In Which I Put My Skills to Good Use

Scene

It's 11:30 pm. I am reading, the LT is sleeping next to me, getting his beauty sleep so he can impress the interviewers tomorrow. (The LT's civilian job search has begun! What will I call him when he isn't an LT anymore?)

I myself am getting sleepy, and Titan has to go out one more time, so I get up, grab a sweatshirt, leash Titan, grab my keys, forgo shoes, and slap my hair up in pigtails to get it out of the way. We step outside. Titan does his thing. I look at my keys, shaking them to get the door key to hang down right.

The door key does not hang down.

I look at my keys more closely, and as I do, whispers of conversation come back to me:

"I'll be done with my interviews around 3 pm tomorrow," the LT said.

And I said, "Why don't you just take my keys, since I'll be home later?"

And the LT took my door keys off my key ring and added them to his own, and my mind I thought, 'I'll have to grab those when I take Titan out later', but that's as far as the thought got.

And so here I am, outside, no shoes, locked out of my apartment, with a dog, at 11:45 pm.

SHIT.

Titan and I run around the outside of my building, and a few other buildings. I yell the LT's name several times, as loud as I dare, waking up several dogs and by proxy, their owners, but no one's head pops out of their window. I throw rocks at my own window. No movement. I knock on my own front door and my neighbors' windows. Nothing. It's 11:55 and I'm stuck. And then I look up, and see that the window in the main hallway--a floor up--is open. And my porch is surrounded on two sides by a wooden trellis, attached to some columns. I shake the column. It appears pretty steady.

Which is how I ended up climbing up my porch at 11:45 pm in barefeet and pigtails. I bellied up to the roof of the porch and then raised the window sash in the hallway. Getting into the window is actually the hardest part of the whole process, as it's shoulder level to me, but I get my head through first and heave my butt through, and pretty soon, I'm standing in my own hallway.

Glory day. I go into my apartment, get my keys, run downstairs, retrieve Titan, run back upstairs to my apartment, set down the keys, and crash into bed.

The End.

Blargh, Or, Camping, Part One

It's Tuesday afternoon, I didn't bike to work, I'm stuck here for awhile, and I just got a text message from my friend "Bobby" saying, "Traffic is hell."

Great.

So, let's talk about the time my Jeep almost met its demise!

But first, the set up. Camping with the LT, our friend Dave, his friends, and three dogs a few weekends ago was completely awesome. We rolled into camp Saturday afternoon, set up our stuff, and let Titan roam in the water.
(Not shown is when I threw a tennis ball into the fast-flowing glacial river for him to get and he jumped in after it, and then I realized that he might swim after that tennis ball for longer than I could see him, freeze, seize up, and die. LT ran down two campsites, hoping to catch him, and I ran one campsite over, screaming Titan's name at the top of my lungs--until he came bounding out of the river bushes, apparently having forgotten all about the tennis ball. My dog has more sense than I do.)

After this excitement, I got a much-needed beer and of course, I immediately started to climb things:

I'm grinning here because of the peanut gallery offering helpful suggestions and betting on my success.

In Progress.

Which way is the river?

Success!

Later that night, we played some pong, outdoors in the cold, lit up only by a motion detector light, which fortunately read our flying pong balls as "motion".




The next morning:


Now. As it was a nice, sunny morning, we had no special plans for the day, and I had a Jeep, it occurred to the three of us that off-roading would be, yes, the perfect plan for the day.

LT pulled all non-essentials off Helter, including the doors, and we set up a rest spot for Titan--notice the dog bed in the shade under the top.
This is immediately what he did--he had played a lot the day before!

So the three of us, with snacks, sweatshirts, water, and most of us in long-pants, headed off to explore the logging trails of the Wedge Mountains.

Helter in a field of wildflowers.

Everything still going fine, in spite of my sudden decision to climb a ways down this mountain and then back up. (Not shown.)

Here's the problem.

Let me point out that I was actually not driving at the time. It was the LT who--with additional thanks to Dave and I, whom agreed that we could make it--was unlucky enough to try to dodge a big downed tree, only to discover that the hillside was not quite as solid as we thought it was. See that, how the ground slopes away under the car? That's not so good. I'm leaning waaaaaaay out up the mountain, trying to fight the feeling that I and the Jeep were about to roll off the cliff at any moment.

We tried and tried. I'm driving in this picture because the boys got out to help push or shore up the mountain. We tried everything, and we ARE engineers. Eventually we decided that every time I started up the Jeep and tried to drive her, more of the mountain slipped away underneath. We were stuck.

I was trying not to cry; we had taken a risk and it turned out that the consequence was going to be pretty big. I had visions of a strong wind coming along and rolling my Jeep down into the valley. As we walked away from her, every boom made me jump. Fortunately we at least had snacks and water, but it was now 4 pm and the temperature had dropped considerably, as it tends to do in the mountains. 911 came and found us, a sheriff with a great big handlebar mustache and and a distinct lack of attitude; he bumped up mountain roads for forty-five minutes, in his pickup, loaded us into the back, gave me a fleece, and started driving. I wasn't too sure how I would see Helter again.

In the Sheriff's Pickup.

Part 2, on its way!

Hi, Everyone! Still here!

And I have some excellent posts coming up, including the time my Jeep slid down a mountain with me in it, and how I feel about country music.

Also I have been very frugal--or at least kind of frugal--and I will post about that, maybe in the other blog.

Hope everyone's weekend has been great!

What Country Music Means To Me (Or, Blogging the Relationship #17)

I am sitting downstairs in the LT's house, reading some email and enjoying my Saturday; he is upstairs at his desktop computer, filling out some paperwork for the upcoming hiring conference (!) and blasting the new CD from Sugarland.

Sugarland, for those who don't know, is a relatively new country group built out of a lot of old-time country stars; I think every member is at least 30. But that's not the point, although it's an interesting side note. I know this fact because the LT, being from Texas, really likes country music, although that's not ALL he likes, Thank BLOG. I have been in places where they played nothing but country--see my recent trip to Texas--and in places where the old joke, "We play both kinds here--country AND western!" would apply--seriously. And I can tell you that if all he liked was country music, I'd spasm up, shrivel up, and possibly die.

I'm trying to think of a good way to say "But that's not because I don't LIKE country music" without actually saying it, because saying that--after saying I'd die if all I could listen to was country--seems contrary. It's not that country music is bad music--as a matter of fact, I'd venture to say that they have some of the best voices in the music business. It's more that country music is such a...a...whole self-contained universe that doesn't mix well with other genres. There's mashups of rock and pop, rock and rap, pop and rap, hip-hop and anything, classical and world music, heavy metal and classical, even. Country--with the County Music Awards, Country Music Television, and special Country Shows--doesn't mix well with anything else, and more importantly, it seems like it doesn't WANT to mix with anything else, if indeed a genre can even be considered to have wants. Country music is stand-alone. Where all other music genres are advertising, indeed flaunting, their crossover appeal, country music is not doing any such thing. It is proud to sound the same, look the same, and act the same as it did forty years before. Very little has changed.

*Note: There is certainly pop-country crossover, Shania Twain, the Dixie Chicks, and most recently Carrie Underwood being examples. But they all sounded country, even on their pop songs--it's more that pop stations played a few easy-listening country hits than country stations suddenly started playing pop songs.

*Note: I'll probably never forgive the country music world for what they did to the Dixie Chicks.

And because of that--the fact that even when a country artist can be considered "pop", she's still first and foremost country, I feel that country music can be a cold and ungenerous place, and what's more, it seems to speak to a whole area of the country that is cut off, geographically and mentally, from the rest of the world. The very name, "country"--whose country? Down-home country? Backwoods country? To me, that would imply easy-going and nice people, but the kind of people who turned on the Dixie Chicks because they publicly said they didn't like our president are NOT easy-going and nice!

Also, I have to admit that I have a personal bias. I loved the Dixie Chicks and I'm not a big fan of country music in general, so when country music obliterated the Dixie Chicks, it just looked to me like country music was a whiny, rigid, and closed-minded genre that wouldn't tolerate any differences of opinion.

