Sally Bjornsen Writes

I have recently received some strange social invitations that have had me longing for the practical and old fashioned wisdom of Emily Post. 

I was standing there at the market knocking on watermelons to check for ripeness when a woman I am friendly with approached me.  “Hey, what are you guys doing tonight?  We have tickets to Cowboy Junkies and Sun Volt at the Zoo Tunes.  Do you want to go?” 

 What an invitation I thought.  I had been meaning to buy tickets for that very same show earlier in the season but didn’t get around to it until they were completely sold out—they went fast. 

 “Sure we’d love to go.”  I responded, thinking she was offering tickets for my husband and I or at the very least offering to sell us her spare tickets. 

 “Well, she said, you’ll have to scalp some tickets but I am sure you can get some at the entrance.” 

 Hmmm.  I felt like I had just been let in on a bad joke.  I don’t want to scalp tickets for anything.  I am a 40—something year-old woman and the idea of getting a babysitter lined up “just in case” I can covertly scam a few tickets to a concert doesn’t sound like fun to me.  I politely declined, “no, on second thought we’re busy tonight.” 

 I think she could have said something like this instead.  “Hey, we’re going to the zoo concert tonight.  I know it’s kind of a risk, but if you and Mark (my husband) want to try and go I think you might be able to scalp tickets.  We’d love to see you there.” 

 About a week later another friend asked my husband and I, “Hey do you guys like theater? We have two tickets to the 5th Ave. theater tomorrow.”   My husband and I both responded at the same time, “Yes,” I said.  “No,” he said.   “I’ll take them I said, I would love to see the play.  I’ll invite one of my friends if he doesn’t want to go.”  Now in my mind I was doing them a favor, taking the two tickets that might not otherwise be used, off their hands. 

 “O.K.,” she said awkwardly, “well we were hoping that we could do dinner first.”   It was then that I realized that they wanted us to attend the play “with” them.  I suddenly realized that they didn’t want just one of us they wanted the two of us or the plan was a no go.  It was uncomfortable and weird but I squirmed my way out of the invitation and I am hopeful that they found another heterosexual couple to share the tickets with. 

 Now why didn’t this woman say, “My husband and I are going to the theater and we have two extra tickets.  Would two like to attend and join us for dinner beforehand?”

 It was the third invite that really stumped me.  A good friend of mine called to say she had an extra ticket to a concert  because her husband was traveling and couldn’t make the show.  She asked if I would like to attend with her.  I jumped at the chance.  Following the concert she asked that if I could pay her for the ticket.  Huh?  I was shocked and surprised.  I thought I was going as her guest.  Weird!

 What has happened to good old fashioned communication, to etiquette, to manners?  I think what we need is a little Emily to the rescue!

I recently broke up with Blackberry.  We were together for five long, mostly beautiful years.  It’s not that he wasn’t good to me; in fact he was generous, reliable and trustworthy.  You know—Canadian.  In the end, however, I came to the conclusion that BB, (that was my nickname for him), was too serious and kind of boring.  I thought I could do better.  I guess I just didn’t appreciate what I had.  And truth be told the last year we were together I wasn’t entirely faithful.   Don’t get me wrong, I kept my clothes on, but my eyes and heart were wandering.  I watched as other women cavorted around town, hand and hand with i-phone the new wunderkid from Silicon Valley.  Sexy, youthful women laughing, taking pictures and texting.  My old, staid, BB stood by proudly as I stared longingly at the happy healthy people holding hands.  I can’t imagine he didn’t see the breakup coming.

So now, I’m dating again.  O.K. well dating is probably a little misleading.   I am in a “new relationship” with i-phone—we live together.   I fell hard and just like that (snapping fingers) I kicked BB out of my life and I let i-phone move in with all his apps.  I didn’t even look at his references or demand a demo.   I was told by a reliable source that our relationship would be a snap, a plug and play kinda deal, I should have known better. 

