Tomorrow- sportin’ the green! Maybe not as much as that time I played an alien android by the name of Largos, but green, all the same.


In other green, greetings and salutations from my bagged banana. It soon met with some peanut butter and oats, welcoming a quickly mashed death as cinnamon sprinkled on.

Nearly burnt my hand off last week. Family was in town visiting from Alaska and I was pulling together the final components for our meal together, when I grabbed the just-from-the-oven pan I’d briefly sat on the counter, with my bare hand. Time slooooooowed dooooown and I had what felt like a kajillion thoughts while still holding onto that sucker.

I have so many oven mitts and pot holders, did they not foresee this event?
This is my work hand.
Why am I not ambidextrous?
I should become ambidextrous.
I am ambidextrous.
When I’m utterly completely and totally in the zone of drawing or painting and have some highly important teeny tiny addition to make, I challenge myself to do it with the other hand, and end up doing so correctly without fail every time.
*knocks on all the wood, but with the other hand, no, not that one*
This reminds me of that game I used to play when I was server.
Hot plates ready to deliver to a table.
Too hot, no tray, held with just my hands.
I’ve established eye contact with the customer, practically breathing on them in proximity.
Nearly screaming internally.
I’m gonna drop this thing.
Fighting reflexes, holding steady.
Glancing up at my reflection in the mirrored glass.
Look at that, I’m smiling, a sneaky minx.
And release, they’re none the wiser.
And I’m a tad stronger in some way, I imagine.
No calluses to boot.

Snapping back to the here and now, did my skin just sear itself to the metal?
Feels like I gotta shake this thing off versus just let go.
*shakes free*
The pan adds insult to injury by bouncing off the dishwasher and banging into my also bare ankle on the way down. I immediately begin running my hand under cold water and did so for about five minutes until the pain of the cold seemed far more than any pain from the hot. Maybe all those thoughts happened after I dropped it, I don’t know. I DO know, that despite occasionally pulling similar bonehead moves, but with not nearly as much skin to hot hot hot metal contact, I’ve inevitably had reddened skin and that kinda almost itchy warm pain that accompanies burns, if not more damage, for days afterwards no matter how long I ran my hand under cold water. I turned off the tap and looked down to find no burnt redness, just cold redness. No pain either. A bit later, nothing on both accounts. And the next day till this, nuttin’. Hooray for imperviousness that night.

Some things I gotta experience in the flesh to believe. ♦

Gettin’ the Job Done

Went to see Hamilton a coupla weeks back or so. King George did well to put the HAM in Hamilton, that’s for sure! Outlandish line delivery. Big laughs with the utterance of just one word, let alone a whole line. Each time he was on stage, Shane blushed and laughed nearly sheepishly as though he were personally responsible for the king’s words. Surely there’s a statute of limitations on these things- Shane came to the U.S. at fifteen, he’s just over double that in age now, he can relax a little, I think. Bean’s seemed to’ve made their home motto “immigrants, we get the job done,” which is fine by me as I subscribe to The White Stripes “white Americans, what? Nothing better to do? Why don’t you kick yourself out? You’re an immigrant too.” My family just got here sooner than some. My dad says we’re linked to those that came over on the Mayflower, but I haven’t found the connection yet. Though my parents surprised me by being quite accurate in relaying my ancestral roots, at least according to last year’s DNA test results. Are those things a crock, I wonder? Still, there were three surprises on there that I wanna know more about.


We stood around on the sidewalk after the show to catch an autograph or two from the cast. The actor playing the king was the first out. He looked into the face of each person whose playbill he signed, but most kept looking down, and just mumbled “thank you.” When he reached me, I looked up brightly with a “cheerio!” realizing instantly that means goodbye. He seemed startled more than anything which wasn’t the effect I was going for- he could’ve countered with a “you say goodbye, I say hello,” but left hanging was I. We left shortly after, as Shane wanted to meet the king, and having done so, Bean was satisfied to pass on the rest of the cast, because despite their splendiferousness, she summed it up in proclaiming it’s not Miranda nor Diggs. I think the bitterly cold wind, an at-home Edie, and a 4-ish a.m. Shane wake up time may’ve had more to do with it.

