This is my blog

Ikea

2009-06-02T13:27:00.000-07:00

Let's talk about Ikea.

I think I first heard about Ikea when I was 10, and living in Los Angeles near the beach with my mom. I was wondering aloud why I had to have a shitty, old-person hand-me-down bed while my best friend from across the street got a bed with a more youthful design, utilizing clean lines and storage efficiency (maybe those weren't the exact words of a 10-year-old Pamela). Damn her. That bed was from Ikea.

The first time I actually went to Ikea, I was 17 years old and FINALLY picking out a new bed, for what would be my first apartment. My first experience in Ikea can best be summed up by a famous painting by MC Escher:

Those showrooms are all part of a never-ending labrynth of commerce! I started taking shortcuts, only to find myself even more lost. I had my little furniture codes written down with a borrowed pencil nub, as if I could use them to grant me access to a secret exit where I come out into some kind of parallel universe, a universe of people who were all enjoying their newly-purchased Ikea furniture (those clean lines!) in the comfort of their own homes. As my blood sugar began to plummet, I dragged onward until I reach the oasis that is the mid-store cafeteria:

Meatballs and gravy! God bless those Swedes.

Temporarily nourished, I advanced toward the exit, only to find that delerium had set in. It goes a little something like this:

"okay, want that bed! writing down the code...hmm, that comforter is nice too, I'll write that down...ooh! How cute! Little ice cube trays in the shape of poodles! Must have....Gasp! A totally pointless and random knick knack that will only clutter the surface of my desk and take up space in my trash can when I decide to throw it away 10 years later, yes, definitely gotta have that...Oh my god! A worthless box of shit that my cat will choke on and die, called "Snudabodunlatkafrom"! Are they reading my mind!?"

Ikea knows that 99-cent poodle-shaped ice cube trays are like crack to an unsuspecting twenty-something girl. And putting a Swedish name on things somehow makes them more relevant to your tastes/life. It has to: how else could I possibly justify purchasing a white soap dish that pointlessly "holds" my soap about half an inch above the totally appropriate normal soap storage site (the surface of the damn sink!)?

Even after all this (not to mention the brutal checkout lines and the fact that Ikea is NEVER just down the street. No, it has to be a gazillion miles away, like some kind of all-day trek to the real Swedish Embassy. Even people that live right next to it find that it miraculously takes light years to actually get to!), nothing compares to the pure delight of assembling your furniture in the comfort of your own home. Ikea has made the process so simple! They give you what looks like a bent piece of coat hanger and a directions manual WITH NO WORDS. Instead, there is some smiley happy generic guy who is wordlessly mocking your inability to assemble the coffee table you just purchased. I own a few pieces of Ikea furniture: one is not structurally sound (turns out I put a panel in the wrong place), and another had to be glued together in crucial places after a dowel was misplaced (those things do NOT come out). This is just par for the course.

Despite my horrific accounts, I find myself returning again and again. Maybe I'm addicted. Either way, we all know who gets the last laugh. And it's a very hearty, uprorious, Swedish kind of laugh, one you can hear from a gazillion miles away at your own neighborhood Ikea store.

Happy shopping!

my top ten

2009-05-31T19:46:00.000-07:00

There is nothing like a poorly written celebrity memoir to properly usher in the summer reading season. Two summers ago I tackled the massive tome that is "How to Make Love Like a Porn Star", by Jenna Jameson (and her ghostwriter). Last summer I didn't get around to reading one, what with my eight (yes!) magazine subscriptions and a time-consuming french class.

This time around, however, I was in Powell's with my mom and I came across Tori Spelling's memoir, "Stori Telling". I'm realizing now that celebrity ghostwritten mems tend to all have the same kind of story arc. Let's discuss:

"How to Make Love Like a Porn Star" vs. "Stori Telling"

early childhood: Jenna Jameson comes from a broke ass family, while Tori Spelling comes from one of the richest families in the country. (shockingly enough, they both want your sympathy!!)

adolescence: Jenna grows up too quickly, gets raped by a friend of the family. Tori grows up too quickly, has an abusive boyfriend and finds herself surrounded by a fabulously wealthy family that doesn't know how to love. (Still playing the sympathy card, I see).

state of becoming: interestingly enough, Jenna's eroticized encounters with ladaaays and men are written with the same kind of 6th grade lexicon and figurative language as Tori's 2nd wedding, when she dances in the waves of Fiji to Lonestar's "Amazed". I am far more touched (bwahaha, double entendre) by the former.

state of fulfillment: Neither of these ladies is poor, or rich. Instead, they end up living kind of a boring existence. Get married, pop out kids, etc. Also, both felt the need to write the story of their lives in their mid-thirties.

