Archive | August, 2010

Rand and I just flew into Seattle last night (boy are our arms etc., etc.) after a few days in San Francisco. It was a brief, crazy, somewhat exhausting trip (adjectives which could have been avoided,  but, like all our travels, our discomfort is self-inflicted). It was, nevertheless wonderful, and you will hear all about it next week.

In the meantime, enjoy things I found on the internet.


Apparently Muhammad Ali had an exchange with a flight attendant back in his heyday. She told him to put on his seatbelt, to which he replied, “Superman don’t need no seatbelt.” Her answer?

“Superman don’t need no airplane, either.”



Folks, can I take a minute to praise the French? (Note: I have never been to France). They are responsible for such wonderful things as croissants, Pasteurization, and taking the entire month of August off for vacation.

A lovely people, indeed.

The French are also repsonsible for coining a term without which I would be seriously concerned for my mental well-being. But because the French have given something I experience on a near-daily basis a proper name I no longer feel alone in my crazy.


Yes, sir! And may I say, you can go fuck yourself as well!

"Yes, sir! And may I say, you can go fuck yourself as well!"


I just finished reading The Devil Wears Prada. I wasn’t all that impressed, by either the book itself or the supposedly heinous things that Andy, the protagonist, had to do to keep her high-powered boss, Miranda, happy. Most of the time, I simply furrowed my brow and wondered what all the fuss was about. Because while most execs are a bit nicer about it, the requests made of Andy were not, to my ears, unreasonable at all. The insane (and insanely specific) requests, the attention to detail, the frenzy to get it all done, even the temper tantrums, were not new to me in any way.

Because, dear readers, in a previous life? I was an executive assistant. And man, do I have stories. Reading Prada got me thinking of some of the things that I (or the senior assistants under whom I worked, if there were any) had to do in the name of executive travel.


A few weeks back Rand and I were having a conversation with our friend Rob, who happens to be from England. The exchange went something like this:

Rob: Bob’s your uncle! Codswallup! Bangers and mash! BLAH BLAH BLAH HOGWARTS.

Me: I have no idea what you’re talking about. Speak American, please.

Rob: Ahem … Did you know that up until the 1950s or 60s, the U.K. had non-decimal money? So we’d have coins for seemingly random amounts.

Me: (open-handedly slapping Rob across the face) Don’t lie to me, boy.

I swear, it happened just like that. Except for the parts that didn’t. Anyway, the important part is that Rob claimed the U.K. had non-decimal currency. Meaning that the values of coins weren’t based on the pound being divided into 100 equal parts. Instead, he explained, the pound had been divided into 240 pence.


I remember the day Kurt Cobain died. I was about to head to drama practice, wearing green sailor shorts, a black shirt (which still resides in my closet, despite being waaaay too small. I can’t bear to throw it away), and a little green vest. Kurt Loder broke the news on MTv. I distinctly remember thinking: Christine is going to be bummed.

The other girls would show up to rehearsal later, wearing all black. One carried a huge sunflower. They explained that they were in mourning (What? They were drama geeks. How could they not be melodramatic?) The director spent some time talking to us about depression or suicide. I don’t really remember what she said.

Recently, a friend of mine told me that she, too, remembered Kurt Cobain’s death, because it was the day she first arrived in Seattle. Everywhere, candlelight vigils were held, and she had no idea what the hell was going on.

People of my mother’s generation remember where they were when Kennedy was assasinated. She was on her way back from school. When she found out the news, she sat down by the side of the road and cried.

For us? It was Kurt Cobain. I realize that perhaps his suicide probably shouldn’t be on par with the assasination of a president. But it’s what we had, and what we embraced. It’s why I keep the black shirt that’s way to small.


I just wrote that it was 2007 in the title of this post. I changed it, but seriously, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? I do this all the time.

Also, if someone wants to discuss how it isn’t really mid-August, and this is just some weird conspiracy, I would be totally okay with that. I spent the morning looking at winter boots. WINTER BOOTS. Gah. Nevermind. Let’s talk about cool stuff I found on the internet instead of my own mortality …


Apparently Han Solo wasn’t supposed to die halfway through Jedi. But after his action figure sold like mad, Lucas decided not to axe any of the principals. Thank god. (via @mobilelawyer)


Dear Seattle Center;

Okay, I admit it: I’m officially worried about you. This post was going to be another Dick Move!, but when I started to consider things a little more, I switched gears from “blinded by rage” to “concerned about your well-being.”

Seriously, we need to talk.

Have you completely given up?

Because it’s starting to feel like it. When I visited back in the spring with Desiree, I had hoped that the things I witnessed (cranky personnel, jacked-up prices, and a general air of pure hate for mankind) were simply a phase you were going through. I mean, you have gone through phases. Remember this? Or the time you thought you should go back to your original color? Sigh. But we got through that together, didn’t we?

I figured, the next time I see Seattle Center, it will be cheerful and upbeat and back to its old tricks. But that wasn’t the case.

I once again had out-of-town visitors (including Katie and my poor, easily-corrupted cousin) and since none of them had ever visited the Space Needle, it seemed like an obvious excursion. Why? Because people LOVE you, Space Needle. And for some reason, you think that it gives you license to suck.


Note: My legal team has advised me to put a disclaimer at the beginning of this blog post, so here it is – this entry is in no way an admission of guilt, nor can it be admissible in court, because, um … it’s heresy or something. No, that’s not it. Oh, yeah, I remember – it’s a work of fiction. Yup. If anyone asks, this is fiction. Also, those counterfeit Louis Vuitton handbags? I’m totally NOT planning on selling them on eBay. That is all.)

Have I mentioned how good I am?

I mean, technically good?

As in, I rarely ever, every break the law? In that respect, I’m an angel. By all other definitions, I’m basically on par with people who eat puppies and talk during movies (Quiz time: guess which of those activities I do regularly!). But that’s beside the point – as far as the state of Washington is concerned, I’m hardly evil at all.

At least, I was. Until tonight. Because tonight, in my very own home, a law was broken.