Mumbling Madly

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My South Lake Union Trolley shirt came in:

Refer to this post for further details.

I have paid for three manicures in my life, (and I got a free one years ago from a Starbucks client) The first one was with Kimberly two summers ago and it was a great experience. My mani lasted a full week, despite how hard I am on my hands. The second time was right before Sam and Erin’s wedding. I went back to the same place and asked for a mani/pedi. It was a terrible experience; they were hasty, made fun of other customers while I was sitting there, and seemed annoyed the whole time. One woman painted my toes while the other grabbed my hand and started slathering paint on my nails. This was my first pedicure and I found it to be extremely tickly and uncomfortable and it certainly didn’t help that someone was occupying my hands at the same time. I had really hoped the mani/pedi would be done one after the other instead of simultaneously. It sucked. It didn’t help that I foolishly put my shoes and socks on and completely ruined the pedicure. I had stuck my toes under the dryer for a full fifteen minutes but it didn’t matter…I wrecked it.

I decided yesterday that my character in I Feel Fine should have dark, creepy, nails. So, I decided that I was going to splurge on a manicure and went to a nail place two blocks from the one I had previously gone to (both are on Broadway). It was three dollars cheaper (12 instead of 15) and I should have known better. The following is the review I wrote on Google:
It took me over an hour to get a simple manicure. The job was split up between two employees. The male employee did the prep work (trimming, filing, etc), the female employee did the polish. The guy cut my cuticle too close, causing it to bleed slightly. He apologized but it was very awkward situation. I should have left. When the girl took over she has to redo most of his work, including evening out my nail shape which he had left lopsided. She was split between myself and another customer, so I received a very hasty polish job. I had hoped some recognition of my bleeding cuticle would have occurred but she remained oblivious and took my money without offering any incentive. I suppose it was ambitious of me to hope that she would recognize that paying someone for damage to my finger might not be the best customer service. This manicure lasted less then 24 hrs with most of the polish chipping off within the first few hours. I suppose you get what you pay for ($12) but I am never going to Nini’s again.

There is a small part of me that is terrified I’m going to develop some horrible skin disease. The other part just wants to put the whole experience behind me. (Besides it was a tiny amount of blood and a lot of alcohol was applied after it happened). Sure, I debated going back there today and saying, “Look, this is the worst manicure ever, it’s chipping and you owe me.” However, I would probably just be subjected to continued crappiness. I had always viewed a manicure as an incredibly frivolous expense, something that I always thought was silly and unnecessary. However, my own attempt at painting my nails has been disastrous (and believe me I’ve gone through phases). Paying someone for longevity seemed worth it: I’ll get my nails done and they might actually last a week. However, this was certainly not the case. I think I’m going to go to a beauty supply store and buy some good supplies: a nice topcoat, some hardcore polish, and a good clipper. I’m not willing to pay $30 bucks for a mani and I’m certainly not going to suffer a cheaply done job again…so, I suppose it’s up to me.

Yesterday I reached such a giant state of fatigue that in the middle of some pointless meeting I almost keeled over and fainted. I actually had to put my head between my legs. While examining my shoes (i really need to polish my danskos) my eyes swept over my blue/green/yellow colored thumb and I almost passed out right then and there. Nothing is more nauseating then one’s own discoloration. Were people alarmed? No, in fact the woman I was having a meeting with said, “Well, we can stop now, OMIGOD I’m going to be late to pick up my daughter from school! The parking lot is going to be a nightmare! Oh, and today is the day she has a playdate too…”

Now, the worst thing about being hurt/sick, etc. is feeling people’s pity. A little pity is ok, right, we all like people empathizing with us. It does not feel good, however, to have people look you over with a mix of dismay, pity, and slight irritation. So, I’m not saying that I want people bending over backwards, sharing with me their own tragic tales of sprained limbs, or hell, even cooing, “Awwww.” However, yesterday I was surprised at how much negative insensitivity was thrown at me. Sure, we’re overworked and underpaid. We’ve already plowed through four office managers in one year and now we’re priming a fifth one. Me walking in with my hand in a splint, eyes fogged over from yet another late night rehearsal, almost passing out is looked at as merely halting productivity. The weak do not survive. No one has time.

Today I bought some dark chocolate, left work at a reasonable hour, and folded a mountain of laundry. This is the last week where I will endure rehearsals every night from 7pm-10pm. Soon, my sister will move out. Before you know it Josh will stop working at night. Hopefully, things will feel more normal…in the meantime my thumb looks awesome!

Saw it first on smarmy but babies laughing is really worth watching.

Josh bought me an ice cream maker for my birthday. I’ve wanted one forever, especially since I kept seeing these recipes for amazing ice cream in various publications. I also wanted to experiment with controlling the amount of fat, preservatives, corn syrup, etc. that goes into my desserts. Ice cream seems like the next step in my low fat ‘cooking’ quest.