And then there's country music and the LT. He grew up with it, not only in his family but overhead at the mall, at gas stations, at Sonic, and on friends' radios. To me, hearing him sing along with it is just a reminder that there's a whole part of his life that happened before I met him, before he moved to Seattle and learned how to ski and met a girl with a Jeep.

But really, that's okay. I spent most of my formative years immersed in classical music and church music, often the same thing, and me playing King FM, our local classical station, and reminiscing, hasn't seemed to bother him any. After all, the LT knows a lot more than country, and so do his old friends that I have met--they listened to hard rock, and rap, and pop, and fell in love with alternative the same time I did, even though I lived roughly 2000 miles closer to the scene itself. Just because the LT has country CDs doesn't mean he doesn't have a lot of other CDs, too, and it's the same way with me--I have some Maria Callas, some Vivaldi, and some Dvorak, but of course I also have Luscious Jackson, Nirvana, Lily Allen, and all the popular and less popular bands I've liked throughout the years. As with all couples that meet (or re-meet, in our case) after 25, there's automatically huge parts of our lives that don't involve each other. And that is as it should be, and what's more, it makes us more interesting and (dare I say) better people.

The Best Thing on the Internet Today

From an amazing comic that everyone (especially math people) should read on a daily basis. Even if it's not updated daily. Bend the rules of space and time somehow, I know you can do it.

With huge amounts of credit to the xkcd webcomic.

Saturday Things I Love

Things I Love Today

ING Direct. I recently opened a checking account AND a saving account, which I did because I: a. Was really, really influenced by the commercials. b. Got a good recommendation from my good friend T-Town, whom I swear is still alive--she's just getting married.

(Full disclosure: Although I did actually ask T-Town BEFORE I signed up, I went ahead and signed up for my accounts before she actually got back to me. Who, me impatient?)

So far, the interest rate rocks, and when I had to call ING to get a question answered, I got an answer RIGHT AWAY. I mean, I got the automatic answering, and then I heard, "Please hold, someone will be with you shortly", and then RIGHT AWAY I heard, "Hello, my name is So-and-So. How can I help you save your money?"

Now that's impressive.

Anyway, she turned out to be super cool, and when I asked her how she liked working at ING, she said, "I. Love. It. I love it. They're the best company I've ever worked for."

Now, THAT'S impressive!

Dinner at the Wayward with a Vegan. I know a guy who knows a guy...okay, so I met a guy that I met over the internet at a vegan place. He's a fellow member of a vegan board, and I was dying to get some Wayward and also desperately needing a little bike fine-tuning, and so I rode over and met him and felt very, very buff. T-Town (see, told you she was still alive) called me and I pulled over and answered, and she said, "So, what's up?" and I said, "I'm on my bike on the way back from dinner."

It was awesome.

I Am Not Losing Weight, And I Don't Care

Or, In Which I Promise To Myself to Stop Talking About Losing Weight, The End, I Mean It This Time.

See, about two years ago, I started trying to lose weight, and you know? I kind of liked it, and I kind of succeeded at it. More than succeeded; I excelled. I lost twenty pounds in about...what...six months? About. I had fit into a size twelve, at my heaviest, and all of a sudden, I owned two things with size six labels. I fit into a pair of pants I hadn't worn since high school. And a bunch of things with size eights. I had some sexy-butt pants, and I fit into them, and you know? It was nice. Although I knew I was a long way from looking like a long-limbed Guess model, I looked at some pictures from then and I thought, you know? That's pretty skinny. I like that.

And so this time two years later, I started trying to lose weight, and I didn't really get anywhere, and I thought--what the hell? I looked at myself in the mirror, I looked at the scale. The scale said I was five, sometimes ten, pounds heavier than I had been. The mirror said I looked okay, and I was still fitting into my sexy butt pants--and even the high school pants, some days. So I weigh a little more, and I could stand to be a little skinnier, but you know? I still think I look pretty good. I'm petite, small boned--the LT can span my entire lower back with one hand--and all that mac and cheeze shows a little, just because I'm small, so that's no good, but I'm still pretty active, and therefore I can convince myself that the extra pounds are muscle, not fat, and that works for me.

Because last time I lost weight, I realized I was hitting the gym regularly--very regularly--which I loved, and counting calories obsessively, which I didn't love. And this time I canceled my brand-new gym membership, because I wasn't using it, and I'm not counting calories because I can't stand it. I feel dumber every time. And I hate feeling dumber.

And you know? Instead of gong to the gym, not that that's not valuable, or counting calories, which is barely valuable even at the best of times, I've been doing some pretty cool stuff.

Skiing and drinking on Cinco de Mayo

Helter and I climbing a rock, in the Wedge Mountains outside Leavenworth.

Me concentrating. (Off road-ing is hard!)

A very messy braid, and looking over the Wedges, at the snow level in late May.

Dave Fry and I taking a break on the frame.

Self-timed photo of the LT and I (in his full LT stripes!) in our hotel room, pre-Submarine Ball.

Official Picture.

After the ball, with my hair coming down.

See? And would I have time to do all that if I was obsessively counting calories and hitting the gym instead of, say, climbing great big rocks outside?

No.

Even Titan's ear thinks counting calories is ridiculous.

Back From Camping!

Titan and I are back in my apartment; he's snoring away on the futon and I made a pan of mac and cheeze, and successfully limited myself to one and a half servings. (Wedding season starts in one month!) My dishes are washed and my bed is cleared off, although quite a bit of stuff from camping is still sitting out, and it is 1:20 in the morning and I am going to bed.

A Flight of Fancy.

You know it is summer when you are not the first one to notice, when even your dog notices, and everyone in the city notices, so that on a sunny afternoon during the happy hour the conversation on everyone's lips is all the same, about how beautiful the weather is, and how summer is really coming to Seattle, and if you leaned to your left and jumped in on the conversation of the strangers next to you, you would know exactly what to say: "THIS is why we live here."

Titan and I are taking longer and more leisurely walks these days, partly because it's so gorgeous and partly because we don't want to work up a sweat. We stroll up and down Broadway, taking in the scene. Today especially was one of those days when I couldn't stop smiling, because it was so gorgeous, and everyone on the Hill seemed to agree with me. There were tons of dogs out, of course, and Cal Andersen Park was PACKED. There wasn't a spare bench or patch of grass to be seen in practically the whole park. Titan and I passed by an older gay couple with their dogs, Yorkies with matching bows (in different colors) and while I generally have a low opinion of the intelligence of small dogs, I have to say that these Yorkies were wonderfully well-behaved and had a distinct lack of neuroses. The men and their dogs were walking slower than Titan and I were, and the men pulled over, for lack of a better word, and their Yorkies stood patiently while my long-legged German Shepherd trotted by. I was impressed, and so was Titan.

We circled the fountain and I saw these words scrawled in chalk on the wall: HAPPY DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN, making me laugh. The day was so pretty that I even SMILED at some COPS, although generally my relationship with law enforcement can be described as antagonistic, and the cops scratched Titan's ears as he sniffed at their bicycle wheels. Rounding the final corner by Volunteer Park, on the way home, I looked up at a window decal reading, "He's not MY president" and was startled to see a big gray cat watching me intently. A pink tea rose bush shone on my right side as I was passed energetically by a young woman, carrying a pink cello case on her back, and I was strongly reminded of the poor knights who have to paint the white roses red in Alice and Wonderland, and therefore knocked sideways when the young woman looked at her watch and said, into her phone, "I'm so late!" I wanted to say, "Oh, my paws and whiskers!"--but assumed she would think I was just talking to my dog, who does, yes, have paws. And whiskers.

I Biked to Work Today!

It was necessary.

Not long ago, I was tutoring three girls, for a total of eight hours a week, not including the driving time of three and a half hours. I was gone from my house about fifty hours a week, maybe more. And that was fine--I was making a little extra money, I loved all of my girls, and I had excuses to eat out because I was always driving somewhere!

The problem is, between the eating out, the driving around, and the occasional stops at Target while driving around (!) I don't think I ever broke even. Whoops.

