A story about Karma

This is a little story about karma and the universe that I’ve been waiting to tell until I could do so without any anger or smugness popping up… it’s long, but aren’t the best tales?

Just after I got married six years ago, I got a new car. I decided to sell my old Chevy Corsica myself because a car lot would’ve given me roughly $4 for it. To make a long story short, I was approached by a random girl whose nickname was Karma… yes, Karma. Karma was down on her luck, her own car had just died an untimely death. She needed a vehicle, mine was perfect, and please oh please, could she make payments on it?

I’ve learned a thing or two since then, most importantly how to spot a fake bitch and how to say “no.” Those were two things I did not know at 23. I was hesitant, but this girl was a professional pathological liar who convinced me she was trustworthy.

I drew up a contract, we signed it and had it notarized, and I told her $200 per month would be just fine. She was grateful and gave a huge speech about how I was really helping her get back on her feet. Of course, everything went to shit right away and I had to hound her and hunt her down for every payment. She became hostile. And when she finally killed the car (she blew up the radiator), she still owed me $700. She quit paying me. I took her to court, and I won, but turns out you can’t garnish someone’s wages when they get paid in cash (Karma, it turns out, was a stripper and a drug dealer, evidently not successful at either by her since she couldn't pay her bills). So I was in the right, morally and legally, but that lying little snatch ended up with my car and the money.

It was my first time being screwed over by someone on that level, but Russ had been around that block a time or two. He assured me that one day Karma would get her karma. And I believed him. But I was so angry. I was furious that she’d spit in my face when I truly was trying to help her. I was pissed that she took away my ability to trust other people. Of course time heals everything and I’ve learned to trust in the kindness of strangers again, but I could never fully let it go. I was permanently pissed off.

A few months ago, completely out of nowhere and for the first time in years, Karma came to mind. I was on Facebook at the time and looked up her name out of sheer curiosity. To my shock, I found her right away. Her profile was completely public and I noticed she hadn’t made any updates since July. Reading the comments, a slow smile of realization spread across my face.

I Googled her name, “Spokane”, and “arrest”. Turns out Karma hadn’t updated her Facebook because she was in jail.

Apparently Karma and her boyfriend (whose Facebook profile I also found and who lists his job as “Broke” and his hobbies as “drinking alcohol” and “smoking blunts”) broke into a car and stole a woman’s purse, then hit up a bar the next night and racked up a $117 tab on the stolen debit card. When the card was declined, the happy couple said they’d go over to the motel they were staying at to get cash for the tab. When they didn’t come back, the bartender called the cops. The cops ran the name on the card, realized it was stolen and tracked Karma down. At the motel she was staying at. That she’d booked with the stolen card. Smart!

You may think it can’t get better, but it does. When the cops found Karma’s room, she opened the door drunk and stoned. Mr. Alcohol and Blunts was nowhere to be found. At first, she pretended to be the owner of the debit card. Then she swore to the cops she had a prescription for the weed and invited them in to search her stuff. Of course they found no medical card, but they did find her actual driver’s license, the woman’s purse and a shitload of stolen mail.

The more I got to know the girl, the more I realized she was a pathological liar and a terrible one at that. I have no doubt she was so drunk and high she was convinced she did have a medical card for the weed—or perhaps she figured that if she invited the cops in, they’d assume she must be telling the truth, pat her on her head and tell her to have a wonderful night. A Rhodes Scholar she is not.

I sat open-mouthed in front of my laptop for awhile. Then I called my friend V, who’d been with me through it all (she ever served Karma with the court papers). We laughed until we cried. We made a ton of karma jokes. Then I felt guilty for feeling happy for someone’s suffering, so I called my good friend G who told me to feel whatever I wanted because “she’s a bad person and she hurt you and you are allowed to feel this way.” So I allowed myself to feel giddy and smug for awhile. I don’t regret it. It felt great.

When Mr. W arrived home, I was dancing an interpretive victory dance in the living room. I told him the story with glee.

“Should we send a ‘Thinking of You’ card?” he asked.

