Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Goal for today: Drink More Coffee.

Crazy Aunt Purl has a post about going dramatically crazy regarding products that may be available in Canada, but NOT in, say, America, and it's not like I would know anything about this since Titan's muscle-and-joint supplement is not available in America anymore EITHER, and really, wouldn't it be easier to just throw in the towel and feed him powdered crap made of chicken parts?

Anyway. Although I haven't yet made Aarwenn's Last Stand regarding BioJoint (the actual product name), I WAS reminded of the showdown between LT and Tall Kiwi (to differentiate him from Normal Kiwi) and the Fools That Run The Pacific Place Parking Garage. At the time, LT threatened to NEVER park there again, and I thought, ...Yeah, right. This is the only cheap, large, and covered parking garage in downtown Seattle. He will definitely park here again.

I'd just like to say that he has proved me wrong. No, we are not stubborn. Thank you for asking.

* * *

This weekend, and past week, were slightly long without the LT, but I did have a lot of time to...well, party, which was great and a great chance to see a lot of people I know and love. "Bobby" and I went to a friend's housewarming party, and also her roommate-warming party (heh!) as said friend applied for a roommate on Craigslist, and in the grand, time-honored tradition of Craigslist, got super lucky on her first try. (Hi, Roommate.)

I have spent a lot of time on the streets of Seattle recently, and it has been wonderful, between clubs in alleyways and eating breakfast in Fremont and being approached on the street and invited to underground speakeasies and also just bumming around with my dog. Titan and I took a trip to the hardware store recently, and the hardware store was dog-friendly, and Titan put his paws up on the counter and they tossed him treats and scratched his ears. Just yesterday we were waiting to cross at a light when a (rather ditzy-sounding) security officer said, "Why's he have that thing on?" (Titan wears a halter when we walk.) "Is he mean?"

I said that no, he wasn't mean, and he could eat and drink water and everything with the halter on, it wasn't a muzzle, it was just like a bridle so I could control his head. "Because otherwise, it'd be a big battle," I joked, and the security officer laughed.

"No kidding, he's bigger'n you are!" (In sneakers, I do appear pretty little.)

The nice thing, the REALLY nice thing, about walking with Titan, is that I feel protected and safe. I feel like I CAN talk to people on the street, I even try to smile at homeless people occasionally, and because of this, I'm building a community of people I know. There's a gay couple that I saw at the dog park, and one partner works in the Starbucks by the ferry, and I see them at the QFC. The other day I ran into Stephanie ELFORD, of all people, at the Madison Safeway. (Note to Stephanie: we must get together!) After the housewarming party on Friday, I ran into five or six people I knew from high school at a bar called Ballroom in Fremont. Several days ago I was walking Titan through Volunteer Park and I ran into a fellow band-mate from ninth grade.

It's a really good thing.

Monday, February 26, 2007

A Note to Titan:

Dear Titan,

Please note that you are a large, hairy dog. Please note that your dog hair gets all over the place when you sneak a nap on the bed, so don't pretend you haven't been up there. Please note also that you get DIRT on the mother-fucking bed. I have already relinquished the futon, and now I have gotten you a dog bed. A DOG BED. Please note: you are a dog. That is your bed. I put in the spot you always sleep in. Please sleep on it! It's not that complicated! Thank you!


P.S. Um, yeah, so I fell asleep on the futon last night, not that it should matter since I damn well bought all the furniture in this house including the futon, and I should be allowed to sleep on it whenever I damn well please!

But I sort of understand, and will simply ignore, the fact that you took my bed when I took what has traditionally been your bed, even though your bed is SUPPOSED to be the overpriced cushion on the floor. I get it. Sorry. It won't happen again.

Friday, February 23, 2007


Remember how, many moons ago, I talked about Bumbershoot, and said that I was interviewed for Spin Magazine, standing next to T-Town?

I totally was, and I can prove it.

UPDATE: Starbucks exchanged my mug no problem, god bless 'em.

