Saturday, December 30, 2006

In Which I Attempt Organization

WANTED: One personal librarian. JOB DUTIES: Organizing my large and ever-growing collection of personal and public media; including, but definitely not limited to: journals, emails, food logs, bills, photo-sharing sites, blogs, forum memberships, family obligations, my social calendar, my voice recorder, and my brain. PAY: Nothing. HOURS: 24-7. BENEFITS: Constant entertainment, of varying qualities.

To take a few steps towards this goal myself, before I hire someone at a less than nothing salary, because I'll probably borrow money from them too, I have added both the LT's photo-sharing site and my own photo-sharing site to the links, on the side bar. I realize that it is way cooler to put pics in the blog, but until I can hire someone to do that for me, or at least until I can find an easy way of posting pics without first downloading them to my computer, this is the best way.

Currently Consuming: Leftover Roasted Brussel Sprouts, microwaved, with lots of fresh-ground salt and pepper. I assumed I would need the Alfreda Sauce I also got out of the refrigerator, but I guess not--they're surprisingly good plain. That's good because I'll need that sauce for the Shepherd's Pie from LT's Christmas Dinner.

Currently Listening: Dogs snoring.

Currently waiting for: My damn jazz CD's to come in the mail!

Movies Seen Recently: Children of Men. I loved it, LT hated it.

Current New Year's Eve Plans: Dinner!

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

Adventures in Vacationing

Friday, Dec. 22nd, noon: Get Hair Did.
Friday, Dec. 22nd, midnight: Jager-Bombs for Birthday!

Saturday, Dec. 23rd, noon: Christmas Celebration (Part 1 of 4)
Saturday, Dec. 23rd, midnight: Christmas Party with Killer Jenga

Sunday, Dec. 24th, 10 am: Singing in Choir.
Sunday, Dec. 24th, 10 pm: Singing in Choir.

Monday, Dec. 25th, 8 am: Stopping at only open espresso drive-thru.
Monday, Dec. 25th, 10 am: Cooking up a storm.
Monday, Dec. 25th, 1 pm: Christmas Celebration (Part 2 of 4)
Monday, Dec. 25th, 6 pm: Bringing Christmas and Christmas Dinner to Navy boys on duty. (Christmas Celebration Part 3 of 4) (See Cooking up a storm, above.)
Monday, Dec. 25th, 11 pm: Zzzzzzzz.

Tuesday, Dec. 26th, noon: Picking up Titan.
Tuesday, Dec. 26th, 3 pm: Watching TV with LT.
Tuesday, Dec. 26th, 6 pm: Shooting pool.
Tuesday, Dec. 26th, 10 pm: Zzzzzzz.

Wednesday, Dec. 27th, 8 am: Eating entire container of Zatarain's Red Beans and Rice. Sitting on couch. Watching TV. Consuming coffee with lots of f.creamer.

Thursday, Dec. 27th, 8 am: SKIING!

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Accentuate the Postive!

Occasionally, my life sucks.

Or rather, occasionally certain things go wrong in my life, and because I'm obsessive and melodramatic, I blow small things completely out of proportion, go crazy, and take my support group with me.

For example: two years ago, when I got fired, got screwed out of the 300 dollars by the bank, and couldn't pay rent, right before T-Town was about leave for a month and a half, I was fairly calm about it, because really, what are you going to do? I called the bank, got them to refund my money, found another job, and went happily on my merry way, paying rent and holding down the fort until T-Town got back.

I always tend to be calm during catastrophic events. There's the time that I was moving, coughing up lungs, and contracting profuse nosebleeds. I kept moving my stuff, asked my mother and boyfriend for help, and hired a truck. There's the time that the water pipe burst overhead, at 2 am, in the apartment that I shared with T-Town. We moved our electronics out of the way, unscrewed the antique light fixture, and split ways to spend the night at our parents, with our respective dogs.

But when I hear the news that a few people I know don't like me anymore? OH MY GOD, CATASTROPHE. THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH. My hair falls out. My skin has literally started to flake off. I call people and bitch them out. I shower attention on those who don't need it.

And I focus on what I CAN do, and HAVE done well, already.

A Partial List Of Things That Are Not Fubared In My Life:

My promotion.
My security clearance.
My house, yet.
The four reports I wrote in the last week.
Work friends.
LT's friends.
Night skiing for free because a nice boy found me a ticket!
The most adorable girly Christmas presents ever!
New jazz CDs!
Old friends.
New friends!
Paid Christmas vacay!

And last, but most importantly,

Hummus, wine, and crackers. Thank you and good night.

Sunday, December 17, 2006

Hello from Mt. Bachelor!

My 26th birthday passed with a typhoon, geometry, roses, cupcakes, candles, opera, a vegan feast, family laughter, and my boyfriend whisking me away on a surprise vacation to Mt. Bachelor.

Many thanks, also, to all of my college friends, who could somehow sense that I needed a little extra love this year and wrote messages, emailed, myspaced, facebooked, and called. I love every single one of you. Sometimes I wish I lived on the East Coast just so I could be closer to all of you. (Okay, I wish that OFTEN. Well, sometimes. You know what I mean.)

Many MANY thanks, last, but definitely NOT least, too all the hometown people wishing me a happy birthday.

Yay 26!

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Happy Birfday to ME!

I am 26 TODAY!!!

Horoscope Today:

Ferociously proud and somewhat vain, you like to be impressive and to be seen as Somebody Special. You are not timid, meek, or self-effacing, and are rarely content being in the background or in the subordinate position. You are a natural leader, and do not take orders from others very well. You must have something of your own, something creative - be it a business, a project, a home or whatever - that you can develop and manage according to your own will and vision. Whatever you do, you do it in a unique, dramatic, individual way. You like to put your own personal stamp on it.

You are a gambler and an adventurer at heart, one who loves to take risks, to discover and explore new worlds, and to take the untried path rather than the safe, reliable one. You are an independent soul, freedom-loving, and often very restless. You need a lifestyle that provides opportunities for travel, movement, change, and meeting new people. A steady routine which offers much in the way of security but little in the way of space and freedom is odious to you.

Who, me?

Monday, December 11, 2006

Now With EXTRA Character!

My friend Shrew has this unbelieveable quote on her gchat profile: "Sometimes the mind, for reasons we don't necessarily understand, just decides to go to the store for a quart of milk."

I don't know who said it--a quick search on Google has turned up nothing--but I know it's not hers because she couldn't spell "necessarily" right on the first try, not that I don't love her dearly anyway. It's a perfect quote for her, my Partner in ADD, and for me. (Or did I say that already?)

I have good days, where I'm really on, and bad days, where the LT gets worried that I haven't finished a sentence in four hours and I keep staring off into space, and, really, can I FOCUS for JUST TEN SECONDS, THANK YOU VERYMUCH?

For example, suddenly today, after successfully being fingerprinted, making a new girlfriend in the Security Clearance Office, securing (ha!) a temporary security clearance for myself, navigating my annual performance review, and checking on my PROMOTION (yay!) I had a PANIC attack about a social engagement and emailed a friend to say that the LT and I were not going.

And then suddenly I remember that the LT and I had already talked about said social engagement and HAD planned to go!

So I just as quickly emailed my same friend that, wait, haha, I'm an idiot and we ARE going after all! I think? Maybe? And what day is it today? Is the world still round? Hello? Am I CEO yet? Are my eyes still pointing the same direction?

The response: "Oh. My. God. How easily I forget."

...Is that even an answer? Because if I wanted character assasinations, I could just go to my MOTHER'S house, thank you VERY much.

Anyway, I imagine that as my friend CP was typing his response, he was simultaneously emailing his fiance his heartfelt thanks that she was not half as crazy as I am, and also possibly wondering what kind of man the LT is and if he failed horribly in one of his past lives?

But it does not matter! Because although I have started at least five thoughts this weekend that I never finished, I have officially bought the BEST CHRISTMAS PRESENT EVER for the LT, and that, my friends, will make up for a lot of...

Sunday, December 10, 2006

Sunday Evening. Part Infinitum.

I am drinking a glass of wine so rough that I could chew it, but it's necessary. Necessary because I just got my new Lucky Magazine in the mail and dear God, the eighties, and now the seventies, and dear God, the clothes are so UGLY RIGHT NOW! The Lucky fashion editors may not think of themselves as old, and I'm sure they are happy to return to a time (fashion-wise) which may hold many happy memories for them, but darlings, I was not even born in the seventies. By the time I was born, Ronald Reagan was already in office. I do not remember wide-legged jeans, I do not like vests, and LEATHER BACKPACKS? You're recommending leather backpacks? For the LOVE of GOD.


Also on the disappointment list: the LT and I watched The Sting and Laura this weekend--we chilled a lot this weekend, as we also watched Pearl Harbor, Van Helsing, and Cars--I now wear a size ten and not a six--and I was making a big deal of watching Laura because it's so classic film noir, very big deal at the time, all that, and we watched it and it's so...huh. Some good camera work. And of course Gene Tierney is great to watch. But...otherwise...well. Kind of slow. And really heavy on atmosphere. I'd seen it before, and remember liking it, but...well.

It's possible, also, that my 15 inch laptop didn't do it justice.

Thursday, December 07, 2006

Great Bruise of 2006

You thought I was done with the pictures.

I'm so not.

LT, when taking these pictures, ordered me around like Hugh Hefner, telling me to turn my thigh this way or that way. Finally, I said, "What's the problem?"

"Your skin reflects too much light," he complained. (See, Pasty-white flab, previous post.)

"Well. EXCUSE ME."

Remind me to get a tan next time.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

The Invisible 300

Note: This will NOT be a post about me begging my invisible 300 readers to COMMENT ALREADY, JESUS CHRIST, IT'S NOT HARD. I will never be one of Those bloggers, do you hear me? Never! Okay. Now that that's settled...

