It Was Better Said by Antoine de Saint Exupery

It was then that the fox appeared.

"Good morning," said the fox.

"Good morning," the little prince responded politely, although when he turned around he saw nothing.

"I am right here," the voice said, "under the apple tree."

"Who are you?" asked the little prince, and added, "You are very pretty to look at."

"I am a fox," the fox said.

"Come and play with me," proposed the little prince. "I am so unhappy."

"I cannot play with you," the fox said. "I am not tamed."

"Ah! Please excuse me," said the little prince.

But, after some thought, he added:

"What does that mean--'tame'?"

"You do not live here," said the fox. "What is it that you are looking for?"

"I am looking for men," said the little prince. "What does that mean--'tame'?"

"Men," said the fox. "They have guns, and they hunt. It is very disturbing. They also raise chickens. These are their only interests. Are you looking for chickens?"

"No," said the little prince. "I am looking for friends. What does that mean--'tame'?"

"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. It means to establish ties."

"'To establish ties'?"

"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . ."

"I am beginning to understand," said the little prince. "There is a flower . . . I think that she has tamed me . . ."

"It is possible," said the fox. "On the Earth one sees all sorts of things."

"Oh, but this is not on the Earth!" said the little prince.

The fox seemed perplexed, and very curious.

"On another planet?"

"Yes."

"Are there hunters on that planet?"

"No."

"Ah, that is interesting! Are there chickens?"

"No."

"Nothing is perfect," sighed the fox.

But he came back to his idea.

"My life is very monotonous," the fox said. "I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All the chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And, in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat . . ."

The fox gazed at the little prince, for a long time.

"Please--tame me!" he said.

"I want to, very much," the little prince replied. "But I have not much time. I have friends to discover, and a great many things to understand."

"One only understands the things that one tames," said the fox. "Men have no more time to understand anything. They buy things all ready made at the shops. But there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship, and so men have no friends any more. If you want a friend, tame me . . ."

"What must I do, to tame you?" asked the little prince.

"You must be very patient," replied the fox. "First you will sit down at a little distance from me--like that--in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me, every day . . ."

The next day the little prince came back.

"It would have been better to come back at the same hour," said the fox. "If, for example, you come at four o'clock in the afternoon, then at three o'clock I shall begin to be happy. I shall feel happier and happier as the hour advances. At four o'clock, I shall already be worrying and jumping about. I shall show you how happy I am! But if you come at just any time, I shall never know at what hour my heart is to be ready to greet you . . . One must observe the proper rites . . ."

"What is a rite?" asked the little prince.

"Those also are actions too often neglected," said the fox. "They are what make one day different from other days, one hour from other hours. There is a rite, for example, among my hunters. Every Thursday they dance with the village girls. So Thursday is a wonderful day for me! I can take a walk as far as the vineyards. But if the hunters danced at just any time, every day would be like every other day, and I should never have any vacation at all."


So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure drew near--

"Ah," said the fox, "I shall cry."

"It is your own fault," said the little prince. "I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you . . ."

"Yes, that is so," said the fox.

"But now you are going to cry!" said the little prince.

"Yes, that is so," said the fox.

"Then it has done you no good at all!"

"It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the color of the wheat fields." And then he added:

"Go and look again at the roses. You will understand now that yours is unique in all the world. Then come back to say goodbye to me, and I will make you a present of a secret."

The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.

"You are not at all like my rose," he said. "As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world."

And the roses were very much embarassed.

"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on. "One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose."

And he went back to meet the fox.

"Goodbye," he said.

"Goodbye," said the fox. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

"What is essential is invisible to the eye," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

"It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."

"It is the time I have wasted for my rose--" said the little prince, so that he would be sure to remember.

"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose . . ."

"I am responsible for my rose," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

* * *

Oh, oh, oh. It is so sad. "I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow."..."And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat..."

Dante Does Relationships

Saturday night, 9:45 p.m.

LT: "What are you doing, this late at night, in your apartment, on a SATURDAY? Shouldn't you be out?

Me: "Oh, I told some fool I'd keep Saturday night open for him, and now of course I'm regretting it, as he has apparently stood me up."

LT: "The girl I was waiting on to call me never called me either."

Me: "Dammit, sorry."

LT: "Screw all that, let's play beer pong!"

Me: "That is a terrible and awesome idea. I'll ping some people and we can get this party started."

About 11 p.m. it becomes clear that either no one is as lame as we are, or everyone who's decided to stay in tonight is already in bed, but we still decide to play beer pong.

And let me just say right now, to everyone reading this post and thinking, in their heads, "NO! Don't do it! That will turn out poorly!" that it actually turned out fine, as beer pong is a little too boring to play much with just two people. We played one game and then just sat and talked, which we desperately needed to do, and it was pretty great.

We both talked about the experiences we've had since breaking up, which was interesting. He's dating a girl that has him tied up in knots, and I dated a guy who put my heart in a blender, although of course I willingly handed over my heart to him to do so. And then built my own blender. But knowing that you walked right into it willingly doesn't help at all when you're actually in the blender and thinking, "I'm in the ninth circle of Hell, how do I get out??"

...huh. I started this post to write about something LT suggested I write about, and now I'm having a hard time getting into it.

Speaking of circles of hell: of course, you don't actually have to be in a budding relationship to willingly enter hell. You can be dating someone for two years and start the downward slope into hell without even realizing it, until you're in about the second circle and you're thinking, how did I get here and where is the exit? Dating the LT, I started my own personal slide about when he got out of the Navy, which could have been more than coincidental (but also may not have been, and FTN in any case) and I didn't realize it until about May, and then it took me an additional two months to climb back out, and I didn't really think about the entire process it until I had to: i.e., until I ruined his car seat.

