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.

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."

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.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LADIES!

(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!)

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?

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?”

“No!”

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!

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.

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 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?

Well.

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...

Well.

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.

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.

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.

2. OH MY GOD I'LL HAVE TO EAT RICE AND BEANS FOREVER.

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!

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?

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!

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.

Pre-Coffee

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.