I was talking to Roommate (now much previous, but will always be called Roommate in this blog, because why not?) the other night, and I said, in passing, "If you want to see the biggest bruise ever, check out my blog." (And let me take this moment to say that it is now TWELVE TIMES BIGGER THAN IT WAS IN THOSE PICTURES. It consumes my entire thigh, front AND back, and most of my knee. Please do not ask me how you can hit both sides of your leg at once on one, stationary, rock. Should be impossible. HA, HA. Guess it's not!)

Those were some really damn long parantheses.

Anyway. Roommate. Right. I was telling him about The Great Bruise of 2006, or GB'06, as I like to call it, and he said, "I'm already a regular reader of your blog."

And I was surprised. I mean, I always KNEW he could read, but to hear that he read DAILY...

Ha. Ha! Joke! Funny! Anyway. I was surprised because, except for once, maybe twice, the boy has NEVER COMMENTED ON MY BLOG. How would I know he was there, if he hadn't told me?

No, I am NOT one of those bloggers, the ones that beg for commenters. I wouldn't do that, would I? Of course not. I mean, that is just lame and sad. And pathetic. And possibly just plain wrong. (COMMENT, PLEASE. EVERYBODY. FOR THE LOVE OF BLOG.)

But really, it freaks me out a little. I mean, I have a stat counter, I know people read, but you guys are just...out there. Sitting. Reading. Late at night, I sometimes think I can hear you breathing.

Anddddd....perhaps I should just go to bed now.

UPDATE: There was some sort of CLICKING noise outside my window last night. I woke up in a panic, ran around turning off all the lights, (a good idea in any case) and hid under the covers. Cannot wait to sleep in a house tonight that does NOT have gorgeous, hard to secure windows all over the ground floor.

Sunday, December 03, 2006


So. I have a leg. A right leg, to be specific. And it has this bruise on it. Which, after these pictures, might well be entitled The Great Bruise of 2006.

The Bruise, on Friday.

The Bruise, again Friday.

The Bruise, Saturday.


I tried to show my bruise to my roommate and landlord, M, and his boyfriend. I was all enthusiastic. "HI GUYS! Want to see my BRUISE?"

Their lips curled, much like the smoke from their cigarettes. "Um. No."

Me: "TOO DAMN BAD. I will show you anyway, and you will LOVE it."

I unzipped, pulled down my jeans, and showed them. I believe my landlord's face actually turned green. "Um. Okay. Ow."

What he didn't say: "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN. I did not choose a lifetime of hardship and heartache, looking at beautiful sculpted boys, just so I could be forced to look at YOUR PASTY-WHITE FLAB. PLEASE PUT IT AWAY."

On the other hand, the LT, a guy with both his fair share of bruises AND inordinate interest in my thighs, is only too happy to give his opinion of my bruise every time I show him.

Something tells me I chose wisely.

My Christmas Wish to Google

Dear Google Powers That Be,

I have lived in Seattle most of my life, barring a brief but succeesful college career at Carnegie Mellon, and always ALWAYS the bus system has sucked sweaty goat balls. Buses twenty minutes late, buses crawling down busy streets and blocking traffic for miles, some bus drivers who believe that their buses and passengers are all senior citizens who will die if our speed exceeds 20 mph, and other bus drivers who are trying to pound their buses (and passengers) into submission with gratuitous use of jack-rabbit starts and stops-on-a-dime. As a Seattlelite, I of course have a Starbucks cup surgically implanted into my right hand, meaning that in slow buses, I almost explode with nervous anticipation, and in fast buses, I end up wearing my five dollar coffee. I have started driving instead.

Intellectually, I know that Google cannot fix our bus system, although in my heart I believe that Google can change the world and set the course of the stars. But maybe a useful search engine tool would be some help, in lieu of exploding the Metro Transit office and installing all new cube monkeys. In addition, the highly anticipated light-rail system and Sounder Trains between Tacoma and Everett make the wealth of transit options confusing, although not any more efficient. Please, Google Transit, come to Seattle! We could sure use you.

And so could my dry cleaning bill.


Wednesday, November 29, 2006


Got this gem in one of the previous comments, and wanted to repost it here:

L-T says: "You know, there's a saying in the Blogosphere: TTIWWOP! This thread is worthless without pics!"

And so, with much further ado, I bring you: Pictures.

On our way up to Whistler. Notice the big smiles. We are ready to SKI! Nothing will stop us! No sirree bob!

Getting ready, still unware that Anything Bad Would Happen.

I wish this was me; I wish that my fall had been in so much powder. This is a representative shot of all the tumbles that were taken on Friday. You can see that there is enough snow to cover several mountain ranges. How did I find the one rock patch? Ask my skis.

After the first day--I'd already broken myself against a moutain, but the boys are all in fine far.

Myself and Nina. Notice how nice and happy we look here. You can't see how bad my thigh is, and I'm all smiley because I've had all day to rest, have just gotten in a hot tub, and taken six advil. My mood on this night will get drastically worse.

The Girls, at breakfast, Sunday morning. You can see that we look a little more raggedy here. We are all bundled up, even inside the cafe, because it is REALLY FREAKIN' COLD outside, although you can't tell that from the picture.

An absolute gem of a picture, and my reaction to T-Town's broken leg, caught on film. I am on the phone with her at this very moment. Also indicative of my normal life, that is, a bunch of stuff happens around me while I'm on the phone. Typical.

I'm not the only one feeling the pain. We are all about to leave, and we are tired.

Really, Really tired.

But are we going again? WELL HELL YES WE ARE!

We are insane.

Monday, November 27, 2006


In the continuing tradition of rescuing my friends from ever needing to start their own blogs or even update them once they have them, I'll add to the previous post: I heard from T-Town (the girl, not the city) today.

I was in the Dublin Gate, an Irish pub and restaurant at the bottom of the gondolas in Whistler Village, waiting for LT to finish skiing so we could start the long and tortuous journey through six inches of snow and 20 degree weather when my phone rang, and I answered it.

"Hello? Oh, hey, T-Town."

"Blah blah mfffle garble-warble leg," she said.

I pressed the phone a little tighter against my ear. "I'm sorry?"

"Blah brark garble-warble LEG," she said again.

Me, totally guessing: "Oh! Did you read my blog?"

T-Town: "What?"

Me: "Maybe I misunderstood. Say it again."


Me, silent while this sinks in: "OH MY GOD! You broke your leg? What happened? Are you okay?"

T-Town: "Well, now that I'm done shouting at you, I'm fine, except for this broken leg."

Me: "Sweet! So did you read my blog?"

T-Town: "Oh, $(*&@# you."

Sunday, November 26, 2006

My Thigh Meets the Canadian Rockies. All of Them.

But I'm improving, I swear I am. Last time I was in Whistler, I wrecked my knee on the very first run of the very first day. And then I skiied on it all weekend. This time, I waited to wreck my thigh until the SECOND run! Huge improvements were made! (Sigh.)

The ski patrol was there in moments, almost faster than the LT, but not quite. Because I was ahead of everyone else, only our friend J saw me actually fall--he saw my skis fly up in the air and then everyone heard me scream, and, as J put it later, LT suddenly appeared out of nowhere, flying over to where I had been--J swears his skis actually came off in the air--so he could land by me and pop MY skis off, because I could not move my leg.

I'M FINE. I just body-planted on a rock field really, really hard. I didn't break anything, I hardly even broke my skin--my ski gear and helmet stood up well to the onslaught. My thigh bore the brunt of it--it wouldn't bear weight for several hours, but today I can walk, and almost go up and down stairs. It's just a great big charley horse, nothing permanent, but DAMN was I upset that I couldn't ski! Oh well. LT is skiing today. He texted me to say the snow is terrible, which was very sweet of him, given that Whistler got several inches of fresh powder over night and it is probably, actually, quite good.

The ski patrol guy asked me if I was allergic to anything, and I said, "Yeah, big fucking rocks," and he was so cool that he wrote it down: "Allergic to rocks." I almost laughed, except that it would have required moving. I got to ride in a toboggan, a very interesting experience and something I hope to never do again, although it's good to say that I've done it, and he got me down to the ski patrol "clinic" (read: "shed") and asked if I'd mind if he took a look and I said no, of course not, and I stripped down a little and he took a look.

"Seems okay," he said. "I don't think you fractured your femur. You should be okay after a few days. But are you always this vocal?"

My mind blanked out for second. "Am I always this what? WHAT?"

"Well, you make a lot of little noises," he said, not embarrassed, just asking. "Is that normal for you? Or are you in a lot of pain?"

I was speechless (possibly answering his question) while I considered the answers:

1. "You'd be vocal, too, if you'd just hit a rock wall going twenty miles an hour!"
2. "I don't know. Are all Canadians as boring and quiet as you?"
3. "I don't know, maybe you should ask my boyfriend." (Dials phone.) "Honey? Was I more vocal than usual, last night?"

(Hi mom and dad, I meant vocal while ARGUING, of course. Duh.)

Regardless, I answered that, yes, I really was always that vocal, feeling a little like a Siamese cat or something, and he said okay and bundled me into a taxi and got me home, and I made soup and read Douglas Adams and applied ice and elevation. LT, when he came back, was very supportive, and I went on to go out to dinner and get in the hot tub and do all that, and today I can almost go up stairs like a normal person! Yay!

Am I always this vocal? Oh yeah? I'LL SHOW YOU VOCAL, MISTER!

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Gypsy Girl Not Frightened of Anyone Except Her Mother

The world continues, as it always has. My mother has once again completely charmed my landlord.

