The Grass is Greener in Seattle

I want to move.

Real bad.

Practically everyone who knows me knows I have this deep desire to live somewhere else. Somewhere a little chilly and beautiful.


Currently we live in Orange County.

It’s cool here. I guess, that is if you like everything looking exactly the same. All the houses look the same. Shopping centers are built for driving not walking. Everyone has a swarthy 4-wheel drive SUVs with no intentions of taking it off-road. The women all look the same with their Lululemon yoga pants and blonde highlights. And while there’s nothing inherently wrong with yoga pants and highlights (Because I’ve been wearing these yoga pants for 6 days straight. And instead of washing them, like a reasonable person, I just wait until the jelly or snot or what-have-you dries, and then I scratch it off with my fingernail. Not only am I preserving the spandex-y-ness of my pants by not washing them, but I’m also conserving energy and water! Who’s the reasonable one now, huh?), it’s just that I’m ready for something different.

Orange County definatly has it’s good points.

We have a dreamy coast.


Go ahead and ignore that precious newborn in my arms, that's just Berlyn when she was 2 weeks old.

There’s also all these precious neighborhoods:


And we have the Real Housewives of Orange County, so that’s something.


Here in the OC, it’s a little too homogenized, if you will. You know homogenized, that’s the process of shaking milk fats into the milk liquids so you get one creamy smooth outcome. And I don’t want one creamy smooth outcome, you know, because I don’t tolerate the dairy. Plus, I’m ready for an adventure, a lactose-free adventure.

We’ve bounced around ideas of where we’d go:

San Francisco




We’ve even considered local cities like:

Costa Mesa

Laguna Beach

Venice Beach

Santa Monica

But we always come back to Seattle.


Ahhh Seattle. Like a cozy pair of rain-soaked jeans. What? You don’t think jeans can be cozy if they’re rain-soaked? Well you obviously aren’t cut out for the weather in Seattle.

But I totally am. I’m practically a Seattle-ite already, here’s why:

I own a pair sheerling boots

I don’t really style my hair anyways

Rain makes me sleepy and I love a good nap

I drink coffee

Flannel is making a huge comeback

I always forget to water my plants and if I move to Seattle, I won’t have to

Plus it’s so mossy there. And moss is a pretty color

So there’s my list.

I know, I know. I seem like a shoo-in for moving to Seattle. But it’s tough to leave this crazy place. I love that all my family and friends are at most a 30 minute drive. And I’m comfortable here. And my kids…well, kids are resilient, and mine would be happy where there is an abundance of string cheese and the movie Cars is playing.

But I’m not moving any time soon. I have to be content with where I am. I honestly love it here, but I think I’d just love it over there more.


See? Even the trees are cozier in Seattle.

I suck at writing Thank You cards.

When Pat and I got married we registered for everything Williams-Sonoma had to offer. 19 shot glasses, and 78 ramekins rounded out our very thorough list of things a newlywed couple needed: Soup tureen? Check. Traditional French cookbook? Check. Silver plated candlesticks? Check.

Apparently we thought we were Ina and Jeffrey Garten, living in the Hamptons and throwing elaborate dinner parties on white sandy beaches. Unfortunately I do not have an assortment of sexually questionable men with armfuls of flowers who want to do a table-scape with me in return for my famous mushroom risotto.


What I should have got instead was an year’s supply of antibiotics for UTI’s and Easy Mac. But what the hell did I know?

As tore off the wedding bell wrapping paper at my bridal shower, one of my bridesmaids took copious notes:

  •  6 white dinner plates and 3 cloth napkins with hemstitch trim from the Jennings
  • 4 leaded white wine flutes from Marcia McDerby
  • Silk table runner with blue Swarovski crystals from Great-Grandma Peg

I remember marveling at all my grown-up presents. I’d press my cheek into the silk table runner, and caress it, and I’d drink cranberry juice from the fancy wine glasses, and blot my face with the cloth napkins. But then it was time to write the thank you notes. I sat down at the table with my book of notes that my bridesmaid took, and my monogrammed stationary, and then I’d tap my pen thinking of the perfect thing to say:

Dearest Madam and Sir Jennings,

Thank you cordially for the 6 white dinner plates and 3 cloth napkins with hemstitch trim. They have served me well at dinner time. Your generosity is much appreciated.

