Josh threatened to pee in my houseplants if I didn't post, so I'm taking a moment out of my vacation to stare at a screen other than the one that feeds me images of washed away babies and products that I need to purchase.
We had ghosts again this week. Where last time the invasion was like rats, these come around like roaming raccoons. Making every throw-away comment one that hurts and practically coming out of my nose on Christmas Eve.
He thinks they like the emotionally charged holidays the best. With diminished control over physical things, they peek through the twinkle lights and get in your cocktail. I threw my head back and shrieked and cursed and stomped out of the room and it was 2 heated statements away from over. 1 heated statement away...
But the ghosts made the mistake of thinking that my hot head would win out over my short memory. Sometimes getting to stomp around is enough.
My poppa took mom and I to dinner at pier 66 last night.
QUESTION: Do you tip the valet when he takes the car away, when he brings it back, or both? Our valet was from Coeur D' Alene, which made my dad feel a little better valet parking a car that fills up with exhaust fumes if you idle for too long. (It's kind of an Idahoan Car requirement. That, or you have to get out of the vehicle to start it.)
I ordered a glass of wine in front of my parents and no one batted an eye. My father told the waiter the following story:
"Whelp, we met this young couple, roundabout 20 years ago, from California. Aaaannnnd they were interested in doing some mushroom hunting. Now I never did go with them, but I told them what to look for and what was good. About a month later, they were both found dead, both the husband and wife, of mysterious causes.... The day after they'd gone mushroom hunting."
My friend Susanna took my mothers favorite photograph of me and made it into an oil painting. I've been jumping out of my skin to give it to them, because I was pretty sure my mother was going to love it. She opened it at the table, and cried.
Dad has started a bet with his brothers to see who can lose the most weight. Last night he tried to blame his fatness on the size of their plates, the depth of their frying pan, and my mother. I blame it on the 2 pounds of fried potatoes he likes to eat in the morning.
"Hey! I know what! You get your camera together and we'll go for a ride next week. I know where a guy can see a 300 head heard of elk! I'll bring my call and you can be the photographer."
My parents are my favorite people.
I'm in a bad kind of pre-time-off limbo. My parents are leaving for Idaho on Thursday night. (my mother just called. She feels terrible for leaving me alone. I said: "At least this year it's understandable because you haven't seen the babies. All those other years where I was by myself and hadn't seen you in 10 months that you should feel bad for not coming over." I'm going to hell for sure now.) I'd love to see the family and all, but going with mom and dad means thursday thru sunday in Idaho and central washington, sleeping on floors. I'm the only unmarried adult in my family and I'm 10 years younger than my sisters. You can see where this train is going.(Not very much fun land, that's where.)
Cake has old friends in town this week and so far it seems that Old Friends = Old Habits. He really enjoys a lot of things that I don't enjoy with him. Or...I enjoy them, but not at the same time and in the same place with Cake. So even when I don't care about *what* he's doing, I hate that I have to stay away from him until it's over. Sometimes it takes a long time and some hurt feelings to be over.
I'm excited about having Christmas dinner with friends and having the Derby to myself for a week, but there's still the consideration that a week alone in emotional limbo might be much worse than a week of never being alone and most assuredly being depressed in/by my hometown. Decisions, decisions.
Hello you, shortest day of the year. Thanks for all the attention-grabbing jabs at my soft bits, but I already knew you were there.
Well alan is a broken man
who needs a lot of fixin
and alans got a handsome face
he's roped himself a vixen
Well vixen is an average girl
whos heart's a little tender
she'll stand for almost anything
a broken man can render
all of us need a bit of love
and have a bit to offer
but broken men are dangerous
for girls who's hearts are softer
I should get a job writing country western songs or greetings cards. Maybe country western greeting cards. Greeting card songs? Whats the difference.
Roxy has concluded that I'm equating butter with sunshine and that would be why we've gone through 2 boxes in 18 days. Last winter I made Tiny pick some butter backup up from the grocery store to supplement my various 325 degree experiments. She bravely sucked it up and brought 4 boxes of unsalted butter to the checkstand. The checker rang them through and said "They're not even on sale! Are you doing something crazy and butter oriented?" Tiny answered: "My roomate is, yeah."
