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.

We all know what a picture is worth

While you're at it, check out the letter.

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,

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.

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.

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.
Me: 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.
T-Town:
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!)

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: ...zero.
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>)
(Laughter)
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?
(Laughter)
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!
(Laughter)

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.

Sparks and Rain

NOT Snakes on a Plane! (Not yet, anyway. Anyone seen it?)

It's a Tuesday night, and the rain has come in, bringing not only the interest--and contentment--of changing weather, but also the blessed relief of finality, of normalcy. Seattle is just happier in the rain. In Norfolk, I was struck by how beautiful the people were, which was partly about me being on vacation and already being in a positive frame of mind (because I have definitely spent some quality time in the South before, and not noticed this) and partly about watching the natives relax in the sunshine. It's easy to be beautiful when you're relaxed and not stressed out--my skin cleared up in three days, just being on holiday--and Norfolk deals well with sunshine. They like it. They know it. It's familiar. And when it's sunny and warm--and humid--which it was all three days the LT and I were there, they relax; it's what they're used to.

Not so Seattle! We like sunshine, of course, but we feel pressured by it. Get out! Enjoy it! It'll be gone soon! Don't waste a second! Etc. CAE once said, "You guys are OBSESSED with the weather here!" And we are.

So, with the rain comes...peace. Relaxation. It's what we're used to, after all.

Titan and I went down to the dog park, were pleasantly surprised by all the dogs, and then got rained out ten minutes later, which was just fine. We came back to the apartment and listened to the rain fall in the twilight. I fed him and fed myself, and then left in the damp open-topped Jeep to run errands, and was pleasantly reminded that it's not too cold yet to have the top still open, especially in The Land Of Underground Parking Garages. I bought vegan noodle bowls, and all kinds of asian sauces (sesame oil, rooster sauce) and a few toiletries and nothing fancy, but things that I needed.

I thought about cooking, with the damp breeze blowing in with the dark, not cold enough to close the sliding door but getting there, but didn't. I ate corn chips with gourmet guacamole and called my mother and drank a Sparks. I thought about things I needed, like measuring cups, and things I wanted, like everything in the Museum of Useful Things, and some things on the MoMA store site. I mused on the fact that I currently own FOUR pairs of jeans that I wear regularly, which is a record for me, and what that means, and how many dirty dishes I have and how little I care about that, and how great that was, trying to hang on to the vacation frame of mind. I called the LT and thought more about cooking, but got nowhere, and played around with iTunes and bought vitamins for myself and Titan online and brushed my teeth and let Titan out and went to bed.

And it was good.

We Interrupt This Norfolk Trip

To bring you a picture of myself. AND my apartment, which is, I swear, the important thing about this photo, so please excuse the fact that I appear to be preggers. (I'm not.)


In this photo, you can clearly see my "dining" (read: Blogging/Drinking/CSI-Watching) area to your left and my right, with the red chairs, and my kitchen behind me, with the refrigerator with the pictures.

My question:

Does my apartment look sort of...I don't know...country?...to you?

And if it does, would this coffee pot not be perfect?

Trip to Norfolk, aka My Third Wedding with a Date Ever

aka My Second Plane Trip with a Boyfriend Ever,
aka the First Time I Have Stayed in the House of a Boyfriend's Friends.

Um.

(By the way: Any ideas that the LT might have had about how new and different this trip would be for me: Very, very few. I can, occasionally, play my cards close to my chest. Stop laughing! I swear I can!)

So! Norfolk, Part The First, in numbers:

Number of cups of coffee I drank, trying to stay awake after flying a red-eye through ATL: 5
Number of vegan bagels I ate: 1.

(Go Au Bon Pain! And thank you, manager lady who chased down the ingredient list for the plain bagels at 5 am.)

Number of minutes before the LT's friend/our Host for the weekend started a political conversation with me: -17. (Is it the air I breathe?)
Number of dollars I spent on vegan groceries: 26.
Percentage of available space of Host's Refrigerator I took up with my vegan groceries: 98.
Number of ways in which Host kicked ass, just at this point alone: 35.

Number of horses I petted: 3.
Number of times Host warned us about the electric fence: 3.
Number of electric fences I tested: 1.
Decibels at which I screamed: 2437.
Sigh.

Number of Navy LTs and LTs (Junior Grade) I met at the rehersal dinner alone: 4.
Number of Brides I met: 1.
Number of Extremely Drunk Bride's Sisters I met: 1. (Whew. I knew then that, no matter what happened, I'd blend in.)
How hammered we all got at the rehearsal dinner: ...Good Lord.
Hours it took, after that moment, for us all to realize that wine, too, contains alcohol, and perhaps we should just stop drinking: 10.

(As in, much later the next day.) (Continuing this story, with me in blissful ignorance.)

Number of members of the bride's family I went and drank sugary martinis with afterwards: 34.
Number of times I got stranded, drunk as a skunk, in a strange city, with no way to get home: 2.
Number of times this bothered me: -3.
Number of times I threw up once I got home: at least 9.
Number of times I cleaned the bathroom: 1, and damn well, too!
Proof: Number of times Host would have realized I had even USED his bathroom if I hadn't mentioned it: 0.
Number of times I worried about where LT and Host were: -2.
Number of cars the LT disassembled at the bachelor party while their owners were passed out: 1.
How intoxicated both LT and Host were at this point: limitless.
Number of times I heard this story later: 30,542.
Percentage of meals, thus far, I had eaten entirely vegan: 100%!
Number of times I have embarrassed my mother while telling this story: 146.

Update from Beautiful Virginia

Hello. It is Saturday night, I haven't blogged in days, and I am in Norfolk, VA, home of the million dollar 500 square foot homes and the biggest naval base in the world. I didn't blog about this trip AT ALL during the preceding days because:

1. I was about to meet all of the LT's closest friends, including the guys that he SERVED WITH on the submarine. To say these guys are "close" would be an understatement.

2. I was about to be "the tagalong" at a bachelorette party, at which I would know no one, and

3. I knew I would be late to start this trip in the first place, i.e., I had the LT do my dishes while I packed. And I was a stress case and a half. And then the traffic built up and we barely made the plane. And I KNEW that this, or something like this, would happen.

So I didn't blog about it. I didn't want to talk about my feelings of inadequacy compared to how beautiful Southern girls are; my feelings of stress, which would encourage binge drinking, and how worried I was about that, and all sorts of other things. I was so worried I couldn't blog.

But...and whether this is good or bad, I can't tell...I passed all the tests, apparently. I'm eating vegan (with the exception of potatoes with butter, at the wedding), I'm meeting the boyz, I met the bride whose bachelorette party I was crashing, and I'm still alive. In fact, I'm so late in blogging that the bacherlorette party AND the wedding are already over, and from now on I can relax and maybe get some real sleep.

I'm Supporting Blogger Beta!

Do I look different? Prettier, somehow? It's not the eyebrows. (GOD my eyebrows. Drama about this will follow in a later post.) It's not the hair. (GOD my hair is so pretty!) It's not even the weight loss! (Did I mention? Four pounds!)

It's BLOGGER BETA! Yes! I am in the first increment (or so) of bloggers that got offered the beta service, and I took the plunge WITHOUT EVEN WARNING Y'ALL.

Sorry. I am selfish. And also impulsive.

So, Blog Audience, meet Blogger Beta, Blogger Beta, meet Blog Audience. I'm sure you will get along great. I'm going to change my template, I hope, and do some other blog maintenance things I've been dying to do, like add tags and categories and organize my archives by keyword. All of which will take time. But I'm excited, and I hope you are, too.

Did I mention I also have new jeans? (Size SIX?)

Confession

Warning: annoyed. Very annoyed.

I’m in one of those moods in which I can’t believe that other people came to work and are TALKING, POLLUTING THE AIR AROUND ME WITH SHAKY OLD MAN VOICES THAT GO ON AND ON AND ON. I’m not sure why they think they have the right to talk ANYWHERE in my hearing radius. I mean, SERIOUSLY. And what is with all this WALKING AROUND? STAY AT YOUR DESK! Nothing I hate worse than old men wandering around; they’re like loose cannons! You never know WHAT they’re going to do!

For all those who think I’m being intolerant (moi?) just imagine that you’re in constant fear of an old man the age of your grandfather suddenly popping up behind your right shoulder and asking, in a quavering voice, “How do you access more than one worksheet in Excel, again?” And officially ruining your train of thought for the next hour.

Ahem. (Amazing how I can complain about my train of thought being ruined and then, in the next breath, spout off on my baseless and melodramatic opinions for five pages, isn't it?) (Note to my parents: no, you're not annoying when you ask me questions about computers, I promise!)

Anyway. As some of you may know, I am A Liberal. And I live in Capitol Hill, Seattle. The Liberal Center of Seattle. I live in a place in which, when the LT walks to my apartment from downtown, in uniform, he gets strange looks. Yes. That is the kind of place I live in, and generally, I like it. Yeah! Boo on the government! Damn the Man!