So if you're looking for a sweet memoir to check out, i've got both. And trust me, it doesn't really matter which one you read!

An Open letter to Taco Bell

2009-02-22T15:12:00.000-08:00

Dear Taco Bell,

Damn, you're good. I love your food so much, I drove all the way to Ballard today just to enjoy some delicious crunchy tacos and pintos and cheese. But today something happened that will change the way I think of you forever. That's right! Because when I drove up to your little ordering speaker, I asked for the following:

1 #8 combo (that's three crunchy tacos and a soda)

1 soft taco

5 additional crunchy tacos (NOT all for me, seriously!)

1 pintos and cheese

some mild sauce

And do you know what I got?

1 #8 combo with a sprite

1 soft taco

5 additional crunchy tacos

1 pintos and cheese

and

.....

....

68 PACKETS OF MILD SAUCE.

Seriously, taco bell!? That's like, 7 packets per taco or something. Is that your sauce quota?? Do you have some sort of chart back in that kitchen that says 9 tacos must be accompanied by 68 packets of sauce? Did you really put 13 handfuls of sauce into my bag? or do you have some kind of chute that spits out sauce packets like ice? Do you expect me to stuff my bra or wash my hair or make a coffee table display with the left over packets?? I just don't know what to think anymore.

But thanks for the delicious food!

An open letter to Hilary Duff

2009-01-30T16:56:00.000-08:00

Miss Duff,

I am quite possibly your biggest fan. Want proof? Ever since I saw your cute, plucky self on The Lizzie McGuire show about 5 years ago (has it really been that long!? siiigh) I have been a patron of your craft. I bought your first album, Metamorphosis, when I was 16 years and I still sing along to "Sweet Sixteen" now that I'm 21. I own "The Lizzie Mcguire Movie", "A Cinderella Story", and "Raise Your Voice". But you know what? It really was all downhill from there, Hilary. Only your biggest fan would remember some of these embarrassing career decisions...but don't worry! No one ever reads this blog anyway.

Hilary Duff's five worst career decisions of all time:

5. The Perfect Man: Seriously, Hilary? You were on such a roll with Raise Your Voice, I was shocked to see this big theatre release from you. Want proof this was a bad decision? Look at your costars! Heather Locklear is fresh off her first puffy-faced-mugshot DUI and hasn't worked in years. And what is with that crazy looking girl with the glasses? Did she think she was the next Abigail Breslin or something? Jesus, Hilary. He's the only one who can save your career after this cinematic nosedive.

4. Hilary Duff: Most Wanted

Who puts out a greatest hits compilation after only 2 full-length albums!? Hilary, please! Even if you combed through the gems of your prior two releases, you would still have to scrape the bottom of the barrel just to get enough "hit" material to fill this lousy ass excuse for an album. And NO, I do not want to purchase the "Collector's Signature Edition" with the special packaging and bonus unreleased tracks. Those tracks were unreleased for a reason...and that's because they sucked. Also, "James Dean" will go down in history as your worst. song. ever.

Obviously this was a marketing decision to make a clean break with Duff's squeaky-clean past, which made room for...

3. The Cover of Maxim

Oh god, my eyes are burning!

Hilary, You are so NOT a sex symbol. You are making me uncomfortable. Is the white lace supposed to look all virginal and inviting to the gross pimply guys who read this publication? Also, in the interview printed inside you advised men everywhere to go see your movie because you "put a live scorpion" down your pants. I could not be less intrigued, Hilary! Scorpions are gross, and so was this photo shoot.