I barely had time to bask in my delight, though, when another Google search about a month later told me Karma’s fate. She pled guilty to everything, but she’d only been given 62 days for her crimes, which is exactly how many she’d served. She only had six months’ probation and the restitution she had to pay was small. I knew exactly what had happened. The judge had fallen for her wide-eyed crocodile tears and bullshit, the same way I did six years ago.

But then I thought about what I’d done for the sixty two days she’d been locked up. I thought of all the afternoons I spent soaking up the sun at Alki, enjoying my new city, tasting wine on a limo tour of wine country and hanging out on Whidbey Island. I thought of the time I spent with friends, the fun I’d gotten to have and the food I’d gotten to eat while she spent her days peeing in front of other people and eating mechanically separated chicken and mystery loaf. And I thought of how awful it would’ve been to lose even that much time in your life to a tiny cell.

I can honestly say that I hope she learned her lesson and left jail a changed woman. My friend who works at a prison in California tells me this probably won’t be the case. Once you’re in, she says, it’s hard to stay out. So though I truly don’t wish it for her (once my smugness faded I realized wishing bad things on anyone just hurts everyone), it will be incredibly hard for her to escape that life.

And during my limited Facebook stalking, I noticed she’s now back in a relationship with Mr. Alcohol and Blunts and she's working part-time at Burger King to support them both. And I realized I shouldn’t hate this girl. I should pity her. She doesn’t even have the intelligence to walk away from her shitty life, to go to school or strive for anything better. I am so damn grateful that, while I'm far from a scholar myself, I’m not that person. And that realization is worth far more than $700. It’s priceless.

What goes around comes around. Sometimes it just takes awhile.

2012: Live the questions

I believe in a lot of crazy things, so it’s no surprise that I believe this: New Year’s Eve tends to set the tone for the entire following year. I realize that belief puts an enormous amount of stress on a person to have a great effing time on that particular day, but previous experience has led me to believe there’s something to it.

I think back on the weirdest New Year’s Eve of my life and realize just how incredibly bizarre the following year was. I think of my best New Year’s Eve and what followed was the best year of my life. And I think of last New Year’s Eve, which was an absolute roller coaster from beginning to end. And that’s exactly what 2011 was for me: a roller coaster from the first day to the last day.

2011 was a beautiful, terrifying, rewarding, disappointing, joyful, fast-paced, all around crazy year. I spent a lot of time laughing with pure joy and a lot of time sobbing hysterically in a fetal position on my bathroom floor. Sometimes these things happened on the same day. I finally came to accept the roller coaster and make peace with the fact that every morning I’d wake up not knowing what kind of day I was going to have. Eventually it stopped being scary and just started being a part of life.

2011 was a lot more than a move. My priorities, my outlook and my very core belief system shifted dramatically. I was brought up to believe that you finish school, you get one job, you buy a house and you stay in it for the rest of your life. And it took that damn road trip for me to realize that I am not that person at all. Not even close. I am grateful that I managed to escape that mindset and come to that realization while I was still in my twenties, but it wasn’t without some bumps in the road. Some hardcore bumps. Huge bumps with spikes on them.

But looking back on every terrifying moment, I’ve realized that every major thing we needed to fall into place did… and just in the nick of time. As I reflect, I see that every time we truly needed something to happen, it did. Even the bad things that happened could’ve been so much worse. Despite all the crap, I’ve realized just how blessed Mr. W and I really are. And that makes any terrifying moment I have now a little easier to deal with. I’ve learned to let go of expectations and just go with it, whatever “it” may be.

More than anything else, I’ve learned I have some real, true, amazing friends that I can count on in good times and bad. That’s hard to come by in life and I’m so grateful. And if this New Year’s Eve and the few days that have followed are any indication of the year to come, I’m in for an amazing 12 months. There’s been music, dancing, kisses, beach walks, mojitos, sushi, holding babies and catching up with old and new friends. And love. So much love.