(Last Night: Angel Bars ala Joy of Cooking)
It's been strangely clear off and on for the last week or so, and the sight of the mountains and the short lived glow of the actual fireball in the sky sun have improved moods greatly around the homestead. Souxie is already home for Christmas and Rox is going to D-town in a few days. My parents are abandoning me for the grandchildren on their first Christmas in Seattle. I'll have the Derby to myself and a week off of work and school, so I'm sure the following things will occur:
1: Making up an ice skating routine to Styx and performing it for my own amusement in my underwear.
2: Insane new years sparkle party ball gown construction, also probably in my underwear
3: Baking, getting the same, in my underwear.
Are you coming to our new year party, internet? You better get all gussied up.
Oh man, i've got the baking disease, and I've got it bad. Last night I made 2 dozen chocolate chip cookies and 2 apple bread loaves before I changed out of my work clothes. The night before that I made my first Flan ever. (CUSTARD RULES! WHOO!) There was a water bath and some mismelted sugar and I had to wash every single dish towell we own afterwards but I MADE A FREAKING FLAN. Do you people understand!? EFF EL AY EN Flan!
The night before that I used a recipe my mother had sent me for zucchini bread. There was a list of ingredients at the top and then the directions. There were more ingredients in the directions than in the list. Amounts of such things as oh, I dunno, Flour? Sugar? No mention. I faked it and kind of fucked it, but we ended up with delicious zucc cake instead.
What does it all mean? Obviously my body is actually the secret hideout of the keebler elves, and I must bake flour and sugar based sweets in order to keep them from gutting me from within with their pastry knives.
Samuel is talking in his sleep again.
I can't ever make out what he's saying, but I can almost always discern how he feels. When it's a nice dream, he curls half his mouth into a relaxed smile and works his eyebrows like he does when he's telling the story about the girl in the supermarket who told him that he was 'movie-star handsome' while I was busy choosing a carton of eggs. Sometimes, when he's particularly pleased with his dream life, he blows out little self-satisfied puffs of air. 'Pff. humbedlehumoobaffer in the kitchen. Pff.'
When he's having a bad dream, he turns his head sharply to the sides as if he's trying to avoid a bright light. He touches his face with the palms of his hands, and purses his lips.
And there's this look...
Samuel once tried to suprise me by ironing all my work clothes for me, but he put a hot iron on a polyester skirt and ripped a huge iron shaped hole out of it. We were really broke at the time and I was working off a set of 3 work-appropriate suits that I would mix and match every day. When he brought me the destroyed skirt, the look on his face was this terrible mixture of fear and guilt and self-disappointment. When he has bad dreams, he looks like that but with his eyes closed.
Samuel mistrusts himself.
He accidentally blinded and slightly disfigured his next door neighbor when he was nine years old. He was staying over at the neighbors and sleeping in the hallowed Top Bunk for the first time. They got in a pillow fight and the pillow Samuel was sleeping on had a Mag Lite in the case that the boys had used to make shadow puppets. Sam just forgot it was there. Thwap.
It's not that he thinks he's going to blind anyone. It's more that he felt so bad for making everyone so unhappy that he's terrified he's going to hurt or disappoint someone drastically all the time. When it comes to every day things, he's fine. He bikes to work at the bakery. He drinks beer and loves the playstation like it's an extension of his body. But he won't drive for fear of hitting someone or getting hit with someone in the car. He won't wrestle or roughhouse with his nephews for fear of tearing their arms off or knocking their teeth out. He wouldn't hold a baby to save his life. Samuel has basically convinced himself that, so long as he doesn't touch any person, no one will get hurt.
The first time Samuel kissed me, he had his hands clenched in nervous fists pressed against his sides, and he leaned over and only touched me with his lips.
"What was that?"
"Well...I kissed you, Teresa."
"We've been out 3 times and you've not so much as held my hand, and now you lean over from a foot away and plant one on me? I didn't really think you liked me."
Samuel is talking in his sleep again and I prop up on my elbow to watch him. He is squinting his eyes and I can tell things aren't going well for him in there. "NARG!Almafurniture. blackeyeglebaggen?"
I watch as his hands start to approach his face but retreat before quite reaching it. His breath quickens and he half whines, touches his palm to his face.
And that look slowly starts creeping over him.
I didntmakethemunfriesto. I madekanafffledeblugfm.
I lean over, careful not to touch him (it scares him to death when you touch him in these dreams). "Samuel", I whisper, "Sam, honey. You didn't hurt anybody. You're okay. Everyone is okay."
His face relaxes a little.