2. Best Of Hilary Duff

That's right...ANOTHER greatist hits compilation! I know even you were embarrassed by this one. You didn't even release it on iTunes! I had to track this down on Amazon, and I accidentally had it shipped all the way to my old house in San Diego. This album is more trouble than its worth. What's worse is that you repeat songs from the first Greatest Hits album...what are you trying to do!? "Hey guys, these songs are still great hits! I'm hoping you will pay for them again!" I have now paid for "So Yesterday" three times. Trick me once, shame on you. Trick me twice, shame on me. Trick me three times, and I'm gonna to go back to blaming you. Thanks for nothing!

1. Material Girls

This is quite possibly the worst movie of all time. God knows what Angelica Huston was doing slumming in this flick. Not only did this go STRAIGHT to DVD, but Rotten Tomatoes gave it a....

4 PERCENT APPROVAL RATING.

That's right. This movie only proves that your fans aren't mindless drones, and that you can't put your sad excuse for an actress sister in your projects anymore. I won't tolerate it! My fave

critic quote about this film was:

"Frankly, movies like Material Girls sicken me; they're base and soulless and entirely unworthy of the celluloid they were filmed upon"

Never again, Hilary. Never again.

Okay, now that I'm done tearing your career to pieces, I just want to say that anytime you want to fire your manager/agent, you can call me immediately. All these mistakes are so yesterday anyways. :-)

An open letter to Miss Sasha Fierce

2008-11-28T22:07:00.000-08:00

Beyonce has stumbled upon a well- known and rarely successful mid-career marketing scheme: the rebellious, risque alter-ego persona (and double disc album release). One on 6-song disc of hearty, soul food ballads that preach about loving women while ripping off Leona Lewis AND Rihanna (two of Beyonce's younger, hotter protégées), Beyonce is nothin' but good old Beyonce (though she could stand to have some original material). However, on the other 5-track disc a TRANS4MAYSHUN has taken place, and she is now....

SASHA FIERCE.

Allow me to clarify:

Beyonce + Titanium Robohand + Freakishly well-toned thighs + unitard + Raccoon eye makeup + Aggressively sexual dance moves = SASHA FIERCE.

I wonder if I should make a flow chart.

And what a fitting name, considering the other phrases Sasha Fierce is able to spell:

Chafes arise (have you seen her unitard??)

Cashes afire (because her stock is going waaaaay down)

Face Rashes I (Because those raccoon eyes are gonna need some heavy duty makeup remover...and thats only Part I?)

Ache Ears Ifs (Your ears will ache IFS you try to jam to these beats)

But seriously Sasha, you'll always be Beyonce to me.

Love,

Pamela

The Art of French Cooking

2008-09-17T20:05:00.003-07:00

Are you looking to master the art of french cooking? Try baking bread!

LE PAIN

Bonjour, Je suis le pain. Do you aimez moi!? You vill make le pain now!!!

First, touch me. NON, DO NOT TOUCH ME! Okay fine, you may touch me again. NOW YOU STOP. Ah, d'accord, i vill permit you to massage my soft, doughy body. NOW I MUST HAVE A NAP. you vill now steam me in my hot chamber, mais NE TOUCH PAS MOI. Now I vill lay about for une demie-heure.

Maybe I let you mangez-moi, maybe I do not. Ve vill see.

FIN

The other day I woke up

2008-09-17T20:05:00.002-07:00

The other day I woke up and decided that I was 21. I really had been 20 for what seems like forever, so I gave up and decided to be one year older. I quickly managed to convince many other people of this change in age, and plans for revelry were made.

Okay, so luckily this decision coincided with some kind of "official government document" or whatever that claims that I actually AM 21 now, but it got me thinking about two things:

1. I wonder how long I could get away with convincing people that my birthday was actually on a different day. If I told different groups of friends different dates, I could celebrate my birthday year round and get hella presents.

2. If only Nick Jonas would decide to be two years older.

Who are you to judge!?

Also, thank you to everyone who made my (fake?) birthday so wonderfully real. You know who you are.

Sometimes I find myself

2008-09-17T20:05:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I find myself in the odd situation of thinking I recognize someone, or seeing someone that bears an uncanny resemblance (in looks, mannerisms, annoyingness, whatever) to someone completely different. To clarify, growing up in San Diego has greatly influenced the way I categorize people here in Seattle. For instance:

There is a girl at my job who, in my mind, IS this one girl from San Diego. She's Seattle's version of Katie from my high school. They are so exactly the same, it's bizarre to believe they exist only 1200 miles apart.

