Brrrrrr

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Fudgecicle.

Yes, that would be me.

When I was young and senseless, the igloos my grandfather built me in our backyard highlighted my winters. I prayed for snow days—when the city, especially the schools, shut down. Running to the mailbox barefoot and jammied? Shoes and jackets were so highly overrated.

Then I moved to Southern California.

Before I knew it, anything less than 80 was unbearable.

This morning I awoke to my first Seattle frost. The vision of the white blanketed lake shore was amazing. I pulled my bathrobe tighter. My boogers frosted over in sympathy.

Believe it or not, dozens of foolhardy souls were out there jogging off their Thanksgiving dinners. Goosebumps blossomed all over my body and I let loose with a sympathetic shiver for which there’s only one effective remedy (well, there is another, but you’ll have to pay it alimony if you keep it too long). The prescription?

COFFEE!

Thank goodness for all the cafes that dot the Seattle landscape. I’ve never really been a fan of the stuff. To me, coffee was always about two things: what you put in it and what pastries you wash down with it. I’ve now added a third: who serves it.

Cream with a little coffee flavor at Convivial Cafe on Mercer Island is heaven—especially when it follows their pain au chocolat. I could do these every single morning. But then I’d have to be one of those damn fools out there running on the parkway to work it off.

My second favorite coffee shop is right around the corner — Caffe Vita in Seward Park. They serve a make-you-wanna-slap-yo-momma oat milk latte that’s to die for. No running required.

As a baristas go, who really notices? Uh, if they’re hot, topless, hunks, I do. I honestly don’t remember what was on the menu at Dreamboyz Espresso in Capitol Hill. My eyes were otherwise occupied and my mouth was busy disguising its deluge of drool. I’ll have to go back and check the (ahem) menu for you. Again.

Gee…I’m feeling warmer already.

Falling

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Autumn is, by far, my favorite season of the year. From her first course, her cool crisp mornings, to that last bite of Thanksgiving dessert, she’s a feast for all of our senses.

Meticulously, my grandpa raked the brown-orange-yellow-red ‘clutter’ marring the beauty of his pride and joy. The lush green carpet that surrounded our midwestern home was indeed the most beautiful on the block, a testament to his patience and skill. Then—when the pile was just right—I burst from the front door, took a flying leap into the pile and exploded from its center; leaves scattered everywhere. Yes, he was a tad annoyed, but his laughter masked it well. This was one of our—okay, my—favorite games.

Alas, decades later, I contracted a bad case of adulthood. I moved to Southern California, where Mother Nature was rather stingy with her makeup and man plastered what little natural beauty there was with cement. The only time her trees displayed the blazing colors of my youth was during fire season—when they were literally ablaze.

Now, on this beautiful autumn day 30-odd years later, I’m again living the splendor many only experience on the cover of a Hallmark Thanksgiving card. The sky is clear, blue and barely dotted with uclouds. The sun is happy and bright. There’s a sharp chill in the October air.

And the trees are splendiferous!

Do You Know the Way to…Uh-Oh

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“In 500 feet turn left.”

Okay. We were off to a good start. This was the day of my automotive emancipation! Until now, Lyft was my best friend. But we’re breaking up; time to re-establish my relationship with my four-wheel boy toy, Dietre, and get to know my new city. Last week, the first address I entered in his memory was Candice’s salon. Today I was meeting my daughter there for some mom-and-me bonding beneath the dryers.

“Now, turn left.”

Uh, wait. That’s the drive into the park. Maybe I missed the correct turn. I decided to just keep going. Navigation would correct me.

“Prepare to turn right. In 500 feet turn right and immediately turn right…Now turn right.”

Why were we going all the way back to the house? Is there only one way out of this place? Or did you forget something, Dietre? His engine gently chuckled at my little joke.

“Proceed along the designated route. In 500 feet, turn left.”

Been here, done that. Oh! This must be the street I missed the first time. Great! I breathed a sigh of relief and cranked up The Boss. The Streets of Philadelphia have nothing on the streets of Seattle.

“Proceed along the designated route for 8.6 miles.”