While I didn't want to cut back on my tutoring--after all, I liked having more pretty things, and boy do I like going to Target--that decision was just made for me last week, as two of my girls apparently got LIVES, and decided they could no longer squeeze me in! BOO! (You two--if you're reading this, I miss you!)

And that is the problem with tutoring, especially tutoring for something specific, like the SATs. If you're good (and I am) you end up tutoring yourself out of a job!

Oh well. All good things must come to an end, and all that. The point is, with all this free time, can you guess what I've been doing?

a. Rebuilding my sofa so that it doesn't break anytime anyone heavier than I am sits down on it.
b. Sewing my ceiling valance.
c. Preparing my house for my houseguests at the end of JUNE.
d. Sitting on my butt and eating Mac and Cheeze by the panful.

(If you guessed a, b, or c, I AM a tutor. I can help you with this block about standardized tests. Call me.)

Therefore, biking to work was ABSOLUTELY necessary today. However, it does occur to me that perhaps I should have gotten on the bike for a few test runs, as the last time I remember riding a bike was in middle school, and I'm embarrassed to say how long ago that was. Perhaps jumping on the bike and riding for ten miles, the very first day I had ridden a bike in over ten years, was a rash decision.

And I do mean rash. Thoughts on bike-riding:

1. I either need to get a more comfortable seat or padded pants. Or both. Ouch.
2. Biking in full daylight seems pretty safe--everyone saw me.
3. I was worried about sweat. I do have a little sweat, but no one has keeled over yet, and most importantly, I have no sweat on my face--probably because of the wind.
4. DRINK MORE WATER.
5. Eat more fruit! For some reason, I'm craving fruit--I brought an orange with me, but sadly, it's mostly bad--I ate a few sections and threw the rest away. I'm dying for a banana. Why? WHO KNOWS.
6. Airport Way seems really flat in a car. It's not so flat on a bike.
7. If I had known it would be that hard, I never would have done it...
8...But I have a huge sense of accomplishment and might do it again tomorrow!
9. Pretty sure I'm taking the bus home--the few hills I had to climb killed me. And it's ALLLLL uphill on the way back.
10. I thought my bag would be pretty light, considering I took almost everything out except my computer and my food. It wasn't anywhere near light enough.

But hey, I burned calories and saved money, and I defy anyone to come up with a better way to do both things at once!

Because I have 486 weddings and a bachelorette party on a cruise coming up. And I WILL look good. If it kills me.

High Roller

I haven't talked a lot about it in this blog, but I've been trying to budget.

Okay, a little. I mean, I'm less cavalier about buying stuff now.

I swear! Really!

(Justpleasedon'tlookatmygrocerystorebill.)

Anyway, I did the unthinkable today: I both bought my lunch, unusual in and of itself, and I BOUGHT A BOOK. At full price. (Okay, not--I had a coupon, and it was on sale at Barnes.)

But to buy a book--NEW--off the shelf, well, I felt pretty indulgent.

And no, I can't believe I'm getting excited about this, either.

Apparently I Suck At This Whole Blogging Thing

Highlights for today:

I opened a Roth IRA! Thanks to the encouragement and butt-kicking in Suze Orman's latest book, Women and Money. This book was so good that I bought it at full price, AFTER I checked it out of the library. It's really, really good.

I have to go to the dentist. Hope he doesn't mind the fact that I just ate a whole tub of Tahini Sauce on a fork.

In Which I Celebrate Mother's Day and Learn How to Clean

To say that I am not organized would be sort of an understatement.

I am so disorganized, both in my tangible properties and in my brain, that when I decide I want to leave the apartment, I end up running back and forth from the front door to various places, picking up things I've forgotten, no less than four times, and occasionally as many as ten times, every time I leave the apartment, including quick trips where I just walk Titan to the end of the block and back. It seems to be impossible for me to decide, "I want to walk Titan", and then think, in geographical order, "Put shoes on, sweep through kitchen to grab plastic bag, bring phone and a few bucks, grab keys and leash off the hook by the front door, leash Titan, walk out door, lock door."

Instead I put my shoes on, THEN leash Titan, grab my keys, remember that I need a plastic bag, go to the kitchen with Titan still leashed, dig out a bag, set my keys down, stand there for five minutes as I determine if I need my phone and wallet, search for phone and wallet, walk to front door, feel around for my keys and realize I've set them down somewhere, search for my keys, hampered by the fact that Titan is whining because he's leashed and ready to go, run to the front door, go out the door, lock it, and get to the coffee stand before I realize that I've still left my wallet at home.

The very first day that I realized that I COULD, even, grab a bag BEFORE I put Titan's leash on was a big day for me, readers. I do not know how or why my brain works so non-linearly compared to everyone else, but my god, no wonder the LT has so much more time than I do! Were someone to stand over me with a stopwatch, I think I would cry to see how much time I waste running in circles in my own, 850-square-foot apartment, like a dog chasing its tail, not to insult dogs. Because even Titan has more sense than me.

Therefore, on previous cleaning sessions, I would: strip the old sheets off the bed, sit on the bed to pick at my toenails for awhile, suddenly jump up and put water in Titan's bowl, decide while I was there to wash dishes, get halfway through that and decide I should organize my shelves better, pull half of my spices off the shelves, see a can of soup that would remind me that I have a coupon for that very brand in my purse, find my purse, decide that my purse needed to be cleaned, dump everything out on the table, find a magazine, and sit down at said table with the magazine for the next hour.

You can imagine the resulting cleanliness of my apartment, no?

But I'm getting better. I found a site that is so cheesy I'm almost embarrassed to say I depend on it, but since I do, I might as well come clean (HA!): FlyLady. The terms are sort of cheesy, and the site is mainly geared to homemakers with kids, but the genius of the site is its special mentality: JUST. DO. SOMETHING.

Flylady doesn't tell you to make lists: she tells you to stick up post-its. Don't be perfect, she says. While you're stuck in perfection, afraid to start cleaning for fear you won't do it perfectly, someone with a less stellar job and five kids who has never even heard of Gloria Steinem has a clean house, a balanced checkbook, and food on the table. Who is really ahead, here?

Therefore, when I got the call from my mother, and learned that I would have 10 people crammed into my tiny apartment on Mother's Day, I relaxed. I had already been washing my dishes and making my bed on a regular basis, now I just had to dust, sweep, and wash the windows. I did it in order, first washing the windows, all of them. Then dusting and cleaning, all surfaces. Then sweeping the floor, thoroughly. I even went to the LT's the night before and watched a movie with him! The family showed up and the place looked quite passable.

If that's not a victory, I don't know what is. (I mean, I didn't take a shower or scrub my shower and tub, and I DID have to run to the convenience store on Mother's Day so I could get toilet paper and handsoap, but you know. Progress!)

And while we're on the subject of Mother's Day: my mother, for all the time that I've known her, has been completely useless after dinner. (Not ALL the time, and not right after dinner--she and dad pick up the kitchen every night, after all.) But about 8:00 pm or so, she will sit down on her bed, or maybe at the kitchen table, with a book and at 8:07 p.m., she is asleep and drooling. (Hi mom!)

My new ongoing really old, but still unachieved goal in life is to beat this genetic habit. So far my process has been abysmal. But last night, you know, I came home from Date Night, looked around, took Titan out, looked around a little more, and thought...hell. I can just go to bed.

And I did!

A Look Back and a Thank You

Sometimes, when I can't blog--when I know I should be because I'm all knotted up emotionally, or maybe when I'm not that knotted up but just a little twisted, and I can't start, I go back and read my previous posts.

Not because I think I'm that good. But because I realize how far I've come. And that's sort of inspiring, this reminder that I only know how far I've come because I WROTE IT DOWN, and therefore, this benefit jars me into blogging again, at least most of the time.