In Which the Universe Circles Me, Pointing Its Finger and Laughing

I dropped my mug--my favorite mug, the mug that changed my habits in mugdom--this morning and the head broke off. I was crushed.

I am so taking it to Starbucks and asking for a refund. Because they do not understand how important this mug is to me. For the first time in my life I was carrying around a mug, making sure I had it, carrying it to the coffee shop on walks with Titan. I rinsed it out every night. I CARED for it. Sometimes I even talked to it. (Not really.)

And I am not letting go easily.

Also, I am without coffee. I fear for any Starbucks employee who tells me I can't exchange it today.

Speaking of tales from customer service, several days ago as I was moving in, I decided, "What would look really good against this kitchen wall, this big empty space between a high built-in shelf and a lower built-in countertop, is Pegboard. A big sheet of pegboard that I can hang my pots and pans from. I will go and get some."

Little did I know that apparently pegboard is nearly IMPOSSIBLE to get. I did make the mistake of not calling around first, I guess, but how was I to know that pegboard is a legally controlled substance?

I went to a hardware store first. It was completely empty, especially of workers, I could have walked off with anything in the store. A mouse skeleton may have sat in one corner. Finally I tracked someone down by following their footprints in the dust.

Me: "Excuse me. Do you have pegboard?"
Troll of a Shop Worker: "What?"
Me: "Pegboard."
ToaSW: "What's that?"
Me: "You know, pegboard? The board with lots of little holes drilled in at regular intervals?"
ToaSW: *Blank Look*
Me: "You know, THIS stuff! That you have RIGHT here in your display, that things are clearly hanging from?"
ToaSW: "Ohhh. Oh. No."
Me: (very patiently) "Okay. Do you know who MIGHT have pegboard?"
ToaSW: "Uh...a lumberyard?"

I wanted to ask him how the pegboard in his own displays had appeared. Was it magic? Surely you must have gotten it from somewhere?--but I decided that would be an exercise in futility and moved on to the lumberyard.

Lumberyard guys, once they made me stand around in the cold for awhile to prove I was serious, were very nice. I fought my way through a crowd of old guys drinking stale coffee from styrofoam cups and asked for pegboard.

Quicker, Smarter Store Worker: "Yes, we carry it. Eighth-inch or quarter-inch?"
Me: "I'm going to hang all my pans from it, so...quarter-inch."
QSSW: "Oh!"
Me: "What?"
QSSW: "You know...they have POT RACKS, now. Like in kits."

I looked at him, discerned that he was serious, and refrained my first, second, and third reactions.

Me (kindly): "Yes, I know. But I don't have the right kind of space for it. I don't have an island or a sink with a lot of space over it, and my ceilings are too high..."

I trailed off, noticing his look of confusion. I could see him in the store, buying a pot rack, and it said, "Pot Rack" on it, and that was exactly what he was going to do with it, hang his pots on it! What was the problem?

Me: "Just give me the pegboard. I think it will work great."

And it does, thankyouverymuch. Humph.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Hump Day!

Things that make me happy: The LT's eyes lighting up when he hears that I've made more of his favorite cookies, just for him.

Things that make me sad: I made those cookies so he would have something to take with him on the plane home.

Things that make everyone sad: He's heading home to attend his aunt's funeral. Everyone please send their good thoughts his way.

Things that make me happy: Walking with Titan! It's my therapy.

Things that make me sad: I forget everything I think about while walking. I HAVE a damn voice recorder, I should use it!

Things that make everyone sad: The loss of my brilliance. DUH. Yes. No?

Things that make me happy: The new Lily Allen album, which I have listened to approximately 2098 times since I bought it. And I don't think there even ARE that many hours in the time period since I bought it.

Things that make me sad: There aren't enough artists that inspire me the way she does.

Things that make me happy: I told a nice artist-type lady at a boutique that I was a writer.

Things that make me sad: I have written exactly one page of new material for my novel in the last, oh, year. YEAR.

Things that make me happy: The EXCELLENT pizza I'm making!

Things that make me sad: It will be tomorrow by the time everything is ready.

Things that make happy: I have a new purse and new boots. These things make me VERY happy.