This is a milestone year, and not just for the ancient Mayans. I’m about to turn 30 and that’s just the beginning. It’s almost as if the last year and its ups and downs were preparing me for this one. And I’m starting to realize that that’s the way life works. Each experience we endure, good and bad, tends to prepare us for what’s to come. And good or bad, I can’t wait to see what 2012 has in store for me and everyone I love.

I started 2011 feeling so lost. And as I start 2012, I’m so relieved because I don’t feel lost anymore. And that doesn’t mean I’ve figured it all out—quite the opposite, actually. I haven’t figured out a damned thing but I’ve realized that’s okay. I don’t know what I’ll want in the future, but I know what I want now. It’s taken me my entire life to start doing what I always tell others to do: live the questions.

Live the questions in 2012. Don’t worry when things don’t go according to plan. Sometimes they’ll go better. Sometimes they won’t go well at all. And if you let yourself just live them, you really will end up stronger no matter what.

Time and Money

The other day one of my friends posted this on his Facebook wall. If you’ve got the time, it’s absolutely hysterical and worth the read (also, the rest of my post will make more sense):

http://www.cracked.com/blog/5-reasons-money-can-buy-happiness/

And I laughed, because the writer managed to take some cold hard facts and make them funny while making his point. And he’s right. Whoever truly believes that money can’t buy happiness is an ignorant tool.

Of course money can’t be the source of one’s happiness. Then all you have is some asshole with no friends sitting on piles of money. That’s not happiness at all, that’s someone who’s going to die alone and sad. But it can buy everything that writer said it can, which does buy happiness (if you have love, peace of mind, healthy kids and enough money to enjoy the simple pleasures in life and you still aren’t happy, you’re also an ignorant tool).

I laughed until I got to # 2, “The Best Hobbies Don’t Cost a Thing.” And I realized this is exactly what’s been going on with me lately:

First of all, there's the time issue. I write for a living now, obviously, but when I was trying to do it as a hobby? Yeah, ask me how much I felt like writing after 12 hours of work/commute and then all the other time spent doing home shit after that (eat, shower, tend to the kids, etc). Unless you wanted an article on "6 Ways I'd Like to Fucking Punch All the Truck Drivers in the Cock," all you'd get out of me is some low moans about my aching back while I stared sleepily at some Internet boobs. Creativity takes energy.

Read more: 5 Reasons Money Can Buy Happiness | Cracked.com http://www.cracked.com/blog/5-reasons-money-can-buy-happiness_p2/#ixzz1fpKbnK4y

I love to write, both as a profession and a hobby. But lately, writing at work has been insane. We just went through our busiest month, where we were all required to work a Saturday just to get caught up and took on more events than we ever have.

 My job requires tons of creativity even when we aren’t slammed and by the time 6:30 rolls around and I (sometimes) finish, my brain hurts. Then you add in the 90 minute hot yoga classes I’ve been dragging myself to or a spin on the Elliptical machine to offset the 10 hours I spend sitting, riding the harrowing public transportation home, taking a shower and cooking a meal, and good luck getting me to do a damn chore, much less write something that still has a long way to go before I can even try to turn it into anything real. Or type up my Days of our Lives interviews from a month ago. Or blog. I still haven’t unpacked the overnight bag from my girls’ night at the Bellevue Hyatt last Saturday for a friend’s bachelorette party. I have no motivation.

But tonight it hit me just how quickly time really passes. I can’t believe it’s almost 2012. I can’t believe my twenties are two months from being over. I commented on a picture of my friend’s (adorable) kid eating ice cream on her Facebook page and I realized he’s old enough to sneak ice cream from their freezer while she’s asleep. And that I can remember his mom and I doing that, staying up late and sneaking my dad’s chunky chocolate ice cream after he went to sleep, and it seems like just a couple of years ago.

And then I realized: I can use my exhaustion as an excuse. I can be one of the millions of people who say they just don’t have time to work on anything else, and it would be a valid claim. I want to puke just thinking about all the goals I have for next year that have nothing to do with writing, much less writing goals.