Hmm…this didn’t look familiar at all. I didn’t remember all those office buildings. And where was the lake? Maybe this was a shortcut, I thought. RouteGuidanceMan knows where we’re going. Unlike his in-the-flesh counterpart who forever fails to ask for directions—I was certain I could put my faith in my expensive electronic gigolo.

“In 500 feet, make a slight right.”

The drive seemed much shorter from the backseat of the Lyft. My daughter’s call interrupted my concern.

“Mom, where are you?” Uh, in the car. She was far less appreciative of my humor than was Dietre.

“Are you at least on Rainier?” I glanced at the screen. Yup. Route guidance said I was indeed on Rainier. I assured her I’d be there in a bit.

“In 500 feet, turn right…Now turn right.”

“Your destination is on the left.”

WHAT THE F*CK! NO! MY DESTINATION IS NOT ON THE LEFT! WHAT’S UP WITH ALL THESE BIG BUILDINGS? AND THESE RAILROAD TRACKS? WHERE’S CANDICE’S LITTLE SALON? WHERE ARE THE BLACK PEOPLE? WHERE AM I?

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!

The phone rang again.

“Mom, you should have been here by now. Where are you?”

“I have no clue,” I snurfled. “Hold on; here’s a sign. It says I’m in Little Saigon. I think I’m lost!”

I double-checked the salon’s address. Yup, I entered it correctly.

“Mom (long sigh). Did you enter Rainier Ave or Rainier Ave S. There’s a difference. That ‘S’ is not silent; it’s uh, important.”

Well, once again, a man failed to ask direction. RouteGuidanceMan never asked. Oy…

Welcome to the big city, small town girl…

No Such Thing As Bad Hair? Here, Hold My Comb

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My stylist struggled to keep her grip on my hair as I rolled from her chair and melted into a puddle of tears. Kinky hair and a sensitive scalp makes for an ugly combination.

“We need to create a product that anesthetizes your head so you don’t feel the knots. We can it Numbskull or something. This fricken hurts.”

I snurfled and wiped away the snot creeping toward my lip.

“We should!” And this sadist-with-a-wide-tooth-comb continued her torture. Je’nyce has experienced the performance of my inner toddler drama diva for over a decade now. She knows the script.

“I’m almost done. Just a few more tangles,” she lied.

She’s an artist with my braids—the best. So, every few weeks for more than a decade we’ve done our dance. Good stylists with black hair expertise are as rare as the proverbial needle. When you find one, you latch on like white on rice. And Je’nyce is one of the best.

As a black woman, at the top of your must-do list when you move is finding a new hairdresser. ‘The hairs’ are all-important. After my firstborn moved to Seattle, she flew back to her regular stylist in New York for months before she found a local one she liked.

But I’m a frugal, penny-pinching accountant. Seattle to Simi salon schleps ain’t happening. I briefly considered returning to my bold and bald look, but now that I’m also mammary-challenged, being mistaken for a man would yield a very negative result. Orange jumpsuits are so not my look.

“Mom, I’m going to be out of the country next week. Why don’t you take my hair appointment and try my stylist, Candice. She doesn’t do braids, but you could really rock some dreadlocks. Talk to her about it.”

So, for the next four days Lilli and Bernie were the only audience for my one woman show, as I cut, plucked, de-tangled—and rolled on the sofa, screaming in agony. At one point, Lilli threw her head back and howled in operatic sympathy.

But I was determined to make a good first impression. Technically, Candice wasn’t taking new customers, but she agreed to consider an exception, as both my girls are clients. Maybe if I got all the cockleburs out myself, I could avoid scaring the crap out of her—and she’d keep me.

So, yesterday I showed up looking like Buckwheat—on a bad hair day. Every clump of wool on my head betrayed me by choosing a different direction and following it determinedly, as if wired into place. This was not going to be pretty.

“I’m so glad you’re here! Take off your scarf and let’s see what we’re working with. Any idea what you want to do?” It was a cheerful song, but I swear I detected barely masked terror in her eyes as I revealed my ‘do’.

“I have to warn you; I’m really tender-headed.” My peremptory apology. A heads-up was only fair before she and her hairbrush ventured into the jungle on my head. As I grimaced and rolled off the edge of the chair and onto the floor, she laughed.