The LT and I are still carpooling, and last week I rode in the back of his car and ate a piece of cheese with a wax rind, which I then left in the car over the course of the hot day, which melted into the car seat, which I then tried to iron out, which then caused a polyester cloth to melt ALL over his back seat and ruin it. It was a terrible afternoon, made more awful by the fact that I knew that the whole reason--at least, one of the big reasons--that I broke up with the LT was that my self-esteem was slowly shredding away, and here I was, having broken up with him to get away from this, bowing and scraping and grovelling for him to forgive me, over a CAR SEAT. I couldn't stand--absolutely could not stand--the thought that he might think less of me as a person, that I might be less than perfect for him. It's a terrible cycle: I'm a people pleaser, and he's demanding, and so the harder I tried to please him in our relationship, the more annoyed he got. It was awful, having your self-esteem so wrapped up in one person, and of course--like all personal hells--it's not as if he asked me for it or wanted it. I willingly gave him my self-esteem to do with as he liked. I walked right into it.

But Onto the DANCING!

A few of my friends from college--especially the dancing segment--have been asking me why I'm so into salsa dancing these days and have apparently completely left my first love, swing dancing.

It's true that swing is my first love, and what I did throughout college--or at least the first year, before I discovered Greek Life. But swing out here on the West Coast is...weird. Different. Slower, somehow. I'm not talking about the differences between West Coast Swing, Swing, and Lindy-Hop--those are all different dances and I know the differences. I just mean that Swing Nights out here seem slower and less fun. I don't know why.

This is the kind of swing I want to do:



I mean, this is a parody, but it's still amazing.

A different video of the same routine, maybe with the same guys:



This is a NON-parody and it's pretty good:

By the way, I look nothing like this while swing dancing. Or salsa dancing, for that matter.

Oh, boo, these videos make me miss swing dancing.

Never mind. Salsa has taken over, and by Blog, is it addictive or what? I even bought salsa shoes. Not that I need a good reason to buy shoes.

No real point to this post. Just dancing.

Ad Nauseum

I’ll never forget how angry I was, last election.

It was 2004. T-Town Girl and I were watching the election results in a bar, a dive bar about half a block from our apartment. At first, the night looked promising—like Kerry MIGHT squeeze out a victory—and then it became clear that Bush was going to win, and we started doing shots of tequila.

Anyway.

The real emotion I remember feeling—-besides anger—-was a complete sense of helplessness, disillusionment, disorientation. I so strongly believed one thing—and it turned out that most of the US, or at least 54% of it, believed something else. I’ll never forget my friend Maria’s quote from her own blog at this time. “I thought, terrible budget deficit, terrible job market, thousands dying in Iraq over a government COVER-UP about WMD that was NEVER THERE, I thought, of course, we’ll THROW Bush out in 2004! Right? Guys? Hello? This thing on?”

That was how liberals felt, at the time. “Is the rest of the country even LISTENING to what I’m listening to?” we thought.

And of course, they weren’t. They weren’t reading the Washington Post. They weren’t listening to their gay friends fight battle after battle with the healthcare system because their partner had died and said gay friend, partner to the deceased for FIFTEEN YEARS, longer than MOST STRAIGHT MARRIAGES, had no legal standing whatsoever and couldn’t even attend the funeral. They weren’t attending Hempfest. They were sitting at home, worrying about how to put food on the table, worrying about how they were going to afford college, worrying about their mortgage rate that had suddenly jumped to 28% and how is that even possible, hello? Is this mike on? Is anyone listening to me?

And even I can see at a glance that the liberal concerns are rather high end. Death comes to us all, and it sucks terribly, but fighting for gay rights and attending Hempfest is way, WAY, less important than making sure your town has a store that sells stuff that you need (i.e., Walmart) and making sure the government cares enough about your family to evacuate you in case of a hurricane.

The liberals saw it this way: “Say what you want about social values. Forget those. Bush has dragged our country down into a cesspool of debt and despair, and at least Kerry will be different! Also, his social values happen to be way better than yours and you should really see the light.”

The conservatives, I assume, saw it this way: “We can’t change leaders mid-course. We have an effort in Iraq that we have to finish, the only thing that’s going to help our budgets now is the tax cuts that Bush is promising, and for God’s sake, I can’t squeeze out any more money, we have to cut taxes, and what the hell are you doing fighting for gay rights when my family can't EAT? Also liberal social values are basically hedonism and Bush happens to support mine.”

(Conservatives, did I mis-state? Please, send me a paragraph of how you felt in 2004, it would be awesome to read and post.)

And so we're stuck, in this mish-mash of refusals to compromise, hate, and fear. And how in the WORLD can I blame conservative voters for voting their social values when that's all that I am doing? I mean, as a bleeding heart liberal, its never before occurred to me to do otherwise--reproductive rights and gay rights are WAY MORE IMPORTANT THAN FOOD, THANK YOU. But in all seriousness, as I get older—-and meet more men and women who serve in the military—-it occurs to me that the President is the Commander in Chief, before all else. And in this part of his or her office, McCain’s experience and chops really appeal to me. But on the other hand, part of being a good president is judgment, and I have to say I trust Obama’s judgment far more because I agree with his social values, and so I assume that any decision he makes on the world stage would be a decision that I would make. But is that necessarily a good thing? I mean, I don’t have any experience in world politics whatsoever.

Still, so far, I’m convinced I can’t vote for McCain. A man who doesn’t know his own views on contraception and can’t check his email gets no love from me. Although I admit this just shows how skewed my own priorities are. A better excuse, and the one I will trot out publicly, is that I can’t trust the presidency to PALIN, of all people, in case McCain dies.

I Can't Leave It Alone

I'm sorry, reproductive rights are a really, really big deal to me.