But I don’t want to be one of those people who wakes up and they’re 40 and everything they wanted to accomplish when they were turning 30 is still left undone. Looking back, though it seems like all I did was party and play, I’m pretty proud of what I managed to accomplish in my twenties. I want to say the same about my thirties, but for that to happen I’m going to have to step it up.

So when I’m not spending long hours at the office, coming into Camel pose in a 110 degree room, grocery shopping or doing the other mundane things I used to be able to do whenever I wanted… you’ll find me writing. You’ll find my ass in a chair in front of my laptop until I’m satisfied with what I’ve done and I’m ready to show it to all of you. I may not have the time that I used to, but the money I’m making supporting myself writing by day means nothing if I can’t use it to support my passion in the evenings.

George Clooney is magic

Every year on the first weekend of November I travel to LA to interview some of my favorite actors for the Day of Days event. I go specifically for the event, which is always amazing. But it’s the things that happen during those hours when I’m not in soap opera mode that are truly magical, and what I’ve come to love the most.

Despite the fact that the weather wasn’t much warmer than Seattle—in fact, Mr. W and I got caught in a torrential downpour like nothing Seattle has ever seen while we were at Hollywood & Highland—LA treated me as well as it always does. The event on Saturday went better than I expected. Some of the cast couldn’t make it, but we got to interview everyone who was there (which never happens). The show brought back some old veterans recently and I found myself sitting across the table from a couple of stars I was enamored with as a kid. It doesn’t get much better than that.

But it did get better. Later that night Mr. W and I hit Citywalk in Universal Studios and drank giant drinks at a bar with a mechanical bull with friends we don’t get to see often enough. Our friend A arrived from Sacramento that night and we spent Sunday exploring the city (he’s considering relocating). On Sunday night, I suggested we go back to the amazing restaurant Mr. W and I had tried on Friday, a charming little Argentine grill in a strip mall.

As we drank our bottle of wine and waited for our dinners, we discussed A’s possible upcoming move to LA. Somehow the topic of celebrities came up. The streets of Hollywood are lined with brochures for tours that will take people to celebrity “hot spots” and past their homes. In reality, celebs blend right in with everyone else (as someone I follow on Twitter put it, they look like well-dressed homeless people) and every place you go is so crowded you would be overwhelmed if you tried to spot them.

“Besides,” I said, swirling my wine. “None of us watch enough TV to recognize half of them. They’d have to be, like, Jennifer Aniston famous or something.”

“Yeah, and what if you did see one?” A said. “I wouldn’t get starstruck. They’re people too.”

We talked about it for a few more minutes, and then I started to give A a wine-induced pep talk about how he should follow his dreams. As I lectured, a shiny Lexus pulled into the strip mall parking lot and stopped, waiting for the valet driver (yes, in a strip mall). A woman got out, decked out in a long fur coat. I looked her up and down, admiring her outrageous outfit. I was so busy looking at her that I didn’t see who was stepping out of the driver’s seat.

“That’s George Clooney,” Russ said matter-of-factly in the tone of voice that told me he wasn’t kidding. I looked over just in time to see George Clooney flash a sexy smile at the valet driver, toss him his keys and walk the young woman into the sushi restaurant next to us. I looked back at Mr. W and A. And we instantly became the people we were mocking, starstruck and ridiculous.

“Holy shit, that was George Clooney!” I kept saying, and we’d laugh. Not only did we see a celebrity, we saw the celebrity. I know people who don’t own TVs and all of them would recognize Clooney. It was as if the Universe was purposely bitch slapping us for thinking such a thing would never happen.

After dinner we headed to Howl at the Moon Piano Bar at Citywalk, where Mr. W and I had gone last year discovered the drinks were three for one, which made for a terrible Monday but also a great time. This year the special was still on and we took full advantage. The bar was crowded, so I couldn’t see much of the stage where the piano players were rocking out.

“That singer looks kind of like Zooey Deschanel or Katy Perry,” A said. Mr. W and I looked at each other, then tried to see the stage.