“Hoopla”Drawing by Christina Wald

Bean’s been uber-obsessed with the play since first laying ears on it, calling me to tell me I needed to buy the soundtrack and learn it (I’d already had it for a week at that point). It may be the thing Edie listened to the most while on her nine month incubated journey. Bean queued up the PBS documentary, Hamilton’s America, when it was first available and had me watch. She was taken with the making of it all, where I was stuck on the admirable idea that Miranda said he was going on vacation and looking for something to read, and chose a Hamilton biography, not the typical person’s choice for a vacation read. I’d receive periodic updates on film clips showcasing Daveed Diggs rapping fast. Then last summer, we were driving home late from seeing a show in downtown Seattle, Gaffigan possibly, and drove by a theatre with Diggs’s name up on the marquee leaving Bean bummed to have missed that he was in town performing.

“Hoopla”Drawing by Christina Wald

I’m conflicted on the following: the show has raked in heaps and heaps of money which is great! Because demand’s been high, the ticket prices have been ridiculously so as well meaning audiences are filled with predominantly rich older white folks, which one could argue is a demographic that could stand to sit, listen, and learn to relate. However, it seems a waste that a cast comprised of many people of color in positions of historical significance should be accessible to the masses through more than classroom field trips, student discounts, and same-day lowered rate performances would allow. Glad to read that Miranda will reprise the title roll next January in Puerto Rico where all that money could help bring an economical boost via tourism for the island. Not that I needed one, as my heart is nearly always affixed to my sleeve except for when served up on a platter, but our newest team member at work is from Puerto Rico and has had her mom who still resides there, living with her here in Tacoma for the last several months due to the continued power outage. Nothing like a first hand account to make struggles all the more real, and to make it all the easier to appreciate efforts to relieve them. ♦

The ad showcased in the featured image is from Broadway’s First Hamilton

Oscar Me This, I’ll Answer You That


Okay, who has an in with the weather department, cuz (there’s that word again) it SNOWED ON MY BIRTHDAY! In addition to Christmas, may I remind.


Checked out the Toytopia exhibit at a local museum, where I met Zoltar (not the Brazilian death metal band), but he had nothing to offer in way of fortunes. Sometime later, Bean walks up to me and presses a card into my hand, “Ya want it?” It’s a slightly crumpled fortune she’s found strewn in among a pile of legos at a nearby table. I waited to read it till late that night. It went on about how happiness (joy is still best) was in store for me, which made me laugh and not in a bitterly scoffing kinda way either. I tucked it under my pillow as a reminder to snap a photo to share in the a.m. when daylight streamed through the window. I remembered to grab the card, but not the photo. How many different fortunes are available? Are there new cards written regularly? Is there someone out there with an extensive card collection? Wonderments.

Here’s my favorite museum companion exploring the sounds of historical messages piped through a black blocky item called a phone receiver. Notice her quick scan for the ‘rents before relishing the tongue bath she gave that germ-laden thing under the aghast gaze of Auntie. The oral fixation is strong with this one.


This ginorm faux Crayola box found at the exhibit has me wanting to paint the box front on a wall in the future.


Crayola to cortado. I dig names with multiple syllables and vowels, what can I say. It’s like a less foamy cousin to my favorite, the cappuccino. Warm liquid buried under mounds of foam. Wait, I just described a sink of dishwater. Snagged this particular cortado before wandering into the adjacent movie theatre the other day to view the last film on the list for this year’s Oscar-nominated Best Picture category. Bean’s been surprisingly big on trying to fit them all in, whereas, I’m like, “Hey, can I just hang out with Edie?” Maybe I’ll return to my fevered run (drive) around Washington to see all things nominated in the coming year. I definitely miss aspects of it. Fun fact: every time I say the word “coffee,” Edie coughs.

“Hey, Bun, I’m gonna make some coffee, let’s go to the kitchen.” *cough-cough*
“Shane, do you have any creamer for the coffee?” *cough-cough from a nearby room*
“Did you hear that, you think she did that intentionally? Say ‘coffee’.” *cough-cough from a nearby room*

I thought I’d find myself rooting for The Shape of Water given a number of components- the director, the retro time period and accompanying aesthetic (!), an unusual love story, Michael Shannon, but, no. It felt empty somehow, the love story wasn’t given enough time to get off the ground (outta the water?) and served up a few unnecessarily harsh and clinical sex scenes likely meant to juxtapose the tenderness to follow, but the intent fell flat, instead marring the fantasy of it all. I favor Darkest Hour and the touching and quirky Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri which had surprising heart with humanly flawed characters that weren’t afraid to confront their failings, share their remorse, and attempt amends. World, take note, blueprint for life! I’ll likely be thrilled if Get Out wins, though I’m not championing it at the moment despite a rewatch. Phantom Thread was worth the wait of its slow unfold in the summation of one deliciously satisfying line and action at the very end. It produced gleeful delight on my part! It’s nice to be surprised in the theatre. ♦