Things that make me happy: I get to go skiing with T-TOWN on Saturday! Her leg is recovering! We can ski together again!

Things that make me happy, last one: I will probably go to T-Town, the city, and see people I know and all that, this very weekend!

Things that make me sad: I'll have time to do so because I won't see the LT until Sunday! Boo.

Boo, indeed.

Things that make me happy, lighter note: My mother, for a long time, has brushed off guests' offers to help clean up after meals and things with this reassurance: "Oh, the elves will get it." And I just realized that I have told people, many times recently, "Oh, I'd better go tell the gnomes to start dinner/walk Titan/clean the kitchen/start the commotion." This makes me giggle, our similarities.

Things that make me sad, lighter note: WOW am I like my mother.

Confidential to my Christian readers: I hope you all had a contemplative and rewarding Ash Wednesday.

Monday, February 19, 2007

Reason #4327 Why I Love the Internet

After a mere four hours of straight working (read: surfing the net), I happened to come across the perfect thing for my blog today. It's a Valentine, maybe a little late but still applicable, for both of the serious men in my life.

Happy Belated Valentine's Day to my four-legged and two-legged sweeties.

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Thanks for Reading! Here are Some Pictures.

My good friend Bri, from whom I have learned many things, most importantly the existence of mapmyrun.com,, threw herself a pub crawl on Friday night, and it is a mark of Bri's reputation in the community that easily 35 people showed up to her pub crawl, as in, way more people than I actually communicate with on a daily basis, including instant messenger friends, unless Titan counts for 25 people all by himself.

Anyway, Bri posted a narrative on Facebook, and I would feel completely remiss if I didn't copy the relevant parts (read: the parts involving ME) here.

Bri says: This is Aarwenn showing off her powers of seduction as she has 3 guys entrapped in what she's saying. +3points Aarwenn. Aarwenn says: If you'll look closely, I think they're reacting to a spider that is crawling on my neck, or something similar. Their expressions do NOT imply easy listening!

Bri says: This is us, cleverly searching the map I put together of all the bars. Suprisingly, a lot of people printed out the map... and proceeded to openly tease me for its toolishness. Yet, let me point out that not a SINGLE drunk person got lost! Aarwenn says: It's true. Check out mapmyrun.com.

Bri says: Bri and Aarwenn, meet bob. Low and behold Bob actually works at the same building as Bri. He also had a STRONG desire to make it through the pub crawl. His victory was 7/17, while the rest of the group averaged 5. Well done, Bob! Aarwenn says: For real, I was done at 4.

Bri says: What could bring so many people together? You guessed it, alcohol and lots of it! Perhaps we shall have to make it a tradition... Aarwenn says: Please do!

Bri says: Here's where our drunk fingers take over and we start getting a little CRAZY...or it's just the point in the night where we got a little camera happy :-P Aarwenn says: ...too true.

Bri says: Meet Jeff! he's the man responsible for all of these pictures!

Bri says: This is roughly the time of night that I realized that I need to spend the next year courting Aarwenn. Not only does she LOVE dogs and preach animal rights, she manages to walk sexy in flats. How HOT is that? Aarwenn says: Also, my nose alone could inspire a legion of evildoers. LOOK at the thing. I had no idea that it was crooked like that...until right now. It makes me happy that I have attracted your much-fought-for attention! Court me! LT won't mind...right, honey?

Bri says: Who's "that guy"? It's my bf! Well done Joey! Aarwenn says: He was going to be in that picture no matter what. He was DETERMINED.

Bri says: He has a man purse! Gotta love Seattle! Aarwenn says: Indeed. I personally know three men who carry man purses.

We both say: Thanks, Greenlake! Let's do it again! Call me, okay?

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Happy Valentine’s Day, everybody! Let’s talk about sex!

My mother just choked on her hot water.