One thing I do notice: there are so many posts, especially over the winter, to which I got strings of wonderful comments that I did not deserve, especially as I barely responded to anyone. Karen Mc Cullaugh, alex, beth and merideth, ramblin' girl and glitter, kt, m.thom, I love all of you--and if there's someone I missed, please consider yourself loved as well. All of your comments kept me going, and I was in too dark a place to respond much or read any of your blogs; it was all I could do to get to work every day and force myself to go skiing on the weekends, which may seem like a luxury, but I believe was truly the best thing I could have done. I leaned on a lot of people during that time, some of them without even knowing: my fabulous landlord M, who insists that he did nothing altruistic as he charged me rent (barely) but I pay no attention to that because he offered his very private house at a time when I desperately needed a friend, and more than that, a place to stay. My friend "Bobby", who carpooled with me, forcing me to get up on days I did not want to, therefore ensuring my continued employment. My wonderful boyfriend LT, who I leaned on so much that I think he actually carried me at times. And the mountains, who froze the depression out of me, forced me to exercise, and allowed me to transfer my fears of dying friendless, dogless, and poor to a fear of jumps instead, a much easier fear to conquer.

And some day in the future, when I'm really down and no immediate comfort is handy, I'll look at this picture and think..."Damn, Dave really makes me look skinny! Awesome!"

This Just In: Trips to Target do NOT Clean Your House!

Shocking! Horrifying! But there it is.

I have been spending a long time away from this blog, not doing anything constructive, but rather reading OTHER blogs. I have been going to the gym, and I have been buying groceries and cooking the food in my house as opposed to buying food on the way to tutoring and back (or trying to) and I have been making my bed every day (most days) and occasionally doing dishes BEFORE I need a clean dish. (Although in the case of my large cast-iron skillet, this may never happen.)

Yes. I have begun the long and horrifying process of Self Improvement. AGAIN.

Because I have learned even though you clean your house once, it does NOT stay clean, no matter how much you wish and hope it will. Laundry does not stay done, dog hair does not stay on the dog. Once you lose weight, the pounds do not disappear to the wind, never to be heard from again.

Phooey.

Got An Interesting Email

My close friend Not-Aarwenn (she has the same name as I do in real life!) sent me an email just the other day:

Hi Aarwenn,

I was reading your blog, in which you raved about some stationary, which was linked to this other blog and then just a one more link later, I find a blog that has a great recipe for gluten-free cupcakes! What a day! :)

Not-Aarwenn

All I can say is, my life has not been in vain.

*And while you are reading this--you're on the internet anyway--please click here. There's several sites on the web that have a Click To Give Campaign, in which all you do is click, and the sponsors of the program give a little bit for each click. (It's legitimate--featured on Snopes.com and all that.) There's six sites, making twelve clicks in all (you have to click on the site, THEN click on the "Click here!" button) and it will make such a difference! All you have to do is click!

*Because you know (and all my co-nerds, I'm talking to you) that you'll spend easily that many clicks on ThinkGeek today alone.

A Tale of Three Butts

Dog Butt
LT Butt
More LT Butt, because this is MY blog!
My Butt

It looks like the sun is finally out here in Seattle, for at least a short time, and I am working from home, which gives me the chance to get a few things done around the house...and by "a few things" I mean "maybe put away stuff that's been sitting out since I moved three months ago."

Surely a trip to Target is in order?

You just want to go buy more stuff for the house, when CLEARLY I need more toys instead!

I got Helter Washed and a Very Nice Cop Told Me I Was Gorgeous

Comparatively, the rest of the day has been slow.

Not Really Alike

LT: "So, whatcha doing?"
Me: "Cooking my tofu scramble, finally!"
LT: "Good! 'Cause I'm sick of you blogging about it!"
Me: *Bursts out laughing*
LT: (Breathing a sigh of relief) "You know, I'm really glad you took that joke the right way." (Pause.) "In fact, I'm really glad you take ALL my jokes the right way!"
Me: "I don't think a lot of other girls would."
LT: "They sure wouldn't."

He politely didn't mention that most OTHER boys would require me to brush my teeth AND shower on a regular basis. Hello! I only have time for one or the other! The internet isn't going to surf itself!

I Have Found the Most Wonderful Site Ever, Plus Other Internet Beauties

Please see below:

IS THAT NOT THE MOST ADORABLE THING YOU HAVE EVER SEEN?

It's me with Titan, in case that wasn't clear.

I made it at DesignHer Gals, which I found from a wonderful site called Seattle Picks, which I found from ANOTHER wonderful and pretty famous site, which I have been reading on and off for years.

Also, I have recently bought a makeup sample (a whopping $3.25) from Everyday Minerals, which I discovered on THIS amazing site, and all I can say is, I have to make more money.

Thank you and have a nice day.

Stuff I Wrote A Long Time Ago: Let's Do The Time Warp Again!

Note: The following is a LiveJournal post from a little over two years ago. It fit so beautifully with the Bits and Pieces post that I had to re-post it, here. I hope you enjoy.

I’m risking the Lazy B’s displeasure to say here on LiveJournal that I was in my local Starbucks this morning (well, the local one that I hit on my way to work, not the local one two blocks from my front door that I go to for wi-fi)--anyway, I was in Starbucks, and it took me a second in my non-caffeinated state to recognize the music. Then I did. It was Nirvana’s “Polly”.

I almost ran screaming out of the store. Yes, Starbucks is also a Seattle institution, and yes, they make a point of playing unusual music...but to have Nirvana, the seminal grunge band against all that was institutional and accepted, a band that was the definition of anti-establishment in my formative years—I almost hurled from the time warp. For a moment there were two of me in that Starbucks: a seventh grader getting her first cup of coffee with her daddy’s money in Proctor right after that Proctor Starbucks opened, thinking about Stefan Krick and the warmth of pot and cologne drifting off him when he hugged her, Nirvana blasting in her head--not headphones, because they weren’t as popular then and not allowed at school, but Kurt Cobain singing straight to her in her head, because he was the only one that understood her--before coffee was cool and before Starbucks was ubiquitously establishment. Twelve years ago. And this old girl in her sleek black pants and brilliant white-and-black shirt and black shell and black peacoat, standing tall in black work-appropriate heels, long hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Her massive black Jeep stood outside waiting for her, her German Shepherd kept the house warm while she was gone, she had a company credit card and business cards with her name on them, and that afternoon she would walk on the beach in the sunshine.

What would the seventh-grader say to me? What would I say to her? We looked at each other across an expanse of lifetimes in the multiverse, each choice I had made on the way looming up out of the abyss between us, parallel universes created from multiple choice:

Your parents have just grounded you for the umpteenth time. Once again you are plunged into a social black hole. You’ve already lost two relationships because you couldn’t leave the house to see them. Now your friend has attempted suicide and you’re staring blankly at the ground from your parents’ roof. Do you:

a) Throw yourself over the edge?
b) Cry and think about how much the world hates you?
c) Enjoy the view?
d) Close your eyes, feeling the Grim Reaper ready to take you as you teeter on the edge, then climb sadly back down?

You’ve just gotten two 1.8 GPAs in a row. Congratulations, you’re on Dean’s Vacation! You get the letter while you’re interning in D.C. You know you won’t be able to stay with your boyfriend while you’re apart a year, not to mention the shame of academic suspension and all your friends being done a year before you. Do you:

a) Accept the suspension as a sign from God and take a year off?
b) Not return to school after you do that, losing your boyfriend, your sorority, and your degree?
c) Stay in D.C., becoming a high-class call girl?
d) Accept your parents’ offer to help fight the suspension?

If I had picked mainly a’s, b’s, or c’s, would I be where I am now? But how the hell did I get here? This is not my beautiful house! This is not my beautiful wife!

EDIT: Through a chain of funny coincidences, Stefan (who turned out to be a somewhat talented artist but with more talent for getting high) now WORKS for that damn Proctor Starbucks. And just last week he ran into the back of a car that contained, among other people, the little sister of aforementioned very depressed friend. Who is now completely fine and a pillar of society. And Little Sister wasn't hurt.

Bits and Pieces

I was sitting at Starbucks just yesterday with Claire, (holla!) one of my tutorees. (Made up word meaning: girls I tutor.)