Not that I hadn't HEARD of weird girls who actually like men in uniform. I did go to college, and I DID live in a sorority house with roughly thirty girls, some of whom had full-blown uniform fetishes, but I thanked God that I was not one of those--not that there was no way I could be. As I grew up, I was, um, sort of rebellious, and in occasional trouble, and therefore I developed a healthy FEAR of uniforms. The appearance of uniforms in my peripheral vision still means, to me, that my life is about to get very unpleasant. To this day I am afraid of cops, even though I have actually dated one. So, I mean, uniforms, what? Nothing special. Uniforms. Ugh, outdated and polyester, usually. I mean, antiquated. I mean, the signs of warfare and oppression in the world. I mean, give me a break.

And then the other day, several weeks ago, I came down to let LT in to my secure apartment building, and I saw him there in his uniform, and I believe my reaction was...warm. (Read: if I had had a tail, I would have wagged it. And possibly jumped up on the LT and slobbered all over him.) (It’s rare that I want to be my dog.)

Is it possible that, thanks to my Navy boyfriend, I have betrayed my liberal roots completely and fallen for a guy in uniform? And what does that mean?

Camping Pictures!

Yes! We have them!

The girls that own dogs. Sans, obviously, dogs. (The dogs are THERE. They're just off in the stream somewhere at this particular moment.)

The girls that went to Europe together. (Not me.) And a nice shot of how beautiful the site was.

Finally, the best picture ever!

Yay camping!

I Hate the Words Rant and Rave

So I'm using the phrases "good" and "bad". Suck it.

Bad Things: See last post.
Good Things: I get the chance to write an angry appeal letter!

Bad Things: I'm having one of those days where I feel like the world puts milk in stuff just to spite me. It's a FRUIT MIX, for God's sake. FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, WHY ARE THERE YOGURT-COVERED ALMONDS IN THERE? And don't even get me STARTED bout Herschey's "dark" (read: sugar-and-milk-laden) chocolate! An especially nice touch: a little blurb about "antioxidants are found in cocoa!" on the front of the chocolate bar, right next to "consume in moderation". Ahem. Herschey's, you and I both know that that "dark" chocolate bar is maybe 10% cocoa at the most, and therefore there ain't NO ANTIOXIDANTS IN THERE!

At least, not as much as there is cholesterol. For example. Sigh.

Good Things: Not having vegan anything makes it easy to not eat the candy in the candy bowls. Or anywhere, for that matter.

More Good Things: Camping was awesome! We went to the Middle Fork Campground in Snoqualmie National Forest, for those who care. Very flexible site. I took Titan on a serious hike by ourselves for about an hour and a half, and then later in the afternoon all the girls and I took a "nature walk". Which is code for, "Wear flip-flops, carry a drink."

It was great.

Bad Things: I did not get to go shopping.
Good Things: I saved money!
More Good Things: My pasta salad for the housewarming party turned out well!
Bad Things: Even though I over-cooked the pasta. Hey, it was CORN flour pasta! That's new and different, okay?
Bad Things: Desperately need to clean and do laundry.
Good Things: Because I just came back from camping and I get to go to Norfolk with the LT in three days!

WOO!

Annoyed Female Seeks Soy Delicious Peanut Butter Zig Zag

Warning: possible non-parental-unit-appropriate material ahead.

So. At my recent "office visit", I asked my doctor about the HPV vaccine making headlines, and he said, "I was just going to ask you about that. Are you averse to getting it? Because I'm recommending it for every single one of my patients under 50. My own daughters are getting it the second they come home for the holidays."

"I'm not averse," I said.

"That's good," he said, "but your insurance may not cover it, and if they do, they may only cover it before age 26."

"Why?"

"Who knows? Just find out if your insurance covers it ASAP and I'll schedule you."

He leaves. (A brusque guy, yes, but caring.) In talking with his secretary just a few minutes later, I mention this under-26 policy, and she rolls her eyes. "It's true, and not only that, it's complete bullshit. With Viagra, you could catch HPV well into your 60s and 70s. 80s, even. And it would be just awful to have survived 80 years, only to die from cervical cancer because some prick on viagra infected you and your insurance wouldn't protect you!"

Today, I called my insurance company. Do they cover it? HECK. NO.

But they do, of course, cover Viagra.

Camping

Hello. I have been camping. I am tired and have already been at work for an hour. I did not get a shower this morning. I am working ten-hour days this week. Stay tuned.

Civil rights, Gay Rights, Women's Rights, and Equal Rights. Oh, and Shock Value.

Time to live up this Blog's address, I suppose!

To: LT
Sent: 8:20 a.m.

You've nailed something that the veganfreaks board has also been talking about recently: the idea of radicalism versus reality. You have a lot of separate points here, so I'll try to address each one equally.

First of all, I think three young girls in pink tutus and stockings, with nice legs, would be labeled Generally HAWT in Cap Hill. Might be a little too much for some, but certainly nothing you wouldn't wear to a party or a club, and nothing that any good hipster boy wouldn't find a complete turn-on. Even with the combat boots. So your three superficial reasons for getting dressed---status, style, attractiveness--are all fulfilled. They're claiming their status as hipsters on parade. They're certainly stylish in their minds. And they're attracting the boys (or possibly girls) that they would like to attract. Is their status, style, and attractiveness only aimed at a certain minority? Sure. But only compared to the world's population--in CapHill, the subset of the population they're playing to is the majority!

Do they still look a little odd compared to the rest of the kids on the street, including you and me? Yes. So they ARE going for a little shock value. But not to prove a point. They're looking for attention--which they get, even if people don't stare. And I think that's the start and end of their choosing to wear tutus on the street.

Onto the reasons to use shock value for a REAL reason from a political and historical perspective:

I don't remember specific instances of using "shock value", in this context, in the racial struggle. Sitting in the wrong part of the bus, okay, but I think that would be labeled passive protest more than shock value. The Black Panthers were more violent than shocking. And the "racial struggle", as you put it, is definitely still going on today--but I think you're referring to the civil rights movement. Which would be about..well, generally considered to be no more than a couple of decades. I believe. (Quick fact check on wikipedia: about 1960-1980, they say.) Or I guess what I'm saying is, the only part of the racial struggle that could be considered to have possibly used shock value is the Civil Rights Movement. And I don't remember any specific instances.

Have we talked about the comparison between the Civil Rights Movement and the Gay Rights Movement before? You might know then that some prominent black people have protested the use of "civil rights" to apply to the gay rights movement, as the Church is a much stronger influence in the black community than it is in the white community, (partly because black people are, hey, the minority, so it's easier to have a unifying force) and therefore a lot of bible-thumpers don't agree with homosexuality, etc etc, therefore THEIR movement cannot be THE GAYS movement.

(Side note into feminism: much like civil rights, although the movement is no longer active to the point of bra burning, we are by no means done. Another side note that's more opinion and less fact: Condeleeza Rice is the third most powerful PERSON in the country. Probably on a list of top most powerful fifteen or so people in world. If that's not proof of progress of both the civil rights AND the feminist movements, then I don't know what is.)

(On the other hand, the U.S. is one of the few, if not the ONLY, developed country in the world that has never had a minority or female leader. Most UNDEVELOPED countries have us beat already. This is a sign that yes, we might have made some progress, but less than countries with half our GDP.)

SO.

Shock value. The more I think about it, although I can't think of any specific civil rights instances, one might argue that the shock of the movement is already covered by, well, vision. After all: racism exists because you can VISIBLY SEE that someone is different. And also with the feminists--we are visibly women, although all women aren't feminists, and neither are all feminists women. (It might also be said that not all, say, black people, are civil rights activists, and neither are all civil rights activists black people. Or even minorities.)

So I argued myself out of the idea that the civil rights movement didn't use shock value because they didn't need it. And I guess they did, anyway--banners, posters, etc. Those can be pretty shocking.

But nothing as picturesque as burning your bra, or even as unifying as the Stonewall Riots.

So! Movements DO use shock value, to varying degrees, to accomplish goals. Onto the value of shock value.

Again, this is a radicalism versus reality argument--we're having an argument about the value of voting on the veganfreak boards. And the short answer is, because I'm getting carpal tunnel and need to get SOME work done today, is: you need both. You really do. The value of shock is just that: SOUNDBITES. I already mentioned it: it's picturesque. It's easy to publicize. It gets the word out.

Do people turn up their noses at the idea of bra-burning? Yes. Did that explode the women's movement into the forefront of American consciousness? Yes. Is that the first thing people think of when they think of the women's movement? Often, yes. Is that a good thing? No, because it's so radical--the women's movement isn't really like that! It's just a bunch of females who have the remarkable idea that genders should be treated equally according to the law--everyday feminism, so to speak, and the inspiration for this blog's title. But does the very EXISTENCE of the women's movement ensure change, however slowly and surely? HELL YES. Women like myself, even those of us who are pretty confident in our abilities, sleep a little better at night knowing we can't be harrassed at work. Do the lecherous factory guys staring at my ass think twice about heckling because of sexual harrassment suits? YES. And THANK GOD. (There is a point to all this, and I'm getting to it, I swear.)

