Seattle summer

The sun has graced Seattle with its buttery warm rays and Seattle, as a collection of mod hippies with eco-pretentiousness, has hung up the wool coats and donned sandals.  Of the Teva variety.

No, really.  It’s remained winter here until, oh this previous weekend.  With a one-night stand with 90 degree heat one weekend, but the sun was drunk and Seattle just looked so good in those tight cargo pants. 

I’m happy.  My sunglass collection can see the light of day (Oh jeez, pun!), which always makes me feel glamorous and evasive.  People are outside, doing outside things that involve laughing and lifting their faces towards the sun to absorb as many cancer producing rays as possible.  I think Seattle’s pretty darn sure the sun’s here to stay; we’ve abandoned our sunshine skepticism.  When a wayward sunbeam hits us in the eye, we no longer look towards the heavens with cynic hope, trying to determine how much time we have to bask in light before frothy grey clouds over come the skies.  No, instead there is handholding – which can only be done on sunlit days, and dresses are gracing women’s forms, held precariously in place with string and everyone has broken out one of their four hundred and seventy seven pairs of flipflops.  People are leisurely meandering around with no place to be and no urge to get there.  They remind me of stoned sheep with their sluggish movements and delayed reactions.  The honeymoon of having a sun has not, and will not for some time, worn off with the people of Seattle. 

I do love the summer.  I just don’t like how it affects every single other person.  Kind of like booze.  There’s a lightheartedness and inhibitions go out the door.  Out comes the flesh.  I’m usually pretty fine with that.  My pet peeve: tube tops.  Specifically: large women in tube tops.  They don’t have the ability to smooth and slim, and if you’re wearing muffin-top inducing short-shorts, well, then you look like a summertime Stay Puft marshmallow woman.  As my biological dad would say (to me, no less) “You want some jam with those rolls?”  Second runner up: big boobed women in tube tops without bras; if your boobs and stomach meld to form some disfigured uni-torso, ex-nay the tube top. 

Tourists are here.  I don’t understand visiting Seattle.  What are they doing here?  Enjoying the Mariners?  No.  The city’s not that old, there ain’t much history and while the people appear friendly by opening the door for you, we are really thinking that you are a little shit for taking your sweet time walking through that door we have opened for you.  The smile is to disguise our disgust. 

Actually, that may just be me.  I held the door and then got stuck behind two British lady tourists.  Who were having a hard time negotiating the Seattle’s Best coffee menu.  But they weren’t ordering coffee (dear jeebus), they wanted sandwiches.  Specifically the sandwiches that were not in stock at the time.  And while they asked stupid questions (“You don’t have turkey and provolone on a croissant?  What about cream cheese instead?”  No you twit, they are pre-made and they are out.) I kept thinking, “Your accent sounds dumb.  And you ask dumb questions.  I will now associate the British with dumb.”  It was a negative association thing.  I’m sure they were looking at me, as I sighed, rolled my eyes and noisily shifted my weight from one enormously tall red patent heel to the other, “You’re movements are annoying.  And you’re from Seattle.  I will now associate Seattle with annoying.”  In my defense, I was in a hurry to get my de-caf and sit outside.  In the sun.  Way to go dummy.  Thanks for ruining my sunshiny day.