Okay, I am growing older, and it is a sad truth that the music I listened to and loved in my formative years is also growing older, and therefore, Time is softening the edges of music that was considered so rough in its day that it was banned from my middle school. Case in point: two years ago, I heard Nirvana's "Polly" in a Starbucks, a song whose barely veiled lyrics discuss gang rape and BDSM. The buzz surrounding this song has of course disappeared, as the song is 14 years old now, and all that's left is the mounrful dirge tune and Kurt Cobain's sexy, barely intelligible mumble. (Ironically, exactly what caused the furor in the first place.)

While R.E.M. wasn't, and still isn't, a band that could be directly compared to Nirvana, they certainly started around the same time and were considered part of the new sound on the radio, although R.E.M. was barely a grunge band. Still, I fell in love with R.E.M. around the same time I fell in love with Nirvana, and because of that, when R.E.M.'s "Everybody Hurts" came on the air in the Starbucks yesterday, I sang along for a few bars, even though it embarrasses Claire. (Ah, teenagers.) She looked at me.

"It's Everybody Hurts," I said, stating a fact.
"Who is it by?" she asked.
"R.E.M.," I said, thinking, duh.
She responded, "What's rem?"

Oh, Lordy. Am I THAT old?

Apparently not old enough, as just a few hours later, I posted about cuddling with my dog while he was sleeping, proving that I was late to my next tutoring appointment, and therefore was speeding along on the highway when a cop pulled me over and issued me a ticket.

Hello, insurance! Sorry about that! Please don't raise my rates too high, thank you!

LT, when I was telling him this story: "Does your insurance have a three-ticket limit?"
Me: "No idea. Guess we're about to find out." (Those playing along at home will remember that I got two tickets in one week, last year, and one of them was deferred for a year. Not quite a year ago.)

Uh. Whoops. (And I was doing so good, too!)

A Problem

I have Titan back for the first time in two days, and he is lying on the futon, snoring away, and I am sitting in the space between his front legs and his back legs. His warmth is at my back, and like I said, he is snoring.

And I have to get up and walk him, if only briefly, and then go tutor for the second time today, and I really, really, REALLY don't want to.

Sigh.

I Have Not Given Into the Dark Side!

The banner above this post, or rather right below the title, is NOT an ad! I am not making any money from it!

It's a banner, and it's cool, and the color happens to work with both blogs (totally accidental, I swear) and it happens to be about an issue that I care about: Internet Radio.

The FCC is considering substantially raising radio fees for internet radio companies, meaning that most of the stations I listen to and enjoy--FineTune, Pandora, Last.fm--will be out of business; they just don't make enough money (with no advertisements, no backing from huge evil corporations like Clear Channel, and no payola to ensure that Chris Brown's latest Crapola gets radio play) to pay a huge radio license fee and still pay for their server upkeep.

One of the amazing things about the internet is its incredible cheapness; for a couple of bucks and maybe 200 bucks in recording equipment, ANYONE can put out a CD, start up a radio station, start a cooking show, or publish a book. It's wonderful, because there are some really talented people out there who don't have the time (after their 9-5 jobs) or the connections (because not everyone lives in NYLA) or even the inclination (because a lot of mass-media companies really suck) to go the mainstream route of getting a manager, publicist, or agent, and then having the agent shop their book around, and then signing most of their creative rights away, etc, etc. So they publish, or record, on their own instead. The internet makes that possible, and while I don't get to read or watch Google Video much at work, I DO get to listen to Internet Radio.

Don't take that away from this Chemical Engineer! Sign the petition--and contact your representative today!

Compare and Contrast

I would just like to make it clear that today I have:

Lifted Weights

Walked for 45 minutes up and down hills.

Cooked for two full hours.

Washed most of my dishes.

I am TIRED, y'all. I may be in bed in not too much longer.

But the problem is, that while I have been doing all these things, and reading a bunch of design blogs, and abusing my account at the library while I check books out constantly and read them voraciously and spend eleventy-million dollars at the grocery store all in one day, therefore necessitating the Massive Cook-Off that happened tonight, and watching F1 racing with the LT and walking the Monster, one of my blogging idols, Crazy Aunt Purl, has gone and wrote herself a book.

Meanwhile, I have had half of a mystery novel sitting in my computer for, oh, going on four years now.

This was originally funny, as in, "Hey, I'll buy a house when pigs fly or when I finish and sell my novel, whichever comes first," and now, four years later, I've reached a point that I always ANTICIPATED I would reach, but wasn't really prepared for until it happened:

I may never finish my novel.

I may end my writing career before it starts, just another wannabe who thought she could write better than the billions of pulp fiction on the shelves, or even if she couldn't, she could at least make some money, or at least enough to fuel her latte habit, and INSTEAD of doing even that, she failed, just like so many thousands, possibly millions before her.

Since my book is not a secret, unlike Laurie's (hi, honey! I'm SO proud of you!!) I might start talking about it, not here but in the other blog. Or I might, instead, look at my schedule, see that I'm working 55 hours a week including tutoring, and decide it's a miracle that I even make all my own meals and walk my dog an hour a day. (And blog, of course.)

(Note: Laurie did all of the above except have a dog to walk, but she walked ANYWAY, for half an hour at least, every day. I have no excuse.)

Anyway, want to see what I've been doing with the time that I'm not using to write?

...

Today was one of the very first, really WARM days we have had here in the Cloudy Gray; Titan and I passed three banks, and all of them proclaimed the temperature to be 64 or above. It was humid, which did wonders for my newly trimmed hair (ha) and we walked all over, trying to find beauty.

This is something new I've been doing; I've said that I'm reading a lot of design blogs, but since so many of them are complete crap, I'm also getting back in touch with the basics. I'm re-reading Pride and Prejudice, a book every girl should read once a year at least, I'm reading the entire Griffin and Sabine series, and also Nick Bantock's companion book, "Urgent Second Class." I rediscovered Tamara de Lempicka, a cubist painter from the 1930s whose calendar I had on my wall my junior year in high school, right after my trip to Barcelona (I was so chic!) and I'm also reading my Shakespeare (again). (If that sentence sounds like "taking my vitamins", it's sort of apt--only much more enjoyable!)

Anyway, this steady diet of Cubism, Surrealism, Nick Bantock's Collage School, Anglophilia, and Francophilia, has made me quite the wanderer these days--both mentally and physically. Fortunately, Seattle--often bemoaned for its hills and pocket neighborhoods, cut off others--is absolutely perfect for this, because the very presence of its hills practically mark out perfect spots of discovery, of hidden beauty. (Who else would climb that sixty degree hill except someone who had a reason to be there?)

So Titan and I have been wandering and pondering (and pooping, in his case) and I may divine a great deal of wisdom from these paths, or I may not. In any case, I swear I will start up my novel again.

Tomorrow.

Been Working

(I know, shocking, right?)

And in honor of this amazing event, a list of funny things said by my coworkers!

Me, talking to my BIG boss: "I'm so sad that your office is right by mine--no sneaking in in jeans anymore!"
My Big Boss: "Oh, you always look fine anyway! Look at you today, your shoes match your sweater!"
Me, laughing it off: "I'm single, Boss..."
My boss: "So, what, you're trolling now?"

Me, to my immediate boss: "I'm so impressed. I wouldn't have had the chutzpah."
My immediate boss: "Yeah, I have a spine and a big mouth."
Me: "That's why you're the manager!"

My business manager, talking about why he has no money, "Yeah, I need to stop chasing beavers."

(I blinked several times at that one, even though I knew that he was talking about hunting beavers on remote land he owns in Missouri.

Probably not funny to anyone else, but when you spend your days chasing down lasers, anything is pretty damn funny!

The Closest to Fame I Can Get on a Monday

I got my name in lights with notcelebrity.co.uk

I Suppose it Was Inevitable...

...One of the girls I tutor is reading my BLOG.

This would be a really awful idea, was I not already editing myself because my PARENTS are reading my blog. (Hi, guys! Great seeing you on Saturday!)

(Before my readers get on me about free speech, I've gotten to a time in my life when really, it's a good thing that I'm editing myself a little, I think. Because after 25 or so, a bunch of posts that read, "OMG I GOT SOOOOOOOWASYTED LAST NITE" are even less charming than they are at 19, no?)