This tradition is becoming to come in handy, for obvious reasons: once my landlord, whoever he might be, gets tired of renting to a slob, my mother shows up, cleans the house, cooks for him, and entertains him for hours. It keeps me in shelter with a roof over my head, always a good thing, although reducing my current house to "a roof over my head" is doing a great disservice to Landlord. (Your house is gorgeous, honey. You know it is.)

I realize it is now Wednesday and any post I might write referring to last weekend is hopelessly out of date, but this story was so good I had to share it. I hung out with a bunch of boys all weekend, not unusual in my case, especially on a weekend in which I went skiing, pool-shootin', and James Bond-ing. (HA! Bonding!) (Bad joke, but Bond was awesome.)

Anyway, here we are, five boys and myself, and we're killing time before the movie by drinking, one of our favorite activities. We're just ordering our first rounds from the server. All the other boys got Dos Equis, but I proudly ordered a "floofy" drink, with mixers and salt around the rim and all the fixins. The boys looked longingly at my drink when it arrived; many of them asked for sips. Finally I asked, "If you guys wanted fancy drinks, why didn't you order one?"

One of LT's friends, Amateur Photographer, sent me a look of derision. "Um, hello. I'm at a table with four other guys and a girl who is not afraid of me. I absolutely CANNOT order a fancy drink!"

Who knew that I would go down in AP's personal history as The Girl Who Is Not Afraid of Me? Not me, that's who. I feel like I should get a plaque or something.

In other news, I'm applying for a security clearance. (Yay!) And...those of you who have applied for these can already see where this is have to, for this application, provide every address you've lived at for the past SEVEN YEARS.

I'll give that a little time to sink in.

For those who haven't realized, I've lived in three different places just since STARTING THIS BLOG.

My application may be the longest that damn office has ever seen. Send coffee.

(Note: LT did not like Casino Royale; in fact, it might not be hyperbole to say that he detested it. So you can bear that in mind, as you wish, but really, everyone else loves it, including all the critics, so if he wants to explain why he doesn't like it, he can start his own damn blog. THANK you so very much.)

Monday, November 20, 2006

Anger Management

When someone wrongs you, what do you do?

Let’s say you’re at the grocery store, and a cashier accidentally rings up a purchase twice, and you notice it. Let’s say it’s a cheap item, no more than four bucks. Would you say, “Hey, you just rang up that item twice?”

You probably would.

Now let’s say that the cashier is in a bad mood and doesn’t like you anyway, and he or she decides to get in your face. “I did not!” Would you push the issue?

I certainly would, because, hello, there’s a running electronic total right there and you can clearly see that the cashier rang up the item twice. If I were me, I would get a manager, if that’s what it took. It wouldn’t matter if the item was 90 cents, for me. It’s not about the money. It’s about BEING RIGHT, DAMMIT. The cashier charged up the item twice, he’s claiming that he didn’t, the proof is right there on the receipt and I WILL shove that mistake in his FACE if I have to. I’M RIGHT. The End.

But let’s say, instead, that it’s, say, a bullshit charge on a bank account, like overdraft fees, or a charge to transfer money between accounts, or a random service fee. Would you call and complain? I’ve successfully argued overdraft fees off my account before because it was the bank’s fault, and I’ll happily drive to the bank and get a cashier’s check and physically deposit it into another account instead of paying a transfer fee.

BUT, if I don’t have time, and need to transfer money, I’ll call the bank and try to sweet-talk them into waiving the fee. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. No biggie. In a case like this, whoever I’m talking to on the phone has a corporate policy, which he or she has to follow. Telephone Operator does have the privilege of waiving the charge, of course, but if he or she made a practice of that, someone would notice, and TO would soon be out of a job. I don’t take it personally if TO chooses to not waive my fee, and I can’t remember the last time I got mad about it. (Note: I am not a saint. See above case of the cashier who refused to admit he was wrong. I will scratch eyes out to prove that I am RIGHT.) But a corporate policy…well, that’s bigger than both TO and myself, and I’m not going to accomplish anything by yelling about it—it just adds to the unpleasantness of my day and their day. My mother always got great service—or almost always, because there are always a few bad apples in retail—because she is so good with honey and not vinegar, and I’m a firm believer that Nice Is Always Best.

So when the LT, his friend Tall Kiwi, and myself returned to a local mall last night, looking for a water bottle that my brainless self had left in a movie theater, and we couldn’t find it, and we returned to the parking pay station to pay our fourteen minute parking ticket, and they charged us three dollars, I was surprised, but not upset. The three of us had been expecting that our in-and-out ticket would be free, because it usually is free when under fifteen minutes, but they explained that there is no in-and-out grace period after five pm. So, no big deal, three dollars, right?

Apparently I was wrong. LT and M went apeshit. They raised their voices in arguing with the attendants. I was shocked. M stormed off, saying, “I can’t even talk to these people anymore.” LT claimed that he was never parking here again. I stared at their anger for a few minutes and then asked them to step back, saying, “I’ll handle this,” and I did—by paying the three dollars. The parking attendants were very nice, they apologized as they were running my credit card that it was a corporate policy and there was nothing they could do, and I believed them, although it didn’t matter to me if they couldn’t actually waive the fee or if they could and were choosing not to—I certainly wouldn’t have for the behavior of LT and M.

It was an interesting moment. I thought I would be embarrassed to be seen with two guys who were making such a scene over three dollars, but I wasn’t—the boys were technically right, it WAS ridiculous to be charged three dollars for fifteen minutes of parking. The fact that they were, perhaps, disproportionably upset, doesn’t invalidate the fact that they were correct. And I was touched that they were working so hard to protect my three dollars. But I was also a little upset that they were yelling at the parking attendants, who made minimum wage in order to deal with the public every day, and had no control over corporate policy. I’ve waited tables, I know how awful the public can be. LT and M were certainly not anywhere near the worst-behaved customers I’ve ever seen, but the idea of taking your anger out on the service-industry wage slave was so rank that it upset me.

The incident passed quickly, thank God, and we found the right elevators and made our way to my car and I drove them to the ferry, and we joked around and said our goodbyes and there were no hard feelings.

I wonder now: is it a gender thing? Was LT and M's collective reaction enhanced or magnified by their combined anger? Would another man have gotten just as mad? Would I have gotten more upset had I not had them around? What would my mother have done? What about my father?

It was a new moment.

Thursday, November 16, 2006


Me: One of my customers is...well, he's an engineer.
T-Town: I hate those.
Me: Yeah. Me too.

And this is funny because I AM an engineer, so I'm hating on myself. Get it? GET IT?

I just tried to dial my mother and dialed myself instead, as in, the number of the phone that I was on.
WorkFriend: If that isn't a deep cosmic metaphor, I don't know what is.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006


Preface: Hi, I'm aarwenn. I am opinionated. And I exaggerate. Yes! Me! I do this! (Audience: Noshit.) And I tend to be a little self-deprecatory in my posts. Which is mainly due to the fact that, duh, I'm already WRITING ABOUT MYSELF, so writing about myself in an overly self-congratulatory manner--or even a slightly self-congratulatory manner--would make this blog no more than my own personal creamfest, and no one wants to read that, ever. (Audience: Use of the word "creamfest" was gratuitous, unecessary, and frankly gross.) (Me: Whatever.)

(Side note: I'm eating a snack of Black Peppered Cashews and Tamari Almonds from Trader Joe's. I should never buy Black Peppered Cashews again. Way too good.)

Which is why when my mother occasionally calls, concerned over This Post or That Post, I think, Doesn't the woman KNOW me? I mean, really, she's known me for 25, almost 26 years, and the LT knew enough to discount half of what I say after three weeks.

For example, the below snippet, taken from a phone conversation not too long ago:

Me: (made some accidental Freudian slip)
(laughing) You know, I still remember the time you came to my house, before we were dating. I asked you over to help me pick out curtains or possibly help paint, and instead you drank my wine and fell asleep on my couch.
Me: That was not my fault! You never fed me!
LT: Most adults feed themselves on a regular basis! How was I to know that you'd pass out on my sofa if I didn't feed you?
Me: Oh yeah? Well. (Struggles for a comeback.) Look on the bright side. You got to hear me ramble incoherently on low blood sugar.
LT: And you were in rare form, too. Remember that comment about what would or wouldn't fit in your mouth?
Me: You could probably start your own blog, someday. "Accidentally Dirty Things My Girlfriend Has Said."
What he didn't need to say: Why bother? You do all the work for me by writing it on your OWN blog.
And then I would have said, because I like being stubborn: Not this time, sucker!


Sunday, November 12, 2006

Weekend Wrap-up

  • Went to my VERY first NFL game! And the Hawks beat the Rams, 24-22! Very close game! Completely awesome!

  • LT is sick. Boo. :( Get better soon, baby.

  • Celebrated my parents' birthdays. Hi, guys! Happy birthday!

  • Saw an old friend.

  • Saw new friends!

  • Took Titan for the weekend!

    And a quote: I left my boys together one evening as I went to my parents' house to celebrate the aformentioned birthday, and as I was leaving, I asked the LT jokingly if he and Titan would be okay together for a few hours.

    "Sure," he answered. "We'll party it up."

    When I called to say I was on my way home and he'd better be ready to meet SouthernBelle, I asked him how Titan was.

    His reply: "He hasn't moved an inch the entire time you've been gone."

    Codependency! Coming soon to a dog near you!

  • Thursday, November 09, 2006

    And Today, My Nose Bled AGAIN

    But really, what else is new?

    Thanks to our office OA/CPR person, who is also a mother with a daughter slightly older than I am, it went much better than my killer nose bleed a week ago. Much like my non-swimming friend J felt better during Seafair because my Hot Navy LT was on the boat with us, I felt better and more relaxed just knowing that the person who was handing me paper towels, while not as comforting as my own mother, at least had basic medical training.