From The Stranger:

"As the adoptive parent of a child born to a pair of unwed teenagers, I'm certainly not in favor of abortion in all circumstances. But I believe that it's a choice teenagers should be able to make for themselves—with input from their families whenever possible—and, so it seems, does the GOP's VP nominee. Sarah Palin is pleased that her daughter made the decision—on her own—to keep the baby.

But Sarah Palin doesn't believe that other girls should be able to make their own decisions. Sarah Palin believes abortion should be illegal in almost every instance—including rape and incest. So Bristol Palin is being celebrated for making a choice that Sarah Palin would like to take away from all other American women. Apparently, today's GOP believes that choice is a special right reserved for the wayward daughters of Republican elected officials.

Oh, and Sarah Palin also believes that birth control shouldn't be made available to teenagers...and she backs abstinence-until- marriage sex "education."

Sigh.

The GOP has poured hundreds of millions of dollars into abstinence "education" programs during the Bush years. I believe this enormous investment of public funds begs the obvious question: Is our children abstaining? Sarah Palin's aren't. Despite this massive outlay on the part of the American taxpayer and the example set by her Christian parents, Bristol Palin became sexually active while still in high school. Excuse me, but if abstinence education can't keep the daughter of the evangelical governor of Alaska off the cock, what hope is there for the daughters—and some of the sons—of average Americans?

I'm a cad for writing this, of course, because shortly before Bristol and Levi were paraded before cheering throngs at the Republican National Convention, the Palins asked the media to respect their daughter's privacy.

Another special right: When it comes to respecting your family's privacy, Palin and the GOP see no need. They want to micromanage the most intimate aspects of your private life. And if their own kids fail to live up to the standards that Palin and the GOP seek to impose on your family, well, that's a private matter between the Palins, their daughter, their God, and the thousands of screaming imbeciles in elephant hats waving McCain/Palin signs on the floor of the Republican National Convention."

More Snippets

I went skydiving this weekend, and it was very awesome, but instead of talking about that I want to taking a chunk out of my finger with my brand-new apple peeler, which I totally did.

And the apples are kind of wormy anyway.

But anyhow, I posted to my Facebook page that I had taken a chunk out of my finger, and I get this in response:

Tristan: "So jumping out of airplanes can't do you in, but having a few apples around the house is your kryptonite?"

Evan: "The girl can survive skydiving, but not apple peeling. Nice."

Me: "Boys, I think I love you. That is the best summary of my character ever. Now you see why I might as well jump out of planes and completely avoid cooking, right?"

And then, much later, an IM conversation between me and Tristan:

Me: "Anyway, I have to get cracking on dinner, bedtime, more apples, etc, so see you later."

Tristan: "Try not to die."

Japan, the Third Day

Toshi, his wife Hiroko, and daughter Erika came all the way into Tokyo to pick me up at the ryokan and took me to Kamakura, the third capital city of Japan. (Japan History, completely worth reading.) (Kamakura period.)

One of the AMAZING things about Japan is that their written history goes back...oh...say, 16-17 CENTURIES. Japan is eight or nine times as old as we are. To stand near the huge wooden shrines is to feel the age rolling off them. To understand Japanese history at all, it's important to get a sense of just how long 1900 years really IS.

Kamakura was the capital of Japan from 1185-1333, about 150 years, and it's the kind of place I never would have visited had I been on my own. There is so much to see in Japan--1900 years leaves a lot of history--that it would have simply fallen off my list, in spite of its mention in several guidebooks, and I would have never seen a Shinto wedding, the second-largest Buddha in the world, or a bamboo forest.

From my travel journal:

"Kamakura is small and pretty traditional, a city of old-fashioned streets and temples. Comparable to Toledo, in Spain, although of course a world removed. Very narrow streets, even for Japan, and driving is very difficult, but everyone does it. Have seen Hokokuji, the Bamboo Temple--a whole forest of bamboo, incredible--we drank green tea looking out at the swaying, creaking green towers, so tall. An amazing noise.

Japanese gardens, I have noticed, are absolutely filled with stone sculptures, all looking like variations on theme on the ones I saw in the Kyu-Shiba-rikyu Gardens. I mentioned this to the Moris, asking them what they were and why they were, and they tried to explain to me--some normal kind of Japanese garden decoration, nothing special. "Like garden gnomes," I said, making a joke, and both the older Moris tried very politely to understand what I meant. Erika, the 11-year-old, got it right away--she was born in New York and raised in Germany, and she gets my cultural references, which is very...welcoming. Hiroko, Toshi's wife, is perfectly stunning, and I am not surprised when she tells me she was a flight attendant for Japan Air. We laughed together about planes and airlines, once I told her I worked for Boeing. She keeps saying her English was bad, but if it was, I couldn't see how. Toshi, of course, is gracious, giving, generous, sociable, funny, and very patient with my blunderings around Japanese culture." (End Journal Entry.)

Some pictures from the web, since I was still sans camera:



A shot from Flickr.

And finally, me!

From Japan

Having tea in the bamboo forest. You can see it's a little chilly and rainy--much like Seattle in mid-May, in fact. The 80 degrees of yesterday had flown.

Again from my journal:

"At the Tsurugaoka Hachiman Shrine, site of some of Japan's most sordid history, I got the chance to see a Shinto Wedding, which the Moris assured me was very rare. I curse my lack of camera, as the headdress of the bride and costumes of the bride and groom are exquisite, exotic, almost alien. The melancholy music of the Shinto wedding reminds me of bagpipe music that doesn't resolve. I see a stringed instrument like a guitar, a long kind of sitar, a set of gongs and bells, and that's all I can recognize. The Shinto shrines remind me of our Pacific Northwest longhouses, a comparison helped out by the relatively identical scenery--only Japan has fewer evergreens." (End Journal entry.)

History of the Tsurugaoka Hachiman Shrine. Watch for this story to appear again when I cover Kabuki Theater.

