PACKING, PARENTHESES, and PROCRASTINATION

Packing for Phoenix tops my list of weekend chores. But I'm a master procrastinator when it comes to packing. I can't start until my sense of urgency becomes a state of panic and I'm forced to whip through my closet like a twister that sucks everything up and scatters it back down. It's my most dreaded task. It's like opening Pandora's box of mental disorders. As soon as I zip open my suitcase, I unleash manic OCD and adult ADHD. My focus gets foggy. I try on different outfits. With different shoes. With different jewelry. With different bras and panties. I decide to wash the tank top I want to wear under my BCBG suit. I start a load of whites.

As my clothes swish and swirl in the washer, I try on my skinny jeans -- (just for fun) -- since they're stashed in the far corner of my closet next to my high school pictures. (This corner is marked in my mind as "Things I Never Want to See Again.") I slip my right leg into my skinny jeans, then my left. I'm happily surprised(!); by some miracle, they fit! I decide to try on all the jeans in my arsenal to see what else works. Some slide on like a glove; others take a little negotiating (i.e. tugging, jumping, stretching, grunting and tears). I decide it's no biggie -- nothing that a few weeks on a treadmill and my exercise ball can't fix.

I ponder the whereabouts of my exercise ball. I find it stashed under a layer of clean clothes. I clear it off and sit down. It sags a few inches too low to the floor. I refuse to believe it's because of me. I get up and hunt for my air pump. While searching I find the right side of my thin black stocking. I gladly return it to its partner. My sock drawer is in a sad state. The white work-out socks contrast against the striped toe socks. I re-org ASAP. I finish -- every sock now has a partner and is arranged by type, color, and thickness of material. I glance at my open (still empty) suitcase. It taunts me. I shudder. It reminds me of the giant, man-eating plant from The Little Shop of Horrors. "FEED ME!! FEEEED ME!!!" I hate that movie. I hear the washer click to a stop. I go and check my laundry.

Somehow a tricky napkin, business card or equally easily-disintegrating material snuck into my heap of dirty clothes then pulverized into lint, matting EVERYTHING down in flaky, white fuzz. My favorite Bob Marley shirt will never be the same. I furrow my brow in frustration. I put my clothes in the dryer and hope the lint filter will do its job. I remove the lint screen -- it's caked in fuzz. Gross. The fuzz falls to the floor. Double gross. I reach for my broom and start sweeping. My broom is dirty. I clean off the bristles with my hand duster. I chuckle. I feel like Danny Tanner.

I glance at my empty suitcase and the clothes strewn across my bed. I pause and ponder packing again, but decide it's time for dinner. I chat with Chris and heat up tomato soup with a cheese quesadilla. I wonder whether it's a weird mix. I ask Chris. He says I should eat whatever sounds good to me. I am happy again.

I enjoy my dinner and upload pictures from today. (The girls and I brunched, then watched "He's Just Not That Into You.") I laugh at the video of us singing "Happy Birthday" to Meagan. I laugh especially at the server who catcalls Meagan's name during the song. He "cracks" me up. (Now I'm recalling our funny convo about people who use "quotations" and (parentheses) incorrectly.) I'm still laughing outloud. BTW - Happy (almost) Birthday, "Meagan!"







I've filled up on soup; but my suitcase is still empty. I sigh. I shrug. I glance at the ticking clock. It's 9:55 pm. So here I am again, "packing."

Seattle Sunrise in 2009

I spent the first few weeks of 2009 flying to and from Los Angeles for work. I grudgingly booked early morning flights, but waking up early was well worth the breathtaking view. I'm thankful for airplane rides and the quiet, remarkable moments they provide. They force me to disconnect from the world, reconnect with myself, unwind and take pause on all the blessings in my life!

Living alone sometimes requires a MacGyver-like ingenuity...

Living alone sometimes requires a MacGyver-like ingenuity that I secretly believe I have. I've scaled kitchen counters to reach the wine at the top of the cabinet; I've hammered in nails with sturdy flashlights; and I've sprayed unwelcome spiders with Costco-sized bottles of 409.