    And unlike during the move, when I was happy just for a reason to sit down and not move for awhile and had no one pushing me along, at work I needed the nose to STOP BLEEDING, ALREADY, AND ACT LIKE A NORMAL OLFACTORY SENSE. Thank you.

    (Whoever comes by my desk today will be mighty surprised by the blood-soaked paper towels in my wastebasket. I tell you, nothing turns red like blood.) (Possibly Duh.)

    The condo search continues, sort of. It's hard to force myself to look because it's gray and rainy outside, and the place I live is so freakin' beautiful that I don't want to move, but at the same time I miss Titan and can't wait to have my own space again, and it's also partly true that my beautiful living space inspires me to start my OWN pretty space. (Did that make sense?) So far, though, I've found condos that either:

    1. Don't publish their square footage, which is Not A Good Sign, or
    2. Don't take dogs, or
    3. Are in Sea-Tac, or
    4. Are just plain fugly.

    Also, Firefox has stopped working on my computer ALTOGETHER, I haven't unpacked yet from my move, and I have not, as yet, woken up on time to make my boyfriend coffee before he leaves on his long drive to work after staying with me in the new place. And I am not wearing deodorant. (But I AM wearing clean underwear!)

    Okay, maybe that was a little too much information. Moving on.

    I have come up with A List Of Things I Must Do After Work TODAY:

    1. Pay Car Insurance.
    Because I am a terribly White Trash Person and my car insurance has LASPED because I FORGOT TO PAY IT. (Note: Although this is bad, this could be SO MUCH WORSE, in that my Windshield Attack could have been more like a Full Body Attack and I would have been Uninsured At That Point and I would have cried like A Baby.)

    But that did not happen! Windshield is very cheap to replace and I would not have involved my insurance anyway! Thank all the gods in your immediate vicinity for small mercies!

    2. Pay Dental Bill.
    Again with the White Trash. I owe my dentist almost five hundred dollars and STILL they continue to make appointments for me, most of which I cancel maybe five hours ahead of time, and in one memorable instance, just an hour before. I cannot believe they still speak to me.

    3. Put up shelves in closet
    Because, when your boyfriend noses about your room looking for a place to put his overnight bag, and cannot find even ONE clear square foot of shag carpet, you have a problem. Especially with shag carpet, because obviously all those fibers contribute to the possible surface area of the rug, you know?

    I'm not really sure what I said there.

    4. Call policeman about incident report.
    For obvious reasons. I'm sort of hoping he'll be cute, just for fun, but of course he won't be half as hot, even in uniform, as LT.

    5. Go grocery shopping!
    Not that eating out three meals a day hasn't been fun.

    6. Maybe go to Target!
    Because what can't be fixed by a trip to Target?

    7. Collect mail from old place.
    Because, duh, and also, there might be a check in there!

    Because. SO Duh.

    9. Sleep.

    Tuesday, November 07, 2006

    And Then, After Friday...

    ...Saturday morning: M calls. "Hi, your Jeep was broken into. They hammered on the windshield with a brick. The brick is still sitting on your hood. Your HOOD is fine. The windshield is still slightly intact, but there's glass all over your front seat.

    ...Saturday afternoon: I drive with Realtor to see a condo. We get into a fender-bender on the way.

    ...Saturday afternoon: Condo is not worth it.

    ...Saturday night: Massive intoxication.

    ...Sunday morning: Crankiness.

    ...Sunday afternoon: Loneliness.

    ...Sunday night: Make appointment with All-Star Autoglass to come fix Windshield.

    ...Monday morning: B's Car (in which I am carpooling) runs out of gas, gas station credit card machine is broken.

    ...Monday lunch: sit blearily through two hours of traffic on bus ride home.

    ...Monday afternoon: All-Star Autoglass calls to say they can't fix Windshield in this weather because glue won't dry or stick. (Seattle is flooding.)

    ...Monday evening: COOKING! And movie!

    ...Tuesday morning, lunch, and afternoon: Work

    ...Tuesday evening: VOTING!


    Friday, November 03, 2006

    Made It Past Wednesday

    And all the way to Friday! WOO-HOO!

    Things I Have Done This Week:

    • Packed up my entire apartment.
    • Moved my entire apartment into a storage space.
    • Moved my necessities into the room I'm renting from a friend until I find a condo.
    • Gotten a new roommate. (Hi, M!)
    • Moved into the lap of luxury. (M's house is Freakin' OMG Incredible. The kind of incredible that makes people gasp as they walk in.)
    • Had a killer nose bleed that effectively stopped the moving process for an hour.
    • Gotten my apartment inspected, signed, sealed, and delivered. Bye-bye, apartment.
    • (Sniff)
    • (Sniff)
    • Fought off a case of Bronchitis.
    • Waded through angry phone calls on the day I was moving, sick, and bleeding.
    • Worked occasionally.
    • Made cookies!

    I'm still alive! I still have a relationship! I still have a job! HAPPY FRIDAY, EVERYONE!

    Monday, October 30, 2006

    When I Post, I Post A LOT

    The best--BEST--picture ever, or at least, of the weekend:

    The LT and I, in costume, playing Beer Pong. Caught in a moment.

    It makes me smile.

    Sunday, October 29, 2006

    Things You've Missed, or, Not Blogging About It

    So. Blogging.

    It's this thing I do. Sometimes I do it for others, sometimes I do it for myself. Not all of my posts are published. At least two HAVE been published and then yanked. Some are published because I really need to get feelings out, like the love letter to my mother or the long post about LT and I arguing. Some posts I start and can't finish.

    Some posts never get written.

    I'm going through a rough period in my life right now. I'm not technically broke or in major debt, I have sympathetic family nearby and friends and a car and a great dog, and I have a good job, and I'm in love with a terrific man, and he happens to think I'm pretty sweet, too. So if you add up the "pluses" column, especially in the Long Term Happiness category, I'm doing pretty well.

    But. The short term column?

    My friends got promoted. Notice that I did not get promoted. I cannot find a good condo. I can't afford a good condo, I guess. I have to move out in four days and I don't have a solid place to go, yet.

    I have big deadlines for work that aren't finished yet. I have The Cough That Will Not Die. (For days I've been going around breathing on people I don't like.) I should get it checked out, but I don't have TIME.

    TIME. Time to move out, time to work, time to tutor, time for Halloween, time for LT, time to breathe.

    I have two days to get through. If I can just get through tomorrow and Tuesday, I'll make it. Wednesday morning will be a whole new world.

    Thanks for reading.

    Best Aarwenn Character Summary Ever

    ...and it comes courtesy of T-Town, of course.

    "You are so lame sometimes. Like right now, for instance."

    Thursday, October 26, 2006

    Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday!

    TODAY, October 26th, is the day of birf of two very important women in my life:

    1. My mother
    2. My Little Sister in Alpha Chi Omega.


    (Note: my mother turns fifty-mumble and my Little turns 23!)

    (Note to my Little: SEND ME MY STUFF.)

    (Note to my mother: I love you.)

    (Note to my Little: I love you too, sweetie!)

    Tuesday, October 24, 2006

    Incoherence, continued

    Like I said, I'm managing to tutor okay, which is good--especially since I'm now depending on that income to make my eventual condo payment--but apparently my tiredness is not so easily hidden from the rest of the world.

    Case in point: Hot Neighbor and I ran into each other at the mailboxes yesterday. We're chatting along about my apartment and the suckiness of the Tacoma to Seattle commute, and when all of a sudden he stops and says,

    "Sweetie, you look absolutely exhausted. Is everything" and here he drops his voice to a whisper "...okay?"

    ...And he said it in the kind of voice that means he was expecting at least one if not all of the following: a major cocaine and/or meth addiction, lots of time spent in shady bars, the kind of time in which I tell the bartender to just leave the bottle, several nights spent fighting and then making up with the LT, a death in my immediate family, impending termination from my job with a side-order of humiliation, several missed periods, etc, etc.

    On my shopping list now: extra strength under-eye concealer. Do they sell bleach for under your eyes? Does anyone know?

    Sunday, October 22, 2006

    Blogging the Relationship Lucky Number 13

    I’ve always been proud of my communication skills. Maybe a little overly proud. (Example: well, this blog. And this one. And this one. And THIS one. Duh.)

    Well, all that has gone out the window. Newsflash: if you don’t sleep, incoherence isn’t just a word in the dictionary for you, anymore.

    I can still tutor well—in fact, I’m doing better than well—but apparently I don’t talk to my boyfriend anymore. Like, at all, ever.

    (See that shining example of articulation? Perhaps you begin to see what I’m talking about? Yes. I thought so.)

    We just went to this wedding, you see, the wedding of two Old College Friends of mine, a relationship that had been friendship for four years before they started dating, and therefore they had a lot of mutual friends, and they (we) all came to the wedding, and it had been quite some time since we had seen each other, so of course there was much rejoicing and catching up, and I was introducing the LT around, or so I thought, but he was being sort of quiet, unusual for a guy who can make himself at home anywhere.

    We stepped away to look for a bathroom for me, and when I came back I found him hanging back by a mirror.

    “What’s wrong?” I said.
    “Nothing’s wrong,” he said, in that voice people use when there damn well IS something wrong, but they’re not sure how or why to tell you. “But…how do you know these people, again?”

    I looked at him, amazed. “I went to college with all of them. So did you, actually, but that’s obviously beside the point. We were all science-type freshman majors together.” (It’s a little known but true fact that I started out my college career as a chemistry major before switching to chemical engineering.)

    “Oh,” he said, and it could have ended there, except that the next words out of my mouth: “I could have SWORN I told you that already.”

    As anyone who’s had a relationship can tell you, this is NOT a constructive thing to say, ever. Really.