"snotle? marfenses?"
"Yep. Everything is okay. You're so sweet and handsome. Everybody is okay."
His mouth curls up.
"Pff."
Teresa doesn't know which butter to buy.
Here's the thing. She's not generally a poor decision maker. She carefully weighs her options before making a choice and then tries to establish which one will make her happiest. She considers the attributes of each option and decides which components are appropriate contenders. This is fine for things like quitting a job or moving across the country, but she's finding more and more that when it comes to the every day things, it's difficult to make clear distinctions between choices.
I try to be patient as she stands in front of the refrigerated case. She's at least narrowed the options down to unsalted only. And thank goodness for that, or we'd be here all day. She turns each package over and reads the back.
"This one's known for it's outstanding creamyness..." she mutters half under her breath, "but this one comes from Oregon raised cows. My uncle lives in Oregon. hmm."
I know. I know how it sounds. What does creamyness have to do with Oregon-ness? Most people would say nothing. Not a thing. Except for Teresa. In her head right now, she's weighing her emotional response to Oregon cows against her emotional response to outstanding creaminess, weighing which will prove to be a better quality than the other.
I reach into my jacket pocket and change the song on my CD player. I've been fantisizing about an Ipod lately, but I can't justify the cost. They're so small and expensive, what if it breaks? This is also the reason I'm adverse to having kids. What if I dropped it? Teresa would kill me.
She's just deciding which box shape is her favorite when I run out of patience.
"Tess, you know that butter comes from cows, and cows are pretty much all the same, right? You're not going to be able to tell the difference between these butters when they're out of their packaging, baby. Just pick the one that's cheapest per pound."
She rotates a quarter of a turn, plants her hand on her hip and cocks her head to the side. "Samuel," -she's the only one besides my grandmother who consistently calls me by my full first name- "I will know the difference."
In one sense, this couldn't be more true. If I don't let her figure out which one she thinks will make her happiest, we will have to revisit her choice every single time we use the butter. 'I wonder if that other butter would have been fresher. Oregon is closer, you know.' or ' What if this butter isn't as creamy as that other butter? Shouldn't this be creamier, Samuel?' The what might have been component haunts Tess if she makes a hasty decision. What if that other leather jacket had more durable snaps instead of the extra pocket in this one? What if that Chinese place's seats were more comfotable than this Mexican restaurant's tortillas were delicious?
"Oh. But remember that time we were in Oregon at that diner and the toast was cold? I'm going to get the creamy one."
Roxy came home to find me curled up with the Joy of Cooking.
"Whatcha making, Sonya?"
"CHRISTMAS!"
I made 14-in-one dough and then discussed the options with Roxy and Max. Rox got really close to my face and pointed at the book. "Marble Cookies". Max got to lick both the spoons.
Everything that needed any kind of fixing got some kind of food shoved in it this weekend. 'Everything' being me, all my roomates, anybody's boyfriend, and anyone who came over to our house. Dozens of marble cookies. Loaves of Zucchini-Apple bread. Fried eggs. Grilled Cheese Sandwiches. I'm going to make Flan from Cake's mom's recipe tonight. I just feel like the more uncooked batter we all get to eat, the better we're all going to feel.
If you were the last person to talk to me before I started talking to myself, you might like to know that in my head, terribly uncomfortable things are happening to you.
Lets say, for example, that you gave me 7 copies of a 9 page document, each copy with different comments to be included, on Wednesday. Then lets say that you didn't send me the recently updated electronic document I asked for until Thursday at 4. THEN lets say you stopped by my desk this morning at EIGHT FUCKING THIRTY and asked me if it was going to be done today like I'm some kind of slacker who waits weeks to start projects, instead of a decent employee who has, in your 4 months working here, never taken more than 3 days to turn anything back around given the necessary tools.
As soon as your back is turned, my nostrils will flare and my lips will start moving.
What am I saying first? Usually something along the lines of: "I hope you forget your head is up your ass and constrict your sphincter and accidently suffocate yourself."
You can kind of see where it goes from there.
I've been doing tons of actual work interspersed with school actual work these days, which is not good news for blogging. I have 10 minutes until I'm supposed to be out of here, so i'm going to take it as it comes around here.