Onto the same-sex marriage argument: The Gay Rights movement can be a little more pushy and radical--and stubborn, even, and they are--because they're already riding on the back of these two movements. (Civil and women's). The idea of civil rights, EQUAL rights, for EVERYONE regardless of color, gender, or orientation--has already been planted in people's minds. Why?

Because of shocking events. Black people storming the capital, looking for equal pay. Women burning their bras in front of the Miss American pageant. These things live on in people's heads.

Because change, real change, at least in this country, is like a wedge. It's like a PLASTIC wedge that's being used to split a chunk of granite. You manuever the wedge in, and you tap in with a hammer, and then you slip a wider block of plastic to hold the new gap, and you drive the front, smaller wedge just a little farther in. And then you fill up the new gap with more stays. And then you drive the front wedge in just a little farther. To use the feminist movement as an example, people like Gloria Steinem are the front wedge. (And I guess people like Andrea Dworkin, although most of the time I pretend she doesn't exist.) And girls like me are the stays. And the more of us there are, the farther in you can drive that front wedge.

Tap, tap.

Summary: shock value is used in varying amounts by almost all movements. Could we use small steps instead? We could, and we do, already! The public just doesn't see it because all you see is that front wedge of radicalism. And WITHOUT that front wedge...

I think the granite would close up on the stays.

We Interrupt This Program

So, I had nothing to say for five days. Hey, it's happened to everyone. (But as I now have something like 2500 hits a week, I'm beginning to feel partially responsible for disappointing people when I don't make myself blog. Hello, new readers! It's great to have you!)

Onto the blogging, and we ARE interrupting this program!

Some of you may have gleaned from the "Blogging the Relationship" posts that I am, in fact, dating a boy, code name The LT or just LT, and we talk a lot about many things. A LOT. About MANY things. And some of our talking is done by email, not surprising for two people who spend most of their waking hours at a computer. And one night while he was doing overnight duty, he sent me a long thoughtful email, and I liked it, and wanted to publish it along with my answer, taking a page (ha!) out of the epistolary novel form, and I asked him if I could. And then I posted it. And then I yanked it back, because even though I had asked him merely as a formality, and assumed he would say yes, I thought maybe I should observe protocol in this, his first guest appearance.

"I don't know," he said.

He didn't KNOW? Was he INSANE? Why would you NOT want thousands of people to read your private email?

Oh. Maybe I'm an attention whore. (Who knew?) Maybe most people DON'T want thousands of strangers reading their private email. Um.

But after a flurry of (what else?) emails, it became clear that that was not the problem. "No, on the contrary, I'd love for you to find my thoughts worthwhile to post in your blog; it's quite flattering. I'm just afraid I'm not up to the task...but go ahead, cruel world, DO YOUR BEST!

So! Without further adieu--in fact, without any adieu whatsoever--allow me to introduce you to the mind of the LT.

Sent: 7:36 a.m.
To: Aarwenn

I keep thinking about those pink, tutu wearing combat toting folks we saw in CapHill a few weeks ago. I have no issue with them dressing that way; good for them. Exercise your rights. That's why they're there. My question is, however, "Why?"

Possible solutions: Why does anyone dress the way they do? Underlying reason: shelter. To stay warm. To hide our private parts. Because it's the law.

Superficial, yet important reasons (to some): Style, status, attractiveness. Functionality (ski clothes). Uniformity (sports teams, military). I don't think any of these apply to our combat tutus. Maybe status, but it's not a mark of monetary value; maybe attractiveness, but I don't think anyone REALLY finds that attractive. I could be wrong. I know that many would find it attractive that they're so rebellious, but that's not quite the same thing. Style...well, same argument. It's not "stylish" to the mainstream, but only to a select minority.

I think the key here is that they are trying to use "Shock Value" to make a statement. That's fine; again, it's their right to do so. But what is my expected response? Do I stare? Do I accept them as normal and move on with my life? That seems to be the most progressive thing, right? Acceptance? But then, what's the point of using it as shock value, if it doesn't elicit a response?

MORE IMPORTANTLY, why use shock value in the first place? Has it ever worked in history? The racial struggle lead to death and murder and intrigue, and took decades (1860s to what...1960? A whole century?) to illicit a decent answer. Many people would be justified in saying it STILL hasn't been solved. The feminist movement? Bra burning? We're in what, the third or fourth iteration of feminism (I can't remember which you told me), and there's still a "glass ceiling" and other gender issues. Has shock value ever worked, then? Why use it?

These may even tie back into the same-sex marriage discussion we were having. I said something like, "Why didn't 'they accept the 'social union' term? Isn't that childish?" Something like that. Perhaps childish is a bad word (I know this..I'm not trying to be offensive to you or them…perhaps "closed minded" or "stubborn" is better...you see my point). Regardless, is the gay community trying to use shock value to get the conservatives to radically alter their mindset? Maybe they'd make more headway if they were willing to take small steps.

Should they HAVE to take small steps...well, no...but it might work better for them and produce results quicker, or at least with less stress.

Here ends the transmission.

Sigh

Warning: This post is not funny.

Hello. It is Tuesday. It is freakin' gray outside. And cold. I am underdressed for the weather. I have let the idea of having SOME disposable income go to my head--because I'm not so broke that I'm begging on the streets this week--and I have eaten out twice this week already.

I have just endured a lunch with my coworkers, in which I had to listen to my "mentor" talk about how his wife demanded they "get rid of" the first dog they owned, a beagle, because it "howled all the time", and how now they've got a mix of a black Lab and pit bull that they--get this--PAID MONEY FOR FROM A "BREEDER".

I will not go into the ridiculousness of buying a mixed breed puppy. (Apparently, the adoption agencies around them were full of "older dogs".)

Nor will I mention that this is a couple who went through five years of fertility treatments instead of adopting, because adoption vs. fertility vs. the hopelessness and despair that can face couples who want to breed but can't, when 13 year olds can, is a deep, flawed, and intricate subject, and certainly not anything that can be approached by me with my complete lack of experience.

But it does seem to be a similar mindset.

Anyway. And who knows if I wouldn't do the exact same thing under similar circumstances. (I don't know, it just never occurred to me to BUY a dog.) Adopt one! Please! But I digress.

I do that.

One of my coworkers asked me if this [veganism] was a religion thing or if I was just being weird.

A security guard yelled at me this morning for walking through an open gate--it was OPEN.

Titan barked at and jumped up on a stranger leaving the apartment building and I'm worried there will be serious repercussions.

My laptop battery is being recalled by Dell after they've had six explosion reports confirmed and dozens more rumored.

I was attacked by three mosquitoes this morning and had to finally kill them all. In my car. While driving.

(And I wonder why no one will ride with me.)

Lotion jumped out of the dispenser this morning and landed on my pink cardian.

And finally, last night, my bathroom fell apart on me.





Send wine.

Snippet From the Other Blog (2), Plus Alcohol

Anyone looking for drunken posting should check out my less mainstream blog.

I had some other point to make here, but apparently the point and its attached train of thought, having more brain cells than I have at the moment, recognized the emminent danger before I did, because it has left the building.

Today on the Hill (the Seattle one, not the DC one) I saw my second most amazing thing ever.

Well, sort of. I mean, I saw a guy on stilts. He had long pants on and was just walking along, a plastic bag from a local take-out place in his hand, nothing about his demeanor to suggest that he was trying to draw attention to himself, except that he was, well, on STILTS.

Behind him, a train of rubberneckers. Which is a big accomplishment on Capitol Hill, Seattle, WA. Because just yesterday I followed a trio of girls, all wearing tutus and combat boots, all sporting pink hair and horizontally-striped thigh-highs and crop-tops, down Broadway (Cap Hill's main drag) and I thought nothing of it.

Because although he beat the pair of lesbians violently making out against the wall of American Apparel--and I'm talking biting and drooling and one shirt half torn off--he did NOT beat the cross-dressing, street-walking nuns.

I'm just sayin'. Vive la difference! The Mainstream Sucks! Vive la Revelution!

Thank you and good night!

Mainstream? Who needs it?

When it involves:

1. Commutes of 90 MINUTES EACH WAY

and

2. Debt equal to 108% of my INCOME?

If this is mainstream, I'm ready to move to a commune tomorrow. This is no way to live.

Blogging the Relationship (8)

SO, The LT continually complains that I haven’t seen enough good movies, says my pop culture education is sadly lacking. And this may be true, in fact it probably is; it’s not an accusation I haven’t heard before. (Hi, kiwi!)