    More examples of really constructive (not) conversations the LT and I have had recently:

    A few weeks ago, we drove by my old high school, and they were re-doing it, and I wanted to sneak around the back to see it, even though the streets were blocked off. The LT saw the cops and flashing lights and was apprehensive, which is understandable. I was mad that he was questioning my judgment at all. I went ahead and did it even though he was more than a little unhappy. Ah, the little touches that really make a relationship.

    As we successfully passed the cops by me pretending that I lived in one of the surrounding apartment buildings, the LT said, “You used to live here?”

    I was speechless, and also blazing mad. “YES. I USED TO LIVE HERE WITH T-Town. I’ve only told you that about a hundred times. My mother and I point that out every time we drive by my old high school.”

    Again, readers: this is not a constructive way to have an argument.

    And more recent constructive conversations:

    Me: “We have plenty of time to catch this flight.”
    LT: “No, we don’t.”
    Me: “Yes, we do.”
    LT: “NO. WE DON’T.”
    Me: “YES WE DO.”

    (And then, when we did:)

    Me: “HA! I TOLD you we would make it.”

    Me: “You’re driving too fast.”
    LT: “No, I’m not.”
    (Me, gripping the Oh-Shit-Bar.) “YES. YOU ARE.”
    LT: (Nothing. Speedometer does not move.)

    Me: “This cup is glass.”
    LT: “I’m pretty sure it’s plastic.”
    Me: “It’s GLASS.” (I should have said: “I study MATERIALS for a LIVING, jackass.” See Chemical Engineering Degree, above.)
    LT: “Honey, it’s plastic.”
    Me, the girl, gives in to the man’s superior knowledge. “Maybe you’re right, sure.”

    It became obvious that it was glass when it broke a day later. So much for that.

    The worst part was driving back from the wedding, on our last night—we were so sleep deprived that I was beginning to hallucinate, I think, and we got lost, and of course I was navigating, because he was driving, and we were arguing about directions—really arguing—and he ended up being right about something, and I was so mad by this time that my reply was, “Fuck you.”

    He looked at me, dead quiet. I started to bawl.

    (On the plus side, I discovered that Urban Decay’s Primer Potion works to keep mascara from running, too!)

    On the plane today, on the way back, the “fuck you” of last night forgotten, we were cuddling and talking and I said, “This reminds me of the time I flew with Geeb and we talked about the air circulation patterns.”

    “The what?” he said.

    “The air circ patterns on a commercial aircraft,” I repeated. “I haven’t told you?”


    So I explained it to him, and it was good. And then we got to talking more, and I realized I hadn’t told him about how I met most of my work friends, the fact that we’re building a new building at work, how the condo search is going, or much of anything about my tutoring students. Complete strangers that I met at the wedding know more about me than my boyfriend does.

    “Do I EVER talk to you?” I said.

    “Apparently not,” he answered.

    So: Communication? I might be good at it in a meet-and-mingle setting, but apparently on a day-to-day basis I suck. Simultaneously, I’ve realized that my work attitude is severely lacking because, frankly, I’m not being friendly with the people I work with. I’m just not friendly towards them, at all. They probably think of me as that stuck-up bitch in the corner cube. Not good.

    SO! The point of this extremely long post is to remind myself—and you, readers—that if you feel people aren’t listening to you or being friendly, maybe you should try being a little friendlier yourself. And opening up a little.

    Because while I was on this train of “Open up your mouth and TALK to your boyfriend,” I broached a difficult subject. “We were using the L word for a while, and now we’re not,” I said, breathing slowly, in and out. “Why not?”

    (Full disclosure: this start and stop usage has possessed me for months. I have been worried that he no longer likes me, or that he had said he loved me when infatuated and changed his mind. It’s not like I haven’t eaten or gone to work, but it has eaten several holes in my self-esteem. Not that I’ve told him this, of course. I don’t talk to people, remember?)

    Anyway, back to the L word, and I’m not talking about the TV show. “You didn’t reciprocate,” he said.

    Me: “WHAT? I thought I said it more than you did!”

    We stared at each other.

    Like I said: This is an example of how NOT to run a relationship. So if you’re mad at your significant other today, or insecure for any reason, start talking. It’s a good thing.

    In Boston!

    No, I haven't disappeared or actually run away to join a startup or the circus or anything. The LT and I took off to Boston to watch my freshman year roommate get married, and the wedding was LOVELY, although absolutely freezing (it was outside in OCTOBER in Boston) and we got to stay with old college friends (shoutout to K and A) and it was truly a great trip.

    Even with all the baggage.

    And I don't mean just the HUGE ones under my eyes! (LT and I have gotten--roughly--twelve hours of sleep in three days.)
    But more on that later--we're boarding here!

    Tuesday, October 17, 2006

    Happy Birthday, Baby!

    Everyone wish the LT a great big HAPPY BIRFDAY. He's 27 today!

    Although all these boys are quite good looking, mine is the hunk of love muscle with the Forearms Of Steel on the far left.

    Happy Birthday, love.

    Monday, October 16, 2006

    Sealing the Fate of THIS Relationship

    On the phone with the LT, last night:

    LT: "So, how was tutoring?"
    Me: "Good. I told both of my girls that I'm taking you out for dinner tomorrow. K wishes you happy birthday, and C made you a card!"
    LT: "SWEET! I have a new girlfriend!"
    Me: "Honey, she's sixteen!"
    LT: ...
    LT: "...I mentioned the part about me being a sailor to you before, right?"
    Me: "Very funny."
    LT: "Hey, is she the one that also dislikes Napoleon Dynamite?"
    Me: "NO."
    LT: "Dammit."

    Sunday, October 15, 2006

    Sunday Evening (2)

    Ah. Sunday evening, again. Still. Take Infinity. Etc.

    Because the wonderful thing about life is that it Keeps Going. And although it is terribly bourgeosie to measure time in weekends and weeks, neither is it right to sneer at such an inclination just on principle. It's simple and stark, yes, and Terribly Routine, but it's only limiting if you find routine limiting. And that's the general post-modern idea, isn't it, that Routine is Terribly Limiting and should be Avoided At All Costs?


    Let me tell you that at a time in my life in which I have moved, on average, every five months, and dated six different men, and not known which way was up half the time, being in love with my job some weeks and ready to give up the next, making plans to join the Peace Corps one week and deciding to become a teacher the next week and planning to move to Tahiti the week after (this last one is just wishful thinking), and starting and failing to finish a spanish class and starting and dropping out of a dance class and, and, and...


    I am reveling in the routines I have left. I am reveling in going to work, Monday through Friday, because I know what I do there. And I am reveling in coming home and maybe pouring a glass of digestive (read: red wine) and kicking off my shoes and washing a few dishes and maybe starting a load of laundry and maybe settling into TV on DVD, because it is wonderful and relaxing and most importantly, routine.

    Routine. My savior. Life CAN be measured in days, in Sundays, in Fridays, and I can see from this blog that I have begun to do this almost exclusively, as a way of passing the time, and I believe that I am doing this because my life IS so changeable, everywhere else, because the one thing I cannot change is my order of days. Monday always comes after Sunday, a weekend always follows a week, water always flows downhill, we will always have to pay taxes.

    God Bless America.

    Saturday, October 14, 2006

    Day 10, Sans Monster

    This is the tenth day I have spent in my apartment without Titan, and I am beginning to whore myself out on the street so I don't have to sleep at home.

    What's the point in going home, really? No dog to walk, feed, or love. At night, insomnia claims me. I sit up late, on my computer, eating Ramen and watching free streaming videos of 30Rock and Heroes. I could buy stuff online, but I don't have disposable income since I'm trying to save for a condo, and the whole ordeal hardly seems worth it.

    For those who don't know, my apartment building decided, after some complaint calls, that they are not going to renew my lease because of Titan. They are not comfortable with having such a large dog in the building. They're probably right in their decision, and it's definitely my fault in this case--I should never have Titan off leash in an apartment building, ever again. I certainly won't in the future. But I learned this lesson too late to stay in the building, so...ta-da. I (we) have to be gone by November 2.

    They didn't specifically say that Titan can't be in the building during this last month, but with him gone, I'm more flexible--I can head out to look at condos all hours of the day and night. Or at least I could, in theory. It sounds good, right? Suddenly getting a call from my real estate agent and being able to just leave without worrying if I've fed Titan or let him out recently, not having to take those extra twenty minutes, just being able to throw on a coat and shoes and go?

    Sure. Like that happens. Like I said: with him gone, I have no direction, no need to stick to a routine. All I do bum around on the Hill.

    Wednesday, October 11, 2006

    Update on My Domicile

    In my head, that rhymed. Moving on.

    BIG SHOUT OUT to my Building Superintendent, who hand-wrote me a super-long, super-nice letter about how much he had enjoyed having me as a tenant, how awesome I am, how much he adores Titan, and how sad he is to see me go. He states that he will write me a personal letter of recommendation and that he will be happy to help me restore the apartment to its virgin state. (I took off cabinet doors, for example.)

    He totally rocks.

    Chapter 13: Lobster Girl

    So, if you're heavily using benzoyl peroxide as spot medication, and on the bottle it says, "Warning: Causes increased sensitivity to sunlight", then you should read this warning carefully and commit it to memory. I sat out in the sun with my girl HH for lunch today, and...well. Had I simply covered my face with pink blush, I could have gotten the same effect and at least avoided the increased risk of skin cancer. GodDAMN I am pink.

    Moving on.

    Blogging Audience: Okay, you're a pink lobster, I get it, but why Chapter 13?

    1. This VERY FRIDAY will be Friday the 13th.
    2. I will soon be entering the equivalent of Chapter 11, because...
    3. ...I'm considering buying a condo.
    4. Which will be the start of a NEW CHAPTER in my life. Ha!
    5. ...and I'm looking at possible condos, therefore starting this new chapter, ON FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH.

