But there’s something comfortable about Under The Table. When there’s something on my mind, be it good, bad or ridiculous, I can bring it here and write and say whatever I want. 

And I am truly thankful for that. I am thankful that the Internet gives me this platform, and I appreciate the people who will read what I have to say, no matter how infrequent my postings may be. 

It’s a New Year, a time for setting goals and making resolutions. I’m resolving not to give up. For now, that’s the most I can promise.

Two weeks ago I was at home by myself on a Monday night. My guy and I had talked about going out for pho, and I was waiting to hear from him. While I waited, I cleaned the floors of my apartment and started some laundry. I tried to think of where we should go. Ba Bar? Than Brothers? I thought, I don’t care what we do as long as we get to hang out. I hadn’t seen him in almost a week.

I got a text asking if he could come over. He wanted to talk.

He did. We did … and then it was over.

Maybe making a pie would’ve helped. But there has been no pie. Even though it’s almost Thanksgiving. Even though I’ve had a lot more time to myself lately.

Last night, I again found myself at home alone on a Monday night. I was doing laundry and cleaning the bathroom and the parallels were obvious. Two weeks is no time at all. Two weeks is a lifetime. I am still at the level of being upset, but somehow beyond the ability to cry, or demand that my friends take me out for alcohol and karaoke (yes, that happened.)

So I was at home by myself and my sink was making me crazy. When I visited my 19-year-old brother in Portland last month, I was humbled by his spotless apartment. If my little brother can keep his bathroom that clean without making a fuss about it, then so can I, damn it! Last night I finally busted out the Clorox Disinfecting Wipes and vowed to never let my sink get gross again. I scrubbed the tub and Cloroxed every corner of the room. I even cleaned all the gunk out of my eye pencil sharpener.

The more I cleaned, the less I thought about all the things I want but can’t have right now.

I debated whether I should write about this. I didn’t want to get too personal, but it felt too weird not to write about it. And honestly, it helps me.  I hope, on some level it helps you, too. Even if it’s just a bit of entertainment as you’re avoiding work the day before a holiday.

A holiday for which I am very excited! And just so you know, I did offer to make the pie (this is what I had in mind.) But I lost out to my grandmother. If Grandma calls pie duty, you can’t really fight that.

So there’s no pie to distract me from my life right now, but there’s bourbon for cold nights, gelato from Lisa, lunch with Monica and helping Emely paint her new place while we drank Italian wine from old paper coffee cups (“I detect a hint of mocha on the nose…”)

And now, I have a really clean bathroom. I’m quite happy about that.

Thanks mucho.

When Thanksgiving rolled around that year, I got it in my head that I wanted to make blueberry pie from scratch. (Never mind that blueberries are way out of season in November. There’s a reason why pumpkin and apple pies dominate the holiday.)

Theresa, my pie mentor, may have mentioned this to me early on. In any case, I didn’t listen (I was 13, after all.) I wanted to make blueberry pie. Theresa was a close friend of my then-step-mother and our families got together for Thanksgiving that year. She had more talent and enthusiasm for baking than any other woman I knew, and I was lucky to have her guidance.

The following year my family had shrunk due to divorce, and we celebrated with my Dad’s cousins who were in from California. I made blueberry pie again that year, and everyone was dutifully impressed that I’d made the whole thing from scratch.

I made blueberry pie a few times after that, but it never really became a skill. The truth is, I didn’t really like the pies I made. The crust was spot on, but the filling was soupy and bland.

But now I possess a new level of confidence and curiosity (in the kitchen, and in life.) There are a hundred thousand recipes for blueberry pie out there … maybe it’s time I tried a new one.

The inspiration for this post came from someone else’s obsession with fruit-filled pastry, a blog called Pie-Scream. I found this post in particular rather touching. I hope you’ll enjoy it, too.

Something about Sunday makes me breathe a little bit easier. Even when I have to work, the day still seems designed for chilling out and having some fun. Best case scenario, I’m enjoying oysters and wine with friends, or sushi and cocktails with my man. Worst case scenario I’m lingering in bed, spending way too much time on Twitter and sipping a cup of hot tea. Any and all of these are fine in my book…

But the clouds come back pretty fast and it’s time to start getting cozy – making tea and listening to KEXP and coming up with excuses not to leave the house. But just as you start contemplating a walk to the drugstore for new shampoo, it starts to rain. What? It’s raining?! you think. And then you remember that you are in Seattle. Of course.

This pretty much sums up my Saturday morning. I could spend the whole day wandering around my pocket-sized apartment in my pajamas when the weather is like this. I made some English Breakfast tea in my Auntie Em mug and tuned into KEXP’s all-Jamaican music show Positive Vibrations. I called my little brother (he’s coming to visit!) and received a “Good morning, Lady :-)” text message that made me :-D.

Then Kid Hops, the DJ for Positive Vibrations, said exactly what I was thinking, on air: “I see weather and clouds like this and i just want to keep it slow and deep like this.”

(This is what “slow and deep” sounds like, if you were wondering…)

It’s all part of the formula that lessens the urge to cry, or move to California, when summer goes away. To be a successful Seattleite, one must have an appreciation for the Gray.

By the way, I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately. I’m starting to understand that writing is an activity that tends to flourish in a solitary lifestyle. The last few weeks have been anything but solitary: I spent two weeks looking after three cats, nine days with my mom as a houseguest and I’ve actually been dating someone (hence all the emoticons.)