But the man has gone so far as to make a list. ON HIS CELL PHONE. So it's always with him. A list of movies he thinks I should see. (Side Note: He makes grocery lists, too. Can you SEE why this is SO HOT? I thought you could.)

Not included in the list is the huge stack of movies he pulled out last night from his collection and handed to me. Just looking at them made me tired. He was going on and on about movies like Event Horizon, and The Abyss and The Punisher, and finally I burst out with, “Baby, I don’t particularly like scary movies or thrillers. There’s a REASON I didn’t see these movies in the theaters! It’s not like I just forgot!”

He was quiet for a minute. “I’m sorry,” he said in a way that just about broke my heart. “You’re right. You really don’t have to see any of them if you don’t want to.” And he started to put them back.

And then I got a brain wave. “No, wait a minute. This could work well if I ALSO got to make you see movies that are important to ME. Or TV shows that I love, like Bones and Gilmore Girls and CSI.”

“Fair enough. You saw The Punisher. I saw an episode of CSI. Now it’s your turn.”

“Okay.”

* * *

It occurred to me later that this might become something horribly clichéd. Tee-hee! I just can’t watch scary movies without a big strong man next to me! And now I will punish you by making you watch Desperate Housewives and the Home Shopping Network! Buy me pearls! I will give you head as a special treat! (Sorry, Dad.)

But by the grace of Gloria Steinem, I don’t think that’s how this will go. I like girly movies, yes. Some of them. I like girly movies with strong female leads, not rom-coms (ugh) and I like action movies, good ones, especially ones that have female leads. (Seeing a trend here? I’m a feminist, what? Check the BLOG ADDRESS!)

And most of the LT’s movies, although manly, focus on war or ships or cars in some way. The guy’s an engineer in the military and he served on a submarine, and he races autocross. None of his movie choices are surprising viewed in that light.

So, on the one hand, this is about a guy and a girl, and their movie choices reflecting their genders, but on the other hand, this is about getting to know the other person through their favorite movies. And that’s a great thing.

I haven’t yet decided if I’ll ever make him watch BBC’s Pride and Prejudice, though.

Jinxing It, or, the Socrates Method Taken To Extremes.

Once again, I have just dropped the LT off at the ferry to Bremerton after a long weekend.

It is interesting that two weekends ago, before my honorary nephew was born (YESTERDAY! WELCOME JUSTUS JAMES TO THE WORLD!), my last three-day weekend, I spent maybe half of it with the LT, and I worried at the end that I had spent "too much" time with him, if there is such a thing or even if I had any need to worry about such a thing whatsoever.

This weekend, another three day weekend, I spent almost every moment with the LT, waking and sleeping, with others and not with others. I took exactly two dog walks without him--maybe a total of an hour, maybe a little more--in a period of something ridiculous like 72 hours. And I didn't worry about that at ALL. Never crossed my mind that I was spending "too much" time with my boyfriend of less than two months!

Does that mean I've gained sanity points, but lost cool points? Independence points? No. It means: it's not the activities, or the amount of time you spend with somebody. It's the motive. Am I spending time with the LT because he is staying at my house and dependent on me for transportation because we are trying to be cognizant of the amount of gas we burn, seeing each other? Yes. Would it be ridiculous to send him to a bar or me to a bookstore, away from each other, just to comply with some notion that everyone needs their "space"? Yes.

Would it be completely different if I was making him stay because I was worried that if he wasn't seeing me, he would forget about me, or worried that he didn't like me enough, so I'd better keep him by my side so I could constantly remind him how cool I was, or so concerned about the state of our relationship that I needed his physical presence to reassure me? HECK yes.

Am I worried that if being insecure makes me desire his presence 24-7, that conversely, having his presence 24-7 will make me insecure? Heck. Yes. And can I say again: HECK. YES.

Is this irrational? Probably. *Looks down* Yep, still female, what?

Is this worry about possibly BECOMING insecure making me worry about jinxing things? Sure. Am I worried that it's been so good so far that the other shoe is about to drop? Yes. (LT, you don't ritualistically torture innocent cucumbers or anything, do you?)

Do I have to just keep on keeping on, and life (and the LT and I) will take care of itself? Yes! And that's one of the great things ABOUT life!

Is that something I tell myself often during a week in which I have gotten TWO speeding tickets, BOTH FOR EXACTLY 24 MILES OVER THE SPEED LIMIT? Yes. Effin' Seattle cops. Am I eating the most crazy delicious soy ice cream ever? Yes. Am I still picking through it to find all the peanut butter parts? Yes.

Thank you and good night.

Note to Self:

It may have been a poor decision to watch "Farenheit 9/11" with your boyfriend.

In fact, on a short list of poor decisions, this idea should have appeared somewhere near the top, right above "give your boyfriend your blog address", and right below "give your FATHER your blog address".

Because you are, indeed, a liberal vegan wannabe pagan who thinks the sun shines out of Democratic Party's collective butt, and he is a Republican gun-totin' conservative from TEXAS, who is currently WORKING FOR THE COMMANDER IN CHIEF.

(Also on that list would include past decisions like: Take Pulls Straight off the Everclear Bottle, Attempt to Date Your Roommate, Make 13 Dates in One Weekend, etc.)

We're still not done with the movie. We made it halfway before we decided it would easier to pause it and just talk than it would to CONTINUE pausing it, unpausing, rewinding to a part we wanted to talk about, fast forwarding over parts we didn't want to talk about, fighting for control of the laptop on which to look things up, etc. I kept getting up to take shots, which I took in solidarity with the people on screen who were actually getting shot at.

We're planning to finish it tonight. Stay tuned.

Old Friends. What They Know Can Kill You.

I called my Freshman Year Roommate, D, today.

Me: "Hi! It's Aarwenn!"

D: "Hi! How's it going?"

Me: "Good. Just calling to say if you're still getting married in October."

D: (Laughing) "Yes I am!"

Me: "Awesome, because plane tickets are really cheap right now, and I'm thinking of buying one."

D: "Good! I'm excited!"

Me: "Me too! Hey, does my wedding invitation say 'and Guest' on it?"

D: "No."

Me: Thinking, Shit. "Um...okay. Is it too much to ask for that now?"

D: "Not at all, we haven't sent them out yet. But...are you sure?"

Me: "What?"

D: "Um...I hate to ask this...but..."

Me: "What, D? Spit it out!"

D: "Um...are you...um, are you sure that you're still going to be together in October?"

Maybe I should have asked her if she still planned to have a screaming match with her mother at the altar.

Quick Update

HOLY CRAP MY OWN FATHER IS READING MY BLOG.

That is all. I'm unsure if I should go through and edit, or what.

Blogging the Relationship (7)

It always comes down to this. This moment of indecision. This point in the telephone conversation in which neither party has a strong opinion. And you're trying to decide something, anything, be it the movie you're planning to watch or the restaurant to go to for dinner or who's going to who's house, and the silence stretches on and on and because you're on the phone, you can't read their expression or tone and you want to disctract yourself by tickling them or stripping or getting up and getting a glass of water or changing the volume on the radio or really, any one of a thousand little things people do to cover up the fact that the silence is still going on, but you can't because you're ON THE GODDAMMED PHONE, and now you begin to doubt yourself, you think, Do I realy have an opinion on this? I thought I didn't, but maybe I should create one just so I have SOMETHING TO SAY, but then you become worried you'll make the WRONG snap decision, and the silence is still happening, and you begin to wonder how much plane flights are to the Bahamas and if it would be easier just to hang up and break up with the person rather than trying to ignore the fact that both of you are spineless wimps with nothing better to do than sit on the phone and attempt to make a simple decision that doesn't matter in the long run, anyway.

Roommate was once dating a girl. (I swear, it happens!) (Hi, Roommie!) (Blogging Audience: in real life, Roomie is a stud that has no trouble finding women.) Anyway, things were going along okay, they weren't making wedding plans or anything but they enjoyed each other's company, until one fateful day when she said she was hungry and he said, "I'm not, but we can go pick something up for you, where do you want to go?"

...And she didn't have an opinion on the FOOD SHE WANTED TO PUT IN HER MOUTH.

"Pick for me," she said.

Roomie, telling me this story later, broke off here and said, "I was like...seriously? You're really serious? Because now I'm beginning to think I'd rather claw my eyes out with a fork than date you anymore."

So! Decision making! Important! And hard to do, especially on the phone, especially when you want to say I SWEAR I'M NOT BEING A SPINELESS WIMP, I JUST REALLY DON'T HAVE A STRONG OPINION, SO GO AHEAD AND DO WHATEVER YOU WANT AND I'LL BE OKAY WITH IT.