    No, I'm not superstitious, and if you yourself are, please don't share your dire warnings with me, because I WILL start to believe them and then I'll light candles and then I'll get all crazy and the LT will refuse to have anything to do with me and it will ALL BE YOUR FAULT.

    There's just a couple of problems.

    1. I hugely, blatantly suck at picking out apartments. No, really. It's bad. My own mother is better at picking apartments than I am. And the thing about a condo is, if you screw up, you can't just end the lease.


    3. Perhaps I can convince Titan to get a job?

    4. Maybe I can sell his dog hair? You know, as wool?

    So far, I haven't seen a single apartment except online, haven't gotten approved for a loan, and haven't a clue how much condo my preapproved amount will get me, but of course I already have my heart set on this one condo, have already moved my stuff in mentally, taken mental pictures from the balcony, and visualized my future trips to the dog park with Titan.

    Um. Did I mention that I tend to get excited about a project and completely lose track of reality when I contemplate it?

    Since I have no common sense whatsoever, I have asked for--and received--some Free Advice, listed below:

    Mortgage Guy Says: You'll almost definitely be pre-approved for that amount.
    Real Estate Agent says: Don't buy a condo without a washer/dryer hookup and a parking space!
    Mom says: Go for it, honey!
    LT says: Good, now we can be broke together!
    T-Town says: Don't be afraid to compare the real estate market with another high-return investment.
    Kiwi says: How will they feel about your monster? What if he starts to bark uncontrollably?
    Mentor says: Stetch yourself when you buy so you can grow into your investment--get as much condo as you can.
    Blogging Audience says: ? (This is you!)

    Give me your Free Advice!

    Tuesday, October 10, 2006

    Boundaries, or, a Dilemma

    My mother does not like the previous post, now (maybe) temporarily hidden.

    Phone call 1, at 7:06: “I read what you wrote on your blog and I’m concerned about it. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you—the hand that will eventually pay for your condo. Can you take some of it back, or something? It’s not good to have tales about your company on your blog.”

    Phone Call 2, thirty minutes later: “I read what you wrote on your blog and I’m really concerned. It makes you look as bad as the people you’re advertising. Please do something.”

    Three points:

    1. Is what I have written on my blog incendiary, or specific, enough to get me in trouble? I’ve written tales about work before. And I thought about this post—a little—before I posted it. And I just re-read it, and I STILL don’t think I said anything wrong—the person in question truly is a fool.

    2. Question: is this post bad news? I will send the original version to anyone who asks.

    3. The real dilemma: It’s my BLOG. My WebLog. I keep it for me, not for others. It’s a funny story about a stupid person. I’m not always perfect, and I’m a good writer (and a modest one) so when I decide to skewer someone, I skewer them. It’s my BLOG. MY blog. The person in question doesn’t understand blogs or how to access them.

    What to do, what to do? For the moment, I have yanked it. But I don't want to, just on principle! Free speech! Allow me to be mean and petty if I want! (Note: like I said, I read over the post just now, and I don't think it's mean--petty, but not mean.) On the other, no man is an island, and of course my mother doesn't want me to get fired, as it will definitely affect her, and her version of my happiness.

    My version of my happiness involves getting my feelings out on my blog and respecting myself when I look in the mirror. If I get written up or fired, I'll sell my jeep, wait tables, and move to a smaller place. Whatever. I'm not dependent on this job for my self worth. It's just a JOB. Only in America do we define ourselves by what we DO for a SALARY--in Europe the idea is anathema! This is how the rat race chews people up and spits them out!

    Ahem. So, I'm saying that I place more value on speaking my mind than I do keeping my job, and I'm very skeptical that such a moderate post would effect any sort of negative reactions anyway. And yet, to please my mother, I have yanked it for the time being.

    Thoughts, audience? What would you do?

    Sunday, October 08, 2006

    Because My Boyfriend Notices When I Don't Write

    Which means that my cover of "writing" when what I'm really doing is "picking my nose while surfing the Vegan Freak boards" is blown. Dammit.

    Hello, everyone! Welcome to Sunday Night at Chez Empty, now with MORE Target Wine!

    Titan is at my grandmother's, you see. It's easier for him to stay there while I frantically travel, tutor, entertain the LT's father, and simultaneously look for a NEW place to live. My house is very empty. It's hard. I miss him. But I know he's happy there, and more important, my GRANDMOTHER just loves having him. She needs him more than I do, right now. I'm happy to help. (And, of course, I benefit by getting all this extra time!) (And less dog hair!!)

    Still. I miss him.

    Fortunately, I can fill that void by buying stuff, and what do I discover right as I decide I'm going to buy stuff?

    The Perfect Store.

    It's like they knew I was coming!

    Thursday, October 05, 2006

    Insomnia. Again. (Still?)

    I am no longer sure what time it is or what day it is. I have a wake-up call set for 5 am tomorrow. That is 3 am Pacific Time. This I know.

    I thought the airline had found my phone. Now I discover that they have not found it, and worse, someone ELSE has been using it. I called a very nice man at Verizon and he suspended my service. This I know.

    I may not find my phone ever, but I have options until my free replacement comes around in February. This I know.

    I am catching a shuttle to the airport tomorrow at 5:30 am. My flight leaves at 7:35 am. This I know.

    When I get back to Seattle, I have to look for ANOTHER apartment, AGAIN. This I know.

    I am now on the other side of tired, the kind of tired where you still function and go to business meetings and wow people, but where I can barely type. I have my plane and transportation to the airport and ride home from the airport set tomorrow, and my sleep doctor--I mean, my boyfriend--will be waiting. I can't wait.

    This I know.

    Insomnia, continued

    I have slept eight hours in three days. I have passed through three time zones, lost my apartment, bought a new battery for my phone, and then lost the phone.

    I need to: find a new apartment, find my phone, go crazy, call my mother. I need a drink. I need a personal secretary. I need a condo. I need to run away and join a startup.

    I need a personal dog walker. I need to sleep. I need to eat. I need to dance. I need more boots. I need a vacation.

    Tuesday, October 03, 2006


    So, I was blearily adding hot water to the dry oatmeal packet sitting forlornly in my Styrofoam bowl today, (The Secret Life of Glamour Girls In the Office! Film at Eleven!) when one of the standard, old, socially inept, ohmygodihavetotalktoagirl men that populate this office walked by. He moved aside and remarked, trying to be friendly, “You could eat better breakfast if you got up earlier!”

    Sure. When pigs fly. Also, please kiss my ass.

    Saturday, September 30, 2006

    Blogging the Relationship (12), or, Insomnia

    It's a Saturday morning, technically.

    More idiomatically, it is still Friday night. It is 4:30 in the morning. Both the men in my life are asleep--my furball is on the futon, his normal place, all 75 pounds of him sprawled out, covering 3/4 of the available sitting space. LT is asleep in bed, of course, like a sane person.

    I am not. (Asleep or, apparently, sane.)

    I awoke about 3:40, got up, peed, turned off the lights in the kitchen and sealed up some chip bags, and got back into bed. I sighed. I rolled over. I tried snuggling, thinking that would help me sleep. It didn't. All I did was wake up the LT every time I moved. I got back out of bed.

    The LT has a theory about sleep: that your body has an ever-running sleep deficit or Debt, and that it keeps track of how many hours you need versus how many hours you get, and if you're low, you can make it up--the LT swears you need only 15 minutes extra for every hour of sleep you've missed. And that the Debt can run several days, or in fact eternally, until you make up that lost sleep.

    I must be in the black, then.

    It's amazing how loud the littlest sounds can be when you're cognizant that two people you care about are asleep. Opening and closing the microwave sounds like a gunshot, the actual running time sounds as loud as the vacuum. I just went and closed the door to the bedroom and noticed for the first time how LOUD MY FLOORBOARDS ARE, holy crap, I was practically playing a symphony at full volume. LT sighed and turned over in his sleep.

    It's been awhile since my last bout of insomnia, and back then I would fart around on the internet, read some blogs, and maybe go back to sleep. At this moment I don't want to read ANY blogs. My obsession with the printed word is becoming a hatred. I'm tired of reading and writing, I'm tired of keeping up with people I'm never going to meet. I have a full life here in RealWorld. I'm tired of trying to write my novel, a novel that will never be completed, and I'm tired of trying to keep up my blog, of the pressure I put on myself that I MUST write, tired of reading writers like Dooce and realizing I'll never be as good as they are, not in a million years, not even if I do nothing else but pour over my own words for the rest of my natural life.


    I have a big day planned today: the LT and I are helping my parents haul wood away to the dump this morning--in fact I'm getting up in less than an hour--and then I'm driving down to Portland to meet a bunch of people I've never met; I'm going to a Vegan Meet-Up. Here's hoping I don't fall asleep in the car.

    Wednesday, September 27, 2006


    I have reverted to my old blog style! (I'm still Beta, I'm just...reverting to the classic form.)

    Thank you for all who have read through my ugly design change!

    Sunday, September 24, 2006

    Sunday Evening

    *insert sigh of contenment here*

    It's Sunday evening, and I have been told, by a high school girl, a CUTE one, a beautiful high school girl with perfect skin and perfect hair and waxed eyebrows and who's captain of her dance team and definitely one of the Golden People, part of the In Crowd at her school...

    ..."Hey! Your hair is cute today!"

    And folks, if a HIGH SCHOOL GIRL thinks you have cute hair, then you SERIOUSLY HAVE CUTE HAIR!

    Also, I would like to point out that I am a SERIOUSLY BAD ASS TUTOR, and that when two high school girls--both gorgeous and blonde and perfectly-skinned-and-eyebrowed--when TWO separate girls remember, on the same evening, things that YOU TOLD THEM, in a previous tutoring session...that's when you know you're a badass tutor.