I’m a feminist, which is hard to just state right out like that, three words, nowhere to hide. I’m. A. Feminist. Usually I say, “Well, I consider myself a feminist,” which is much more equivocating and therefore easier to hide in, it’s a longer sentence, contains more coverage. But I don’t say it that equivocating way because I’m afraid of the f word, or that I’m afraid of what some guy that I meet MIGHT think (pffft) but because I’m afraid that I’ll say this in the company of another woman, a woman who really IS a feminist, not the kind that shaves her legs and wears occasional makeup, like I do, but the kind with hairy armpits and who believes that marriage is simply a property exchange between father and husband and that all penetration is rape.

And yes, there are women who believe that, although very, very few.

Also, I’m doing feminism a disservice by even listing those examples, because although I’m not making it up, just by putting those in print I’m enforcing such a stereotype, and worse, just by repetition I am making these extreme examples seem more applicable to, and representative of, “normal” feminism than they really are. I’ve written about radicalism and mainstream movements before, and I’ll remind the audience here that although I don’t agree with radicals—of any movement—I know that we desperately need them.

So in this case, listing extreme spectrum ends accomplishes a dual purpose: I include them out of respect, as a valuable part of the movement, and as a benchmark of why I worry about saying I’m a feminist in mixed company. For example: when I say I’m a feminist and people around me curl their lips in disgust because they think all feminists are hairy arm-pitted lesbians, and I wish the Andrea Dworkin (may she rest in peace) followers would just go away and quit ruining the word for me, I KNOW that they are doing valuable work, so I include them for that. And also, by listing them, I inform my audience that even though I seem to be a little radical in some ways, BELIEVE ME, there are women who are MUCH more radical than I am, so radically left that I can’t even see them on a clear day. And I live in Capitol Hill, among many of these women, and therefore when I’m in the company of strangers, or even acquaintances, and I say I’m feminist, I’m worried that I’m opening myself up like a tuna can, ready to be scooped out, mashed up, and devoured.

And this post is already long enough, so we won’t go into why I appear to think that everyone around me would be so interested in ME in particular that I’M always at the center of these political arguments, because that’s just what happens.

Why am I worried about stating I’m a feminist? Because of articles like the following, which my friend Tri-Tip recently sent me: Some Coffee Stands Get Steamier. Go read it, I’ll wait.

I responded to him, laughing, that coffee stands using sex to tell their coffee certainly weren’t the first, nor would they be the last, to use sex in this way. The LT lives somewhat near the Natte Latte, also mentioned in this article.

Tri-Tip: “I figured you would have some choice words for me, you crazy vegan feminista. You disappoint me.”

Me: “You do remember that I was a cocktail waitress for most of my pre-B existence, yes?”

Tri-Tip: “Obviously not, but I do now. You surprise me. My sister yelled at me.”

Me: “What? Why?”

Tri-Tip: “She was a politics and women's studies major, and she works for a battered women non-profit. Take a wild guess.”

Me: “Ah. I can see that working with battered women all day would slightly influence one’s political views.”

Tri-Tip: “My sister said, and I quote: ‘Obviously I am totally against this place. Why don’t those girls just go be cocktail waitressess somewhere they would make more money and obviously have no qualms about walking around in their underwear and degrading themselves?’”

Excuse me? EXCUSE ME?

Right about here, I decided I no longer cared if I offend other women by calling myself a feminist, because I realized just how wrong that is, and as a side issue, how wrong THEY are.

I degraded myself while being a cocktail waitress, is that it? I hate statements like this. This sentence, which is supposed to communicate the speaker’s ideas to the audience, contains only buzzwords like “cocktail” and “waitress” and “degrading themselves.” That’s not a sentence, that is propaganda, and you can tell because it draws sweeping generalizations, jumps to conclusions, and assumes a certain mind state, location, and even time of day.

For example: What if I was a bartender, instead of a cocktail waitress, also at night? Would that be okay? What if I was a cocktail waitress during the day? What if I only wore shirts that came up to my neck? What if I only worked daylight hours but served cocktails? At what point, exactly, am I degrading myself? Is there a hemline I should be looking for?

