Pests...I Mean, Pets

When you are single in the city, pets can be the perfect way to combat the occasional loneliness that accompanies urban living. They are warm, welcoming, forgiving companions who don't care that you missed a client's deadline or that you're heartsick from your latest failed non-relationship. They greet you with tails wagging, ready to be loved and love in return, and make you feel like you are the only thing that matters to them.

I wouldn't know about this elusive "companionship," however, because none of the above describes my pests...er, pets.

A typical Seattle evening: I arrive home after work/gym/happy hour, etc. (usually not in that order) and put the key into my apartment door veeeeery quietly so as not to alert Baylor and Macy that I am there. No such luck: both pets are waiting in the entry and I can only get one foot in the door (NOT a euphemism) because Baylor is yipping to go potty and Macy is in crouch position, ready to burst out any tiny opening in the door the moment the opportunity presents itself. Holding my huge purse in front of me as I walk in ("Get back! Get BACK! Macy, no!") I manage to squeeze through without either pet escaping, dropping and tripping on my keys in the process, which causes me to fall onto the dog, who yelps and jumps onto the cat, who growls and dives under my feet where she ALMOST makes it out just before I ALMOST slam the door on her tiny head. Exhausted, I lean against the doorjam and sigh, only to realize I've just crushed my meticulously pressed drycleaning into a wrinkled mess. Welcome home, my ass.

Then it's a mad dash to feed the yowling kitten and change to take the dog out to the park (see previous posts regarding the dubious atmosphere at the Denny Regrade) where I fend off several propositions from particularly unpleasant urban individuals and attempt to work off Baylor's pent-up energy and grant myself a relaxing evening at home. Alas, such is not the case.

Upon returning home I discover that Macy, unhappy about being left behind, has shredded AND ingested portions of several bills I was going to pay, upset my desktop junk box and tried to work through a 6-pack of bagels, the dog food and my Bluetooth. Baylor (not tired at all) immediately races over to her and proceeds to torment her until she gets so upset that she races over to me and jumps on my back to escape. I scream a string of profanities upon feeling her sharp kitten claws opening yesterday's wounds (from a similar incident) and put each pet in a different corner of my apartment for a time out, where they both ignore me and immediately start spatting again. Resigned, I let them have it out while I begin the routine of dinner, internet time, Anderson Cooper (when he can be heard over my shouting - "Baylor, get OFF her!") and finally a shower (blissfully free of pets), from which I emerge to discover both sleepily waiting for me to put them in their respective places in bed and snuggle in to sleep.

Macy's vet bill.

My desktop junk box, unceremoniously dumped by the kitten all over the floor.

After much tossing, turning and reorganizing the animals to give myself a little bit of space in which to rest, we all finally come to comfortable agreement (as long as Macy is nowhere NEAR Baylor) on our sleeping arrangement and I am able to read a chapter of my book with one pet warming my feet and the other purring happily in my ear. Okay, so maybe I've been a little harsh, because this unique companionship between humans and does exist between me and mine - it just takes a while to get there. Even after all the trials and tribulations of the day-to-day with them - the fights, the frustration, the training that is going so poorly, the stress of rushing home to take care of them, the shredded bills and litter everywhere - they both look at me with their warm eyes and sigh contentedly in the nearness of my presence, and I know I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Recessionista

I love the word "recessionista". What is a recessionista, you ask? In my book, it reads something like this:

Recessionista (re-ces-sion-I-sta) - n.: one whose sense of style and consistent desire for chic appearance is undeterred by a failing national economy, limited funds and/or an inability to maintain pace with the latest fashionable trends; a resourceful wardrobe artist.

That would be me.

To be frank, few would call me chic. And those sage, stylish experts in the fashion industry would probably be appalled at my daily wardrobe. It seems I'm always a couple years behind the latest trends (or in many cases, miss the trends entirely). But while I may not be a poster child for the latest side-swept 'do or cleverly arranged neon plastic bangles, I seem to have found a niche of my own personal style in this economy: simple, clean lines, just enough jewelry for interest and a little bit of sass as an accessory. Being a recessionista means it's okay to pull out that sweater from a couple years ago (perhaps a delightful surprise when you discovered you still had it in the first place?) or wear the same jewelry for a whole season. It means you don't scoff at Target shopping or discount stores (especially good ones - hello, Horchow Finale) and you throw your closet doors wide open each day and find a new way to make your forgotten pieces work. And it means you're comfortable enough with your own unique style that you're not always trying to keep up with what's hot right now, because you know that at the end of the day your beauty is IN you AND on you (even if it's a season late).