In our enthusiasm Josh went out and bought a bunch of imported strawberries at the local Safeway (despite my brief protest that we should wait for farmer’s market quality berries) and we dove in with the hardest strawberry ice cream recipe in the book. We started off with a custard base which involves bringing cream to a simmer and then gently adding a cup of it to a batch of egg yolks. It’s a balance between warming up the yolks and not scalding the milk. Then you have to strain the custard and wait an agonizing three hours for the custard to cool. Our first batch of ice cream took six yolks–we weren’t dicking around. Josh also felt like we need to go all out with the whole milk and the heavy whipping cream as the base. The first round of ice cream was crazy rich with the strange aftertaste of Safeway quality strawberries. The second round I took into my own hands.

I wanted chocolate ice cream…but KNOCK OUT quality. The kind that makes you ooh and aah over the spoon. I wanted fancy restaurant style ice cream…you know the $7.00 dessert you choose over the $4.00 cheesecake. I bought a block of fancy semi-sweet chocolate, I minimized the custard base to one egg and one yolk, and I low-balled the sugar. Basically, I put a ton of chocolate, cocoa powder, a smattering of sugar and vanilla, espresso powder (to make the chocolate ‘bloom’), the eggs, non-fat milk, and heavy cream into the ice cream maker and VIOLA! A concoction was made! My first thought when I tasted my homemade ice cream was: I’ve created a monster. It was that good. I actually had to cut the chocolate with a dash of whip cream and almonds to mellow it out. This was a slightly lower fat version–I had to use up the full fat dairy products in the fridge–and it still tasted dynamite. My goal is to make a product with virtually no fat…which means I might have to cross over to frozen yogurt land. I know, I know, what do I think this is, the early 90’s? Well, all the TCBY’S closed, ok! Josh’s father calls them To Crummy to Be Yummy but my family used to love those frozen yogurt joints. It was a big deal to go to TCBY and pick out your own flavor with toppings–and my DAD actually ate frozen yogurt and he NEVER ate dessert. I realize when you mess with fat content you mess with texture, but it’s worth it to me to construct my own dessert and know my latest food obsession won’t show up on my hips. Stay tuned for more tales of the ice cream maker…

Several weeks ago I diligently called my dental office:
Me: Hi, I need to make an appointment. Do you have anything on Friday?

Receptionist: No. We don’t work Fridays.

Me: Oh…ok, what’s your last appointment of the day?

Receptionist: 3:15.

Me: That’s your LAST appointment? Huh…OK, I’ll need to take work off. What do you have this Thursday?

Receptionist: I can’t schedule in June yet because I don’t have my calender.

Me: Uh…it’s May 29th and you don’t have your calender for JUNE? That’s only in a few days.

Receptionist: I know. It’s my higher-ups. They haven’t given me my June calender so I can’t schedule you. Sorry.

Me: OH…I guess I’ll call back.

So, I called back in a week and got an appointment for 3:15 on Thursday. I arrived fifteen minutes early and decided to sit in my car, in the parking lot, and read a book. At 3:08 the receptionist opened the door and hollered, “Mara?!”

I was so startled I dropped the apple I had been eating (to get my teeth sqeaky clean). “Yeah?!” I yelled out my car window.

“They’re waiting for you!” She yelled looking exasperated.

“My appointment isn’t until 3:15,” I replied, noticing my clock read 3:08.

“No, it’s 3,” She said and went back inside.

I packed up my things and exited my car, pausing to look at my day planner: Dentist 3:15 (Leave work at 3). I felt annoyed. I sat down in the dentist chair and mentioned to the Hygienist that I had been told 3:15. “No one is mad at you,” the hygienist claimed, which I found to be a total lie. This woman was the most passive aggressive dental hygienist I’ve ever met. When she asked me if I wanted fluoride and I said no she said, “Well, you know, you were inquiring what you could do to avoid cavities, next time you get a chance, just swish a flouride based mouth wash around.” I decided to opt for the fluoride. My actual dentist isn’t bad, even though he pronounces my name “Mare-uh” which I HATE but haven’t bothered to correct him because, you know, I only see him every six months. It’s not like I see him every day. After he did his work (patched a little cavity and gave me a seal on a receding gum line), the hygienist plowed through my mouth like a woman who wanted to leave for the day.

After I diligently swished my flouride, the receptionist informed me she had a bunch of paperwork for me to fill out, “This is why we like to have people in a few minutes early.”

“Hey,” I said, wanting to lay it out, “My appointment was scheduled for 3:15.”

The receptionist lowered her voice, “I know, but the hygentist saw you sitting in your car and said, ’she’s just sitting in the parking lot eating an apple!’ so I said I would get you. When we say 3:15 we actually want you in the dentist’s chair at that exact time.”

“I did not know that,” I replied, making a mental note to never bother with this dental office again. “That’s good to know.”

“Are you leaving soon?” The hygientist asked. “You’re parked behind my car.”

So, dear readers: any Seattle/Renton dental recommendations? I feel like I’ve gone the random route before (read: conveniently located near home or work) and now I want to raise my standards. Word of mouth should be leading me to someone better, a little more flexible, without a hygienist who wants me out of the chair ASAP.