As you can imagine our relationship started out a little rocky, after all we hardly knew each other.   I am on a PC and he never lets me forget it.  I suppose I should have looked into that little fact before I decided to let him move in. 

But he’s sexy.  You know in that “I’m a savant from Stanford” sort of way.  That snarky “I’m smarter and more attractive, so you better keep up,” kind of way?   It can get a little intimidating.  But, like most creative types he’s sensitive to the touch, a nartist really, (that’s part artist, part narcissist).  It’s all about him—every time I go to make a call or send an e-mail he presents me with all kinds of complicated options, “hey try this,”  “what about this?”  All I want to do is make a simple call or send a text but when I touch his shiny screen he quivers and suddenly we’re somewhere else.  He doesn’t know it but I’ve had to call the experts on more than one occasion. 

Between you and me, all the funky new moves he wants me to learn make me a little nervous. I’m not entirely sure I’m up to the challenge.  You know teaching and old dog new tricks. He keeps telling me I need to work on my touch and my voice control.  Just yesterday he said that he’d like to employ the mega pixel camera into our love life.  Next he’s going to be trying to convince me that we need the compass in our bedroom.   BB wasn’t demanding at all, he just liked me to hold on tight and keep him warm.  i-phone?  He’s a live wire.  But I guess I asked for it. 

 My friends tell me not to worry.  They assure me that one day it will hit me smack dab in the face and I will be in love.  I too am hopeful that our relationship will blossom into something very deep and meaningful; otherwise I may be crawling back on my knees and begging BB to take me back.

O.K. what’s this vanity sizing thing all about—I am sure some marketing director out there is claiming it does something for a girl’s ego, “Women feel thinner when they wear a size smaller.”  All it does for me is make me feel manipulated.  I recently bought a pair of size six cropped pants at Banana Republic.  First of all I am not a size six nor have I ever been, who do they think they’re kidding?   Anyway, I bought the size six because they were the ones that fit. Later, following an ice cream cone and a coffee, (because that’s what people who are a size 6 can do), I went home and put my new pants on.  Two hours later my size 6 pants had transformed into a BR size 12.  The waist and derriere stretched so much I looked like a rapper with the waistband at my crotch. 

The next day I tossed the incredible growing crop pants into our high tech, save the earth, washing machine, put the setting on extra hot and prayed for a shrinking miracle.  Sure enough when I got them out of the dryer they were back to their natural state–a BR size 6 (aka, real world size 8 or 10).  Relieved, I put them on.  Two hours later, however, I was dropping trow—again.   

Though I was frustrated that I had spent over $70 on pants that only fit well for about an hour, I continued to wear them a few more times.  I told myself that no one would notice that my pants were falling down. Finally, the last time I wore the pants my husband, who hardly notices anything about my wardrobe unless I am wearing a low cut something or other, said, “Those pants are awful, they’re practically falling down.”  At that point I vowed never to wear them again. 

A week later, annoyed about my new cropped pants that were supposed to take me through the summer in style, I decided that the most responsible thing to do was to return them, kindly report the product defect and get my money back.  When I went into the store to discuss the matter the cute little sales guy behind the counter informed me that “Banana doesn’t take returns once a product had been washed,” and… “Our pants stretch.  In the future you should buy your pants a few sizes smaller.”  Does that mean I am really a 5’5, 140 pound size 2?  I asked?   “Maybe, you never know,” he said shrugging his shoulders.

I am slightly, just slightly embarrassed to say that I don’t really know how to clean my house.  Oh no, poor me, right?  I sound like a big, spoiled brat but it’s more complicated than that.  Ever since the recession hit I have been looking for ways to cut corners. The $500 monthly cleaning expense seemed like the most obvious and prudent solution (who can’t clean their own house?)  Last week, in an effort to be financially responsible I laid off our cleaning lady of eight years.  It was a serious and sad breakup.  I had been preparing for d-day, rehearsing my “your job has been made redundant” speech in the full length mirror.  She handled it well, said she had actually been expecting it.  Once it was over I felt relieved.  