Statements like this are pretty retarded, and if I wasn’t trying to be nice, I would add a lot of other choice words, like trite, bourgeoisie, countrified, childish, and sheepish—this is the feminist party line from about forty years ago, and people who say this prove themselves to be idiots that will repeat anything they hear without thinking about it at all. I’m a feminist, and I’m proud of it, and “feminists” that spout this line hurt the party and degrade women far more than short skirts ever will.

Random Anti-Sex-Work Feminist: EXCUSE ME?

Me: You heard me.

RASW Feminist: How is that possible? YOU are obviously degrading YOURSELF when you tamp down your personality and play up your sex appeal to get something you want!

Uh, no. I’m not.

If this is true, then PEOPLE degrade themselves. All. The. Time. Men date gold-diggers and heartbreakers and psycho women. Women date Neandathrals. (Even I have.) Teenagers break themselves to get into the popular crowd, boys and girls try drugs because of peer pressure, it’s sad but unavoidable, and we all do it: we tamp down our personalities, playing up our appeal, trying to seduce people into liking us, accepting us, inviting us to that party, sleeping with us, maybe just cooking for us. Seduction and sex appeal is a natural part of life, and when we, as humans, feel instinctively that seduction will get us to our goal faster than trying to logically convince, we will turn to it, Every Time. (When I’m done with this post, I’m just going to trash it and attach a good picture of myself instead.) Is this degradation? Because if playing up your sex appeal for a goal is degradation, then we should stop procreating immediately.

What I believe Tri-Tip's sister is trying to say, however, is that presenting myself as a sex object, automatically lowers the status of women in all fields and walks of life, and in their defense, if this were true, the use of the word “degrade” would be correct.

So, me in a very short skirt in a cocktail club, working for tips, is degrading the status of women in our society, and by extension, myself, right? No, it’s not. It’s not at all, period. Because how is that in any way different from being forcefully degraded by hundreds of old fat Lazy B men watching me walk through the factory? Because, hello. You can choose to act sexy or not, you can choose to wear pants or a skirt or not, you can choose to wear loafers or combat boots or heels, and I guarantee you, someone you don’t like will find you sexy, and will objectify you, and congratulations! You’ve been degraded. You cannot avoid it. You can sneer at men who open doors for you, or yell at men who whistle at you—I do, sometimes—or refuse to wear skirts or skulk around town with your head hanging down, but Jesus Christ, how degrading is THAT?

I, as a woman, will always have sex appeal. Always. There’s nothing I can do about it. It’s part of me, part of my body, part of my mind, part of what makes me me, it’s mine to do with as I choose and I own me, right? That is one of the tenements of feminism.

So. How is it NOT degrading to be told that I cannot show off my legs and also be a feminist?

WTF? Aren’t my legs, and what’s between them, mine? How is any anti-sex-work feminist going to tell me what to do with it? Why in the world would I not allow men to rate me as sexy or not sexy, or try to control me using my gender’s qualities of sex, but be perfectly fine with allowing WOMEN to do the same? Are they crazy? Hello! I, and other women like me, are just poor girls with breasts and an ability to be cute—yes, please tell me I can’t use that in my job! PLEASE take away our rights! Protect us from ourselves!

And go to hell.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007


I have a long article I want to write and I can’t start it.

I want to write about freedom, and why, as a feminist, I am not against sex work, or strip clubs, or the recent boon in sexy coffee stands.

And somehow I want to tie that in to my opinion about the Navy employing anti-terrorism dolphins.

Wish me luck.

Part of the reason I don’t want to write is because, jeez, I know I’m right already, so why bother trying to convince people that they should agree with me? If they don’t agree with me, they’re dumb, and if they do, they already do—my writing isn’t going to change a thing.

Except possibly make me feel better.

Monday, February 12, 2007

The Uncertain Twilight

I am unpacked enough today to sit down at my OWN desk at my OWN computer, something I haven't done in quite awhile, perhaps a year. A year. It seems almost ludicrous to think that I haven't done something for a whole year.

I sit here and type this blog post because it's my default state of being, a habit I picked up at college: if you don't have anything to do, you might as well sit at your computer, right? SOMEONE on the www will entertain you.