Josh has been working 7pm to 5am this entire week and while it’s fun to pretend to be a single gal living it up in my big house, the novelty has worn off. The first few days of multi-tasking, getting a massage, taking class, making jewelry, watching movies has now lapsed into aimless wandering. Oh sure, I’m still making jewelry and experimenting with painting blocks of wood. But I’m a big baby when it comes to sleeping alone, and I look forward to Josh’s return to a normal schedule.
At work I baby-sat a six month old who was charming for ten minutes and then spent a half hour roaring with tears over a stomach ache. He cried until he was purple, he cried until he got the hiccups, he cried until his little fist became balls, his sobs switched to random bursts as I pumped his back with my hand and walked him up and down the wheelchair ramp of our building. Multiple co-workers aided me in the struggle and it was certainly confirmed: he was constipated. Forty five minutes later his mother apologized, saying she hadn’t slept in two days due to his stomach troubles. The batteries were promptly removed from my maternal clock.

A few weeks ago an unhappy customer at the studio threatened me, “I’m a blogger.” She said this menacingly, as if she had already composed a hateful passage about how expensive the baby classes are, how few people were in attendance, and the hellacious parking. This was after I had done everything I could to abate her, appease to her sensibilities, and yet she came in with a big chip on her shoulder and no way could we knock it down. I realized the threat, “I’m a blogger” is a very new millennium insult. From the days of bad mouthing school mates on Live Journal to slandering businesses on the web we have reached a scary age of intimidation. I was hard pressed to respond, and told her, “Well, we’re not for everyone.” Sure enough, a scathing review of our business popped up on several websites. I’m sure I was mentioned but I have no interest in finding out. Of course she doesn’t mention the personal phone call the owner made to try and work it out with her…or how nice I was by helping her carry her double wide stroller up the steps.
In other news, I recently confirmed my participation as a “Freedom Dancer” in a Soft Rock Spectacular premiering at the Rebar in June. It should be fantastic.

I was hanging out, working the box office at the improv theater with the house manager. She’s a super crazy cool girl, the kind of person that makes you want to shed all your inhibitions, take a shot, and start an impromptu dance party. Recently she revealed one of the coolest things ever: her legal name change. It’s so awesome and so funny I just had to take a picture of her license and share it with you all:

Supposedly, her older sister asked her what it would take for her to legally change her middle name to Nippletweaker: “I told her I’d do it if she gave herself a really horrible old lady perm and styled it like a comb over.” A judge denied Vanessa her name change request in court three times until she finally got a judge who mispronounced it Nipplay-tway-ker–which is almost as funny. I think I admire Vanessa’s drive and determination the most out of this story.

It took me two hours to get home last night and twice I considered ditching my car. As you may have guessed Seattle was dusted by snow last night. Silly me, I was still in my Colorado mode, where you don’t even think about snow in terms of anything to get freaked out about. It snowed, you got to work, that’s the mentality in the Rocky Mountains. Josh and I had at least one car that was four wheel drive hanging around; I learned how to pump my breaks, go slow, and watch for snow plows.
We watched an enormous black cloud envelop Seattle in a matter of thirty minutes outside the huge windows of the chi-chi studio I work at. I left an hour early, preparing to take Airport Way and avoid the highway…how foolish I was to think the north part of downtown would be unaffected by Seahawks traffic. I sat on the James exit off ramp for a half hour cursing and swearing and calling Josh periodically from my cell. I finally cut over to Cherry and made the arduous journey uphill in increasingly heavy snow conditions. I found myself terrifyingly creeping up an enormous hill praying I wouldn’t have to stop and be stranded. I’m not great with using the parking break to keep my stick shift car from rolling backward…I usually kill the car and I knew that if I ended up having to stop I would roll right back into the car behind me. Ice had begun to collect on the roads, and everywhere I went there was traffic sitting around trying to get home like I was. All the back roads were clogged with ill equip cars skittering around and the main roads were a parking lot. I ditched Boren for James, I left James for Marion, I slid down most of Marion, pumping my breaks furiously and yelling into my cell phone at Josh, “I’m sliding! I’m sliding!” I finally cut across to Jackson and 22nd, only to get stuck behind a lady who simply turned her car off and walked away! The rest of us had to creep around her car as we made our way to Jackson and 23rd. I sulked inside a Starbucks for fifteen minutes before tackling the trip home.

Once I hit Rainier things became immensely better, the roads were barely covered with snow–although that didn’t stop a cab from driving down the center of the road instead of opting for the two lanes. I finally started picking up speed from my tedious one mile and hour pace and cruised the rest of the way home. There was a point where I was buried in the Central District thinking I was going to pull over and hike to Kris’ house. Kids were throwing cheerful snowballs at my car; good Samaritans were directing traffic and pushing at the tails of sliding cars. Josh was a saint, coaching me through the neighborhoods via Google maps over the phone.

Last night I ate a pot pie and drank hot chocolate and watched the Bachelor with my sister-in-law (who is currently living with us while she transitions to her new job at Boeing). Ice coated the roads this morning so we remained home.