And finally, one big fella:

From Japan

One of the largest Buddhas in the world. He used to be housed in a temple, but in 1498, the housing was washed away by a tsunami. (Remember? Japan has been burnt, flooded, shaken up, burnt, shaken up again, bombed, etc.) Since then it's said that the Buddha prefers to be outside.

You can go inside him for 20 Yen, but we chose not to.

From Japan

The Buddha's slippers, in case he decides to get up. No one goes barefoot in Japan!

Notes for my Buddhist Readers: This is the Great Buddha, the Daibatsu. I very carefully remembered that all the way across the Pacific, so I damn well hope it means something to you.

Japan: The Next in an Ongoing Series

Welcome to Japan! When we last left our intrepid heroine, she was awake at 3:30 in her ryokan room with a coughing fit, and decided she'd damn well better get up instead of just dying quietly on her own. Also, she was a little concerned that she was going to wake up all the other residents.

I had to sneak out of the ryokan, as--much like hostels--the doors are locked between 11 pm and 6 am, roughly, and the guidebooks said the fish market started at 4:30. (Later, the JJs and I compared guidebooks. Some books said 4:00 am, some said 5:00, some said the whole thing was OVER by 5:00, etc. Some said it wasn't open to the public. We got the impression that the rules changed often and there were terrible translation errors in any case.)

From Tokyo, Second Day

From Tokyo, Second Day

I walked by this gorgeous temple in my wanderings:

From Tokyo, Second Day

Tsukiji Honwanji Temple. Note the Indian styling; this is very unusual in Japan. The headquarters of the Jodo Shinshu Buddhists, and I have to admit I have no idea what this means. The inside of this temple is absolutely stunning, everything covered in gold leaf. This is possible because this structure is relatively new, built in 1932. More about the temple. Note the difference in spelling between my pamphlet spelling and the Wikipedia article. This is very common in translation, and makes getting around all that much more difficult. ("Is this temple and that temple one and the same? ARGH!") Having seen a lot more temples after this, my bet is that the Wikipedia spelling is the newer and more correct version.

After this, I had to wander around for a few hours until the park opened, as I had started out freakishly early due to my disorientation.

From Tokyo, Second Day

A shogun's park, the Hama-rikyu Gardens. Built as a duck-hunting preserve in 1654, now belongs to Tokyo.

From Tokyo, Second Day

It's huge, much bigger than it looks in these few pictures. I have about a hundred of them in today's photo album.

From Tokyo, Second Day

Taking a break.

From Tokyo, Second Day

A new park! This is Kyu-Shiba-rikyu.

From Tokyo, Second Day

A waterless waterfall--built from rocks to suggest the presence of water. SO Japanese. It is called Karetaki.

Japan has this adorable tradition at its national parks: you take a slip of paper, designed for the park specifically, with a big circle in the middle, and you take a big park stamp and stamp your piece of paper. I have a duck one, from the duck park, and one with the statue from the Kyu-Shiba-Rikyu park. I was childishly happy about these stamps.

From Tokyo, Second Day

The Gate of the Zojoji Temple. (I think.) When it was built, all the lands beyond this gate belonged to the temple. A really good website is here.

From Tokyo, Second Day

I wonder what the old priests would say if they could see all these cars in what used to be temple grounds.

About this time, I had to take a break--and I got a welcome one. I went into a 7-11, successfully negotiated the purchase of a phone card--after I wasted three dollars at a pay phone--and called home. It was close to 80 degrees F in downtown Tokyo, and I had stripped down to my tank top and jeans and sat in that phone booth and called my mother, of course, and then the LT and the JJs. I think I ate something.

From Tokyo, Second Day

A great "typical Tokyo" shot, from the JR train on the way to Ginza.

From Tokyo, Second Day

The Apple Store in Ginza, Tokyo's high-end shopping district. And when I say High-End, I mean it.

From Tokyo, Second Day

A pair of cantaloupes...for $168.

About this time of day, my camera died, and it took me forever to figure out how to work outlet in my room--the switch has to be on, I learned--so I couldn't charge it and I didn't have an extra battery...yet.

Fortunately, I was about to get a boost. A family friend--who I had never met before--had agreed to meet me for dinner, and while I waited for him I took a nap, took a Japanese bath, and wrapped a present for his family. (The Japanese are very, very into gift-giving.) As the ryokan staffperson wouldn't let me go far from the desk with his scissors, I wrapped my present right there on the floor of the ryokan, making conversation with some other checking-in foreigners. (The Kimi Ryokan is FAMOUS overseas.)

Toshi, my family friend, showed up soon, and took me to a yakitori place back in Ginza, the name of which I sadly don't know. It was casual, famous, old, noisy, and packed, and I let Toshi order, obviously. He politely ignored my occasional coughing fits and my ragged, thrown-together outfit, with the wrong shoes, since I had worn my feet out walking in little ballet flats for 14 hours. I also learned that without a network, I couldn't use my cell-phone camera, either, so no pictures of the present or Toshi.

Want more pictures? Of COURSE you do! Let's try a new format:



Hmmm. That's kind of small. Here's the bigger version.

Obama on Palin's Speech

Really worth watching, y'all:



Link.

Blogging the Palin Acceptance Speech

On Sarah Palin’s speech:

Three minutes in and no stopping in the cheering. The RNC LOVES her.

“Time to put the country first, not time to campaign”: you mean, time to put OUR COUNTRY’S NEEDS FIRST, instead of CAMPAIGNING IN IRAQ? Where is the talk about health care, about the housing crisis?

Oh God, tugging at the heartstrings. Palin is hammering her family’s involvement in the military—and now she’s spent...um...five minutes...talking about her family. Um. Six minutes. Introduces all her daughters. Fox News swings right past Bristol to focus on the six-year-old, who is freakin’ adorable. Special time spent on her son with Down Syndrome. Palin sympathizes with all the parents of special needs kids, saying that she knows how hard the parents have worked to make this country welcoming for them.