I went to dinner with my mom and dad last night. Mom and dad kindly leant me their '91 Ford Taurus last Monday so that Josh and I could drive down to Olympia and see Jello Biafra talk. And talk he did. I had a good time listening and watching the students, who are not much younger than me, but are living in a totally different world where many of the rules don't apply. (I can't go to evergreen because I think white people dreds look stupid and lazy, and eventually I'd start letting everyone know. Those greeners smell weird.)
This was about the car. I got back to where I'd parked it yesterday and tried to start the damn thing. I could get the key all the way into the ignition but I couldn't get the stupid piece of crap to turn. When I'd parked the car originally, Cake had made me get back in and turn the wheels in the direction of the hill (totally against my will), so I kept pulling on the steering wheel trying to get it to move. It wouldn't budge, but I didn't dare jerk on it because as soon as I do anything not-so-gentle to that car, it's going to explode and my father is going to chase me into the puget sound with an ice auger. I called my mom.
"Mom, don't tell dad yet, but I can't get the key to turn in the ignition."
"Jiggle it!
So I spend 10 minutes jiggling my heart out before I give in and call back.
"Ugh. Dad. I can't get your stupid piece of crap car to start."
"Pull on the steering wheel."
"I did pull on it, no use."
"Really JERK on it."
and of course the piece of crap starts.
"You must be getting old or something, Sonya. You need me to teach you how to drive again?"
"You shut it. You know if I would have jerked without asking the steering wheel would have come off in my hand and you'd be furious."
"Heh heh heh."
Dad's cousin came along to dinner at the favorite Chinese restaurant of Edmonds. They poked fun at me because Bush won the election and I told my dad it was unfortunate that he's gone ignorant in his old age.
(Should you A: try not to take offense)
Cake ran errands on the scooter last night while I was in class. We spend a lot of time figureing out who is going to sleep where and how they're going to do it. Generally, I change my clothes at the end of the workday and put on whatever I'm planning on wearing to work tomorrow. This way, I can show up at his place whenever and I'll have what I need on me without having to carry an extra bag. Cake tends to bring a backpack and several grocery bags full of stuff to my house when he stays over. It's all very cake-logical, but it takes an hour to assemble it all and another half hour to actually leave his house.
It was pouring yesterday. I got off work at 5 and went directly to his house, as it's only a few blocks from Central.
"You should stay here tonight. I'll get us some takeout for dinner after I cash my check."
"I'm still wearing my today clothes, it's pouring out, I'm starving and I only slept for 3 hours last night. If I have to go home, I don't think I'm going to come back out."
"I'll pick up your clothes. Write down what you want and I'll go get them when I go up to Broadway."
So I wrote down: Salmon pleated polyester skirt, Purple long sleeve t-shirt, Purple cowell neck sweater, clean socks, white tennis shoes, comfortable-looking underwear.
I go to class at 6 and come back at 8:30. He's not home. 9:00 passes. 9:30.
I haven't eaten yet, and the crazy me is wondering what the fuck could be taking so long. The nice me says, "Um, he's picking up YOUR shit and bringing YOU dinner. No complaining allowed. Or aloud."
He rolls in at ten, pissed.
(Should you B: Tell him to go to Next)
"What the fuck were you trying to do to me!? I'm colorblind, Sonya! I stood there for a half an hour trying to figure this shit out. I finally just brought you a bunch of stuff. Tons of clothes."
Sure enough. 2 long sleeve t shirts, both lt. blue. 2 light (see: dry weather, spring and summer) sweaters that can't be worn with anything underneath, but both having some purple element. Salmon skirt, socks, shoes, fancy underpants.
I'm looking over what we've got, and thinking 'man, I'm going to freeze my fool ass off tomorrow, but that's completely fine. He tried so hard!'
(Or should you C: Kiss him and forget)
"I know it's wrong! You hate it, don't you!? FAAAAUUUUUCKKK! I stood there forever trying to figure it out! Oh yeah. And this. Dumb stupid crap."
and he throws down a winter sweater with salmon stripes. The only sweater that actually matches exactly the salmon skirt. Saved!
"Honey, you did a great job. Thank you for doing this for me, I know it was a pain in the ass."
I wouldn't have cared if he'd shown up with a bathrobe and a bathing suit. Nothing is more lovely than someone who tries hard to make you happy.
I ran all the way from Broadway and Olive to what I thought was Olive and Terry in my sunday best to catch the #41 sunday night. Olive and Terry wasn't where i thought it was, so I plopped down to wait for the #66.