(One hour later) ...And indeed they have.

But it's easy to sit here, and not so easy to get up, because getting up requires making decisions. So far I have made the decision to eat a few crackers with tofu spread and hang out on the interweb. Earlier I made the decision to leash Titan and hang out on the Hill, and that's what we did.

NOW I have to decide: what I want for dinner, what I'm doing AFTER dinner, am I enjoying my new cable or finishing CSI or going to Beau's house, am I cooking tonight? Tomorrow night? Wednesday night? When am I making vegan goodies for V-Day? When am I starting on the rest of my apartment? How am I hanging my cork? What the heck am I doing with that rolling cart? Where am I putting my jewelery box? When am I organizing my bookshelf, my CD collection?

In Lorelai Gilmore's words: "It's too much of a hassle to eat. I'll just sit here and starve." (And I know that she said this because I SAW IT ON TV, TODAY, ON MY BRAND SPANKIN' NEW CABLE!)

Sigh. Anyone else have this problem? What's the first thing you do when you come home? I walk Titan, that's easy, but after that I'm flummoxed. Eat? Drink? Sleep? Be merry?

Friday, February 09, 2007

NEW Apartment!

I'm trying this new method of posting photos here. We'll see how it works out.

Gratuitous gorgeous mountain shot.

And now, onto the NEW APARTMENT!

In the late afternoon sun.

So many doors in this place. And nooks. And crannies. A veritable nook and cranny wonderland.

A nook, cranny, and shelf wonderland.

The brand new space with a boy.

Brand new space! Nice neighbors! Yay!


Thursday, February 08, 2007

Picture-Crazy Thursday!

My friend Dave Fry, whose real name I will use because he puts it on the internet already, is a talented amateur photographer, although maybe not with the best eye for fonts (hi Dave!)) and has a terrific photo journal available on teh interweb. He's a little behind, but we won't hold that against him, will we?

Anyway, he takes pictures every day, every single damn day, sometimes of big things but just as often of little things, and he posts them. The End. So if you don't know Dave, this might not be important to you at all. Moving on.

The point is, he inspired me, because I had this terrible day of moving coming up, and I thought, maybe if I take pictures, this won't be so bad.

A picture of just how bad my mood was. I didn't even realize until I looked at this shot that I was scowling.

So I tried again. Faking a smile for the camera, even though it was indeed fake, actually did improve my mood. And THEN I saw THIS:
And that made me actually smile. (For those of you who want to know, my drink is a Triple Grande Soy Cinnamon Dolce Latte. Sans whip, obviously.) (And I bring my mug--which I talked about somewhere on here--about one-tenth of the time I visit a coffeehouse, which is 100% more than I thought I would.) (Fun with math! Hooray!)

Note: for those of you playing along at home, this is the Starbucks on about Third and Pike, I think. I waited for the bus at the damn busiest and most touristy-corner ever in Seattle, accompanied by this creepy mannequin stationed outside.

Don't ask. It's Seattle.

ANYWAY. I got the truck just fine, and it fit down the street, also good.

I hope you can see how gorgeous the weather was for this day. I picked an excellent day to move, just out of sheer dumb luck. It almost made me sad to leave, because Mike's house looks nothing but gorgeous.

Unfortunately, I had to leave. Which was actually good, because it turned out the place I was going to was even better!

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Can Randomness Just Be Filed Under R?

They say that packing is hard, dividing your life up into little boxes, even trying to label a box that has your diploma and sorority pictures and also candle holders and candles and a bunch of other pictures and a few martini glasses and a few CDs that you threw in at the last minute plus the earrings you were wearing at the time that you packed, so that when you seal up the box and you reach for a pen, you are stuck, wordless. It’s impossible to summarize the contents in just a few words, and so you don’t. The LT unpacked a box for me a few days ago and stopped dead. “What is it?” I said. “There’s so much…so much…RANDOMNESS in this box!” He threw up his hands. “I don’t even know what room to put it in. You decide where it goes.”