For nearly twenty years now I have employed a cleaning person.  Some years she/he came once a week and others every other week.  In the back of my mind I often felt a little, oh I don’t know, lame, because I couldn’t or wouldn’t do it myself.   But I justified the expense thinking that I would be more successful in my own career without the stress of a messy and, god forbid, dirty house.   The household duties, scrubbing the bathroom, cleaning the baseboards and folding the laundry are best when left to the experts I told myself.  

So here I am today, pondering how to clean the hardwood floors throughout the house.  Is it simply water with a splash of white vinegar?  Special hardwood cleaning fluid?  Organic soap?  Lemon fresh polish?  A swiffer picker upper?  A $500 dollar Dyson?   A Roomba?  Ayy yi yi.   And that’s just the floors.  After that there is the dilemma of cleaning the floor to ceiling glass shower, how does one attack that and with what sort of substance? Will I need gloves and a face mask?   

I made a trip to the grocery store this week hoping to get inspired by the cleaning options available to me—the fledgling domestic mother.  I have never seen so many “new and improved,” “better than ever,” “save your soul,” products, it was downright overwhelming.  Finally I landed on something I simply could not pass up, The Evriholder Slipper Genie Microfiber Cleaning Slippers.  Slippers that are actually mops?  Now that’s my kind of house cleaning solution—passive floor mopping at its best.   I know what I am getting the kids for Christmas.

It’s only been a week and I miss my cleaning woman already.  She came with all her stuff, including her vacuum cleaner, cob web getter, stainless steel hoo hah, lemon fresh something or other and most importantly, her years of experience.  Perhaps the $500 a month wasn’t so bad after all.

I have recently and reluctantly re-taken up cycling, I guess you could call it recycling.   I say reluctantly not because I don’t enjoy cycling or its benefits—forty miles equals a monster sized burrito and a frothy Hefferweizen.  I say reluctantly because the clothes SUCK.  I am being kind when I say that no one, not even Mark, my handsome, 2% body fat husband looks good in the stuff.  

My re-entry into the sport began last spring when Mark talked me into upgrading my old, Raleigh ten speed to a fancy, schmancy, carbon fiber, eighteen speed something or other, with clip-in pedals.  He said the upgrade was for me but I really think the old red Raleigh along side his pimped-out racing bike embarrassed him.  My new bike, donned with all the components and the aero dynamic seat that is sure to give me hemorrhoids, is something he can stand by with pride.  My outfit?  Not so much.   Upon completing the expensive bike transaction with the tattooed sales specialist, Mark insisted we stop by the apparel section of the store to check out some cycling pants.  He obviously had a vision. 

“Wait a minute,” I said, pausing in my tracks for effect.   “Cycling pants?  Are you !@#$%^ nuts?  I told you I’d ride but I didn’t say I’d wear the pants. I would rather wear a pair of high waist, acid washed jeans than a pair of ugly, spandex, sausage legged shorts with a crotch chaffing, Kotex Maxi Pad chamois.  It’s not my look.”   

“Well then what are you going to wear?” he asked.  

“My yoga pants.”

“Your yoga pants, for cycling?”   

“Yeah, why not?  They look so much better.  You know the ones, the bell bottom lulu lemon pants with the hipster contrast border at the waist.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Yes.  I am not wearing those weird pants.  No way.”

I saw in his eyes his vision for our future of biking together slip away.  “You can’t wear yoga pants babe.  Not with your fancy new bike.  It’s just not done.”

I knew then I was in over my head.  This cycling business was so much more than the bike.  It was a culture that demanded an aesthetic reset.  I was now the proud owner of a fancy bike that required me to scrap my instinctive fashion sensibility and embrace the ugliest, most unattractive trend invented by man (a woman would know better). 

And so right there in the bike store I acquiesced.   I gathered six to ten pair of black cycling shorts and began the demoralizing task of squeezing my soft body into a variety of girdle like contraptions, one after the other in search of the “most flattering pair.”  News flash, for those of you who have an issue with cellulite the issue becomes an all out crisis in bike shorts. I stood face to face with myself in the small, dingy fitting room and mouthed the words “you know better.”   