Well, sure. Because your children are gifts from God, whereas gay children are just choosing to be gay to be difficult.

Special time spent on her husband. Mentions his union involvement.

Wow, ten minutes on her FAMILY!

Two minutes on her parents.

She praises the heartland: their people work hard, fight our wars, grow our food. I like that—I have the same respect for the heartland, although I know it doesn’t always show.

Emphasizes her hockey mom background. Doesn’t mention that she was also a BEAUTY QUEEN and is nothing like most of the women of this country.

Good joke delivery.

Starting to talk about her political background: started in PTA and moved up to Governor. With all due respect, that is HARD-CORE.

Mentions Obama’s infamous quote about guns and religion.

More slamming of the Washington elite.

I pledge to America to SERVE THIS COUNTRY. On a platter? With a ticket from the kitchen? How, exactly, will you serve the country? Where is your stance on the ISSUES?

Says how much she “stands up to the establishment”.

Doesn’t mention that she is queen of earmarks, supported the bridge to nowhere, etc.

Jeez, this lady is really good; she is funny! If she really got rid of the jet and the cook, I’m damn impressed.

Oh—NOW she mentions the bridge to nowhere. She mentions how she eventually vetoed it, obviously.

Talks a lot about her reform in Alaska...in very vague terms.

Talks a lot about the natural gas pipeline and how we MUST be energy-independent. Certainly my thoughts as well. But what we need is not more drilling, we need more ALTERNATIVES. Gas will run out. Really, it will.

This is good: she’s very into local production of energy. Me too.

A little Obama bashing, here.

Obama is about NOT producing energy??

TERRORISM TERRORISM TERRORISM TERRORISM OBAMA SOFT ON TERRORISM OBAMA SOFT TERRORISM TERRORISM

Palin: Trying to sympathize with “small-business owners”. I haven’t seen anyone in the RNC with a suit or haircut under $200. Of course, her rhetoric about factory workers in Minnesota received a great deal of applause from these manicured, pearl-wearing RNC attendees.

I’m a little uncomfortable with her painting John McCain as a Washington Maverick, an unknown, a man who bravely stands alone, a stranger in a strange land: ...seriously?

I like how she says “Chosen the right man” like the Republican party had any choice whatsoever.

OBAMA AND BIDEN SOFT ON TERROR. MCCAIN WAR HERO.

Bad hand gestures.

Who is the pearl-wearing blonde they keep showing? Is that Cindy McCain? Oh, no—looks like Giuliani’s wife.

IF OBAMA WINS WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE.

MCCAIN WAR HERO. MCCAIN WAR HERO.

WOW this is really boring.

MCCAIN WAR HERO.

In all seriousness, McCain really is a war hero, like you all need to be told. He is way, way hardcore. It would be morally wrong to remain unimpressed by him.

Oh My God, I am completely sickened by her trotting out her pregnant daughter and fiancé. If she doesn’t want people to talk about it, quit mentioning it. Are only YOU allowed to talk about it?

Can John McCain not raise his arms above his head? His waves look so stiff.

Wow, Palin’s effect on the audience has been pretty amazing!

MCCAIN even mentions her family. “Wow, aren’t they BEAUTIFUL!”

Their slogan: Country First. Damn. Darn. Whatever. For the first time I am really scared about Obama’s chances of winning this election.

In all honesty, I wasn't offended by her remarks on Obama. If he has a sense of humor he'll find them funny--I thought her remark about after Obama was done "parting the sea and curing the planet" was pretty clever. I fail to see the "bashing". Certainly nothing she said was worse than what Democrats say about McCain and Palin herself.

Keywords

First level: TEEN PREGNANCY REPUBLICAN
Second level: TEEN SEX PREGNANCY SEX REPUBLICAN ELECTION SEX TEEN GIRLS SEX

In all honesty, this story has been handled relatively delicately, I think. The words "Bristol Palin clearly had to have UNPROTECTED SEX for this to happen" haven't really been said.

But they sure should be. I'm annoyed at the way the Republican camp is treating this: Miss Palin's pregnancy "happened". It "occured". What is this, the Immaculate Failure of Abstinence-Only Education? Yeah, yeah, I get that there is this hands-off policy when it comes to the children of candidates, but this only serves to give more protection to a candidate's daughter than Mary Sue down-the-street would have. If I had gotten pregnant at seventeen, EVERYONE would have talked about it. Instead, we're not allowed to talk about it because Bristol Palin's mother happens to be the vice-presidential candidate? Really?

And what about her age? The young woman--emphasis on the woman--is seventeen. She's old enough to join the armed services. She's an adult, for all intents and purposes. The age of consent in Alaska is 16, and she is certainly over that. And on a related note, the phrase "teen pregnancy" really bothers me. Although I don't recommend the procedure, plenty of girls get married at 18 and get pregnant. Do their pregnancies count as teen pregnancies? No, of course not, because they're MARRIED.

Anyway.

Even with this hands-off policy in place, we--the public, and the reporters--should certainly be allowed to make Miss Palin's unplanned, out-of-wedlock, teen pregnancy an issue. Much like famously anti-gay-rights Republicans who have been discovered in sleazy hotel rooms with their same-sex hookers and sandy piles of meth, the Republican party's very emphasis on "family values" makes this story actual news and not titillating gossip about teen girls and sex. Miss Palin has decided to carry the baby to term, fine, and she is marrying the father. If she was Mary Sue Down-the-street, she might have decided to have an abortion--she doesn't need her mom's consent in Alaska. But of course, since she is the daughter of a strongly pro-life Republican Vice-Presidential Candidate, she can't possibly get one. Her life has been decided for her. A theme with her, since I'm sure she was given zero options about how to prevent herself from getting pregnant, either, except for abstinence, and between a randy boyfriend and abstinence, guess who won?