What’s worse, though, is unpacking, especially unpacking boxes that haven’t been labeled because they contain so much randomness, so you’re not sure what to expect, and so you unpack and find pictures, pictures of lost time, reminders of friends you no longer speak to, pictures commemorating moments that seem SO far away now. I found a picture of me at 19, not only thinner (well, more muscular, anyway) but also so YOUNG looking, same hair and eyes but the smile so unbridled, so unsuspecting, so innocent somehow, although I wasn’t particularly drama-free at nineteen either. I am holding hands with my brand-spankin’-new sorority sister and look happier than I ever remember being in my entire life. It’s not so much that I’m thinner, because I know I wear the same size now: it’s the fact that the weight of the world had not yet settled on my shoulders. I was not yet burdened, my later experiences had not yet attached themselves to my arms and legs like so many bumps of cellulite, so many leeches.

This box, this box of randomness, contains so many surprises, so many doors that I chose not to open, so many paths I chose not to take. And also so many paths I DID take: joining a sorority in college, choosing to go to college far away, choosing a really hard major and then adding another one, relationships I tried, jobs I had. Each picture or postcard I pull out is a shock. I can’t categorize or summarize; I don’t know where to put them, if I should throw them out or what, will I miss them, can I just stash them somewhere and make these decisions in another month? Will I be more ready then?

Thursday, February 01, 2007

One Of Those Things a Boyfriend Cannot Fix

I am moving tomorrow. Tomorrow, or maybe Saturday, I will once again have a dog. And my dog will need a schedule, like being walked. Which means I will not be able to come home and simply crawl into bed, which is what I have done. For the past three nights.

For the past three nights I have crawled into bed before nine. Often I have left the lights on, assuming that I would get up and turn them off later. Ha. Yes. That has not happened before 2 am, any of those nights, so what that means is that I sleep fitfully until 2 and then get up and turn the lights off and grab four more hours of sleep before my alarm.

I have gone to bed with bra and turtleneck and undershirt on, because it is cold, and I’m whiny and not good at cold. I’ve entirely stopped the practice of washing my face at night, or even brushing my teeth, and I take birth control in the morning now, so what this means is that I have structured my life around the ability to crawl into bed directly after dropping off my laptop bag, and I have done this, partly because I can, and won’t be able to after tomorrow, and partly because very stressful things like moving make me immediately want to crawl into bed.

I do not like moving, although I have certainly done it enough. I have to pack up my stuff, and somehow I feel like there is never enough time. Time to sort out what goes to the Goodwill, time to say goodbye to things I don’t need and organize the things I do need so I can find them again when I unpack. Just one time in my life I want a perfect move, where I have days beforehand to put stuff into boxes and LABEL them, god forbid, or at least have a general idea about what room they go into, and then maybe I can go and get a massage. I have a vision of movers, hired professional movers, showing up at my current place and finding neat stacks of cardboard boxes, all lined up with colored stickers on them showing what room they go into, and of course that would be pointless in my current life anyway because EVERYTHING goes into one of two rooms, as my kitchen is long and lovely but not wide enough to stack boxes in and still walk, so boxes can only go in my living room or bedroom, and there isn’t enough possible margin for error to require stickers.

My mother and father will be at my new place on Saturday (and I almost just typed “Starbucks”, Freudian slip much?) and I know they will like it, and LT will be helping me move on Friday, and his help will be invaluable, but no matter how much my parents and my boyfriend will be there, they cannot make my life somehow different, somehow pack for me, or mold my brain into the kind of brain that organizes and packs well, that sees no problem in starting off a large project with a few small steps, instead of looking at a mess and simply throwing up out of stress, or worse, crawling into bed at 8:30.

And when I am not crawling into bed at 8:30, I am writing blog posts, and more importantly, basing my entire perception of my own intelligence by taking online tests:

This test will drive you crazy, although not as crazy as I already am. According to the page, 19+ is genius. I got 21 before I got frustrated and stopped, which means according to this test I am apparently a genius. Maybe the good folks who wrote this test could come over and PACK FOR ME, since obviously I am a GENIUS about that, too.