Mark called from outside the dressing room, “hon, come out and show us.”  The us included the youngish, sinewy sales woman.   “Not yet,” I said, nearly out of breath and laboriously peeling off another pair of tourniquet shorts.   The sales girl chimed in, “do you have a jersey?”  And with that she hung three loudly colored polyester jerseys over the dressing room door.  “Try these on, we just got them in.  They’re awesome.”   Awesome was not the word that came to mind.  Logo-mad print designer on acid was more like it.

I finally settled on a pair of black, below the knee knickers with a stayfree mini-pad sized chamois.  They were $90.  Who knew that being unattractive could cost so much?   My husband and his sales clerk side-kick were disappointed that I passed on the Jerseys.  I was certain that I could get away with cycling pants and a Gap t-shirt for a while.  At least until I found an inconspicuous jersey that didn’t scream “this is ugly.” 

I got a promotional e-mail today from Desert Sun. They are celebrating Cinco de Mayo and their four year anniversary with an amazing offer, a free tan with a ten tan punch card. I don’t know if premature death is worth it. It’s dangerous business,

Four years ago Desert Sun, opened across the street from my office. I watched the opening festivities from afar; balloons, and streamers festooned the entrance, the neon logo shone like a beacon in the gray mist of February. Scantily clad Pamela Anderson look-alike’s managed the door wearing little more than bikinis and cover ups to show off their bronzed bodies. If a person wasn’t familiar with the new retail on the block they might have mistaken the excitement for an adult only movie premiere. Or a casting call for a new reality porn show. Oversized sandwich boards and six foot banners gave potential customers incentives to Sun Your Buns. Ten Tans Free with the Purchase of a Lifetime Membership. What would that person look like when their life was over I wondered? Free Bronzing Lotion with Ten Tan Package. Special lotion? Can’t a person just pack their own Nivea?

This tanning phenomena has been troubling me since the place opened. It’s May and everyone in my neighborhood is Tan. Or rather all the people in my neighborhood under the age of fifty are tan and have been every day since the rain set in last November. It wouldn’t be something to notice if I lived say, in Palm Dessert or Miami Beach, but I don’t. I live in Seattle, where the old saying goes “in Seattle people don’t tan…they rust.” And for the record, in 2009 so far, we have had approx. 5 sunny days with temperatures over fifty degrees, the rest has been rainy and cold, but who’s counting? Nasty weather combined with the recession, swine flu and the increasingly popular “staycation” I doubt anyone is traveling to get a tan.

The tannies are ubiquitous; they’re in the grocery store, at the local Starbucks and at the school auction. It’s all I can do to keep myself from pulling our favorite babysitter aside and giving her a lecture…something akin to…”listen missy, lay off that tanning bed you’re starting to look like an Umpa Lumpa. I want to grab that cute little check-out girl in the market by the cheeks and tell her “sure you look cute now but how about in ten years when your sun kissed face looks like a wrinkled Louis Vuitton handbag.” And then there’s the twentyish barista who can’t stop himself from calling me, “Hon.” He’s so tan I can smell it.

When I mention the smell to my friend Diana she tells me a story that sounds more urban myth than fact. Something about a very tan woman, let’s call her Laurena, waking up one day to the smell of tangy, burnt flesh. On close inspection Laurena discovers that the odor is emanating from her very tan body. Naturally, she goes to see her Doctor. He sniffs Laurena’s body, pokes and prods her abdomen and finally breaks the news to her that all that tanning has actually melted her innards—which explains the stench. I ask Diana, “Did she die?” She responds, “Not really sure, she was a friend of a friend’s cat sitter. I don’t really know her personally. But it’s true.”

Hmmm. Since hearing that story I notice that my local Starbucks barista smells suspiciously like cooked liver.

P.S. Lying in a tanning bed damages your skin and can lead to skin cancer. Now you know. Check out the skin cancer physicians website for more information on the dangers of tanning.