More information:

Palin Rebuts Rumors

Palin's Daughter's Pregnancy Stirs Strong Emotions

A Private Matter

A Story Palin Should Tell (I was especially surprised at the ignorance and hatred mentioned in this one.)

A Typical Middle-Class Struggle (Except that the Palin's aren't so middle-class, certainly not the middle-class that I think of. Not the two-car, small house in a small-town middle class. They have resources. Mary Sue Down-the-street--who is quickly becoming my best friend--wouldn't have near as many resources to raise this extra mouth to feed. It's sure nice of this blogger to graciously include REAL middle-classers in the "struggles" of the Palins, though.)

The Palin Pregnancy and the Party Platform.

Odds and Ends

On Eating Your Words Off Paper Plates

A week ago, I had my friend Brandy over for dinner, not for any special reason, just so that the two of us could hang out and catch up without spending money at a fancy restaurant. I was making spinach and arugula polenta with a sun-dried tomato puree, and I was trying to use my old and stubborn blender, and I couldn't find the lid.

"Just put a paper plate over it," Brandy suggested.

My eyebrows almost flew off my head in horror. "Excuse me," I said, snottily. "There's no paper plates in THIS house. Do you even KNOW how WASTEFUL they are?"

Brandy, appropriately chastened: "Oh. I just suggested it because there are some paper plates right there on that shelf." She pointed.

I spun around, and sure enough, there were paper plates. Whoops. "My mother must have brought those when I moved in a year and a half ago," I mumbled.

Brandy, because she is a sweetheart and a half, didn't give me the hard time I so deserved, which made my crow-pie all that much harder to choke down.

Lessons at Goodwill

In the same way that everyone should spend some time at Farmers' Markets, everyone should, at some point, spend some time at a Goodwill. Not only for the bargains, but for the visual reminder that everything you are buying new now will be junk in a year, and barely worth the shelf space it takes up. I got three books for 2.26, and this amount makes me ashamed to admit how many books I have purchased full-price in airport bookstores to entertain myself for a mere three hours, only to never read said book again. Ugh.

One of My Favorite Things:

People who can make fun of themselves, and do it well, without giving you the impression that they're fishing for compliments.

Case in Point: My girls and I went out in honor of one of our friends, who has recently announced her pregnancy. (Yes, instead of throwing her a baby shower, we went out in her honor...without her. Hey, she's in Melbourne!)

We went out in Capitol Hill, because more of us live there or are familiar with there than anywhere else, and because said Girl Of Honor lived there, and I invited two of my friends from West Seattle who hardly ever go out in Capitol Hill. They were both a little surprised by the rag-tag punk element, which I don't notice anymore. (As Molly said: "Oh yeah, I saw tons of punks where I grew up...in the suburbs.") I shared a few of my tips: "Don't show fear, don't make prolonged eye contact with the homeless. Remember, the punks are going out to have a good time, just like you, even if they all have dyed black hair and piercings."

Molly, especially, took this advice to heart. As long as I live, I will never forget the sight of her throwing up horns at the Comet Tavern, screaming, "This pink cardigan I'm wearing is SO HARDCORE!"

How Not to Make Zucchini Patties

Decide it will be easier to smash your own breadcrumbs instead of dragging out the food processor, since it can be difficult to clean. Also decide it will be easier to grate your own zucchini--on a grater--than it would be to throw it in the food processor. End up using about fifteen different bowls in the process. Fail miserably at smashing dry bread, and toss out bread. Find crackers from Japan--three months ago--and smash those instead. Take about five hours to smash up crackers, sweat pouring down your face. Grate zucchini, spraying bits of zucchini and water all over the kitchen--seriously, it ended up on my walls--and stop and wipe out the grater about every five minutes. Let zucchini sit to allow water to drain.

Make jalapeno poppers in the meantime, for breakfast.

Having now taken ten hours to grate zucchini and smash breadcrumbs, grate your parmesan cheese, chop your onions and garlic, mix everything together. Go ahead and add two eggs without waiting to mix after the first egg so that your zucchini cake mix ends up too gooey. Fry zucchini cake mixture poorly--make sure you achieve just the right balance of cooking time so that your cakes turn out burnt and still don't hold together. Look up after three hours of kitchen torture and realize it's raining. Realize you have spent the hottest part of the day cooking instead of riding your motorcycle. Realize it will now rain for the rest of the day--when you COULD have been cooking--so that you CAN'T ride your motorcycle. Burst into tears. Eat your zucchini cakes.

How was everyone else's Sunday?

Also: More Difficult Than I Thought

Trying to get into a dance club with a big purse...that has empty baggies inside. Fortunately, I managed to convince the huge bouncers of the truth: they're doggie bags, dawg.

Excavation, or, A Month In The Life

My wallet--which I finally replaced with a new one from The Rack, one of my favorite stores in the world--has reached maximum size, and so it is time to excavate all the receipts and cards and matchbooks and what-have-you that I receive from the ether and stuff in there. I love doing this, I get such an interesting picture of my life. There is no other reason to keep receipts--I don't record them, although that's always what I think I'm going to do--but it's such a kick to read them back.

Four Weeks Ago: St. Louis! "Bobby" showed me the time of my life, I barely slept. My receipt from El Maguey in the Loop marks the consumption of some excellent Mexican food for the grand total of 8.60 with tip. I loved St. Louis, it reminded me a lot of Pittsburgh. And so cheap.