But I still can’t seem to kick this blogging habit…

But the Seattle Experience as an event ends there. I’m at Caffé Vita today and Capitol Hill is alive with rituals that are so different from Ballard’s. It can be hard to follow a trail of thought if you’re sitting next to the boisterous black man wearing a seersucker jacket, pink shirt and straw fedora. Two handsome men in expensive sunglasses and bold tank tops walk by holding hands.

From the sidewalk tables at Cugini all you see are kids, dogs and fresh produce as young couples and stylish parents browse the Sunday Farmer’s Market.

A few weeks ago I was there enjoying a latté and scribbling in my blue Moleskine notebook:

I love to see what people are wearing on a Sunday. This spot, near the entrance to the Market gives me the perfect vantage point. There are rain boots and clogs and flip-flops. In Ballard accessories, shoes take third place while babies and dogs vie for first. 

“I WANT TO SEE WHAT YOU’RE WRITING.”

The loud, monotone voice of an older woman makes me look up. I open my mouth, not sure what to say and she reads the first sentence out loud.

“I LOVE TO SEE WHAT PEOPLE ARE WEARING.”

I pull my notebook towards my chest. “It’s personal,” I say, “but thanks for your interest.”

“YOU’RE PRETTY,” she says. “THAT’S PERSONAL.”

She walks away. I watch her go, and make eye contact with a man who witnessed it. Is she for real?

“IT’S ALL GREEN, WHAT I’M WEARING,” she calls over her shoulder.

Back on Capitol Hill, the man in seersucker is equally hard to ignore, though he’s not even talking to me. His conversation (with a scrawny, tattooed hipster boy) is about why people are always staring at him. But his aesthetic hardly matters – his deep voice and passionate views dominate the surrounding airspace.

I find him fascinating and inspiring but alas, too distracting. So I pick up my blue Moleskine and move along to another sidewalk table on a quieter street.

Happy Sunday! 

The lawn is scattered with little white flowers and bees are hopping from bud to bud. I wonder where their hive is. I know enough about honeybees to know they will go back and do a ‘waggle dance’ to tell their friends – tens of thousands of them – where the best honey is.

I wonder if Cal Anderson will make the list (and decide that bees must have invented food blogging…)

I like Cal Anderson for sipping an iced peppermint latte and devouring The Accidental Billionaires by Ben Mezrich on a summer Sunday afternoon. The park is busy but quiet, which is nice when I’m by myself.

I don’t mind being alone, but it makes me nostalgic for my all-time favorite Sunday ritual:

In college, my older brother and I were both journalism majors and we both worked for the student paper. We also shared an apartment off campus that was near a Whole Foods and a Starbucks. This ‘Bux location became our place. We would go there on Sunday mornings before our afternoon meetings at the paper.

We would each get a Sunday paper (he usually went for The Arizona Republic, but I preferred The New York Times). We would read quietly, stopping occasionally to share a particularly interesting article or quote. Sometimes we would take a break to talk about family, our classes, or the future of journalism.

Back then my drink was an iced Americano. I loved adding cream to it and watching the white swirl its way into the dark, brown coffee. Eli has almost always been a drip guy, and would order his coffee hot, even in August in Tempe.

I miss those Sundays (and my brother) like the dickens. I’m still looking for my new, perfect Sunday … but until then I have the bees to keep me company.

In Chino Valley (Arizona) we knew a woman named Molly, who had a large swimming hole in her backyard. We called it Molly’s Pond, and a trip there was a real treat in the summer. The water was green and deep and cool, and it had a diving board. Conversely, there were also trips to the loud, bright and likely urine-filled YMCA pool.

While I loved all of that as a kid, I missed out on the whole beach experience. My friend Lisa, on the other hand, is an old pro at it.

So when we went to Madison Park Beach last week, she had all the essentials – beach towel, bikini and a blue two-wheeled Coleman cooler. (Dear Reader, I had none of these things.)

I went all starry-eyed with ideas about what a day-at-the-beach should consist of: beer, sandwiches, socializing and maybe a little sunburn. Well, I ended up with a LOT of sunburn, right in the middle of my back because I was too proud to ask for help putting on sunscreen. (You’d think a fair-skinned Arizona girl would know how to avoid a bad burn…)

But everything else we did and saw that day made the sunburn OK. Lisa enjoyed the people watching, with lots of insight into the Seattle-specific beach culture: including (but not limited to) facial hair, tattoos and pale skin.

The lifeguards (in Baywatch red!) went around saying “I don’t know what’s in your paper bag, but just so you know there’s no alcohol allowed on the beach.”

I thought I was being discreet sipping spiked limeade out of an emptied club soda can, but Lisa was nervous because we were the only ones there with a cooler (which also contained ham-and-cheese sandwiches and grapes, ahem.)  Alas, the red-trunked lifeguard passed us over for two guys with a bottle of somethin’.

I made a Beach playlist for us and by the time Livin’ on a Prayer came around again, we decided we’d had enough sun. It was almost 6 by then, and on our way out we passed Madison Park Conservatory, a restaurant we’ve both been wanting to try. A chalkboard out front informed us we had barely missed their oyster happy hour.

“Oh man, I could totally go for some oysters right now!” Lisa said. We instantly began planning our next trip to the beach, with improvements.

Instead of oysters, we went for trendy/handcrafted/really damn good ice cream at Molly Moon’s. My ginger ice cream was super soft and tried to melt sideways off the cone before I even paid. But it was soooo good – creamy, with chunks of fresh ginger.

I don’t think it’s officially summer until you’ve made at least one trip (on foot, preferably) to get ice cream (with a friend, or lover, or little brother). And you are really going to have to get a sugar cone. I know they are messier, but they are also much more fun.