    So, to recap: I have cute hair and I'm a badass tutor.

    Thank you and good night.

    Thursday, September 21, 2006

    Things That Inspire Me

    The Buttons and SexyBack videos. HOLY CRAP ARE THEY HAWT.
    The Matrix videos.
    The movie Domino.
    BONES, the TV show.
    The Psalms and the Proverbs.
    The practice of Wicca.
    Changing weather.
    Growing my hair out.
    Awesome Dinner Party on Saturday, at which I ate my fill of three excellent vegan dips, one made by me.
    Baba Ghanoush that turned out seriously awesome, see above.
    Cold Sesame Noodles that turned out SO awesome that people asked me for the recipe.
    Rearranging my kitchen!

    Purposely using the V word--aka Vegan--in normal conversation with servers. As in, "Can I get that with no cheese, no sour cream, or any animal products? I'm vegan."

    Them: "Sure."

    Me: "Great.

    Surprisingly easy!

    This weekend, which will include going to see The Black Dahlia, this awesome Oktoberfest, seeing the LT, and spending time with my niece and my mother in the fall sunshine!

    And finally, debauchery.

    This picture is better not examined too closely. Please leave as a thumbnail, thank you.

    Uh, AND this picture too.

    But THIS picture is awesome! All hail Tacoma!

    Wednesday, September 20, 2006

    Depression Lite

    Sigh. Wednesday AGAIN.

    Because life goes on, you see, which is pretty much the best part about it, it just goes on and on, one day after another, and you might be able to stop your own life but whatever you do you cannot stop Time. Or the Passing Of. History goes on, and the only thing you've changed is that you're not a part of it anymore, and THAT'S no fun.

    But neither are you an active part of history, either, if you realize that you've left early with your boyfriend from the last three public events you were invited to, including a major hip hop concert that you were just too tired to attend, and you wonder if maybe there is something wrong with yourself.

    And you wake up on the futon because you were too scared to sleep in your own bed, because Titan went crazy at the window two nights ago at the big tree outside and you became convinced that someone had climbed the tree to spy into your bedroom, and you kind of like sleeping in the living room anyway, because for some reason you've never been a big fan of bedrooms as hang-out spots. You sleep in them, and that's about it.

    And you feel sort of weird about that, that your bedroom is just a mishmash of stuff that didn't fit anywhere ELSE in the apartment, and your living room has become your bedroom, and you wake up from the futon and open your eyes to squalor.

    You always thought that having money--or being flush at all--would make your life better, but you find out that it really doesn't. You've bought new cookbooks and new yoga videos, you've bought stuff you needed at target, you got your mother a birthday present, and yet it all sits, in its original bags and boxes, around your apartment, and everything is being slowly covered by a fine layer of dog hair, including you, because you have not moved from your computer in the last three hours.

    Because money can buy you things, but it cannot buy you the will to do anything.

    Sunday, September 17, 2006

    Blogging the Relationship (11), or, Sunday Evening Contentment

    I am drinking a glass of wine and eating an enormous quantity of food. New Orleans zydeco-type jazz plays at a low but rollicking volume on NPR.

    My boyfriend, who has already eaten at a brewery with a recently-moved-to-town fraternity brother, sits kitty corner from me at my white breakfast table. He occasionally turns his nose up at my vegan spread, but also occasionally accepts a rice crisp, once with vegan herb "cheese" on it. I have eaten an entire "cheese" ball, half a tub of hummus, half a large package of rice crisps, and polished off an entire package of vegan ramen. I am full. And inordinately happy about it.

    Titan snoozes beneath the table. LT is reading "In The Company of Soliders", and I am typing this blog post. He occasionally reads passages out loud. I am fascinated, especially when he reads, "...and the General returned home April 14th. Huh. I returned home April 15th. That's an interesting confluence of events."

    I cannot believe that my boyfriend, who sits across from me now in a Keystone Ski Resort t-shirt and flipflops, is reading an account about the war that he just experienced. I cannot believe he was IN a war. I can't believe that he jumped out of bed early this morning so he could put the hard-top back on my Jeep, and also add light-guards, and that, when the appointed time came around, and he attempted to wake me up, I yelled at him, and yet he still came over tonight.

    I have fed him wine and food and put on his favorite shirt, and here we are, still talking. I am about to nap until my sheets are ready. It is perfect.

    Wednesday, September 13, 2006

    And then Firefox exploded, or, a love letter to my mother

    Hello. It is Wednesday, it is gray, I have not slept well, I am doing a gigantic data entry project for work, and my Firefox has exploded. All my bookmarks/blog feeds/everything else, gone. GONE.

    So if I don't comment on your blog for awhile, I swear I still like you. ALL of you. It's just that...well, I need to work sometime, right?

    Just ask my mother. (Hi, mom!)


    It is a truth universally acknowledged that, a single woman in possession of a fairly medium-ish salary and her own apartment and a boyfriend and some friends and a dog, must be in want of a mother's advice.

    Notice I said "a" mother, not necessarily "HER" mother. The older OA in this office often stops by my desk to "catch up"--she has a daughter a few years older than myself, and she wants to trade stories, no matter how much I would like to keep my personal life private. "Watch out for boys," she often says. I was stopped on the street yesterday by a nice woman drinking a sugar-free latte through a straw out of a Tully's cup, Dockers, sensible shoes, sensible makeup, gray hair, glasses for fading eyesight. "You're losing your hem, dear," she said, warmly, not condescendingly. She put her arm around me. "I just thought you would want to know." I jumped, already on edge, but I appreciated her saying something, although it was a little weird to be hugged by an elderly lady on the streets of Seattle by the courthouse.

    Yes, the courthouse.

    It is ALSO a truth universally acknowledged that, a single woman, no matter how old she gets, will be in more fear of her mother than her boyfriend.

    So when my ACTUAL mother called yesterday, and she said, "Where are you? I've tried the office AND your cell, just now," I therefore responded, "I came home for lunch."

    Which was true.

    But I came home for lunch because I had a midmorning appointment downtown, at the Seattle Municipal Court, for a traffic ticket.

    Which I neglected to mention.

    I am in the unique--and oft-envied--position of being friends with my mother in my adult life. And we ARE friends, sort of mother and daugther too, which we always will be, but mainly friends. This has not been easy. There was a period in high school in which things between us were so contentious that, after every occasion in which we spent time together, we rated it: "Well, we only got in that one screaming match, and we only gave each other the silent treatment for half an hour, so we did pretty good!" This was a habit we had to then consciously break ourselves of as we began to get along better, or else it felt (to me, at least) like too much of a reminder of that contentious period, and I really didn't want to be reminded.

    I went to college far away, and got an internship in DC, and lived on my own, and had a boyfriend, etc, and then I graduated (by the skin of my teeth) and came back to the old homestead, being out of work and sort of lost. It wasn't a good time for me. I spent barely three months at home and got out again. It continued to not be a good time, but at least I wasn't living at home.

    But this is not a story about me. (Not really.) This is a story about my mother, and our relationship. After this troubled time, I waited tables for awhile, and then Mom--ever so gently--mentioned one day, "So, my friend tells me they're hiring at B."

    And I put my resume in, and the rest is history.

    It wasn't that she wasn't my friend before; after all, she and my father came to every restaurant I worked at, to show support, even though they weren't crazy about my lifestyle. But I get the impression now that my lifestyle is more...understandable, my mother. I'm young, I'm single, I'm a professional, I live in my own apartment. She did this herself. She never graduated from college and decided to slum for awhile. She graduated college--without drinking a drop until senior year--and started a career. True, she had been married for two years already when she was my age, but she was 21 when she graduated and she was on her own for two years, so almost parallel to where I am now. And then her career offered to send her to Thailand, and then my dad heard about it, and then he proposed, and here we all are, thirty-five years later. Life is a funny thing.

    And now, like all mothers, she attempts to live out her life through me, her other life, what would have happened if maybe she had gone to Thailand instead, but at the same time she's held back by sixty-year-old dating advice. She told me the other day, for example, that I should be careful to put the LT's needs first at all times. With maybe this exception: "You don't HAVE to sleep with ANYBODY until there's a RING ON YOUR FINGER," she reminds me occasionally. Well, no kidding, mom, I don't HAVE to do anything except go to work on a daily basis and feed myself and Titan. What happened to my needs, MY choices? Dating in the sixties didn't allow for the woman to have an opinion, I guess, except the word No.

    But just because I don't take her advice in the dating arena--although I often ask for it anyway--doesn't mean I tune her out, just like I would a close friend. T-Town and I don't always agree, and neither do my mother and I, but there's plenty of things I DO take from her. For example: when I moved to Seattle the second time, I picked out an apartment that I could afford, and she did a drive-by and didn't like it. "There's a halfway house right by it," she said. "Fine, mom," I said, exasperated after having looked for apartments for a week. "YOU find me something."

    She ended up charming the manager at my current (mom-selected and approved) apartment so much that I was allowed to bring Titan, even though the building has a no-big-dog policy, and he (the manager, not Titan) still asks to be remembered to her, every time he and I talk. (Full disclosure: there's a halfway house--a different one--two blocks away, and crowds of homeless people above the dog park, but that's Capitol Hill for you.)

    I do this mix of taking and not-taking her advice because I'm still learning, too. If I see something I think she'll like, I try to pick it up, and pass it along to her. And then there's times in which I tell her I bought her a Mother's Day present and really didn't. Like this time. (Whoops.)

    For slow readers, yes, my mother lives thirty-four miles away from me. And HER mother lives here, too, and when we go out, the three of us, we resemble three fussy hens, stackable by height, with me being tallest, or at least usually wearing the tallest heels. I was telling Roommate an anecdote once, and I started it out with, "So, my family was traveling together this one time," and got halfway through the story and realized his eyes had glazed over. "What?"