It really makes you think about that whole "everyone is unique and one-of-a-kind" outlook on life. I mean, that can be inspirational and all, but I'm beginning to think that every person is just some version or permutation of another person that somebody knows from somewhere else. It's kind of like some totally unscientific and totally refutable parallel universe. Deep, right?

Now that I have achieved depth of though, consider this:

Over the summer I saw a girl pass in and out of the building where I took french, and I decided that she WAS the Seattle equivalent of this girl Joanna from my basketball team in high school. The resemblance was just too real. One day, my Seattle Joanna walks up to me and I am afraid that she will call me out for staring at her (and I thought I was being subtle!). Turns out, it IS Joanna. Joanna from San Diego, who moved for grad school and is now officially Joanna of Seattle.

And that is zen.

Thanks, Starbucks

2008-08-19T23:24:00.000-07:00

Dear Starbucks,

I wanted to post this open letter to you in a public place that no one actually frequents, thus critically downplaying the whole "public" element of the plan. So here it is:

I'll be honest. You guys don't have the best espresso. That title (obviously) goes to cafe allegro, or parnassus. You don't even have the best coffee. I guess you really can't even take credit for the chai tea, because that's all purchased elsewhere. But I have spent nearly 200 dollars this summer just to taste a little of your delicious bounty every morning. I can't really explain why, though that should hardly diminish the genuine-ness of my ardent affection for your liquid, solid, hot and cold treats.

And you know what? I don't care that you're so corporate it hurts. I will continue to endure the criticism when I carry your tell-tale plastic cup. When push comes to shove, Starbucks, I'll gladly take the blue pill. Just so long as you continue to sell those delicious banana loaves.

And to all you haters out there, hoping to find something a little sweeter to chase down all the haterade you've been swallowing...you should let me take you to Starbucks sometime! Your secret will be safe with me. :-)

Right now there are two cats

2008-08-19T23:08:00.001-07:00

Right now there are two cats in my apartment. One belongs to me, much in the same way that my crusted, left out, two-day-old macaroni in a bowl on my desk belongs to me, and the other simply does not. I'm perfectly okay with this setup (maybe not the macaroni), but -

despite all the sensitivity displayed (and internet research conducted!) by the humans, and the separate litter boxes, and separate food areas (and food!), suffice it to say that -

the cats are not.

but you know what they say:

(the following quote is, indeed, what they say)

"show me a person who doesn't derive instant enjoyment from mentally assigning real, human personalities to two neurotic, sparring cats (one of which is overweight but dieting), and I will show you a loser."

-anonymous (though thoroughly zen in my opinion)

I have a friend

2008-08-19T22:59:00.000-07:00

I have a friend named Michelle Cochran, and it's entirely possible that she's reading this right now. If that's true, Michelle, then I have but one thing to say to you:

you were right about sexy vampires.

It's true. I really have no one to blame but myself for my previous prejudice. I had so many friends who really wanted the best for me (Mame, that includes you) and what did I do? I let my unfounded distaste delay me from experiencing probably the best teen romance series of all time.

Well, that was 1,690 pages ago. This post could very well be my worst, but it does serve one purpose, and that is as a warning:

don't you dare tell me how Breaking Dawn ends!

The letters in my name

2008-08-07T17:45:00.000-07:00

The letters in my name also spell:

a sandal supreme
parade sans mule
amadeus rap lens
damn pale sear us
damp sensual ear
real puma ass den

These phrases will come in handy when:

1. John Coltrane's jazz career takes a turn for the worst (like it hasn't already) and he is reduced to whoring out his image via a line of sandals: "A Sandal Supreme: 50% off flip flops this week (valid only with in-store coupon)"

2. Sally the tween queen pageant winner's dreams are crushed after I break the news that her trusty companion Oats has fallen ill: "Sorry Sally, but you're gonna have to do the parade sans mule".

3. Some pseudo-intellectual professor wants to forge a new path in critical theory, one where ye olde music masters are mashed together with today's hot urban beats to create an entirely revolutionary way of seeing, nay, understanding the human consciousness: The Amadeus/Rap Lens and Human Consciousness by Professor Tupac Shastakovich

4. If ever I were to cook sado-masochist onions, they would probably look up at me from the pan and offer an insult to inflict pain but also a thinly veiled erotic plea: "Jesus Pam, you're damn pale...but please sear us!"

