rain

After a few days of drizzle in Seattle, I'm craving the cozy lull of a steady rain. Sunshine is always welcome, but on these fall days, when the air is so dry your nose bleeds, a brief shower would make the bright sky a bit more bearable for those of us who like to stay bleary eyed for a few minutes following an afternoon nap.

The best recorded rain I have ever found. Deconstructed and full of life. NYT

What is a body shop?

When I was 10 this was an acceptable question, but I never asked. These sorts of unanswered questions generally lead to embarrassment sooner or later, or today.
After the hulabaloo of actually changing the tire (props to Em H for battling the headache and enduring my over-zealousness) the doughnut is flat. The flat doughnut is driven at 10 mph to 7-11 (props again to Em H for flipping off those who honked at us, even if it was dark). The doughnut is filled, and all the others. I don't lose any small tire tube caps; success.
"Let's just drop it at the shop," I say as if I know what I'm doing. Em H follows me, we drop the car in the dark, I call and leave a message.
"Hi, my name is ****Paraproject****, I left my car in your lot. It has the doughnut on, need the tire changed, I'll be by in the morning."
Morning: Cold, snowy, I arrive at the shop. Walk in the door expecting to see Click and Clack from car talk, and I'm not far off. Unfortunately, as I struggle to release my key from its ring, Don informs me (me, awkward and confused enough in the closet sized office) that they don't do tires.
"Oh, where..."
"Discount Tire. Take a right on 8th Street. We're a body shop" He says. (Does this happen often?)
"Yeah, this is my first flat... Do you do windshields?" Yes, that's broken as well.
"No, but I'll tell you who's the best. Precise Glass." He writes the name and number in all caps on a hot pink post-it. I laugh.
"Great, great." It clearly says Don's Auto Body outside, I guess that means something other than, "we fix cars." "Ok," I say as I take the post-it, smile awkwardly, and let out a self-depricating sigh. "I guess I'll be back when I need... something else! Haha!" Inside voice, I remind myself, and hustle back out into the cold to the tire shop, which is different than the windshield shop. I also saw a brake shop. Easy. Now to understand the Grease Monkey...

joni

For the courageous, the hopeful, the beautiful, and the circle game. Happy Birthday, Joni Mitchell.

Canvass

This is a message for everyone who opened a door to see a canvasser this year.

Canvassing is tough. The day is long, and mostly filled with the disappointed repetition of checking the "not home" box. It takes focus to remember to stay off the grass and look both ways; focus that is usually used up checking inside fences for warned of dogs and figuring out how to work the gate. Does the doorbell work? Is that cat judging me? Michael Perez answers. Perez? He looks Swedish. Am I at the right house?
"Hi, my name is Liz; I'm from the Obama campaign. Are you (check clipboard furiously) Michael?"
"No."
"Oh, is Michael here?"
"Who?"
"Michael?"
"Michael doesn't live here anymore."
"Oh." Pause to wonder why Michael moved out, or if he is still living, or in prison. "Do you know if he's planning on voting this year?"
"I don't know."
"Oh. Are you planning on voting?" Have I ever been good at small talk? No.
"Yes." Sly smile. I think about how many similar, unfriendly smiles I've seen today.
"Do you mind, can I, have you decided, who are you planning on supporting?"
"Who do you think?" People love this game.
"I don't know." Nervously, "McCain?" By this time I should have started guessing something to lighten the mood, like George Bush or Osama bin Ladin.
"You got it."
"Any way I can change your mind?"
"Nope."
"Ok, thanks." Spineless.

Not bad, but not ideal. Next house. My tongue is warmed up, here we go.

I can smell cigarettes off the plywood of the door. Deer in the headlights sets in as I suddenly see the black helmet hair and eye liner before me.
"Hi, are you Pamela?"
"Yeah."
"I'm Liz from the Obama campaign. Are you planning on supporting Senator Obama this year?"
"Obama is the fucking anti-Christ." She takes a step forward (deer in the headlights) turns back, and the door slams.
"Thanks." God, are you there? It's me, Bambi.

Shuffle down to 4545. Shell-shocked, a battle weary soldier. Push the doorbell, sunglasses off, smile on, somehow. Hmmm... there's a lot of trash in this yard. Face, long hair, nose, your teeth are really far apart.
"Hi, are you Barbara?"
"Yes!"
"I'm Liz from the Obama campaign. Are you planning to vote this year?" I think that linoleum is 40 years old.
"Already have!"
"Great!" Mind if I ask who you supported?"
"Obama, of course!"
"Oh, fantastic! Thanks!" Run before anything changes.

Oops, I haven't written anything down in three houses. Where am I? How do these numbers work? Am I stupid? I'm canvassing, yes. I've only eaten as many M&Ms as could fit in my pocket, but my exhaustion is only equalled by those middle school sleepovers where the only food you ate was Tony's pizza, pixi stix, and Mountain Dew. I can finish this. Then there's water in the car, I say to the yard full of miniature long-haired chihuahas yipping as I soilder on.

The take-home: be nice to your neighborhood canvassers. They are probably very nice, intelligent people who simply feel a little awkward about catching you watching Wheel of Fortune in an oversized t-shirst and rubber gloves. We're just doing what we can. Because we can. Yes we can.
"