Last year, our waitress was the young Katy Perry look-alike. Mr. W and I had gotten chatty with her as a result of all our drinks. That night she ended up taking the stage and belted out “California Girls.” She said it was her first time up and it hadn’t been rehearsed, and that she really hoped to do more of it. One year later she was the star of the show, playing the piano and belting out song requests like she’d been doing it all her life. She sounded amazing and looked like she was having a blast.

And it really made me think. Who in the hell are we not to follow our dreams? No matter what they are, we should be. I started watching a soap opera when I was 11 years old because my life sucked and I wanted an escape. And it led to me getting the privilege of meeting them and interviewing them. I mean, really, who gets to do that? And what could I accomplish if I got out of my own way and really tried? I don’t want to be a piano bar singer but maybe I could run a 5K or something.

The first year I went to LA, I wound up getting dressed up like a Barbie doll by a gay boutique owner. The next year, the most unfortunate looking gentleman I’ve ever seen accosted me during Day of Days, absolutely insisting that I had to be on the show (because I’d come from the press room) and forcing his resume upon me. His resume was one giant run-on sentence in all caps about how he was going to “make it big” as an actor. I swore I couldn’t get him an acting job, but he didn’t believe me. This year, George Clooney got out of a Lexus in a strip mall and ate sushi 100 yards away from me.

Just when I think LA can’t top itself… it does. Every time.

How NOT to get attention from a female: a cautionary tale

I don’t know if it just seemed extra-awful because I’m spoiled by the amazing men I surround myself with or if I just haven’t been out in awhile, but recently I was exposed to the most pathetic male I have spoken to in years. And it made me realize… for as much time as men in their 20’s spend trying to get sexual attention from females, you’d think they would actually put some effort into learning what works. And I’m not talking about taking seminars from sleazeballs or buying a bunch of drinks and hoping. I’m talking about acting like a decent human being.

The fateful meeting occurred at a nightclub in Portland called Dirty. Despite the unfortunate name, it’s actually a pretty nice place. I was there celebrating a new start in life with two of my dearest friends, my sister wife and my ray of sunshine G. One of them asked their awesomely generous guy friend if he would cover the cost of our VIP table so we could have a place to sit when our heels started to hurt. He said yes. He did so out of the kindness of his heart with no expectations, which automatically makes him cooler than 99% of people in general. But I digress.

So there we were, three chicks all dressed up and looking our best (thanks to G, the stylist), sipping champagne and dancing while our resident male sat in his seat with a smile and cocktail. G mentioned that she had invited one of her friends out and she was going to stop by. The friend arrived shortly thereafter, but she wasn’t alone. The girl is engaged, but she brought her fiance’s best friend with her. I hope I just misunderstood, but apparently that’s the only way the girl was “allowed” to go out… if she had the guy with her. Yikes.

 So the guy sat down, looked all three of us up and down and immediately settled in on my sister wife. He bombarded her with questions while staring at her chest, all while doing that creepy half-smile half-smirk that for some reason that gender think is irresistible. In fact, it looks like they’re about to sneeze.

My sister wife is an instructor at a pole dancing school. Our VIP booth conveniently contained a dancing pole. One of her favorite songs came on as her champagne kicked in and she jumped up to perform one of her many acrobatic routines. Of course, the guy’s jaw dropped open and was rendered still by the unforeseen amazing thing that was happening right in front of him. He looked really douchey just staring at her open-mouthed and it started to get awkward… for me. I felt a little bad for him.

Trying to help him look like less of a weirdo, I leaned in and smiled. “She’s pretty amazing, isn’t she?” I asked.

Swear to God, he looked me in the eye, grinned, and said, “How do I get in her pants?” He then reached his hand up to smack her butt, but stopped when he saw the look in my eyes.

Holding back laughter, I debated on what to say. I didn’t want to come across as what the men folk call a “cock block” and I certainly didn’t want him to assume I was jealous because he wasn’t focusing on me. But I knew my sister wife would kill me if I encouraged him in any way, and rightfully so.