5. A nerdy, awkward boy is well on his way to losing his virginity, so he tries out some erotic wordplay to further seduce his almost willing (and very drunk) college lab partner: "Oh [insert girl's name here], I am so aroused by your damp, sensual....ear".

6. Tired of being tricked into paying to tour fake ones, a family is skeptical when they see the following sign on their annual vacation: "50% off tours! Real Puma Ass Dens! All ages"

and so on.

As I ripen into my twenties

2008-08-07T17:36:00.000-07:00

As I ripen into my twenties, I grow ever more aware of the fact that the music I listen to is comprised of two categories (I am simultaneously growing aware of the fact that I enjoy binary branding): That which I listen to because it should speak to me, and that which I listen to because it actually does. Let's discuss:

Actually, all I really wanted to do was use this space to complain about how much I really don't like Arcade Fire.

The end.

I always order the same thing

2008-08-05T01:58:00.000-07:00

I always order the same thing when I go to any restaurant --

Now, let me clarify: I am not trying to say that I will always look for the same dish across the dozens of menus I encounter on a regular basis, but that at every restaurant I go to there is a special item that I have ordered in the past that was and always is delicious, and my craving for that particular dish is usually what jump starts my interest or desire to go to said restaurant.

At Thai 65, it's the spring rolls. At Portage Bay, its the chicken and walnut salad. At Sarah and Rossi's, its the red velvet cupcakes.

Some say this approach to eating makes me boring and habitual. I say it makes me a true lover of food. While others are pouring over their menus, passively waiting for something to bring them temporary pleasure, to entertain them in only the most fleeting and passing way, I feel desire and I seek it out. Every time I order the kid's pepperoni pizza at Tutta Bella's I am sustaining a lasting love affair, adding another notch in one long monogamous bedpost, feeling the satisfaction of knowing what I want and obtaining it, without getting distracted by lesser dishes.

And hey, life is too short....actually, no, I won't go there.

-- There is simply no better way to eat.

My socks

2008-08-05T01:38:00.000-07:00

My socks are never the same color. And since we're on the subject, why should they be? Life is too short for boring old white socks, or even for perfectly, predictably matched colored socks.

If you're like me, you probably looked at that last sentence and thought a combination of things:

1. God, she is so right.

2. People really abuse the "life is too short" mantra (is it a mantra?) in order to justify their own particular behavior/taste/values/affinity for [insert terrible habit here]. And it's true. For example:

Vegetarian: I am vegetarian because I love animals, and life is too short to spend another day supporting the killing or harming of one more living, breathing organism just for my own selfish gain.

Non-vegetarian (especially those who may have recently fallen off the wagon): I tried being vegetarian, but you know what? Life is just too short to deny myself the pleasure of eating delicious, juicy meat.

The problem with this whole "life is too short" approach is that I can see myself agreeing with both people (though I'm more of a hedonist, and thus more likely to want to be friends with the second person). Either way, what this should tell you is that when you fall back on the "life is too short" justification, you're saying something meaningful and important, and not really saying anything at all at the same time.

and so on.

Everything in life

2008-08-04T21:07:00.000-07:00

Everything in life can be divided entirely into two categories: that which is "yumzors" and that which is "negatron". Everything else is just okay.

The other day I ran a mock session with a potential new employee at my work, and I got the warm, fuzzy, hypnotic feeling I always get whenever I feel like someone is taking care of me or doing something just for me. That was totally yumzors.

The other day I spilled a 5-dollar coffee drink, forgot my final french essay, and proceeded to purchase a very hard-to-find pie only to leave it behind at the store on accident. That day was totally negatron.

Today I went to class and work, drank too much caffeine, laughed a bit but also moped a bit. Today was just okay.

I realize that I have actually divided things into three categories and not two, but my revelation is all about zen, and zen has never been all about logic. In fact, the two seem almost opposite. For example:

Logic says: If you love someone, keep them close.

Zen says: If you love someone, let them go.

Logic thinks: That you don't always have to prepare the reading, because you won't always be called on the next day in class.

Zen knows: the day you don't prepare the reading is the day you will be called on.

and so on.