In two parts

PART 1: You know how...?

You know how you realize there are bananas about to rot in your fruit bowl, and you decide to make banana pancakes? So you take a shower and do your face mask (ha, how unjessmonster does that sound? Face mask! Ha! But - that's the new me, apparently) and realize there are only a couple tablespoons of milk left. And if you're going to do up the banana pancakes properly, a la Ms. Crocker, then you need some buttermilk. As it turns out, apparently you also needed an onion, 3 nectarines, 2 apples (Braeburn - you have standards), some capers, and a pint of vanilla swiss almond.

You know how by the time you start cooking the pancakes it's almost ten, and you're ravenous? So you eat the first pancake, have a cup of coffee, clean up the cream that spilled in the fridge, and then, oops, the next pancake is almost burnt on one side. So you flip, and sit down to read some blogs, eat another pancake with yogurt on top, and oops, there's another burnt one. And then you manage to cook a lot without burning them (and damn, that's a big batch of pancakes) and finally you pour the last humongous pancake into the pan. And sit down with your second cup of coffee. And forget that you were making pancakes? Yeah.

PART 2: You Were My Fiji

I'm not much of a concert-goer. If you know me, you probably know this. I can be talked into seeing a show on occasion, but there's just something about a combination of crowds, standing for hours, and loud music that does me in. People will say things like, "Ryan Adams is coming to town!" and I think "I'd love to see him," but I have no intention of purchasing a ticket and going. Some people thrive on crowds of people all excited to see or hear something. I get disgusted and retreat into my shell. I think secret bad thoughts about the people who bump into me in the crush, and although I love live music I inevitably think, "I wish I were sitting on my couch listening to this."

I've found the next best thing. Go to the Doug Fir, and get there just in time to nab a seat along the wall, where you can sit and sip gin & tonics before the show & during the opening bands (who may or may not be called the Christmas Installers but are nevertheless decent). When John Vanderslice, giggly school girl that he is, comes on, and the effects of two drinks on a light weight have sunk in, you can stand on the bench that runs along the wall and lean against the fabulously padded wavy wall. No crowds bumping against you. A seat if you're tired of standing. A view of the crowd. Slightly tipsy. And John Vanderslice. I've never been so relaxed at a show in my life.