Yours truly,


Mrs. Patrick


Okay, not bad for my first attempt, I thought. Just mail it off, I have 50 more of these, but next time I should probably be less specific and less stuffy, and maybe I should tell an antidote or something to lighten it up.


Thanks for the wine glasses, I will be getting drunk and making poor choices very soon thanks to you.

 Yee haa!



Humm…Who is Marcia McDerby anyways? Is she my mom’s friend? My great aunt? Crap. Well if she didn’t want me getting drunk she shouldn’t have bought me wine glasses, her fault, not mine. At least I’m honest. I like honesty, maybe I’ll try that with Grandma’s thank you card.

Dear G. Grandma,

Your table runner gift is stunning. Only problem is I’ll probably never use it. Stick with the registry, Grams. Can I have the gift receipt so I can return it?



Here’s the thing, I really shouldn’t be writing thank you cards. I kinda suck at it. My handwriting’s all squirly and there’s the added pressure of filling up all the space on the card. I’m pretty good at email and I think it would be best if I just sent out a mass text.

To: Everyone who sent me a gift

Message: Thanks. I love it.

I really can’t mess anything up that way, and I think I seem genuinely grateful, don’t you? Alright it’s settled, next time you get me a gift, be prepared for an amazingly concise and eco-friendly text message in return.

Halloween wrap-up

And now I bring to you the obligatory after-Halloween wrap-up blog post where I tell you that I dressed up as a Real Orange County Housewife for Halloween. I wore a fuchsia Juicy track suit, had french manicure polish on my toe nails, a feather piece in my hair, big ol’ fake knockers, and a Starbucks blended iced coffee in one hand and a glass of Chardonnay in the other. Cheers!

Just kidding, no one would know I was dressed up. It would basically be a typical day for me, only I’d have bigger boobs.

This year I didn’t dress up. Actually I never dress up, but I always want to. The urge is very strong in me. But I fight it, with everything I have. Mainly because my husband doesn’t enjoy my company when I’m wearing a Magnum P.I. costume with matching mustache. Perhaps he’s jealous of my aviators, or maybe it’s because I look better than him?

Well whatever. Halloween’s over and I’m not bitter that I didn’t dress up, okay maybe just a little bit, and I might just retaliate by dressing up on a day in the very near future. Maybe to your daughter’s 4th birthday party? I’ll be the one dressed as a slutty astronaut. Happy Halloween, er, I mean Birthday I got a glow-in-the-dark solar system and fishnet stockings.

Berlyn and Hudson chose to be matchy-matchy this year. Honestly I had very little to do with it. This was the first year that I fought the urge to interject my sage advice and wise opinions. Of course I always have a say, but this year I let them decide, and they were so excited with their choice of Lightening McQueen race car drivers. Seriously, if I just printed out some Cars logos and scotched taped them to a pair of red sweatpants they would have been just as happy. But I caved and actually bought them costumes.


Their joy is my joy.

When I dropped Berlyn off at school in her costume, I’ll admit, I was a little hesitant. Because at her age every single girl dresses up as a princess of some sort. But not Berlyn, there wasn’t a stitch of pink on her, no flouncy dress or golden scepter to wave around. When she met up with her pack of friends at school they circled around her and told her she looked like a boy, and one of her friend’s said, “I don’t like your costume.”

My eyes widened and held my breath, waiting to hear what Berlyn would say. I didn’t want her to feel bad for choosing something counter-gender. I wanted to celebrate her uniqueness, and I certainly didn’t want anyone to crush her spirit. I know I can’t protect her forever, but she’s 4 and I’m going to try until she’s at least 57.

Then she says, “Well, I like your costume.”



Maybe it was the high I was riding from raising such a well-adjusted and secure young lady, or maybe it was my coffee kicking in, or maybe it was because I was just really, really hungry, but whatever it was, I got home from dropping her off and spent the rest of the day in the kitchen making fall food.



Pumpkin pie, caramel, cookies, chili, corn bread, apple cider, popcorn, and whipped cream (for the pie)

Everything was entirely homemade, and everything went entirely into my belly.

After that we went trick-or-treating, and I stole all my kids candy, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?hudson