A few weekends ago I had the pleasure of going on an all-girl’s weekend with a group of friends sans children.  The social coordinator of the trip has a marvelous house on a remote island in the San Juan’s.  It was lovely and the weather, which can be iffy in early spring, cooperated beautifully.  The company could not have been better and the food and libations were nothing short of gourmet.  Let’s just say the only thing any of us suffered that weekend was a hang over and a few extra pounds.  That was until late Sunday afternoon on the drive home.  

I was in the front seat driving when one of the women in the backseat of the car took a call from her husband.  He gave her the report: their youngest child, she has three under the age of eight, had lice….again.  This wasn’t the first time the subject of head lice had come up that weekend.  We had spent at least an hour discussing the topic over gin and tonics the previous evening; my friend in the back seat’s three little darlings had had it no fewer than three times.  

As I write this I am hesitant to say, knock on wood, that our family, (three boys aged 6 to 17) has not yet suffered from the Seattle School lice epidemic.  That said all of this lice knowledge is new to me.  

Apparently there is a whole arduous regime that needs to be followed in order to rid one’s head and house from the nasty mites.  And there is quite a stigma that goes along with it. “When we found out we had it, we felt like leapers,” said one mom while throwing back the last of her gin and tonic.   “No one wants to play with a child who has lice.”  

Another mom in the group told the story of going to see a hairdresser in the neighborhood who would only see her little boys “covertly.”   The stylist and business owner demanded that my friend come in after hours and through the back door, lest her customers find out that she had been harboring and helping lice victims.  

After my friend in the backseat hung up with her husband she was distraught; it was as if all the Kum Ba Yahing, from the girl’s weekend had suddenly vanished like a glass slipper.  Nit picking, sheet washing, and itchy children filled her brain before we hit King County.  

One of our friends, an experienced and organized mom who had her own lice infestation story to tell, was riding shotgun next to me.  She suggested, with a practical tone, that our friend call in the professionals. “I have heard they will come to your house,but it’s not cheap.”  “Well, hell,” lice mother responded.  ”At this point I will pay anything!”

A few days later I ran into my friend in the neighborhood, she was surprisingly yippity skippity—hardly the image of a woman who had been slaving over a comb and picking out nits (or is it nats?).  “We did it, we called in the professionals,” she said proudly, with a bright smile stretching from one ear to the other.  “It cost $500 but it was worth it!” 

Who knew?

Apparently there is a business, yes a certified business called Lice Knowing You .   I have heard some crazy business ideas floating around lately but this one really takes the cake.  Talk about filling a niche.  The online brochure states: As the premier (are there others? I wonder) head lice removal company in the Seattle area, we arrive discreetly (thanks for that) with all the necessary items (hmmm. what might that be?) to make head lice removal as quick and painless as possible.  During the removal process, Lice Knowing You will provide free consultation on taking care of your home to ensure that the head lice will be gone for good. .….All of our consultants are trained in the most up to date methods of head lice removal.  Our bilingual staff speaks Spanish, French, Japanese and of course English. Our staff consists of teachers (special ed and general ed), medical professionals and counselors.

God bless her…see what women can do!   What a relief!

The Baggy Boyfriend Jean is Back

Trendcentral is one of those must have web sites for the curious mind, http://www.trendcentral.com. TC is a trend tracking site that sends daily broadcasts updating the curious reader on what’s happening in the world of everything. After hooking the reader with a compelling, whacky or just plan interesting trend (like pillows that fight wrinkles), they point you to websites that can further explain or sell you that particular trend. In the case of the amazing wrinkle removing pillow TC points to: http://http://www.copalife.com.

Yesterday I got a news flash from TC highlighting fashion trends for Spring 2009.  And guess what? baggy pants are back. Whew! I am a thick thighed girl and when cigarette leg jeans resurfaced last year I was mildly distressed. Beside the fact that I had invested heavily in the bell bottom look  of 2007-2008, I was not about to change course for a style that doesn’t look good on anyone over fourteen years-old and limits one’s ability to breathe. As the saying goes: to every ying there is a yang.  So whether you wear em’ baggy and belted, soft and slouchy, pleated or cuffed, baggy pants are back and giving the skinny jean a run for her money.