It's a Sunday night, and I am still (again) fighting with my iPod and my hard drive; not that they are misbehaving, but rather that they are not doing what I want them to do, but instead simply what I am TELLING them to do. (Update much later: I FIXED IT!)

I'm having one of those moments where I had a brilliant idea on the way home in the car, didn't write it down or record it in any fashion, and am now cursing that fact. Oh, well. I start this week with new tunes, really good leftovers, and tahini. What could be better?

The Cutest To-Do List I've Ever Seen!

Create yours here.

(Notes: I assigned myself a call number based on the Dewey Decimal System, a breakdown of which can be found here. If you look up my number (at least the first three digits) you'll see that it's Satire and Humor, because the likelihood of this list occurring as-is is low, at best. I thought about classifying it as 818, Miscellaneous Writings, but thought Satire was more appropriate.)

A Recent Discussion

I recently got to see my very good friend D, last seen here, as she flew in to Seattle to see family for Passover. (I showed up the night before the actual dinner, and it turned out to be an excellent strategy, as they had a bunch of beer in the house that they were trying to drink up--no yeast during Passover, you see.)

D and I opened beers and sat on the couch in her father's living room, and talked, and talked, and talked, and two hours later we were still talking and I had to physically tear myself away from the conversation, because it was 11:30 pm and she may be on vacation, but I sure wasn't. D is a doctorate student, you see, at a very famous school that we will call Varhard, and she is working in genomes, doing some fascinating stuff that may get her published well before thirty, if everything goes right, which is quite a feat, not accomplished by many. (I'm very into the commas today.) To say that she is smart would be sort of an understatement. The girl is brilliant.

And, as many brilliant people are, she's not good at the art of compromise, or tolerance, or even compassion for other people's stupidity, and as I am trying to convince myself that compassion is the better part of knowledge but not wholly succeeding, we play off each other well, and we had a grand old time bashing the failing academic standards of this country. I had heard rumors of grade inflation at Varhard and others, but it wasn't made real to me until D confessed that she had to APPLY to give her undergraduates a C, and if you want to give a D, you'd better have the President at your back, and if you want to fail a student--and I wish I was joking--you have to defend your grade in front of a panel of grade reviewers.

Let me say right now that if CMU wanted to fail you, they did so, and often they laughed at you while doing it. I took classes from professors who wrote things down with one hand and erased with the other, professors who brushed off questions with the answer, "Ask me next semester when you repeat this class", professors who prided themselves on failing half of the population. I simply could not believe that a school such as Varhard was handing out As and Bs like they were candy, and the worst part--because, oh, does it get worse--is that D is teaching a biology class, and her students are PRE-MED.

I gaped at her. "Your pre-med students are getting inflated grades in their biology class? What about the rest of the sciences?"

D looked at me with pity. "Ah, there's the rub. The interesting thing is, my class is only a semester long. And it is half of their science requirement."

I took a pull from my beer. "I will hate the answer, but I have to ask: what, exactly, is Varhard's science requirement for a pre-med student?"

"One year of science total," D replied. "The first semester is Chemistry and Physics combined, and the second semester is biology."

"Just out of academic curiousity, what the HELL is the basis for the Varhard pre-med program, then, since it is obviously not science?"

"Being 'well-rounded'," she replied, almost spitting the words.

"Note to self," I said, "do not ever subject yourself to treatment from a doctor who got his pre-med at Varhard.

"No kidding," she replied, "I don't want my doctors to be 'well-rounded'! I want them to know something!"

(Note: D and I are not well-rounded, so perhaps the academic importance of such a quality eludes us.)

Much later on, with most of our beers gone, I was regaling her with tales from the front lines of tutoring (thank GOD that the girls I tutor are all receiving fairly standard educations, or I would be unbearable as a tutor) and she in turn told me about her niece, who had recently told D that she was reading Hamlet in her high school English class. "That's great!" D responded innocently.

"Yes," said her niece, "we're reading the New Version."

D blinked a few times. "What New Version?" (The exact same words that I had interjected at this point in the story.)

"It's the new version," her niece said impatiently, expecting like all teenagers that D could read her mind. "It has the original on one side, and the new version on the other. We're only reading the new version."

D and I stuck our heads in the oven.

Toothbrush has returned!

We now return to our regularly scheduled blogging.

It is much like a normal Monday today, only more so. I have fines at the library, there has been a horrible shooting at the VaTech campus, I haven't lost a pound of the five ten I was trying to lose, and it's gray outside, and what's more, I have had a very unproductive day, the kind of day in which I fear that if anyone has installed a secret camera in my cubicle, my walking papers will arrive on my desk tomorrow.

HOWEVER. I have gone to the grocery store, and I am excited about it, and I plan to hit the gym tonight, and I am excited about that. (Totally not, but trying to be anyway.) I do still have a job, and I get to see my friend Beau tonight, and we shall cook and talk about plays, and yes, I have a bunch of posts rattling around in my head. For a future day.

And besides, my day could be so much worse. It could be this day. (That's me, sprawled out on a bunch of rocks. Not recommended.)



Totally unrelated side note: LT and I went skiing on Saturday, for the very last day in many months, if not until next seasons, because...the season is OVER! I'm sad, but happy we got a great last day in, and my new skis are amazing, thank you to all who asked about them. I finished the season in one piece! How can I be having a bad day after that?

Yes, I Brushed My Teeth Anyway

This morning I woke up (blearily), stumbled to the bathroom, (even more blearily), (no, I am not drinking a lot anymore mom, thanks anyway, I always wake up like this) and fumbled around in my special "M" mug that holds the toothbrush and toothpaste, only to find them not there.

Yes. My toothbrush and toothpaste have disappeared overnight.

Actually, I'm pretty sure they disappeared overnight THREE nights ago, when I dug them out of my ski bag to use them and then...somehow...they flew into the ether, never to return. I have searched my apartment. I have no idea where they could have gone to, and while I did find this when I returned home yesterday...


...possibly suggesting that foul play had occurred and my toothbrush and toothpaste COULD be in mortal danger, I am pretty sure that particular plastic bag held a crust of bread, and that it was probably eaten by Titan Poltergeists. Poltergeists on the Atkins diet who just could not help themselves when they saw my crust of bread. It is the ONLY logical explanation.

I would never attack your bread. Even when possessed by poltergeists. Please leave me to my drool.

Overheard while walking

Titan and I were walking on the Street of Freaks (read: Broadway) this afternoon as usual, and in front of us was a sudden police altercation.

Just like that. We were strolling along, I was minding my own business, which is to say, I was eagerly staring at people on the street, willing them to do something interesting so I could write about it, although I'd probably forget anyway. And Titan was minding HIS own business, that is to say, attempting to check his pee-mail, in spite of his mean owner keeping him on a short leash and trying to attempt SOME kind of exercise on our stroll, which is greatly at odds with stopping every three seconds...

...but anyway, as I was saying, we were strolling along like normal. And suddenly we (I) looked up, and there were three cops remonstrating with a homeless person, who seemed to be in possession of a large green trash can, obviously a city can, that he did NOT want to give up, and there seemed to be another homeless man, somehow impeding either the cops progress or the homeless guy's progress, or possibly both.

Titan and I skirted the argument with a minimum of effort, not being too concerned, and on our way to better things. (Pooping.) But there were two other individuals who were clearly NOT on their way to better things; in fact, it would not be inaccurate to say that they clearly had all the time in the world, being, if not homeless, then the next thing to, and indeed one of the individuals was SELLING a homeless newspaper. And they spoke thusly:

HomelessPerson #1: "What's going on there?" (Meaning the remonstrations.)
HomelessPerson #2: "I don't know. Some stubborn drunk, I guess."

Now, Seattle has a bad rap for being a very "white" city, as in, a lower population of black people than, say, almost any other major city in America, and as such we are labeled as not too diverse, but let me tell you, a city in which there are so many homeless people that there are CLASSES of homeless people, as in, a city in which respectable homeless people can pass judgment on less respectable homeless people...

