doing nothing. I keep thinking, do these people work? Why are there so many of us at the gym at 10:30 am? How are we all affording this? Why do we all look so happy?

In front of me, there's an overweight lady finishing her crossword puzzle. She has a shopping cart that she's resting her feet on. I'm pretty sure that shopping cart was a few blocks away from this park 2 hours ago.

Then, to my far left there's the typical loud talking bum crowd. They are yelling about who knows what. Actually, as I type this one of the men scream out, "I want some fucking ass corn flakes! Meh! Ahh! Meh! ALJDLSFAL! IWANNA! SHIT!" Seriously, that is exactly what he just said. Word for word. There was a couple sitting with them, and at one point the woman, who this title is named after, just wouldn't stop talking about nonsense. I think someone did her wrong and she just couldn't deal anymore. She, like the corn flakes guy, thought it was necessary to talk REALLY LOUD.

I am of the opposite persuasion when it comes to talking in public. Dominic has to say, "What?" about a million times during a dinner date or when we're walking around because I just don't want other people listening to me. People who talk to me on the bus know this all too well. And more likely than naught, I hang up on you the second I'm sitting next to someone - because god forbid they hear me talking about what I've done with my day.

Like they care.

I can make things out of things!

This blog will be short and totally not exciting or entertaining at all. It won't say silly or witty things either. It will simply say that I made my own tooth powder and deodorant today. I used simple ingredients and my new knitting friend showed me how, and even gave me the tools to do so. She also handed me a pamphlet that teaches me to make my own no-shampoo poo (because I don't shampoo my hair and if you have curly hair you shouldn't either - because it's evil and wrong and basically like putting satan in your mane). And really that's it. See, I told you. Totally not exciting or entertaining at all. But I just really wanted to get that out there.

I love you all, except for those I don't know. Because that would be weird.

And in this land, where I don't have a job...

I'll sleep in a whole 30 minutes more and get my hands dirty with worms after lunch. I'll make phone calls and go on interviews and knit and knit and knit. I'll take walks on sunny days and naps on rainy ones. And sometimes I'll do both, no matter what. I'll think about doing something charitable, but remember I'm already growing out my hair for the next 2 years for that exact purpose. I'll see Avatar when you're at work and drink one glass of wine last night. I'll allocate my assets and get new glasses and see my gyno, without having to take an afternoon off. I'll call unemployment and get more movies from the library and take another walk. I'll listen to every podcast there is and attempt to do all those things I haven't done because now I finally have the time to do them.

But what? what? what? Am I crazy? In this land, where I don't have a job I would hope that I'd just pick apples during the day, have friends that always happen to be on this great big couch that fits us all and we'd laugh and hang out and they would never have to go to work either. I'll have a magical guitar that plays Guns 'n Roses songs, like Patience, whenever I hit the chords. And in this wonderful place, that probably only exists on that little island near Bellingham, I'll be able to grow the most comfortable shoes, the tastiest strawberries and grandmas. Because everyone needs a grandma.

To the lady who wears white pants…

Hello,

First off I’d like to say I’m happy to see you at the gym. We don’t know eachother and if I saw you on the street I don’t think I would even know you as a frequent gymer. But you’re doing something toward a healthier life and for that I applaud you.

Yet, today I saw something disturbing covering the lower half of your body. It wasn’t exactly the white pants you were wearing per se. But rather, it was the ill-fitting black undies you were sporting underneath the snug white pants that I wanted to talk to you about.

Clearly I’m no one to talk. I wear Naots that are about 10 years old. I also wear hot pink shorts when the weather permits. But I’m a semi-hippie, and doubly I have a wild side where I want to show off my runner’s leg every now and then.

But the one thing I do know about fashion, Mrs. White Pants Lady, is that you don’t wear white pants if:

a) you are over 150 pounds. I’m not even saying 150 pounds is fat, but if you over this weight and of normal height, white pants just aren’t for you. I’m sorry.
b) you only own black underwear that is all bunchy so anyone within viewing distance can clearly see your granny panties showing through.

In some cases, like if you were trendy or a hipster or a free spirit I could understand if you wanted to purposely wear a polka dotted pair of underroos to show off how trendy/hipster/free spirited you actually are. But you, Mrs. White Pants Lady, weren’t that type of girl. Even if I don’t know you at all, I can just tell. You are just another person going to work and when you walk off to a meeting, someone is going to say something behind your back.

So I hope you read this because I wouldn’t want you to make the same mistake twice. I once forgot to pack a bra in my gym bag, so I wore my coat for the first half of the day to cover up my floppy boobs. We’ve all been there. Hopefully, you won’t be there again.

Have a good one.

Word,
Barrie