The bus was packed when it arrived, so I tried to determine who had both a remaining seat near them and had taken a bath this week. I made a lucky choice, no smell, but as soon as I sat down I couldn't breathe. 'Why is it so hot? Must be because I ran all the way down here and I'm wearing 5 tops and 4 bottoms. Everyone else must be comfortable.'
The 66 wound through eastlake, Udist, Ravenna. Bodies started to empty out and I caught my breath and still, so hot. 'If I pretend I'm in a sauna, it'll be pleasant. yeah. Pretend this was some kind of choice.'
Shoreline, Northgate. There is a guy sitting next to me and another one across from me. Across from me is glancing for my eye now and again. Guy next to me pipes up, "Driver, it must be 85 degrees back here, can we please turn the heat down?"
I turn to him and mouth the words 'Thank. You.'
"Thats a funny thing I've noticed about the northwest," he says, "Everyone will be uncomfortable or know something is wrong, but no one will say anything for fear of making someone else uncomfortable. It's like everybody thinks: 'Well, it's not my bus.'"
"You're right. Nobody wants to make a scene, better to be personally uncomfortable and secretly pissed about it."
"It's not like that on the East Coast at all. People are like: "This is MY damn bus."
"I know, 'MY personal line at the airport.' And they make their wants known."
His conversation comes easy, and I can see the guy across from me is totally pissed off in a very 'where does that guy get off, being witty and easy going? jerk.' kind of way.
Guy next to me makes a joke and it's decently funny. I wonder if he's going to ask for my number, or if he's one of those married guys who likes to flirt with women because there's really nothing at stake for them.
He leans over and says "You have the whitest skin I've ever seen. It's really beautiful. You're going to be young forever."
"Um, well...Thank you. That's very sweet of you."
I get this a lot. It's a nice, but kind of weird 'howsabout you birth me an aryan baby?' sort of compliment. He sort of leaned over for a second before my phone rang.
"Excuse me, please. Hello, Mom? I'm about 5 minutes away. Did you find it alright? Good, good. Just stay put and I'll be right there."
I pulled the chain and exited the bus. He was handsome and nice, and Cake and I have an agreement about tucking opportunity in your back pocket for later. There's just something about little bits of unresolved intrigue that makes me feel like I'm still a mystery to somebody. There's a whole world out there waiting to tell me it's favorite color and sing me it's High School pep song.
My good friends are getting married to each other next October. I don't know much about the details of how this came about, but I think it's a very good thing. I look at them, having known each other and worked together for years and then suddenly realizing that they're going to spend the rest of their lives together, and it makes me wonder if my future partner is some dude I already know and care about. Dear dudes I already know and care about: wouldn't it be crazy if we got hitched?
I also learned this weekend that a very special Ex-BF is getting married to his special lady. Congratulations, both of you. While it's always remotely strange when any ex gets married, it makes me happy to know that the two of you will have an artistically compatible marriage and happy boisterous kids, if you so choose.
On Saturday, we 3 Derby Girls woke up for a Very Derby Christmas. We piled into Souxie's car and drove out to Issaquah, where we jumped around like puppies for 5 minutes before picking a tree close to the road, taking a dozen pictures of ourselves with said tree, and sawing the mothafucka down. This is my first real Christmas tree in 6 years.
Later in the evening, Souxie and the Delaware boys and I went to a hardcore punk show in a basement in Georgetown. I stood around in a tool shed, drinking PBR, looking like an ice cream cone, surrounded by hardcore kids all dressed in black. Some random guy sitting on a piano paid the dollar for me to get into the show, because I'd spent all my money on PBR in the toolshed. I gave him a hug and called him a good buddy. The fact that I was giving out anonymous hugs at 7:30pm should give you a decent indication of how this story is going to turn out.
Sex Video, the band-'s set was totally delightful but only 4 minutes long. Despite my repeated requests that they "Do it again! One more time! Play what you just played again if you don't have any more songs! COME ON!", they rolled up their mic cables and left the stage, so we left.
At the Summit Pub, I may or may not have drank a pitcher by myself.
Peter called just as I was leaving the bar and -recognizing the situation- called his building manager to have her unlock his apartment for me. I pulled that great number where I half run, half fall all the way back to his place. I splayed out on Cake's laundry-covered bed like a starfish, one shoe on, one shoe off.
Cake had a hard night at work, so when he finally got home, he must have helped me get undressed and into bed proper. All I remember is that around 4am he spent some time standing over me complaining about some sorry asshole who pissed him off, and closed off the statement with "I can't wait until you're awake so I can really complain about this!"