I married to a Sesquipedalian. For those of you who don’t know what a sesquipedalian is Webster defines it as a person who uses exceedingly long words when a simple more concise word would suffice.

It gets a little nutty around our house. Let’s just say it keeps me on my toes. He’s a regular William Safire, mixing and playing with words. There are times when it makes me incredulous; I think he’s just pulling my leg, throwing out a far-fetched jumble of gobbledygook. I’ve worn a path in the carpet, running to the computer to consult dictionary.com. In most cases, much to my chagrin, I find that that gobbledygook is a word.

He doesn’t mean to be acrimonious, egregious or haughty. He finds words creative, stimulating and naughty. The longer the word the happier he is. ‘Can it be both noun and verb?’ is often the quiz.

I like words too, don’t get me wrong. But my theory has always been they must fit in a song. I often snub Webster and add my own endings like ishes and ises, all depending –on the mood or the crowd I’m in.

Dubious, dubiety, dubitable, dubitation. That’s me, if I could learn all the words it would be a breeze. But until them I’m just a dilettante.

But my husband Mark, he’s not that way.

He reconnoiters each page of the NY Times collecting his words like a kid collecting dimes. He savors each word, one by one, looking for the spectacular that will start the fun. I know when he finds it, his eyes they lift, he swallows and prepares for the perfect gift.

His shoulders shift back; he clears his throat, the word rolls off his tongue like the perfect note.

This week it was— axiomatic. That’s axiomatic.

I made a visit to dictionary.com. It means self evident, obvious, goes with out saying. In a sentence it could be, “It is axiomatic that Mark is a sesquipedalian.”

It’s not like he’s a nerd or dork per se. He’s an intellectual jock who likes words his own way. He’s not a grammar hound or a perfectionist, but when it comes to words he likes to insist the more the vowels the better; he likes constants too, the x and the z are the precious few. They make good endings and they always sound sharp if you say them just right they sound like a harp: Spetsnaz, accusatrix.

His word obsession is entertaining but there are times, however, when its charm begins waning and I just want to say…Cut the crap.

But then I remember, it can be romantic… and it’s not in his nature to be pedantic…after all it’s just…..semantics.

But the good news is, I find his word thing a turn on, it keeps us up nights with the dictionary and the light on.

I just signed up for www.twitter.com. Just the name itself makes me think I might be frittering the time away twittering. That said, I now have a presence on, www.twitter.com; www.facebook.com; www.linkedin.com; www.sallybjornsenwrites.com; www.sallyreps.com; www.sallyreps.blogspot.com; www.sassystepmother.com; www.friendfeed.com; www.blogcatalog.com the list goes on and on. I think I’m covered. Whew! I hope that’s it for a while. Not sure I want to learn anything new after all that registering, posting and pass-wording.

I am not entirely sure why I am in all these “cyber places.” I guess it’s because all the voices—the talking heads, the magazines, the blogs, my tech savvy husband, my tech obsessed teenage boys, my painfully young IT guy, tell me that I should be. I’m not convinced that all this posting, “social networking” and twit, twit, twittering will pay off, but I’m there, here, here, there anyway—for insurance. After all, the last thing I want is to miss the speeding techno bus. For now, my presence on the socialnetworking-twitterorama- blogosphere makes me feel….secure? Vulnerable? Exposed? Over exposed? Lemming-ish?

Last week my wet-behind-the-ears tech guy almost feel off his chair when I asked him “what exactly does a twitter do.” He tried to convince me that somehow I was tragically missing out on the opportunity to keep all my followers, business contacts and friends up to speed on the daily moments of my life (I hate to disappoint). So whether or not using twitter and all that other stuff makes me money, makes me known or makes me overexposed, at least for now, my tech guy will be happy.