Two Weeks Ago: South Lake Union Block Party! Unlike Capitol Hill, which is now so far from its hippie roots that they charge to even LOOK at a bar, it's free and you can bring your dog, and it's not full of snarling teenagers with trust funds. Shout-outs to Calsee and Sarah, who loaned me various pieces of clothing as I had only brought Titan to keep me warm, and to Dan and Nina, who demonstrated their ability to leave the Eastside and fulfill their roles as downtown hipsters. That night I also learned that Whole Foods sells wine and beer ON TAP, for relatively cheap--four-dollar wine pours--and that walking up Denny Hill all the way from SLU to Capitol Hill gains you 203 vertical feet in a mile. And then we collected Randy and went to Peso's. The next day I had a 14-hour bachelorette party that started at 11 am. It was a long damn weekend--about 5 pm I had to wuss out and take a disco nap. Later on I got to see the cabaret show at the Can-Can--everyone go, immediately, and say hi to my friend Benihana--and the bachelorette group attracted so much attention that we ended up on at least three tourist cameras.

Last Week: My receipts say that after I saw Sydney get married, I ran into half a dozen people that I know at Linda's, went dancing at the War Room, went to Boom Noodle, met friends of friends who were on their way to Beijing to see their cousin compete in the synchronized swimming even, went to the beach with Calsee, had a great time at the Chinatown Night Market, and tried Congee for the first time.

Other Things of Note: Gift receipt from a baby shower gift, about five million Century Ballroom receipts.

Yes. So.

In Which I Start to Talk About Japan

I have already talked a little about Japan; for previous summary posts, try First Japan Post, Second Japan Post, Third Japan Post, Fourth Japan Post, Fifth Japan Post, or Japan Summary Post.

Anyway. Once more, with details!

At the start of my trip, I flew into Tokyo on my own--the Js wouldn't arrive until Saturday--and I was deathly ill, an experience I never want to repeat. I had read several guide books telling me how polite the Japanese were and how I needed to cover my mouth when I coughed and you CANNOT blow your nose in public, but not one guide book addressed the problem of what to do when you break out into a coughing fit in a crowded subway and it's either blow your nose or drip onto your seat, and your mucus is bright green because it's so infected. Shockingly.

I survived the whole way from the airport to the neighborhood I was staying in, Ikebukuro, and I couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. I was really, really sick. I don't remember which line I took from the airport--I think it was private, i.e., not one of the main lines that services the Tokyo area. If this sounds confusing, it is. Tokyo's subway system is not centralized; it's a mishmash of about three or four different companies, but they do at least attempt to work together. After several mistrials, the Js and I found that the best thing to do was to buy a low-fare ticket--making sure it's for the correct company--and then go through with our whole trip, possibly changing Metro companies without knowing it, and then, attempting to exit the subway station. If our ticket was accepted, we got to go; if the machine spit it back at you, you could take it to a machine and add a little more on, the surcharge for switching companies or the extra distance or whatever. It was easier to do it this way than try to predict how much we'd need or if we'd cross subway lines.

However, at this juncture, I was all by myself and got to struggle, which was fine--this was part of the reason I'd flown in early in the first place. I wanted to get a few days by myself. I arrived in Ikebukuro and, after wandering around for a few minutes in the dark with all my luggage, broke down and took a taxi. Ikebukuro isn't popular the way Ginza is, but it's still very crowded and I was surrounded by crowds of young Japanese laughing, talking, smoking, and I was very aware of how nerdy and out of place I looked and I just wanted to get to the hotel. My ryokan, the Kimi Ryokan, was very close to the station and I got right in and encountered my first problem: for reasons known only to the universe, I had had serious debit card issues right before I left for Japan. I had lost one and the other expired, or something, so I get to Japan and I have no way to get any more cash, all my money is in the account that I can't access because I have no PIN number, and I have $300 from traveler's checks to last me until Blog Knows When, and all the guide books I read told me in no uncertain terms that Japan is a cash-based country and NOWHERE takes credit cards. I was so worried I would do the wrong thing that I accepted my guide books as gospel, and it didn't even occur to me that places like Starbucks would definitely take my credit cards until the Js arrived and laughed at me, carrying my wad of cash around.

Anyway.

In spite of my misplaced fear about cash, my ryokan was one of the few that would NOT take credit cards, and I didn't have enough cash on me for more than a few nights--and I was staying five, and I had to eat some time--and so I had to tell the front-desk guy that I would pay just as soon as I could, really. He was nice about it --for the moment. I was shown to my room--no key cards, everything is done with real keys and locks--and I almost cried with relief, it was perfect. I highly recommend the Kimi Ryokan. It is very small and basic, but very clean and very lovely, with gorgeous dark wood everywhere. I got a real Japanese bath, struck out for some food, and crashed into bed.

The next morning I woke up at 3:30 with a coughing fit and figured, while I was up, I might as well get up and sight-see, which I did.

One of the reasons I've postponed getting my pictures up for so long is because I had the devil of a time trying to figure out how I was going to juggle so many formats. Finally I figured that I would write posts, like this, and divide my pictures on Google Picasa accordingly into photo albums with notes, and I would embed the photo album for each post, like below:

Flying Into Tokyo!

Does this work? Comments, questions?

Melting

It is hot as the dickens here. It's supposed to be 89 today and 90 tomorrow, and I realize this doesn't seem hot to some folks--some poor, misguided folks who live in, say, LA--but now imagine 89 degrees and NO AIR CONDITIONING.

Yes, that's right, folks. We here in the PNW do not normally need air conditioning, and so we do not have it. A lot of STORES don't even have it. I mean, Target certainly does, but my gas station on the corner does not. Just as a for-instance.

Titan is lollygagging on the floor, tongue hanging out, although he is not too hot to occasionally stir his stumps, walk out to the computer, and look at me pathetically. Also, he is trying to get me to take his cooling vest off, which he hates but I actually think works. I haven't eaten anything that can't be cooked in a microwave or served cold in days, except for coffee. I have my one pathetic fan on and the sweat is dripping down my face. And my friends Sydney and Matt are getting married, OUTSIDE, at FIVE PM, on one of the hottest days of the year. I had a nightmare last night that I missed the wedding, that I was taking swimming lessons while the wedding was happening, and I was secretly happy because I knew I was cooler than the people at the wedding were.