I think that stupid jerk also made plush toys talk to me in my sleep, because I had awful drunken dreams all night, and when I told him about it in the morning, he asked if anyone in the dream sounded like a Talking Uncle Sam doll, such as that one there.
Please note: Talking plush toys amplify hangovers.
I just received 2 text messages. One regarding this blog and long lost friendship, and one announcing that the sender will be in Seatown on Tuesday. Unfortunately, there is no way on my phone to see who text messages are from, and I never use the text function. So I'm basically going to have to call every single freaking one of you until somebody fesses up.
Regarding that corner I may have painted myself into: Mayhaps it's just best to let the paint dry.
The Derby is getting ready to go into full on holiday mode. Roxy busted out a holiday album by a Dixie Chicks Wanna-be band that includes the most dramatic holiday medley I've ever heard in my life. Spooky 'Hark How The Bells' harmonies with an intense string section followed by a CHRIST CHILD PRAISING WHITE MAN CHRISTMAS RAP. I'm not fooling around here people.
Souxie, Roxy and I are going to my first Christmas Tree Farm tomorrow to procure a bit of God's green earth for our livingroom (only to promptly dispose of it a month later at the great trash heap in the sky. See? This liberal education crap is screwing with me.), and lets not forget about the ultimate gift shop experience. Snowglobes and coffee mugs, here we come!
The Bronco High School Football Tournament is today! Git er done.
Hi Everybody! (Hi Doctor Nick!)
I had a great time at the Murder by Death/Weakerthans show last night. MBD is Roxy's friend from High Schools' band. All their songs are about whiskey, guns and the devil, and are sometimes set in Mexico. They have a lot of Mettallica-esque guitar sounds which become a little darker and sweeter with the addition of the cello. Sharp, snappy (kickass) drums and Tom Waits without the high gravel pitches vocals tie it all together in a nice little package. Unfortunately, the sound was totally unbalanced, so you couldn't hear the bass at all, and the cello got drowned out or way over amped totally at random. We had the fine fortune of hosting the band at The Derby last night. I hope they slept well and ate some fruit, because they braved 2 blizzards and a trailer accident getting here.
Between the bands I met a guy with the word Straight tattooed down the outside edge of his right hand and Edge tattooed down the left. Like the part of the hand you karate-chop with. I also plopped down in a booth with some guy who was waiting for his girlfriend to come back from the bathroom.
"Is this seat taken?"
"Um, my friend just..."
"Can I sit here until he/she gets back? Lady friend or man friend?"
"My girlfriend, she just went to the bathroom."
"There is always a line at the ladies room. Do you mind? My back is killing me from standing."
And my new buddy Ryan didn't mind too much. He was a little nervous but generally nice. When his lady got back, he went to the bathroom and she and Roxy's BF and I chatted about why someone would bother putting tape over their nipples if they used scotch tape.
The Weakerthans were a delight, as always. I heard every song I wanted to hear except one, and quite a few songs new to me. I have so much more fun when the band is happy.
(Hey Neumos, I spent some time last night considering what would make the space more inviting. I like those big knife paintings on the wall, that motif behind the back bar and that big clown painting, but the reason it feels like a gym in there is that 1: It's painted mauve (which is better than black in that space, for sure, as black would make it feel like you're in the woods or an airplane hangar) and 2: It's in desperate need of something on the walls. How are we all supposed to avoid looking directly at each other with big blank walls all over the place? The wall behind the stage would benefit greatly if you added some depth somehow. I think some bulb lights or even a big frame would do the trick. Gymnasium!)
I've been considering my career a lot lately, and I recently spotted an ad for a profession that I think I might really enjoy. Any of you ever been a process server? Do you think I'll get shot at? Josh thinks my adorability will be disarming. (Literally, I'd hope.)
I walked past the 'Visit Santa' display house outside of Nordstrom yesterday. You can watch the kids sitting on santa's lap for their picture through the outside window. When I passed, Jolly Grinning St. Nick had a lovely smiling 7-9 year old girl on each side, each dressed in brand new christmas dresses. On his lap sat a 5-6 year old boy, also dressed in all new finery, screaming his head off and writhing in terror. Santa and all the elves were still smiling and playing it cool, but that kid wasn't having a bit of it. It made me laugh out loud.