The LT and I, on the phone:

LT: So, I could come over tomorrow.
Me: Okay.
LT: Is that okay?
Me: Sure, I love having you over! But it's a long way.
LT: And I'm not sure how demanding my work schedule will be.
Me: And I'll see you on Thursday anyway when I go over there.
LT: ...so am I coming over?
Me: If you want. I mean, I'd like to have you, but I don't want to put you out.
LT: I don't want to encroach on your alone time.
Me: And I appreciate that! Part of my responsibility in this relationship is to a) recongize the vague but unhappy feeling I get when my alone time is being encroached upon, and b) speak up, and I promise I will do my best to do both those things, but I'm not feeling that way right now.
LT: (Laughing) Okay.
Me: Believe me, there will be times when I REALLY NEED YOU TO COME OVER BECAUSE I WILL FALL APART WITHOUT YOU. But this is not one of those times.
LT: So I could come over tomorrow.
Me: Yes, if it works with your schedule.

--Five minutes more of this go on, and then:--

Me: So I guess we've arrived at this question: if there's no pressing reasons why we SHOULDN'T see each other, and we have time, does that mean we should?
LT: I think Yes.
Me: Me too.
LT: Okay, I'm packing a bag.
Me: Yay!

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Me: It's a little bizarre seeing my short hair and skirt in the pictures at S's.
T-Town: Why?
Me: I feel like my look is changing so much right now that I don't recognize myself.
T-Town: Well, you are changing a lot of things lately.
Me: What things? I got hair cut again, true, and I'm blonde, but that's old--at least the blonde part is, although I'm still surprised when I look in the mirror sometimes. I guess it's because I'm there with a boyfriend and I'm wearing a skirt, and a big sweatshirt that's not mine, and I have really, really short hair.
T-Town: Right. You live in Seattle, you have a boyfriend, you decided to go vegan and you no longer consider yourself Christian. You don't live, love, eat or believe the same things any more. In the space of three months.
Me: Hmmmm.
T-Town: Pretty much everything except your job and your dog has changed.
Me: I guess I should slow down, but it's hard.
T-Town: You seem to be pulling it off ok.
Me: Thank you.


At least I still have scabby knees.

Faults

After dropping the LT off at the ferry last night, I drove away and immediately said, out loud, “Man...I could really use a cigarette.”

I heard my own words and was surprised. I didn’t WANT one. I could have really USED one. For what? Why? What use can I possibly have for a cigarette? (Besides punctuating sentences, as an excuse to talk to boys, as an excuse to NOT talk to boys, an excuse for girl time, or really anything fun.)

But I digress. In this case, having a use for a cigarette reminds me of a sunny Pittsburgh morning, leaving the room of my boyfriend at the time, and lighting up. It was hot and sunny outside, not the right time for a cigarette, but it tasted great. Just a few steps away from his apartment, I heard him running after me. “Don’t you want me to walk you home?”

I looked at him, then looked around. It was a Saturday morning. It was sunny. The streets were fairly quiet. There wasn’t a reason in the world why I’d need to be walked home. I appreciated the thought, but sent him back to his room without much ceremony. “Besides,” I said apologetically, “I’m smoking.” He wasn’t a smoker and he didn’t like the taste—who does?—but he still wanted to come. I shoved my cigarette in his face and he eventually turned back.

It wasn’t about the cigarette, of course. It was about alone time. Sometimes a girl just needs to be alone.

(Note: This was not so much a “walk of shame”. I was wearing jeans and flip-flops—hardly left-over party gear. I was leaving my boyfriend’s room so that I could go back to MY dorm and work, do laundry, and get on with my day. There certainly HAVE been walk-of-shame times when I would have appreciated an escort. And the reasons for why you want to be escorted by the guy whom you just fooled around with and don’t want to be escorted home by your own boyfriend, not the least of which is validation, are myriad and varied even beyond the immediate surface and certainly not appropriate to describe here.)

The cigarette in this case was a barrier. A symbol of independence. It said, or at least I thought it did, “Yes. I am a young woman with faults. I smoke and party and deliberately poison myself. I enjoy the eff out of my faults and am not giving them up any time soon and especially not for you, Mr. Mormon Holier-Than-Thou Boyfriend, because you and I both know that my vices are what attract you to me, because I am NOT a nice Mormon girl, and therefore I revel in them and you do, too, and therefore yes I WILL use them to both draw you in and push you away when it is appropriate.”

And now that I have a) gotten older, quite a bit older, and b) let go of some of my need to be That Girl, the one in knee-high black leather boots that won’t be tied down, I find myself dropping my faults. I could go into some sort of long (even longer than this post is already!) drawn-out discussion about how young women are pressured to be “the good girl” and how cigarette smoking is on the rise in young women partly in response to this sort of pressure, and how young women especially are pressured to fit into social norms, and I might especially mention the Madonna/Whore syndrome and how girls are pressured to be one or the other, yada yada yada, and this would be true, but instead what I’ll say is this:

Especially today, with the genders being treated more and more equally—yay!—young people of both genders feel a deep-seated need to BE A BADASS. Smoking, drinking, drugs, lots of sex, fast driving, dropping out of school, getting pregnant, whatever it is, whatever form it takes, if you call it being a badass or “sowing your wild oats”, whatever, the point is that you develop and cultivate a collection of faults, and it becomes your barrier, your shield, between what you know the world expects of you and the inevitable crushing disappointment you know you will feel when you don’t live to the world’s standards, as you know you won’t.

And as you get older, you begin to come to terms with the kind of person you are, and you lose the need for this shield. In some circles, this may be called “maturing”--sadly not an actual requirement for growing older. You may keep some of your faults or you may not, but part of the maturing process is DROPPING YOUR SHIELD.

And in my case, cigarettes—in some small way, at least—were part of that shield. Leaving a parental unit or function, or a boyfriend that I suspected I would ruin because he was too good for me, or an event where I had to be on my best behavior, I looked forward to the time when I could get away into my car or behind the gas station and curse, smoke a cigarette, see girlfriends, and escape from the pressure to be perfect.

Now, at 25, I am dropping my shield slowly but surely. In some ways I feel raw, scraped out with a spoon raw, naked and exposed, without my barrier between myself and the world, without the self-delusion that I really am A BADASS WHO DOESN’T CARE ABOUT SOCIAL NORMS...but only if I'm not in the public eye. In other ways, I feel damn healthy. I know that I can act out and break rules when it’s appropriate—I can make a statement, and I certainly have in the past—but I also know that I can survive in social functions without looking at the clock, aching for my escape. I feel that I may have lost some of my social functionality—it’s hard to be perfect if you don’t have a ready escape—but I’m okay with that. Being an adult, after all, is not parading your faults around as if they are something to be proud of, but rather accepting them, and in the process, accepting the person you already are.

Blogging the Relationship (6)

The LT and I talk. A lot. It's one of my favorite things about us. I guess I started it, although accidentally. I had given up Christianity and was thinking about Paganism, and I knew he was Christian, and so as we were walking Titan just a week or so after we started dating, we crossed into the park and I said, "Ten dollar question."

"Three-dollar answer," he responded.

"How important is religion to you?"

"WHOA!"

He proceeded to give me at least a twelve-dollar answer, for those are curious.

We talk about fashion and women and advertising, we talk about veganism, we talk about religion, we talk about how men and women relate, politics, the government, abortion, etc. Some of my posts have grown out of conversations we've had; other times, it's the other way around.

Regardless, someone reading a transcript of our relationship since its inception would see this phrase a lot: "So, I have a question," or simply, "Question:"

Just yesterday we were on our way to the premiere of Accepted, and as we had just been frantically rooting around in my apartment for the free pass--which I had lost, because I TOTALLY SUCK--he had seen a lot of my papers and such.

"Focussing on our disimilarities today," he said, as we occasionally joke that we're too alike, "I noticed you're a member of the ACLU."

"That's right," I said, "and the Human Rights Campaign."

"Whereas I am a member of the NRA."

"I know." He owns two guns. I grew up with a military grandfather and was expecting it, particularly the handgun in the nightstand, which my grandfather had until he died. Not that I'll pretend that the morning after the First Time it wasn't a little disconcerting for the LT to say, "If you reach in here because you need condoms, don't be scared when you find this..." and pull out his gun, but it was nothing I hadn't seen or shot before. The handgun is one thing--it was the long shotgun that he offered to loan me once when I was pissed at...well, that's a secret! But I digress, because this is not about guns. (Not today.)

"What do you think about gay marriage?" he asked me.

I chose my words carefully, taking too long, until I had to say something. "I'm taking a long time, not because I don't have very strong and immediate views on the subject, but because I want to say it right," I said, stalling.

Let's just say: we disagree.

But not badly.

Still. I used to think that this question--like abortion, actually--would be a deal-breaker for me. I'm surprised to find out that as long as he's not radical...it's not. The discussion didn't get heated. We talked, and the conversation trailed off, and that was okay, and we went on to see a funny movie about college.

Huh.

Blogging the Relationship (5)

"I don't get enough water," I said to the LT, as we were both desperately chugging out of my new, ADORABLE pink Nalgene to fight the special kind of dehydration caused by five days of 95-degree heat with no air conditioning and a heavy drinking schedule and tennis games and rock-climbs.