“Just like your daughters!”

Item 1: Find a hairdresser. Done!

Continue reading “No Such Thing As Bad Hair? Here, Hold My Comb” →

Welcome To Seattle

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“Hey, lady, I love your dogs!”

And as fast as he’d appeared, our admirer sped away—well, as fast as his bright orange trainer wheels could carry him.

On scheduled Sundays from May through September, Seattle closes a portion of Lake Washington Boulevard to motorized vehicle traffic. On Bicycle Sunday, families—on bikes, skates and on foot—come out to enjoy the beauty of our lake and the surrounding parks. Sunshine is a rare commodity here—everyone comes out to soak it in while they can.

Bright white boats—of various sizes and shapes—abound, dotting the shimmering azure waters. Picnic blankets decorate the lush green shores. Blackberry bushes line the walkways.

But this visual feast is for humans; Lilli and Bernie have a different interest: the huge flocks of waterfowl—and the little nuggets they drop.

“Mmmm, duck—no, wait, goose—poop mellow, woodsy, full bouquet with just a hint of wild blackberry…”

Dogs—even spoiled rotten ones who mistake themselves for humans—will be dogs.

As I relaxed in the garden the other day, our neighbor came out onto his balcony.

“Hi, I’m John! You must be Adrienne’s sister!”

Immediately, I love this liar.

“Welcome to Seattle! Hope you’re enjoying it. My wife’s on her way over with a little gift. You like Asian pears? Our tree is producing like crazy!”

John and Linda were some of the earliest homeowners in the neighborhood. Later, over coffee—and the tart I made from her pears—Linda gave me the history of the ranch and our home’s chapter in that history. She was only too happy to also share the community’s must-knows and just a pinch or two of local gossip.

I’m loving this city and the people who call it home. Each time some stranger smiles and greets me on the street or drivers brake so this bumbling newcomer can merge into traffic, I’m thankful the universe led me here.

And I’m looking forward to sharing with you my adventures as I learn my new home.

Stay tuned…

Continue reading “Welcome To Seattle” →

I’ll Hold It, Thanks

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I truly envy men.

It’s not because of their physical strength (and the damn metabolisms that allow them to stuff their faces with tacos and beer without gaining a pound).

Nor is it that, on average, they make more money over their lifetimes than we do. After all, how many pairs of Choos does a woman need?

It doesn’t even bother me they can parade their nipples in public unarrested (admittedly, though, some should at least consider a bra— or tassels).

Nope, none of those.

What really turns me jalapeño green with jealousy is:

The world is their toilet.

One of my big concerns regarding our three-day Pacific Northwest road trip was making sure my Dachshunds—Lilli and Bernie—had ample opportunity to take care of their business en route.

And boy did Bernie handle it. He lifted his stubby little leg and christened every hydrant, fence post, tree, shrub and tall blade of grass up Highway 5. Most of California, Oregon and Washington he claimed in the name of the king of Bernieland.

Lilli, on the other paw, not so much so.

But, as a crazy publicrestroomophobe, I understood. The fear someone else’s bootycooties would permeate multiple layers of seat covers and give me something itchy and oozy scared me—uh, crapless.

Thank goodness my trainer Steve tortured me with all those damn squats…

At each of our stops along the way, Ms Lilli circled and sniffed and circled again. And again. Then she’d look at me with those eyes that said: “uh, no, I don’t think so.”

Not until we’d settled into our pet-friendly five-star Napa hotel did she find a patootie-worthy spot to do her thing. My fears she would explode were allayed.

The next leg of our trip was a long one—over ten hours. But, once again, the princess ran dry at each stop—until we checked into our Portland digs. Even then she shopped for the perfect potty place, the one with the breathtaking river view.

I really have to laud her self-control (and admire her taste in restrooms). She’s a better woman than me.

But to be able to just point and shoot anytime anywhere…

Damn I’m jealous.

But I Might Need That Someday!

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“Paula, please. I understand how much you love your hot pink suede bell bottoms. I hear you. But you haven’t worn them in nearly 50 years! Let someone else enjoy them as much as you did.”