Well, that is a diverse city indeed.

How to Completely Ignore Your Boyfriend's Advice

Hi, honey!

One of my brand new loves is the magazine Blueprint, which is (gasp) yes, a Martha Stewart magazine, but you know, I'm kind of beginning to LOVE Martha Stewart, and yes, I'm booking my therapy appointment now. (And by "therapy" I mean "day at the spa".) (I think actually cheaper.)

Blueprint is Seriously Awesome, I've subscribed already, and I've only seen one issue. They profess their goal to be helping YOU design your life, and if there's a more noble goal, I don't know what it is. Because I have big dreams of big design, readers, and I need A LOT of help, and I can't afford an interior decorator. Therefore: Blueprint.

And Blueprint has a blog (who doesn't?) and on their blog recently, they had this: the best-sounding laundry detergent ever. LT will shoot me, because you could buy about 400 loads of Tide for the same price, but I really, really want to try it, and not only that, I'm getting drawn into the REST of their website--with the stain remover, the crease releaser, and the two different detergents for white and darks, which I barely ever separate out anyway.

Totally pointless. But OMG I want.

Very, very accurate. Surprisingly so.

And hella fun, anyway!

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Blogging the Relationship, 16*

*Number has been assigned randomly because I can't remember the last time I did this.

Me: "Hi, big strong boyfriend who works on cars!"
LT: "...Oh boy."
Me: "No, it's nothing serious. Helter gently released my rearview mirror from its duty the other day."
LT, who does not read Crazy Aunt Purl: "What?"
Me: "My rearview mirror fell off my windshield!"
LT: "Ah! That happens."
Me: "I bought a kit at Shucks."
LT: "Good luck with that--they don't always work very well."
Me: "Well, if it doesn't work, what do I do?"
LT: "You could keep gluing it on, or go without."
Me: "I can't just go without--it's dangling by the wires!"
LT: "Ha! Whoops. Hey, you like dangly earrings, can't this be a dangly mirror?"
Me: "No. It's not sparkly."
LT: "You could make it sparkly."
Me: "Then it could be a disco ball!"
LT: "Well...I guess it could..."
Me: "OH! That reminds me!"
LT: "WHAT?"
Me: "What?"
LT: "HOW CAN A DANGLY, NON-SPARKLY REARVIEW MIRROR THAT MAY OR MAY NOT BE A DISCO BALL REMIND YOU OF ANYTHING?"
Me: "...How long have you been dating me?"
LT: "...Damn."

I am pleased to announce...

...that I FINALLY shook off the binds of flickr and have a brand, spankin-new, PICASA page.

But you can't see it!

One of the reasons for having this picasa page, and I have to thank alex for this, is that I can just dump all my pictures online--getting them off my camera, and out of my active folders on my laptop--and then call on them at will, or share them only by giving the address to others (the other people who joined me on any given ski trip, for example.) They won't be private, so if you happen to stumble across them, you don't have to feel guilty or anything (unless you WANT to) but I won't call attention to them by putting the link up.

You will more than likely see them appear here in the blog, though!

Also, today I did something I swore I would never do: I donated money to my incredibly expensive college, and NOT in the way of paying back my student loans.

Yes. I succumbed to Carnegie Mellon's constant attempts to beg for money, and I gave them a very small gift, no more than five lattes, and...here's the kicker...

The Lazy B matched it! Now CMU has ten lattes, and I only had to buy five!

Why did I do it? Well, it's a sad but true fact: a large part of CMU's standing in lists such as U.S. Best Colleges, and so forth DEPENDS on alumni giving. To put it another way: the long and involved algorithm that U.S. News uses to rank their colleges, definitely includes the AG factor, as in, alumni giving. When CMU tells you that you can make your degree worth more by giving money to them, they're not kidding. It is a total bitch, because that shouldn't matter, but it is true.

SO. I gave money to a college that I'm still paying student loans for. SO SHOOT ME.

Skiing: My Arch Nemesis

It's April second (shoutout to Redhead, whose birthday was yesterday!) and although I am trying to convince myself otherwise, the ski season is almost over.

No, really, it is. Almost. And I can feel it. I can see it on the faces of the lift operators, and the ticket sellers, on the mountain as trees and rocks poke through the snow, and in the stores, as they sell last year's demo skis for a tenth of a price of their November 2006 MRSP.

Ah, skiing.

Skiing takes me away from my troubles, both literally, as it's a road trip every weekend, and figuratively, as I can't concentrate on anything while skiing except, well, skiing. Sitting at my desk or at home, my mind races; on the slopes, my mind is transparently clear. Instead of the brain gerbils clattering around on their exercise wheel, all I can hear is the swish of my skis on the snow and the occasional hiss-thump, going over a mogul.

At the same time, though, skiing means my dog languishes at home, the dog hair piles up, my mail goes unopened, my bills go unpaid, magazine subscriptions are wasted, and library books (and Blockbuster DVDs) rack up huge late fees. I never thought I would say this, but I am looking forward to the end of ski season.

This season, by the numbers

Days I have skiied: Roughly 20.
Weekend days I have had available for skiing: 38.

I am damn tired.

Dollars, roughly, I have spent on lift tickets: 825.
Dollars, roughly, I have spent on gas: 600. (Assuming an average gallon price of 3 dollars, including all the times I bought gas in Canada, and a Helter MPG of 16.)
Dollars, roughly, I have spent on food: $450. (Assuming 30 dollars per day for snacks, lunch, breakfast, liquor, and restaurants, probably lowballed.)
Total number of dollars I spent skiing, this season: $1873.

Number of shoes this equals, at an average shoe price of 30 dollars a pair: 90.

NINETY PAIRS OF BRAND-NEW SHOES.

Number of lattes this equals, assuming five dollars a latte: 360.

HOWEVER. Number of hours of therapy this equals, assuming 200 dollars an hour: only nine!

A bargain!

My God.

Dewey, who has not yet agreed to be my adopted big sister, just wrote this post about how behind she was in her financial arena, shall we say.

You could take this post, substitute, "my life" for every mention of "money", and you'd have MY post for today.

I moved into my apartment two months ago. Since then, I have been out of town twice, had house guests, and obviously, gone skiing every weekend I wasn't either out of town or entertaining my Little. Yesterday, for the very first time, I moved the TV stand from where the CABLE GUY had put it when he was hooking up my cable. The LT and I have been watching movies on it like that for a month and a half, and it never occurred to me that it might work better in a different spot. Tonight, I might, for the very first time, sweep my apartment. This week, I might, for the very first time, actually combine my huge iPod library onto one computer, so that I might update my iPod for the first time ever, the end, amen. I have skied all season--for the past six damn months--with the same tunes, because I haven't been able to carve out time for myself to even update my own iPod. Meanwhile, my boyfriend and all his friends are listening to brand new tunes that I provided them.

Excuse me. Was that bitter?

Ah, well. Today is a brand new day. It's sunny, I have joined a gym, I have made an appointment with a personal trainer, and most importantly, I have COMBED the Martha Stewart Living archives. I will spring clean if it kills me.

*Drinks more coffee.*

Wrap-Up/Mop-Up

I am at the LT's house in Bremerton today, not only because it's cleaner than my own (in SPITE of me doing my dishes and cleaning the fridge!) and certainly not because his TV equals five of mine, maybe six (because I can't work it anyway) but because I came in late last night from California (again), picked up the Monster, and desperately needed a big hug, which he successfully provided. (Uh, the LT provided it, not Titan. Titan takes hugs well, but he lacks the appropriate muscles to really GIVE hugs.)

Anyway.

It's been an interesting week. A week ago today, I returned from California. Last night, I ALSO returned from California. (Deja vu! Trippy!) Monday, I unpacked a brand new office in a brand new building. Tuesday I wrote a presentation and joined a gym. (I WILL lose the winter pounds.) Wednesday I apparently lost my brain, as I arrived at an airport without my wallet OR ID. No word yet on my brain, but I did track down my wallet, although my ID remains in the wind. (Possibly it ran off with my brain.) Wednesday night I checked into a $1200/night hotel room and immediately called everyone I knew about it.