"Neither do I," he agreed. "Well, maybe I do. How much water are you supposed to drink?"

"Eight glasses a day," I returned immediately.

"No. I definitely don't get enough."

Once again, I was knocked sideways by the fact that he really didn't know how much water he was supposed to drink per day. I mean, HELLO! HOW CAN YOU IGNORE A FACT THAT HAS BEEN BLASTED AT US FROM EVERY HEALTH ARTICLE OR MAGAZINE IN THE WORLD FOR THE PAST SEVEN YEARS?

It reminds me of an article I read long ago where a wife said, "I don't have penis envy. He can have it for all I care. What I'm jealous of is that my husband can COMPLETELY IGNORE the fact that the children haven't eaten anything green since the Clinton Administration!"

Reason Number #4,653 why women are their own worst enemy. Yes, we might be healthier, nutrition wise--assuming that we manage to scavenge the actual TRUTH about nutrition from the thousands of conflicting diet and nutrition books written especially for our low and getting lower all the time self-esteem--but all the stress and obsession we attach to nutrition?

Ladies, stress will kill you faster than a whole lifetime of red meat. A good lesson for us all.

Heat

Hello. I am Tired. And also wrapped up in the LT and maybe a little neurotic.

But really, what else is new?

Also, it is Monday, and I am Broke and looking ahead to the next four months of being Broke, and it is very hot, like it is everywhere, and I am Tired.

And there is a lot of negative energy in the world. People are uptight, I suppose because of the heat; although it’s unlikely that Seattle will have a drought, I suppose we can’t help, as humans, looking at available resources and looking at the number of hungry, thirsty humans, and thinking, suddenly, in our darkest moments, What if there isn’t enough for me?

Also I do not have air conditioning. My apartment stayed 95 degrees. All weekend. Just sayin’.

My two favorite bloggers in the world have written several posts over the weekend, and not like we’re in a race or anything, but I feel lazy because I haven’t. Because I have basically dived into this relationship headfirst and refuse to come up for air. Because although apparently I can write whole posts about alone time, in the end, at the same time after long, lazy weekends like the lovely one I just had, I think, I haven’t done anything in months except hang with the LT.

But—and here’s the kicker—that’s just not true.

Three day weekend this week—don’t hate me, I work nine hour days so I can have the occasional three-day-weekend—and I spent a solid third, almost a half, NOT with the LT at all.

I took a road trip with Titan, just spending time in the Jeep in the sunshine with the windows down and the radio on, and we cruised up the Kitsap Peninsula and crossed the Hood Canal onto the Olympic Peninsula, also known as one of the most beautiful places in the world—and I LIVE here—and then took a cute little ferry onto Whidbey Island, also known as the longest island in the world, top to bottom, and I drove down to the southern tip to a dog park with beach access and met one of my very best friends and her daughter, my niece, and if there’s anything in this world more wonderful than watching Titan be gentle with my darling niece, than I don’t know what it is.

(Not that my niece isn’t still the best birth control ever. Good LAWD I am not ready for kids!)

I called my mother on the way home. “How DO you do it?” I asked. “How do you wrangle a two-year-old and a car seat and a dog and food and towels and dirty baby parts and diapers and dog poop and dog poop bags and your own sanity and everything?”

“You just do it,” she replied, and because she is wise beyond her years, she did not say, “And fathers who don’t help can go fuck themselves.”

Anyway, after this I had just enough time to get home, except I didn’t because some very unfortunate person had run over a police car, and traffic was at a standstill getting off the ferry, and then there was a goose in the road, just standing there and honking back at the cars who honked at him, and so I called the LT, who happens to be an effin’ NAVIGATOR for the Navy, and he took me on back roads and such until I got home in only an hour and ten minutes, not bad for 20 miles in Friday rush hour traffic, and I had just enough time to throw on a little black dress and the hottest wrap-up-the-leg sandals ever before my date (Hi, K!) came and picked me up for Friday Night’s Booze Cruise.

AND THEN I was on a boat with a bunch of really, really crazy B engineers, mainly male, and if there’s one thing that engineers do well, it is drink. I have no memory past midnight. My signature on the taxi receipt—that I discovered, many days later—was a thing of beauty.

AND THEN I got up and played tennis the next morning, not even that badly, and then drank coffee with my neighbor and went with him to go get a haircut, and then the LT came over and we got Titan defurred and walked around Greenlake, and had just enough time to eat and shower before driving to Tacoma to see eight or nine old friends at a great slide guitar show, and one of my friends took a guest spot on vocals and she was effin’ incredible, and then later we (where we = me) went on and sang karaoke.

AND THEN the LT and I and Titan all slept in, not surprising after two days of heat, beach, lake, tennis, and drinking, and went to REI and attempted to climb the 65-foot pinnacle and went swimming in Greenlake with Titan and ate a homecooked vegan meal (watch me go!) and watched the worst movie I’ve seen lately, (kidding, baby) and...and...and. Sleep, blessed sleep.

SO. The POINT of all this writing was to convince myself that I have done something besides just hang with the LT all weekend, and indeed I have.

So the question becomes: what is it in women’s minds that picks out the only things we have NOT done—in this case, the annual shopping trip with my mother and aunt at the Nordstrom’s Half-Yearly Sale, which you may notice is NOT on the list above—and beats ourselves up about that?

Why do I feel like I am letting down “the side” by hanging with my own boyfriend, someone who I generally like and care about and with whom I have a relationship that I would like to continue, thankyouverymuch, and sure I haven’t done chores but let’s get real, I probably wouldn’t have done those ANYWAY, and the only thing I missed was family related, and frankly when it comes to my friends I’m seeing them fairly regularly, so WHY DO I FEEL THIS HUGE BURDEN OF GUILT?

And I think the answer is: I don’t.

Best Idea Ever

Hello. It is Thursday. I am listening to Kanye West and Common rapping live on The Chapelle Show, back in the good days when it existed. It’s hot outside, and getting hotter by the hour; by the time I arrive tonight, it will be an oven in my apartment. Both fans are on. Like that’ll help my furball any way. Sorry, baby, I can’t defur you until Saturday!

I am working on my research team’s website, mainly trying to organize the wealth of information that my lead engineer sends me, and eating pumpkin seeds—raw, from Trader Joe’s—while attempting to not spill them all over the floor, which has happened, or drop them down my cleavage, which has just happened.

Whoops.

Although it’s sunny and I have a lot to do and I’m listening to hard, cheeky rock (Buckcherry) that is mainly about naked ladies and getting lit up, I can’t help thinking about a gray morning just two mornings ago, in which I made the cardinal sin of saying that I did, yes, have time for coffee with the LT when I didn’t actually have time at all, and we made it all the way out of the coffee shop before I started to bawl on the sidewalk.

Partly because the LT introduced me to Buckcherry, I guess, and songs by Buckcherry—especially about sex—make me think of him, because, well, grrr, baby! Very grrrr!

Is it hot in here, or is it just me? Excuse me. Desperate fanning is needed.

Whew. As I was SAYING, he was comforting me on the sidewalk, he in his full uniform, including hat and shined shoes, and me dressed up for work in a black pleated skirt, white tank top, pink sweater with ¾ length sleeves and pink pearl buttons, and pink slingback heels. We must have looked like something out of a 1940s postcard. In the middle of my tears, I laughed, and he agreed, thinking of Capitol Hill’s reputation.

“You know, we’d fit in more if we traded outfits,” he said, and we laughed some more and split ways and I got over my tears.

Getting to the B, I mentioned this story to The Intern, and then it came to me in a bolt of lightning, the Best Idea of All Time:

LAZY B CROSSDRESSING DAY.

EAT YOUR HEART OUT, FRANCE!

Blogging the Relationship (4)

Just last night, the LT was over, and we were on our way to a birthday dinner, and I had just gotten a box from Vicky’s in the mail, containing two pairs of cute shoes. (No need to get excited, men—just shoes this time.) I did what any female in that situation would do: I put on the left shoe from one pair and the right shoe from the other pair, and modeled both at once. If the LT had been my father, he would have said, “Well, not that pair, honey,” and thought it a good joke, but fortunately he is not. (To Freud: Phooey on you.)

Instead he said, “I like the right one better.”

I gaped at him, open-mouthed. Why would he say that? Did he think I would actually RETURN one of the pairs? Did he think I hadn't bought both pairs, intending to keep them, and certainly had no plans to abandon the less-wanted pair in its time of need? Did he think I was that heartless?

And then I remembered. Men live in a world in which one pair of new shoes is enough.

Formatting note

About something no one will even NOTICE except me! Yes. I = OCD.

Although the B has so far been extremely liberal regarding my computer usage, the time has come to buckle down, which means I can't just hang out on blogger, composing and editing posts at my leisure, the way I used to.