My hoochie-mama pants had seen a lot of fun during my freshman year at Purdue. My eyes misted and I licked away the tear that meandered down my cheek as Terry wrested them from my death grip and unceremoniously tossed them onto the donation pile.

I turned my head and pretended not to hear them scream as they pleaded for their rescue. After all, once I lost a few pounds…

For the last decade, Terry Marvin has been my public relations pro. It’s she who muzzles my mouth in public, slaps my fingers online and makes certain I don’t trip over that best foot I put forward. But today, she’s just my friend—exhibiting the backbone I lack as I exorcise decades of accumulated prized possessions.

Okay, junk.

“What about these books? Do you really want to pay movers to ship hundreds of books you’ve already read?”

Ouch! She found my Achilles heel and drove her wicked spear through it. I’m an accountant, a very cheap, er frugal, accountant—with a wallet in the space normally reserved for a heart. I watch my dimes.

“Give someone else a chance to read them—and save yourself some money.”

But it never fails. The moment I discard something, damned if I don’t need it again. What if something happens and I no longer have my stuff?

Like my wig, my Afro. When I underwent chemotherapy during my first battle with breast cancer, one of my wigs was the most glorious Angela Davis-inspired ‘fro. The coils bounced shoulder-to-shoulder; her golden highlights glistened in the sun. But soon my own hair grew back. After years languishing in a box in the back of the closet, she finally found a home with another survivor. Not six months later, my Rotary club threw a 70s-themed party. Couldn’t squeeze BerthaButt into my hot pink suede bell bottoms—and I needed my damn ‘fro! Alas…

Parting with your ‘stuff’ is hard, but you have to do it. I tried the whole ‘does it give you joy’ routine. Hell! It all gives me joy! That’s why I bought it in the first place!

Humbled that I’d flunked that, I took a different route. I imagined what my kids would do with my crap when I croaked. That made it a lot easier. Minimalists both, my daughters would trash my ‘treasures’ in a heartbeat. Damn kids.

Then they’d fight over the tax write-offs.

So, somewhere out there some hippie used-to-be is reliving her youth in my special occasion dashiki while playing with the zipper on my Sticky Fingers album cover (I was never impressed with the imprint in those tightie-whities underneath anyway).

And I hope she’s making good use of my non-stick ‘brownie’ pan.

And my bong.

And my hot pink suede bell-bottoms.

Run for Your Life!

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“Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen; nobody knows my sorrow…”

You know how it goes: we work; we retire; we croak. And that’s all, folks!

Well, maybe. Or maybe not…

“Do I need to lay in a supply of marshmallows to roast on the cross that’ll be burning on my front lawn?”

My little joke was only half-hearted. I’d heard a lot about Simi Valley. That my hubs and I resembled a Hershey kiss/Pillsbury dough boy combo might rile the rumored local hood-wearing population. I didn’t want to be responsible for a yet another Southern California wildfire.

As it turns out, my fears were unfounded. Despite the fact it’s one of the few remaining red enclaves in blue California, Simi Valley was, in reality, a wonderful community of caring people. It’s here I established a business that flourished beyond what I could have accomplished in neighboring Los Angeles. Yes, I often worked 60 to 80 hour weeks, but it was a good life.

But now, thirty years and one ‘wasband’ later, my thoughts turned to the fact I was nearing retirement.

Like most people, I identified myself as my profession. First words out of my mouth when I was introduced: “I’m a tax accountant.” But what happens when I retire, when I no longer have that descriptor? With no profession do I become a…nothing?

Uh, not me! I decided to insert a new chapter in the Book of Paula–Life. So, I took my firm digital, sold my home, packed my crap and moved–to Seattle! Of course, some day I will actually retire. But when I do, my career will be what I did for a living; it will no longer be who I am.

This blog chronicles my relocation–and the creation of my next chapter. My hope is it will inspire you to get out of that ditch in which culture and tradition have buried you. After your years of bondage to family and career, I’ll be your wingwoman, helping you escape to a life in which you can enjoy all you’ve worked so hard and so long for.

And if you join me in Seattle, so much the better.

TO FREEDOM!!