“Um, I think she’s actually pretty satisfied in that department,” I said, trying my hardest not to laugh in his face. “But I’m sure she’s having fun talking to you.”

The guy scoffed. No, really, He actually scoffed. Then he said the words that every single douche bag I’ve ever met in my life has said at one point:

“She hasn’t met me. I’m not like all these other guys. I’m a nice guy.”

Oh, brother. I bet you have lots of money, too.

The general truth is: if a man has to say it, or brag about it, it simply isn’t so.

I didn’t know what to say. So I turned to our resident man friend and said, “This guy is a total tool.”

Sure enough, when my sister wife ended her performance and returned to her seat, the guy went right back to it. This time I decided to listen in for fun. He went on and on about his big house in Beaverton and all the fun things he had there.

“So if you ladies want to come back and drink there later, that would be cool,” he said, nodding in my direction.

Once again, I tried not to laugh. “Why do you live all alone in a big house?” I asked, feigning interest.

“I’m remodeling it as a favor to a relative, so I get to stay there.” He began to tell me about his remodeling projects, but I was already bored. I wandered away and went back to the champagne and the good company. The douche asked my sister wife for her number. She said he was seeing someone. He said that didn’t mean they couldn’t go on a date and get to know each other. She declined.

When it finally became clear that Mr. Nice Guy simply wasn’t going to get anywhere with anyone, he stood up, did what appeared to be some jerky dance moves with the same smirk on his face, nodded his head to the music, and disappeared with his friend’s fiancée at last.

When they disappeared from our sight, G let out a huge sigh of relief.

“I don’t know if you all noticed,” she said, “but that guy was a total tool.”

I’ll be the first to admit that as a married woman I’m out of the game when it comes to getting picked up. I probably couldn’t advise a man on how to actually get laid. But I can certainly explain how not to:

1. Immediately tell her you’re a nice guy, and somehow “different” from all the others.
2. Brag about your lifestyle and how much money you have. Put a douchey twist on everything… not “I’m living rent-free so I can fix up Grandma’s house for her” (which is actually very sweet), but “I have this huge crib stocked with tons of booze and I’m making it even more awesome as a favor to someone in my family far less fortunate than me” (douche). As a double bonus, spend a long time bragging about your money and then make her pay for her own drink.
3. Ask her friend how to get in her pants.
4. Immediately- when you’ve known her for no more than five minutes- invite her back to your place when the bar closes to “kick it.”
5. Be insistent when she refuses your number. I mean, why wouldn’t she want to spend more time with you?
6. Dance with a constant fist pump.
7. Smirk.

Do all of those things and throw in a few words like “sick” and “tight” and you’ll never have to worry about things like STDs… or first dates.

Losses and gains

If you would have asked me at the age of 10 what I wanted most in the world, I wouldn’t have said a trip to Disneyland, every toy ever made or every book ever written. I would have told you I wanted a dog. There was a long period where there were no animals at my house. I wanted a pet because pets always loved you, no matter what.

Finally, when I was a junior in high school, my dad decided he’d gone too long without a hunting dog. He picked out a female chocolate lab puppy from a young litter. While waiting for the day when we could bring her home, we talked about what we’d name her. Every time a name was spoken, I’d shake my head. It didn’t sound right.

“Abigail,” I finally said. “Her name is Abby.” My mom, dad and brother unanimously agreed. It just sounded right. And the first time that small squirming bundle was placed in my arms, I knew that’s exactly what we should call her.

I had never dealt with a puppy in the house before. I was told the crying at night was normal and I should ignore it. I couldn’t. It broke my heart that little Abby was all alone in her bed, crying for her mommy. I finally dragged my comforter and a pillow out to the family room and slept on the floor next to her. When she woke up crying, I’d roll over and place a hand on her. She would stop right away. I did this every night for about a week until she figured out that she was safe and she had no reason to cry.

Abby took feisty to a whole new level. She tested every boundary my parents set, even being labeled as stubborn by her trainer. Her energy was endless. If someone came to the house, she’d rush out to the backyard and jump straight into the air repeatedly out of sheer joy. For this reason, some family friends called her The Kangaroo Dog.

