Category Archives: real life

Wild mood swings

I sent two email replies I shouldn’t have sent yesterday. Even while writing them, I knew it was a bad idea. The tone was wrong — off, somehow. It didn’t sound like, well, like me. I didn’t even know why I was choosing to write the words I was writing, and I knew I shouldn’t have sent either one. And then when I re-read them, hours later, I realized it:

I was miserable yesterday, and I wanted everyone I communicated with to be miserable too.

And that’s not the kind of person I want to be, even though I know sometimes it’s inevitable. The past few weeks have been a terrifying roller coaster ride of highs and lows. Elation at having friends around me for four days of Birthday/Bumbershoot awesomeness, coupled by the truth that it’s supremely fucking unfair that I get to celebrate another year alive when someone I love so much can’t.

Some days I wake up and I feel great, and I’m remembering a million amazing things about Candice, and I get up ready to spread SO MUCH love everywhere, and other days I just want to stay in bed and cry for all the lost moments. And then I think of how everyone else who loves her and misses her is feeling the same way, and I just crumble.

And then there all the lasts. The last time I went shopping with her, the last time I got a text from her, the last time I hugged her, the last time she was at my house. The last, the last, the last. The lasts are the hardest, because, depending on what side of the coaster I’m on, I can think of them as these great memories, a celebration of the time I got to spend with her (such as, the last time she made me laugh so hard I blew beer out my nose – true story), or I can think of them as final, knowing there won’t be any more.

And this is grief, right? This is how it goes. I’m not wholly unfamiliar with it, it’s just been a bit buffered for me before, so this time feels even more raw.

I’ve started writing about Candice so many times, and I’ve put it off and off and off. Because writing about her makes it more real, somehow. But tomorrow is her memorial, and writing is how I work things out, and boy howdy do I need to work some things out. The hows and whys of her leaving us are all jumbled up in my heart and some days I still wake up thinking it was a dream and that she’s still here.

Candice Bailey, I still cannot believe you are gone. Every day without you hurts. But I’m so fucking grateful I knew you and loved you, and so fucking grateful I love and know Joe. And I promise you I will try really, really hard to be happy, and share that happiness, and help people whenever they need it, and hold my friends close, and tell them I love them, and value every single second of every single day. Just like you did.

And when I feel myself going down that roller coaster again on the wrong, terrifying side, I will smile. I will put on a fabulous retro dress, call someone, and make fun all-day plans involving French macaroons and St. Germaine.

Love you forever, girl.



Dive Bar Memories: why I’ll miss The Canterbury when it closes

Canterbury Pirate


There have been rumors for a while, but last month, the Capitol Hill Seattle Blog posted that The Canterbury would be closing at the end of the year for SURE. *sob*

After living for over 10 years in a horrifyingly depressing apartment just south of Everett (where my car got stolen not once, but twice), my roommate and I made a pact to save money and get ourselves the hell out of the ‘burbs and back into the city. Because OHMYGOD THE CITY. We lucked out and found a cheap’ish apartment on 19th & Roy, which just happened to be the perfect stumbling distance from The Canterbury on 15th.

It didn’t take long before The Canterbury was my home as much as my apartment was.  Sticky, dark, and (loosely) Medieval-themed with mismatched chairs and tables, it was the perfect place to drink yourself silly, soak up the booze with a greasy cheeseburger and a giant plate of fries—and then start all over again. For the five years that I lived in that apartment, it was where I planted myself at least 2-3 times a week. Continue reading

Being an only child is weird, sometimes

Lite-Brite, hell yeah!

The other day, my boyfriend was relating a story about how he and his sister would purposely flood the sidewalk in front of their house so they could create a puddle to drift their Big Wheel across, and I said, “Oh man. Sometimes I wish I had a brother or sister so I had stories like that.

I had cousins, sure (lots of them, actually), and because our families were close, I spent a lot of time with them. But it’s not quite the same. I love the memories I have with them, when you’re an only child, you’re the only non-adult living in your house, and as much as mom and dad love you, they don’t want to spend hours watching you construct complicated Lego cities or elaborate scenarios involving Mr. Potato head. They also don’t want to see you blow up your plastic Death Star (that they paid a LOT of money for), or watch Han Solo punch Ken in the face so he can take out not 1, but 3, different Barbies for the evening.

Was I spoiled? Sure. As an only kid, I definitely reaped the benefits of getting pretty much everything I wanted—within reason. My dad refused to buy me Guess jeans, Nike shoes, and other designer clothes because I didn’t need them. (He was right, I totally didn’t.) But as far as toys went, the only thing I remember being denied was the Millennium Falcon because it was just a little too much money for a hunk of plastic that I would probably destroy by slamming it over and over into the sliding glass door.  Continue reading

So this one time, on an airplane, I met Morris Day

(Unfortunately the only photo evidence I have of this encounter died with the harddrive it was on years ago, as it was pre-smartphone technology.) 

It is 9:30 in the morning and I’m on an Alaska Air flight from San Diego to Seattle with my aunt. Shortly after we take off, I notice that one of the flight attendants is bringing First Class goods back into the regular cabin. (My aunt and I are sitting in the third row back.) After the third total giggle fit, I look up and notice her smiling and flirting with a group of gentlemen—one of which looks insanely familiar. The flight attendant asks if they need drinks, and I hear the familiar-looking guy say, “Do you have any Courvoisier, sweetheart?” (I SWEAR TO YOU I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP). And that’s when I realize it. Holycrap. Is that? I think it is. THAT! Is! Morris! Day!

I turn to my aunt to whisper this exciting news, but of course, she doesn’t know who the hell I’m talking about it. Trying to keep it cool, so under my breath I’m like, “Morris Day! And the Time! You know, The Time? Jungle Love? The Oak Tree?? THE BIRD???  The motherfucking TIME. How do you not know this?” Continue reading

Men Who Hate Women

Too bad I didn’t have this WW crown when I was working there. I could have summoned my inner Amazonian and kicked his ASS!

{Apologies to Stieg Larsson for borrowing his original book title}

I’ve had my mind on comics and comic book stores a lot lately, and so I’ve been thinking about the BEST job I ever had, ever. But because of one guy, it was also one of the most horrible workplace environments, ever.

In the mid-90s, I took a second job at a comic book/collectibles store to make extra money, and to try to forget about how bad my once-awesome-but-now-terribly-corporate video store job had gotten. I used to buy my comics there, and had discussed my rampant Clive Barker obsession with the owner several times, as he always seemed to have several signed books, figurines, etc. (as I found out later, he was good friends with Clive! SCORE). So, when I mentioned that I was looking for something part-time, he thought it would be awesome to have a chick working there who knew her stuff. It was a quick hire. I don’t even remember an interview, really. I had become so chummy with most of the staff that they already knew and liked me.

All of them I guess, except one.

For the purposes of this story, I will just call him “Dick.” It seems appropriate.

Dick had relocated to the fair city of Lynnwood from some small town in the mid-West, and as I came to find out, hated women. Not just a little, a lot. Or maybe it was just me? I guess I never quite figured it out. In any case, Dick was polite and accommodating when other employees or the manager/owner was around, but as soon as we were the only two in the store, he would have me do the most insane things, backed up with the excuse that “the owner” wanted it done. Continue reading

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