    "I just can't imagine traveling--ANYWHERE--with both YOU AND YOUR MOTHER IN THE SAME CAR," he said, awed. "My respect for your father's patience level has just gone up five notches."

    Every meeting recently with her has been a battle of wills. This particular time several weeks ago, for example:


    "I just want to clean the bathroom," she says, absently, not stopping. She really hasn't heard me at all, or if she has, she certainly hasn't registered them as important, because she is still cleaning. An actual friend would have stopped, and we would have talked about it, and made a compromise, but not my mother--she knows she's the mother, and I'm the daughter, and therefore she pulls rank. My words are no more important to her than the music in the background. She occassionally complains that my father doesn't listen to her, or just goes along with what HE wants to do, but it's obvious to me that she has developed her own method. They have been married for thirty-five years, and they are still a wonderful couple, but they have developed defense mechanisms for each other, as all couples do. And they work on me. Power, it's all about power. Power over ourselves, power over each other.

    Oh, well. My mother and I are both as stubborn as mules, so I at least have this guarantee: as long as one of wants to be friends, we will continue. I can't help it, it's out of my control. When I see her, my blood rises up within me.

    Tuesday, September 12, 2006


    This is a test post from flickr, a fancy photo sharing thing.

    Monday, September 11, 2006

    Having It All

    Balance, grasshopper. Patience. Balance. Life is a juggling act.

    For example: going to yoga + going to hip hop + walking my dog twice daily + possibly starting a real dance class = not possible.

    Doing hip hop now, starting yoga with a workout tape at home = possible.

    Starting a real dance class after hip hop class is over, next season = possible.

    Walking Titan = a necessity

    Trying to add a few swims per week to this schedule = NOT POSSIBLE.

    Trying to rent a practice room at the local community college in which I can occasionally practice my flute = NOT POSSIBLE

    Occasionally practicing at home, in the bathroom, with the door closed = possible.

    Finishing novel + working 40 hours a week + tutoring five hours a week = not possible.

    Working on novel from time to time, at least one day a week = possible

    Cooking my own vegan food fresh for every meal = NOT POSSIBLE

    Devoting one afternoon a week to keep my vegan food supplies up = possible.

    Number of evenings I would like to see the LT = 7
    Number of evenings I have free = 5

    Number of major overlaps I have in coming months: 1.

    Being at both the LT's Navy Ball and at my Freshman Roommate's Wedding in Boston, at the same time = NOT POSSIBLE

    Being at one or the other = possible

    Number of ways I care that this post does not use consistent syntax = 0.

    Number of ways in which I am slowly going insane = 579.

    Wednesday, September 06, 2006

    Indian Summer

    Try to remember the kind of September
    When life was slow and, oh, so mellow.
    Try to remember the kind of September
    When grass was green and grain was yellow.
    Try to remember the kind of September
    When you were a tender and callow fellow.
    Try to remember, and if you remember,
    Then follow,

    Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow,

    Try to remember when life was so tender
    That no one wept except the willow.
    Try to remember when life was so tender
    That dreams were kept beside your pillow.
    Try to remember when life was so tender
    That love was an ember about to billow.
    Try to remember, and if you remember,
    Then follow,

    Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow,
    follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow,
    follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow,

    Deep in December it's nice to remember,
    Although you know the snow will follow.
    Deep in December it's nice to remember
    Without a hurt, the heart is hollow.
    Deep in December it's nice to remember
    The fire of September that made us mellow.
    Deep in December our hearts should remember,
    And follow,

    Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow,


    LT and I on our way to see Dirty Rotten Scoundrels at the Paramount. Another musical that broke tradition, and had great songs to boot.

    Sunday, September 03, 2006

    The Land of Festivals

    Hey! It's a party over here! Ho! It's a party over there!

    It's Labor Day Weekend, and if you're from Seattle, there's only one thing to do: leave town.

    No, I'm kidding, the correct answer is, of course: go to Bumbershoot! And SkiBonkers! And hit Pike Place Market for vegan pastries! And walk and walk and walk some more and walk your dog and then go out and then entertain long-lost friends and then walk some more and pause for a Sparks break (much needed) and then walk some and stay hydrated! And then dance, space monkey, dance, and get interview for Spin magazine and see a million bands and fall asleep during a comics presentation but wake up in time to catch Wild Turkey bottles thrown by Chuck Palahniuk and stop in an air conditioned place for a glass of wine and go home and take a much needed nap.

    Repeat, ad nauseam.

    Help. Send Sparks.

    Friday, September 01, 2006

    All In Love, Aglow, and Making Your Ears Bleed

    Hello! I am in love, yes! I am infatuated! And my brain has begun to slowly trickle out my ears!

    And by "slowly" I mean "Niagra falls".

    In talking to T-Town on Gchat today, usually we chat along and occasionally we chat so fast we have that time delay happening where one of is responding to the question from three chat messages ago, so that it looks like this:

    Me: I washed my hair this morning.
    T-Town: Taj got into the trash this morning.
    Me: Damn! How bad was the mess?
    T-Town: Oh yeah? Did you use that new shampoo?
    Me: Titan got into the trash the other day, spread it all over the place.
    T-Town: Pretty bad. There was toilet paper involved.
    Yes, I really like it.
    T-Town: Wow, he hasn't done that in awhile.
    Me: Yuck!
    T-Town: Sweet, I'm almost out of mine.
    Me: Yeah, it was my fault, I left the bag out.
    T-Town: It wasn't too bad.

    (Y'all know what I'm talking about.)

    ANYWAY. The point is, usually we're pretty energetic with our fingers (rawr!) and today there was a lot of...nothing.

    Me: OMG my boyfriend's so cute goob gush go on for ages.
    Me: I think today when he arrives we're going to do this thing, and then that thing, and then that other thing.
    T-Town: (drip, drip)
    Me: Hello? Is this thing on?
    T-Town: (in a coma)

    It's bad, y'all. Everything I say, these days, immediately puts whomever I'm taking to sleep, even if they've just had a big cup of coffee, ran four miles pursued by howling wolves, and watched a Jackie Chan movie. I am the Anti-Adrenaline. I am Boredom personified. Need to relax? Don't take Xanax, take me! (Please!) (Ba-dum!)

    Thursday, August 31, 2006

    Blogging the Relationship (10)

    Look at that double-digit number! Ten posts about this here relationship! And the LT is still dating me!

    Then again, he hasn't seen me in three days. Nor has he seen my apartment, which looks like an bomb of clothes exploded in it--seriously, we are talking a time capsule under pressure, here--nor has he kissed me since I stopped brushing my teeth dour days ago. And washing my hair. Hope he likes bugs. I have named the first one, "Fred".

    Moving along. The Norfolk trip, The Rest Of The Weekend.

    Number of times the boys laughed at me as I was throwing up WHILE I WAS TELLING THE STORY of throwing up: 17.
    Number of times we went to Moe's: 1.
    Number of hours we spent sitting at Starbucks afterwards: 65.
    Number of times we had to remind ourselves that we actually had to attend THE WEDDING today: 16.
    Number of time, at the wedding, LT and I got told we were the perfect match, usually by his Navy buddies trying to insult one or the other or both of us: 147.

    (Submariners often hide their feelings in layers of sarcasm. It's a thing they do.)

    Number of hours we stayed out the wedding night: moderate.
    Posts I wrote: 1.
    Number of minutes it took the boys to fall asleep after The Shining started: -5.
    Number of things we did on Sunday: 4.
    Number of those things that involved both coffee and alcohol: 3. (The order, though, is key. FIRST a maragarita, THEN the coffee.)
    Number of those things that involved a nuclear submarine: 1! I got to go on a submarine!
    Number of hours that tour lasted: 3. I think the enlisted guys thought I was moving in.
    Number of strange looks I got as a LADY on board: 32.
    Number of times I was referred to as a "defense contractor": 3.
    Number of little thrills I got: 6. (Hey, I like my job, okay?)
    Number of ways I looked like a defense contractor on that particular day:
    Number of cups of coffee I had on the submarine: 2.
    Number of hours of sleep I got after talking with the LT for forever about racism, the South, civil rights, the women's movement, and my preceding terrible week at work: -2.
    Number of times I fell asleep on the LT on the two plane flights: 15.
    Number of cups of coffee I got once back in Seattle: 26.
    And, finally, number of ways in which I'm happy to be home: 15,647!

    Accuracy of some of the later numbers, above: ZERO. I mean, the relative magnitude is right...

    And, finally, a snippet of conversation:

    We're all standing around at the wedding after dinner, talking, the boys doing the usual joiking about how once they heard (submariners gossip A LOT) that LT had found someone willing to date HIM, they just HAD to meet her, etc. And there's quiet for a second, and I get this:

    Navy Boy: So, you're vegan, I hear.
    Me: Yep. Thinking: Here we go.
    Navy Boy: How does that work with this carnivorous animal, over here? (Meaning LT>)
    Me: Oh, this guy? You know, if your girlfriend--assuming you could find someone to date you--ever cooked you a hot meal and put it on the table in front of you after a long day of being on the boat, with silverware and everything, would you stop to make sure it had meat AND dairy products in it?
    Navy Boy: Hell no!
    Me: Exactly.
    Navy Boy: Okay, but how the heck did you get the LT to date you in the first place?
    Me: Oh, I pulled the ol' bait-and-switch. I wasn't a vegan when I met him, and then I became vegetarian right after we started dating, and then I went vegan almost the next week, but by that time, he was stuck!
    Navy Boy, making the obvious joke that has to follow: Uh huh, that's what I heard!

    But for a more well-written and serious take on this issue, check out the Urban Vegan's post. It's very good, and very true.