Abby did calm down eventually, turning into a very sweet dog who loved to be petted and cuddled. Her stubborn streak remained, however. No one was ever going to tell her it wasn’t OK to beg for food. If you were eating at my parents’ kitchen table, you could expect to feel the nudge of her nose and hear the whack of her tail against the chairs until you caved and gave her a bite of whatever it was you were eating.

I know dogs don’t live forever. I tried to start bracing myself for the heartbreak after her tenth birthday. For the last year, every single time I’ve left my parents’ house I’ve given Abby a hug, looked into those beautiful brown eyes and told her how much I love her, no matter what. She’d lick my hand and lean into me. I wouldn’t leave until I could find my Abby and say goodbye. Still, I couldn’t imagine the thought of losing her.

Last Friday morning, on October 14, we did lose our Abby. She lived almost 13 years and thanks to my parents’ excellent care, they were happy and healthy years. I know that’s all we can ask for when we get a pet—or for anyone in our lives, for that matter. We want them to live long, happy and healthy lives. And even though she did, I’m still going to miss her terribly.

 Abby was the first pet I watched go from birth to death. It had a profound effect on me. And that’s why I allowed myself to go into the bathroom at work, remember how Abby used to greet me so happily when I got home from school, and cry like a baby. Then I wiped away the tears and told myself that she is safe and I have no reason to cry. I will always miss her but I’m grateful for the years we had and grateful my parents took such good care of her.

I headed straight for Portland  after work to visit two of my closest friends. I warned them to expect some possible emotional outbursts over the loss of my Abby. I didn’t cry during the three hour drive, but I did wonder what was awaiting me. The friends I was visiting have been through hell over the last year and it wasn’t quite over for one of them. I hoped that I would find her in a better place.

I walked into my friend’s house and immediately noticed the energy felt different. The place was cleaner than normal, candles were lit and upbeat music was playing. She rushed out from her bedroom and gave me the hug I’d been needing all day. She was smiling and energetic and looked so much more alive than I’d seen her in a long time.

I unpacked the car and freshened up and we headed to a late night happy hour. Over the wine and food she insisted on paying for, we caught up… and I mean we really caught up. I suddenly realized my friend was back, and it was only then that I realized how much she’d been gone.

 I spent the last year and a half watching an illness slowly take my friend from me. And not just any friend. This was the friend who always succeeded at whatever she tried, who had endless energy, who had goals and dreams and was more responsible than most women twice her age. And it was because I held her in such high regard that I underestimated the illness that was keeping her down. I knew she was strong enough to beat it, but I didn’t realize how much of her it would take before she did. But I knew she would get through it and I would love her, no matter what.

I’m sure she got tired of me saying, “You’re back.” But she is. My beautiful, funny, smart friend is better than ever. That weekend was exactly like the kind of weekend we used to have a few years ago. We did hot yoga, we watched movies, we went out and partied until the wee hours, and we talked… really talked, more than we have in a long time. I didn’t cry on the way to Portland, but I cried on the way home. I cried because I didn’t want to leave so soon after I’d gotten there and found my old friend just the way she used to be, only stronger and wiser. Losing Abby was as hard as I imagined it would be, but having my friend back healed my heart.

But now that she’s back, I’m not going to let her leave me again. She changed so slowly that I didn’t even notice. But I notice now, and she’s not going anywhere. The next time I visit will probably be even better than the last because I know that only good things are in store for her now. She’s back, she’s safe and I have no reason to cry.

$#@!. I care about fashion.

Excuse my month-long hiatus from blogging, but I was enjoying the glorious Indian summer. Summer came late to Seattle this year, but by God, it delivered. We had so many gorgeous, sunny 82 degree days in September that we’ve almost duped ourselves into thinking it will be a tame winter.

Naturally Mr. W and I spent ample amounts of time soaking up our Vitamin D while we could. Idaho summers were so hot, I’d spent most days hibernating. But 75-80 degrees is perfect. I spent more time in the sun this summer than I have in the last decade. I should probably get checked for melanoma, actually.