Thursday I presented to one of probably the top five physicists in the U.S., and I had a run in my pantyhose, but if he noticed, he was far too polite to say anything. (Relax, mom, it was under my skirt.) (Um. I mean. It was HIDDEN under my skirt unless I sat down.)

Whew.

Today, Friday, I am working on my day off, but it's not too bad. I am relaxing and thinking of all the ways I can spend money this weekend, and that will certainly include new underwear--treat your girls right and they'll treat YOU right!--and possibly new jeans, because there is a Warehouse Sale, ladies, and I am SO GOING.

Additional things I need: this robot vacuum. If I won the lottery, this is the first thing I would buy.

A Picture of My Day Today

8:00 a.m.: Wake up. Start to clean kitchen, because dishes are threatening to grow feet (again) and jump out of the window (again.)

9:30 a.m.: Clean out fridge for no apparent reason. Jeez, how long has that ill-fated salsa been in there? Since December?

11:00 a.m.: Realize you must leave almost momentarily for your performance evaluation at noon, scheduled in a panic right before you must leave (at 12:30) for your flight to Southern California.

11:30 a.m.: Forgo shower. (Days without shower count: three.) Leave for performance evaluation.

12:00 p.m.: Rock performance evaluation, in spite of lack of shower. Check in for flight online. Learn, from chatty secretary, that you apparently have a doppelganger at work, who drives a Scion. (!) (Note to self: investigate this.)

12:40 p.m.: Leave, a scant ten minutes behind schedule, for flight.

1:00 p.m.: Pulling car into Masterpark, realize that you have left you wallet--including all of your money, credit cards, and business credit card, not to mention ID, at home.

1:04 p.m.: Highly entertain the valets at Masterpark as you frantically waver back and forth between trying to make it on just your checkbook in your pocket or trying to go home and get your wallet.

1:04:47 p.m.: Flying back north on I-5.

1:24:39 p.m.: Enter apartment, grab wallet. Rack brain to see if there is anything else you need. Decide there is not. (For those of you playing along at home, pay special attention to this--it will be important later.)

1:25:03 p.m.: Flying back south on I-5.

1:38 p.m.: Pull into Masterpark for the second time in forty minutes. Vastly impress the Masterpark guys, and everyone else on the shuttle.

1:58 p.m.: Having already checked in online, walk straight into the security line...

1:58:in hell p.m.: ...And realize that you have left a small part of your wallet, including your Driver's License and your Business Credit Card, At Home In @#*&(@*#&@(*&#(&*)*!!# Seattle.

2:03 p.m.: Smile pretty at the security guard and show your work ID.

2:03:14 p.m.: Security guard stamps your boarding pass.

2:04 p.m.: Thank all gods listening for good luck. Immediately start worrying about how you will get BACK to Seattle.

2:23 p.m.: Board plane.

5:17:48 p.m.: Exit plane in the O.C.

5:18 p.m.: Feel for sunglasses on top of head. Realize you have left sunglasses on airplane.

5:19 p.m.: Following New Year's Resolutions, resolve to chase down forty dollar sunglasses and stand in a long line to talk to Alaska customer service.

5:26 p.m.: Learn that you will have to get a boarding pass (for no flight) simply to get back through security to retrieve sunglasses. Show work ID again, with trepidation. Attendant does not blink an eye.

5:28 p.m.: Receive unspecific boarding pass.

5:30 p.m.: Smile pretty at second security guard in three hours. Security Guard: "Is this a Government-Issued ID?" You: "No." SG: *rolls eyes and lets you through*

5:33 p.m.: Taking off shoes and taking laptop out of bag. Again.

5:33:37 p.m.: Friendly guy behind you says, "Well, that worked for you! I once flew on nothing at all." You (turning around): "Really? After 9/11?" Him: "Yep. I had my wallet stolen and had no ID at all. They just put me through extra screening. Apparently it happens a lot." You: "REALLY!" (Thinking: Sweet. Maybe I'll make it home after all.) Him: "Yep."

5:38 p.m.: Retrieve sunglasses.

5:47 p.m.: Belly up to rental car counter.

5:53 p.m.: Learn that, no matter how pretty you smile, Alamo will NOT rent you a car without a driver's license.

5:56 p.m.: Investigate shuttles.

6:09 p.m.: Board a shuttle for hotel.

6:26 p.m.: Arrive at hotel.

6:28 p.m.: Learn that Hilton cannot use the credit card on file for charging the room, and since you ALSO forgot your BUSINESS CREDIT CARD...

6:29 p.m.: ...Mentally calculate work's expense return cycle.

6:29:48 p.m.: Sigh heavily and pay with personal credit card.

6:31 p.m.: Walk into largest hotel room you have ever seen.

6:38 p.m.: Call boyfriend.

6:39 p.m.: Call Houseguest. Houseguest agrees to come pick you up around nine.

6:40 p.m.: Boyfriend calls back. Boyfriend is very calming. Reassures you that you have already passed all difficult hurdles, and from here on out, all that's necessary is: getting to meeting tomorrow, and getting to the airport after that.

6:50 p.m.: Thank all gods listening for the LT.

7:00 p.m.: In hotel bar.

8:16 p.m.: Posting.

9:35 p.m.: Strolling around nighttime Huntington Beach with Houseguest.

12:03 a.m.: Comatose.

Psychosis, or, Too Many Pictures

I have an ass-ton of pictures to label, categorize, post to flickr, and post to this blog. I'm annoyed.

I have a flickr account, and I like it, but what I really have is tons of pictures that I want to store somewhere where only people who want to see them can access them--I only want my pretty pictures to show up on flickr. And yet I don't want to start ANOTHER online account, anywhere!

Sigh. Grumble, grumble. Please see pretty mountain picture below.

Posting Tons, to Make up for the Shortage

It's always odd when you see yourself through someone else's eyes, even if you're an attention hound like me.

For example: LT recently played a song for me, a song that (he said) reminded him of me, and when the song was over he said, "What do you think?" And I murmured, sort of speechless, that I was flattered.

Because the song was Whiskey Girl, and for those of you who aren't familiar with country music (you're lucky), the lyrics are about a girl who is, without a doubt, the perfect girlfriend. She drinks whiskey, doesn't care so much for flowers and silks, likes to drive fast and doesn't mind when "her man" stays out late, and of course, since it's a country song, her man is totally worthy of her trust. I get an image of long-legged girl in jeans and a white muscle tank, sandy hair blowing in the wind, perfect skin, deep blue eyes, exuding a sense of western calm, drinking whiskey and laughing at danger.

Readers, I am 5'6" on a good day, too curvy to be called skinny under any circumstances, tend to clutch the oh-shit bar when the LT takes a corner too fast, love flowers (although I'd rather have live plants) and am never, EVER, calm. I resemble a round bouncy ball with hair and a mouth, and hardly ever, if at all, do I look in the mirror and see a Western-looking Tommy Hilfiger model! (And if you think I am lying, please check out the following pictures:)




(All images from www.davefry.net.)

Usually I just put flattering pictures of my self in this blog--hey, it's MY blog!--but I thought the time had come to show all the other pictures, in which you mainly see my cleavage, my butt, or my open mouth, occasionally with drool--and also, apparently, my burning need to DRAPE myself over every surface. I need to either learn to sit up STRAIGHT, for the LOVE of PUDGE, or buy a burkha, and frankly I haven't decided which of the two is more practical.

Anyway, you can see why I was enormously flattered, something I couldn't properly articulate to the LT at the time, which is why this blog is so handy, and not just to show embarrassing pictures of myself. Perhaps one of the definitions of love--human love, not dog love--is that your beloved sees you the way you WANT to be seen, not only a better person, but also taller, slimmer, more graceful, sans the annoying habit of turning my chin up at the camera when I smile or without flub sticking out above my jeans. The more I can appear like the girl in Whiskey Girl, so much the better.

After all, I already drink whiskey. How hard can the rest be?

Yeah, right. Some days, even on a really nice day in which I'm unpacking my brand new office, perfection seems a long damn way away.