So I will now compose them in Word and cut-and-paste them to Blogger.

So the apostrophes and the commas will look different. Which will bug me, and I'll want to go through and change them all, but I won't have time, which is a good thing for both my career AND my little problem.

Yes. It will bug me. I = OCD.

Missed Connection with the Homeless Lady Who Took My Stuff

I can be slightly territorial, I suppose. And perhaps it's not a good idea to cross me before my first cup of coffee.

I'm just saying, is all.

Snippet From The Other Blog

Eating out VEGAN for the first time last night was actually not impossible. (Love you, Seattle!) The LT and I went to the Six Arms, a local pub, and got beers and small-ish meals. Our order conversation could have been taken directly from "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus":

Me: "I'll have the black bean burrito, no sour cream, no cheese."
LT: "I'll have a cheeseburger and fries."
Waitress: "...Oooooookay."

Blogging the Relationship (3)

The LT (in which LT = Lieutenant in the US Navy, in case you were curious) is tough.

Very tough. The boy served on a SUBMARINE in IRAQ, for Chrissakes. With a Commanding Officer who used to throw things at him. He's tougher than beef jerky that's been left outside in Phoenix for a year and then run over by a fleet of semis. He's that tough.

For example, the evening of the day of his LASIK surgery, his contact fell out for the first time. (Yes, you read that right, it fell out for THE FIRST TIME OF MANY TIMES that weekend.) It is maybe five hours after his surgery. His corneas were just scrubbed off with a rotating brush. He no longer HAS corneas, which is why he has contact lenses--they're there to replace the corneas until they grow back. Now one contact lens has fallen out. When this happens, you're supposed to go right into the hospital, because having your entire eyeball exposed to air is incredibly drying and painful, plus your cornea won't heal as fast because your entire eyeball is focused (ha!) on trying not to convulse and can't put all its energy towards healing, instead.

The problem is, it was 9 at night, and we had been drinking. Heavily. (With him on percocet, whoops!) Neither of could possibly drive anywhere. We had to get the contact back in. We had been drinking, maybe I mentioned that, and we had been cooking. WITH CHILI POWDER. And now I have to put MY FINGERS IN HIS EYE. "I'm all right, sweetie," he kept saying, as I stuck my drunk, clumsy, chili-covered fingers in his eye with the contact, needing four tries to get it in, but he was in so much pain that his face was actually twitching with effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "I'm fine, sweetie. I'm fine." I began to cry. It didn't help.

Right, the crying part? That was ME. The one NOT WITH CHILI IN THEIR NON-CORNEA'ED EYE. Me? Not so tough. In fact, I'm a little bit of a wuss. About many things. Which include, but are not limited to: getting up early, going to bed, washing my face, vacuuming, doing laundry, brushing my dog, brushing my TEETH, flossing, etc, you get the picture. Maybe "wuss" isn't quite so accurate a term as possibly "lazy slack-ass". Given the option to either a) do a task I find distasteful that will take two minutes, or b) complain for half an hour, I'll choose option (b) every time.

Maybe I should have gone into the military. (My parents are convulsing in laughter right now. Thanks, guys.) (I am maybe not so respectful of authority.)

Perhaps this is why, several years after college, I still have a big problem with, say, getting up in the morning, and the LT just gets up, no snooze button needed. All calm, taking a shower at 4:30 in the morning after we've been asleep for maybe five hours, while I am not just asleep, but FIGHTING TO STAY THAT WAY, GODDAMMIT, AND IT HAD BETTER BE GODDAMNED FUCKING IMPORTANT if you want me to wake up. (I curse more in the first hour of my day than in all the rest of the hours of the day put together.)

This morning I finally struggled out of bed at 5:15 and made coffee for him as he was putting on The Uniform, and I looked over at my shaved, calm, fully-dressed boyfriend--complete with hat and shined shoes. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw: humongous bedhead, skin like a jar of spaghetti sauce had exploded on it--I HATE WASHING MY FACE--and that bed stank you get when you've slept on unclean sheets and drooled on yourself and it's dried funny.

You know what I'm talking about.

I was almost afraid to hug him goodbye--what if I polluted his uniform?

Word of the Day:

Blargh. Used extensively by the LT and myself today. Made up by me. Perfectly descriptive of many things.

In a sentence: "It's so gray outside. I forgot my phone charger. Blargh."

Happy Anniversary, sweetie!

Also, a note

I may have misled my blogging audience in a previous post.

When I use the word "bloom", I mean, "my features somehow stopped looking like a cackling witch in training--and I don't mean the kind of hot voodoo witch in Pirates of The Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (go see it!)--I mean the kind of baby witch that was ditch-delivered by a drab and abandoned at birth, and grew up hunchbacked."

Really, that is what I looked like. Until about...16, maybe. Maybe a little earlier.

It wasn't that I became the beauty I am today directly at sixteen (HA!), it was that my features no longer scared children on the street. I looked normal. Until about junior year in college, when a very special lady (Hi there, Redhead!) taught me to apply makeup, and my world has never been the same.

THE POINT is that I was using the word "bloom" to describe "grew into my nose", not "fill out".

Because if we want to have an "I filled out earliest!" contest, I'll take people down! Because you know how when little girls grow up, they want to either ride horse or be a ballerina?

If you develop breasts at fourth grade, there is NO WAY you can be a ballerina. I rode horses instead. Which gave me excellent practice for my current stallion. (Ba-dum!)

Come on, you KNEW that joke was coming!

Oh God, the Office

The best thing about summer at the office: the INTERNS! (Hi, Intern!)

The worst thing about summer at the office: Being. At the Office. And apparently everyone else thinks so, too, because BOY ARE WE ALL GRUMPY.

The Intern and I have started an occasional series of sightings: "When Old Men Attack!"

RAWR!

And also this: The Intern and I were chatting this morning about Nickelback and Buckcherry--more on this later--and a stranger stopped by our shared four-top cubicle. I was in the middle of a sentence and he talked right over me. "ANYONE KNOW WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS PRINTER?

The Intern and I at first were shocked into silence, as out-and-out rudeness can do that to a person. Finally I said, "I believe the secretary is on the phone."

He stared at me silently.

The Intern and I exchanged glances, and finally I said, "But let me see what I can do."

I walked to the printer to see him punching the same "Print" button over and over again, obviously believing that if he hit it hard enough, he could bully the machine into working. "See?" he kept saying. "See?" Stab. "See?" Stab. "See? Nothing." Stab, stab, stab. I suddenly feared for his wife at home--does sex equal this guy poking at her clit with one finger, and occasionally saying, "Are you done?"

"Let me try, sir," I said, my restaurant skills coming back to me.

I opened the lid and almost laughed out loud. Now, admittedly, our printer is screwed up, but that's not its fault. The Cro-Magnon had put the sheet he wanted to copy on the WRONG SIDE OF THE PRINTER VIEWER. Yes. He had disregarded the big green arrow that says, in printer language, "Place paper here."

I slid his paper over. "You have to put it by the arrow," I said kindly. I closed the lid and pushed the Print button. It printed. Cro-Magnon stood, open mouthed. "Happy to help, sir," I said, and went back to my cubicle.

I give Intern and I a lot of credit for restraining our laughter to occasional snorts while Cro-Magnon finished his print job. (Incredibly difficult.) We didn't actually bust up laughing until AFTER he walked away.

Alone Time

More than you ever wanted to know about me: I get my best ideas generally while grooming, cooking, or walking with Titan. And all this time I thought: Well, obviously it's because I have something to do with my hands, and that frees my brain up to think. Makes sense, right? Yeah, right! It's bullshit! My brain doesn't need to be freed to think!

(Um, I'm not really sure what I just wrote, but you get the idea, right? I'll spell it out for you: IT'S NOT ABOUT THE HANDS.)

No-Segue-at-All-Newsflash: I'm an only child.

The only child of Older Parents. (I mean, not OLD, but ol-DER than maybe...uh...whoops. There goes my inheritance. Hi, Mom and Dad!)

I did not have a lot of what is now called "socialization" when I was growing up. My parents tried their best, bless them. I had music lessons, which I excelled at, and sports, at which I excelled rather less. (Not only was I bad, but I didn't know how bad I was. I thought outfield was where they put all their best players! What?)

It was just my luck that music is a solitary activity, where Sports is definitely...not. If you suck at music, no one knows except your parents, your teacher, and the few other parents unfortunate enough to be at the recital. But if you suck at sports, on the other hand, no one knows except the twenty-three other girls on your team, their siblings, their parents, grandparents, your parents, the checker at the corner store, etc.