Labor Day was no exception, beautiful without a cloud in the blue sky. I found myself with the day off and nothing to do but relax. Alki was packed, but I didn’t mind. I grabbed my sunglasses and a blanket, treated myself to a frozen yogurt and read my Glamour magazine on a bench overlooking the beautiful water. Thirty minutes later, I realized I was only on page 74. Normally in half an hour I’ve blasted through most of the 260 page magazine, stopping only to read the articles that interest me. What was slowing me down?

It hit me like a giant slap across the face. I’d been reading everything and not just skimming over certain pages. Including the style section, something I normally barely glance at. I studied the fashion pages, taking the information in like I was going to be quizzed on it.

“Shit!” I said out loud, sitting up straight. “I care about fashion. Shit.”

Despite having a best friend who has been in the industry for 11 years and is literally obsessed with all things fashion, I have spent just as long trying not to get involved. Sure, I’d like to think I have a little bit of style. I get my share of compliments and can usually assemble an outfit that doesn’t look ridiculous.

But I’ve never read up on anything. I’ve never tried to learn what anything is called, and I’ve certainly never bought something solely because it was “in style.” My shopping process going something like: 1. It’s cute! 2. It fits! 3. I can afford it! Step three is sometimes optional. Ladies, you understand.

But now, damn it, all of a sudden I have to admit that I give a shit. I know the difference between a shift dress and a slip dress and I know the definition of surplice. I know what color blocking is. Thanks to You Tube, I actually know how to tie a scarf a few different ways and I have worn them with actual outfits. This is a huge deal.

It’s partially due to my job. Since I mainly write about women’s apparel, I write about women’s clothing, shoes, handbags and exercise apparel pretty often. And in the process, I’m learning things. And I actually like it.

It’s also who I surround myself with. I used to visit Sydney once every few months. Now I see her several times a month, and her passion is so contagious I can’t help but get excited about things that excite her. I’ve gone to some fashion events with her and loved every minute of them. I’ve discovered some of her followers on Twitter with fashion blogs, like this absolutely adorableprecious girl whose blog I just adore. Her excitement is contagious, too.

Last but not least, I finally “get it.” Fashion is an industry that can seem very superficial. I always felt like learning about it would be a waste of time. But it’s not. It’s so much more than luxury labels and designers. When it’s done right, it’s an art form. And having a beautiful style that’s all your own takes skill and a trained eye. It’s the perfect way to express yourself. And for the first time in my life (ironically when I have less money for shopping than I ever have), it’s a skill I’m willing and eager to learn… to a point.

I’m not going to go crazy. I’ll never be over the top trendy. I’m holding true to my refusal to wear leggings as pants, though just the other day I found myself wishing I had some for under my dresses (which means they’re about to go out of style—I always, without fail, cave in and buy something right before it’s no longer in). I still think half the models that strut down the runway look ridiculous. And I’ll gouge out my eyes before I ever give a crap about keeping up with a Kardashian. I’m still me. I’ve just realized that I should stop fighting the urge to care about something and let myself enjoy it.

I think the best part about it is seeing things through new eyes. There was a women photographed on the street in that issue of Glamour (not any of these photos), and a few months ago I would’ve thought she looked a little ridiculous. But I was able to see how she tied all her colors together and the look she was going for. I saw the beauty in it, even if it wasn’t my personal taste. And that’s amazing.

Then there are the crazy tips and tricks I’m learning. For example, did you know nude pumps elongate your legs? Probably, seemingly everyone did except me. Now when I see a woman wearing nude pumps, I notice it. And now I want to get my hands on a pair and do some justice to my short, stubby gams.

Seattle is constantly making “worst-dressed cities” lists because of our large collection of hipsters who wear too much plaid (which, by the way, IS back in style this year) and don’t pull up their pants. If only people would get off Capitol Hill for a minute, they’d see people actually dress very well here. And it took less than a year for me to get bitten by the bug myself. I care about fashion. Shit.