Single, self-sufficient, and above all, resourceful, I thought I had conquered all the trials and tribulations of living alone. But just as I started to congratulate myself on my unabashed independence, a run-in with my sneaky, sliding screen door halted my self-adoration.

Like any pale-skinned Seattleite starved for the sun, I jumped at the chance to bask in the warmth of the city's first sunny day. So I threw on my suit, slid on my shades and sprawled my towel out on to the balcony to sunbathe and read.
After an hour of reading about the incestuous antics of the ancient Greeks - whose careless oofing had generated the abnormal hermaphrodite gene (at least according to the book I was reading) - I scooped up my towel and headed back inside.

I jostled the handle of my screen door to slide it open. At the first unsuccessful tug, I knew I was screwed. I pulled at it a few more times before giving into the fact that I was undoubtedly LOCKED out.

But ever the cool detective, I followed my MacGyver like instincts and scoured the balcony for something to jimmy the lock. With nothing metal, long and skinny in sight, I picked up a twig from my half-dead Hyacinth plant. Determined and calm, I stuck that twig somewhere between the door and the wall. Two seconds later, as my twig snapped in half, PANIC struck.

I jolted suddenly back and forth across my balcony, like a rat on crack in a small space. I paced erratically, sneaking peaks at the sidewalk four floors down. Head in my hands and muttering to myself, I cursed the sun for shining and my stupid, sliding screen door for locking me out.

[The Enemy]

I thought about calling out for help, or beckoning someone below to hold out their arms and catch. I even toyed with the idea of tying together my clothes and rappelling down the rainwater pipe; however, the realities of my own coordination got the best of me, and I opted for the less agile solution.

[The rainwater pipe]

After 25 minutes of rash, erratic panic, I soothed my nerves and faced that screen door with a Zen determination. Calm and cool like Karate Kid, I stared down that sliding door, raised my fist, stuck out my nails, and jabbed.

(Ever see Kill Bill II where Uma Thurman punched her way out of the hardwood coffin buried in the ground? Picture that EXACT same scene, but instead of Uma Thurman, think of me; and instead of a hardwood coffin six feet under, imagine a thin, net-like screen.) I stabbed that screen door until I punctured it with my nail. Then I poked my finger through the tiny opening and flipped up the latch that had locked me out in the first place.

[The Wound]

I was SAVED, and after only an hour of plotting and executing my escape. I immediately called Angela to tell her of my harrowing, near-death experience.

Since every story supposedly has a moral, here's what Ive learned from this ordeal:

1. Never lock yourself out on a balcony.
2. ALWAYS give a friend your extra set of keys, especially when you live alone, and despite your alleged MacGyver-like instinct.

While I'm single, young, independent and "resourceful," I've learned that I can't do it all alone. I'll always need someone to tell my stories to, even if my stories are slightly ridiculous and about evil screen doors.

You know you're LOST when...

You know you're LOST when...

• Wednesday nights become the highlight of your week.
• You start a club at work called the LOST Souls, of which you and Rhone are the only official members.
• You set an Alost Clock (LOST talk for alarm clock) to go off when its time to stop drinking at Ohana and race home to watch LOST.
• Friends give you LOST clothes for your birthday and Christmas presents.
• You consider using the numbers 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42 as lucky lottery numbers. (Or you try calling (481) 516-2342 just to get the message: "Your call can not be completed as dialed. Please check the number and dial again.")
• You create a super cool LOST signal, so that fellow SOULS can recognize each other and greet each other appropriately.
• You Google the LOST cinematographer Larry Fong to find his number, then seriously think about calling him to ask if hes your long, LOST uncle.
• You spread the LOST by sharing your season one DVD with everyone.
• You wonder if everything really does happen for a reason.
• Your official response to any comment becomes: "Get LOST."
• And LOSTly, you know you're LOST when you devote an entire blog to a television show and punctuate it with silly puns that only true LOST fans can understand and appreciate.

LOST ROCKS!