And I, as I already stated, sucked at sports. I wasn't in bad shape, but I wasn't built for fast running even then, and my hand-eye coordination was even worse. So in my only group activities, I wasn't exactly an asset to "the group"--even when I wasn't hitting my coaches' hands with the bat (true story!)--and therefore I didn't have a lot of what are now called "friends". (Let me just say that I taught myself to read at three.) And I took with me into adulthood the insecurity that no one really liked me and was just smiling at me because their parents made them--and I'm probably not alone in this, but it seems to be compounded in my case by a lot of alone time as a child. A LOT of a alone time. (See Music Lessons, above, and Not Good at Sports, also above, also, see, Speed Reader at Age Three.)

Yes. I was a late bloomer. (May the LT never find pictures of me before, oh, 17.)

(This is all relevant, I promise.)

The POINT is that I eventually, well, Bloomed. In a Big Way. So in spite of--or maybe because of--the fact that my personality is little more than an open, raw, gaping need for attention, I have been able to surround myself with people, clearly hoping in some small way to erase the "scars" from childhood. Community theater, high school theater, youth symphony, sorority in college, various committees, bring it on! I'm not the natural volunteer that my mother is, and I don't like authority, but dammit if I'm not a joiner of clubs in spite of all that! There was even a period in my life where I would take roommates off the internet--anyone, really--(hi, all of you! I swear you were special!) instead of living alone, because I COULD NOT STAND TO BE ALONE FOR EVEN ONE SECOND, OH MY GOD I MIGHT WITHER AWAY AND DIE, I NEED AN AUDIENCE 24-7.

Since this time period, though, I've grown up a little. (Okay, it was just a few months ago, but you know how these things go--once you make a decision to grow, it happens overnight.) After all, I live alone now. Lots of time with just me and my thoughts. And it's worked. It's worked well. (My neighbors think I'm a little weird, as I talk to myself while grooming, cooking, and walking around the neighborhood, but whatever.)

And maybe it's because of this that I've finally discovered the value of alone time.

For example: if, thanks to being on vacation with the LT and his buddies and a general honeymoon atmosphere in which we are always together, often without clothes...if, thanks to all that, I don't get any alone time, life feels different. It feels weird. It's a little hard to think. And harder still to talk properly, and even harder to type--I had to double and triple check this post for homynyms.

I mentioned this to him just a few days ago, as I noticed that I hadn't spent any recent time mentally composing blog posts--i.e., I'd actually had things to do in REAL LIFE--and he said with concern, "Should I leave you alone?"

Which was a pertinent question at the time, as we were actually both in his bathroom, him leaning on the counter, watching me mug for him in the mirror as I went through my out-of-shower routine.

"Not at all," is what I believe I said, and I meant it 110%. I'm infatuated, after all, and if giving away brain cells is what it takes to hang out with him, then here I am, world, stick a needle in my brain and start sucking!

Is it true that women bloggers are less funny after we get in relationships, and if so, is this why? And if I'm okay with this, am I letting down "the Side"? Discuss.

Notes on Blogging the Relationship

Writing a novel is easy: you get to make stuff up. I write made-up dialogue well. No one yells at me if how I quote them sounds entirely different from what they actually said.

Writing down things that were actually SAID is DAMN HARD. The LT is funny and well-spoken. If he sounds otherwise on this blog, that's transcriptionist error.

Also I'm writing a really long post on being alone and I've spent five days on vacation. Expect a lot of "catch-up" type posts. WOO!

Blogging the Relationship (2)

The LT read my last post as we were relaxing at his house on our respective sofas, with our respective laptops.

"This is unfair," he reported. "Your audience is going to think I'm some kind of typical jock frat-boy, and I'm not. You forget to report that we cooked a four course meal, enjoyed fine wines, and hung out at a gay/straight club for several hours."

Well. And that's technically true.

But it wouldn't be FUNNY.

One of the Guys

Every girl has said, at one point in her life, "Oh, I'm just one of the guys."

Especially if you, say, have an engineering degree. Especially if you maybe have two of them. ESPECIALLY if your graduating class was eight women...and FIFTY-FIVE MEN. You might really especially say this if you, say, like cars, and own a big dog, and spent your entire career in math and science classes.

Especially if you, say, work at a place that has stats of TWENTY-FIVE TO ONE, men to women, and so all the people you work with, hang out with, all your friends from work, EVERYONE you know, is a man.

Especially if maybe your boyfriend is in the military, and all his friends are...you guessed it...men.

ESPECIALLY if you, say, don't shower regularly, don't generally cook, and don't even own measuring cups or a cookie sheet.

You might be allowed to say that you were "one of the guys".

But when you're hanging out with three guys, and you realize that in just two hours, you've seen at least 8 "adjustments", with absolutely no shame...

...you know you're really one of the guys.

Blogging the Relationship

So, if you're dating a new boy, and you spend all your time with him (physically or mentally, when you obsess, and by "you" I mean "me"), and you know he reads the blog occasionally (hi, baby!) so you don't want to write about him, but you really have nothing else to write about because you haven't done anything except hang with him in WEEKS, what should you do?

1. Write it out in the longest run-on sentence ever. (above.)
2. Stop blogging. (yeah right.)
3. Force out posts that don't involve your boyfriend. (See all recent posts.)
4. Write about your boyfriend. In your blog. (HELLO!)

So, doors number 2, 3, and 4.

And if you've read this blog before, you know what I chose to do, because we all know I don't learn from history.

"Can I blog about you?" I asked, choosing my time carefully. (Read: I was naked.)

"Sure," he said, after a pause. "You don't have to ask me, you know."

"I know."

"You definitely can, but I want to make a rule."

"I'm listening."

"If you have a problem with me, I want you to talk about it with me first."

"I can do that," I said.

"Good."

Hi, LT!

Definition

Guilt: the difference between who you think you should be and who you suspect you are. Also see: a waste of time.

Very quick post

Um...

I was in Bremerton and Tacoma almost all weekend, so if you want to know what I did, you can just read T-Town's Blog instead.

I'm not as broke as I was.

Going vegan, slowly but surely. Have been reading a lot of blogs.

My friend Geeb and I created a new drinking game with Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Easily the worst idea of all time. I blacked out halfway through--and I NEVER do that!

Get to leave work!

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY TO EVERYONE!

Snapshots

Do not drink anything if you've had two hours of sleep the night before. At the BBQ last night I think I WAS the entertainment.

Me: "Hey, do you have..."
Friend: "Do I have what?"
Me: "What?"
Friend: "You just asked me if I had something!"
Me: "No I didn't."
Friend: "ARGH."

And this choice tidbit:

Me: "Hi, I'm Aarwenn. So do you work at B?"
Nice Girl: "No, I know Friend through [this extracurricular activity]."
Me: "Oh, that's cool. So what do you do at B?"
Nice Girl: "...what?"
Friend: "Don't mind her, she's a retard with no sleep."
Me: "Hey! I am not a...what did you call me?"

And also, at the movies two days ago:

LT: "Two for Tokoyo Drift, please." *Pulls out his military ID for the normal AMC Discount.*
Ticket Guy: "Oh, we don't have a military ID at this particular theater, sir."
LT: "...Oh, okay. Weird."
Ticket Guy: "Yes, it is weird. Are you a student?"
LT: "Nope."
Ticket Guy: "I'm going to ask you one more time: are you a studnet?"
LT: "...Why yes, I am!"
Ticket Guy: "Great! Here's your discount!"

And finally, a choice tidbit from T-Town as I leave Large Aerospace Company early to go to OzzFest:

"Just so you know, you are not alowed to be a hippie of a vegetarian, an urban professional, and a metal chick. It's confusing."

Laundry List--and I Hate Laundry!

So, I haven't posted in awhile because I have nothing to talk about except give a laundry list of my activities, and really? Snoozeville. I mean, come on. But I have nothing else to offer, so here goes:

T-Town's apartment is ADORABLE! I'm jealous as hell. A little far away from the nearest Starbucks for me, however. Note: she is more moved in to her place in one week than I am, and I've been in my place for going on three months. WAY more moved in.

I am not a homemaker.

But I can IMPROVE! Really, I can. I have a duvet cover--I'm sure I've mentioned it. It's even on the bed. The dust ruffle was IRONED. (Full disclosure: my mother ironed it, because I wouldn't have.) And I did laundry. Two loads. (Full disclosure: I wasted my third dryer load because I forgot to empty the lint trap from my first one.) (My sorority sisters always knew when I had used the dryer because the lint coating the trap was a) thick, and b) black and blue. I may need to start wearing color again. Whatever.)

Being vegetarian is going well...and I bought only vegan items on my recent shopping trip, which was yesterday. The Dark Side is near.

I was so worried that Titan wasn't eating enough--and I upped his food intake so much--that now he's putting on excess weight! Whoops. Not good for his hips. (Excess = you can still feel his ribs. But he's bigger than he was.)

Getting through a barbeque--last night at a co-worker's house in East Capitol Hill--as a vegetarian is super easy. Getting through one as a vegan when I can't eat my favorite Gardenburgers because they have cheese in them: NOT SO EASY.

La la la. OZZFEST TONIGHT!