I think I've been a recessionista my whole life and didn't know it until now. I buy pieces that I LOVE and then love them up in as many ways as possible until they just can't take it anymore. And you know what? I get more compliments on my favorite pieces than anyone I know. I don't want everything I own to be cheap, and I don't need everything I own to be designer or expensive - I just want it to make me feel good. You'll see me walking down the street and you'll know me - not because I'm so trendy, but because when you feel this good? Damn, it shows.

Here Are a Few of My (Least) Favorite Things...

Even on the lowest of days, Julie Andrews never fails to inspire an uplifting song and inevitably a lighter heart. "My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music is the penultimate remedy for a blue day, followed closely by a chick flick and a bowl of popcorn. This week, I need a little Julie Andrews in my life, because I'm feeling particularly sensitive about some of the side effects of our current economic climate. I've had this constant, nagging guilt about my own abundance, like a fly stuck in the living room...I've heard the buzzing, but haven't quite been able to find the source.

A few of my (least) favorite things have been contributing to this:

My Local Real Change Agent
No longer known as My Local Real Change Agent, because last week I introduced myself to the ruddy-faced, jovial homeless man who faithfully stands outside RiteAid each day peddling his $1 leftist local papers, whose name is Frenchi. Each time I stop in the store (an alarming 3 - 4 times a week) he's there, and because I'm obviously not going to buy the paper each time, I wanted to make our greetings more comfortable. However, I've begun to wonder what I could do with the money I'm spending at RiteAid to better serve the less fortunate than I. I give when I can, and contribute monthly to the Market Foundation (supporting local service programs for underprivileged individuals) but when I retire to my warm apartment with my loving pets at the end of one of these trips, I look outside my 2nd story window and see Frenchi standing there in the cold until the store closes for the night, and I have to close my blinds to block the guilt that sweeps in like a strong wind.

Spa Hop
A beautifully built and designed nail salon that opened up 2 weeks after their proudly displayed 08-08-08 grand opening and just before the economy hit the skids, this shop makes me sad each time I pass. Located on the same corner as the transient Belltown Inn and across from the scummy Irish bar (where I'm pretty sure a large homeless contingency spend its meager alms on cheap booze) on 3rd Ave & Blanchard St, this place didn't stand a chance to begin with , and continues to limp along in this distressed time. I noticed they didn't advertise a discount coupon in my ValPak last week, and I'm now concerned about their survival. Every time I walk by to the dog park I see the faithful owners just sitting in an immaculate empty shop, and I vow that my next pedicure will be at this place that so bravely continues with only a few customers to keep them going. And yet...I still haven't been, because I've been giving myself rather lovely pedicures at home, and can't justify the expense.

Telemarketers
I don't even own a home phone anymore; however, that doesn't mean I can't expostulate about this, because the situation goes deeper than the feeling of annoyance from the recipient of a 9PM solicitation phone call. When I do pick up a solicitation call, I am always nice to telemarketers. Always. Why? Because here's the thing: those annoying telemarketers are doing jobs NO ONE WANTS TO DO. Those people are paying bills and providing for families with measly paychecks and a work environment that allows no room for deviation from the script, no room to connect with the customer (even if the customer wanted the services offered) and little personal reward at the end of the day. I don't agree with solicitation calls...that said, I don't think individuals should be blamed for the faults of the system. Because, really? While other Americans who "can't find a job" are collecting unemployment, these individuals go to work as denizens of one of the least respected jobs in this country, and bring groceries home. Perhaps not proudly, but with their own paychecks all the same. The next time you're about to speak rudely to a telemarketer, ask yourself if you would deign to be on the other end of the line...and politely hang up.

I know there's always another side to the story. I know that maybe Frenchi drank himself homeless, and maybe the Spa Hop owners have a large fund somewhere from early investments in a thriving startup and this shop is really a side project, and perhaps telemarketers are lazy, fat low-lifes who hold these pathetic jobs because they've never aspired to more. But I can't help but feel that in our economy, we're all feeling a growing sense of dread about how we're going to fill our basic needs - food, shelter, protection - and my heart goes out to everyone who's trying to do so.

At the end of the day, this is the source of that buzzing guilt: the people who are struggling more than I, and the fact that I can sit here blathering about it online when others can't even afford a cable connection. I don't feel "entitled" to my abundance - I feel fucking lucky. Which makes me wonder when the other shoe is going to drop.

Julie Andrews' silly song continues to lift my spirits on a blue day, only I've taken the liberty to replace "raindrops on roses" and "whiskers on kittens" with "the love of my family" and "abundance in strength". I know, those phrases don't rhyme...but there's truth and strength in those words, and those are some of my favorite things.