Help! Send me AC.

Family Talk

Hello, I am buying a motorcycle--in fact, I have already bought it--and up until Tuesday I had only told people under 40, and more importantly, people that were not related to me, that I was doing such a thing. And I have received uncensored acclaim.

I told my mother on Tuesday, and she was very upset about it, as I had predicted she would be, but she tried as hard as she could to remain polite and civil about it. She didn't say anything nasty, like, "Your desire for attention sickens me".

But when my uncle called me today it was a little more of a shock. My uncle is a funny, sarcastic, intelligent man; I dig every second I spend with him, and I especially dig his partner, a lovely and extremely talented graphic designer. Both she and my uncle laugh at my jokes and get me good books for Christmas presents, which is about all I need to like people. However, they are relatively private people, and my uncle especially is not given to large displays of affection. I was especially not expecting him to make a rare phone call to say to me, "I hear you have bought a motorcycle, and I disapprove."

Being my uncle, he said it much more creatively than that--he said, "I called so that you and I could put on a skit in which I play the old fuddy-duddy, and you play the rebellious teenager, and I can tell you what I really think about you buying this motorcycle, and you can respond by rolling your eyes and not taking my good advice." But the fact remained that he disapproved, that he was worried about me, and wished I wouldn't. The irony here, of course, is that my uncle is no fuddy-duddy--he's a modern man who feels no need to control the youth. He has never called me to say such a thing before, ever, not in 27 years of my life, and I knew he called me out of true concern for my well-being and that it took effort for him to make such a call, and he took that effort because it was so important to him. I can't just brush this off. Because of that I am now much more conflicted about this purchase than I was just a few days ago, although of course I'm still going to buy it--it's a great bike, it's a great deal, and I'm already committed.

My father hasn't yet called to do this same thing, although I expect it any day. It's particularly frustrating because both he and my uncle, although related only through my mother, owned motorcycles, and my grandfather--my mother's father--owned a motorcycle, and put me on it when I was very young. And I have ridden around on the back of the LT's motorcycle for almost a year. Never have motorcycles or the safety of motorcycles seemed to be a conversation topic of high importance in my family. I never heard a WORD about motorcycles until this week, in fact. And now that I am buying one, oh my Blog, the world, it is ending. I do not understand.

Much, Much, Lighter, and There Is Pepperjack!

I was in near hysterics reading this post from WideLawns. I can hear myself saying all week, in my head,

"You have heard about this? The bread with banana?"

Revisionist History

I was just reading my post about Wall-E and how I cried throughout the entire movie, and I can tell you all now that it is, indeed, a very good movie, but perhaps not as touching as I found it right then. I was incredibly sad on a daily basis, already; I was watching my relationship shudder and jerk its way to a halt, and Wall-E is about robot love, about a robot who falls in love with the human race--and then another robot--and has so much love to share that he gets humans to become human again.

Perhaps saying that my relationship was shuddering and jerking to a halt is too harsh. I certainly felt very neglected, but perhaps I didn't know how to ask for what I wanted. Then again, I wasn't sure the LT would have dropped a pail of water on me if I had caught fire, so I figured that asking for more attention would be a waste of time. And besides--even if I had been sure of a welcome reception--it is so humiliating to ask for more attention, like Esther at the tip of King Xerxes sceptre. What are you supposed to say? "I want you to look happy when you see me"? "It has been a month since you've told me I was good looking, a compliment I get daily from strangers, and it would mean so much more coming from you, it would be like a glass of water on a hot day, PLEASE tell me you think I'm pretty. Please, otherwise, I might die."

And you DO die, lying in bed looking at someone's back, little bit by little bit, starved for attention, crying yourself to sleep softly because he might hear and you don't want to say how needy you've become, jumping at his every word, trying to make him happy, so that he might smile at you again and give you some hope that he still likes you. You don't want to admit that his opinion means more to you than anything, and that not hearing it kills you.

And after awhile, being unwilling to say how much you've been starved and are still starving, you just...give up. You decide, if he doesn't think I'm really that great, I can at least take up a hobby, something where I might be around men who will have some reason to touch me, and so you take up dancing, and you enjoy yourself and it's a lot better than going to bed early to lie silently next to someone who ignores you, and so it begins to take up more of your life until your boyfriend starts to get mad that you're spending so much time not with him, and so maybe he becomes even more critical and then the whole relationship spirals downward in a matter of months.

So. That's what happened.

YouTube Is My New Boyfriend

I just discovered a seriously wonderful use for YouTube: Monty Python sketches!!!

I don't know why it didn't occur to me before that YouTube would host so many. I've found hundreds of scenes from movies, after all. Monty Python sketches would fit neatly into that category. And yet I just discovered it, thanks to this post in Slog.

So as to add to the fun, here are two of my favorite written comic sketches in the world. Not that there aren't sketches that are just as funny, but I fell in love with both of these seeing them performed by my friends, so they have a special value for me. As a special bonus, they require no props whatsoever--it's just two people talking. Undeniably brilliant.

Lighter

I just spent a whole ten minutes of my life--okay, maybe five--looking for this commercial, which struck such a chord in me when I saw it that I still remember it, even though I only saw it once.

And I thought you all should share in my joy.

Bad Advice

Did everyone know that I had a brief job writing for an online magazine called "Pretty Witty"? I did. It was very, very brief, both the job and the site. But it gave me a chance to write a real column--which Editor Extraordinaire Anna tells me is supposed to have a beginning, middle, and end, unlike my posts--and throw around a lot of snotty comments about "my editor". The column I came up with--the idea that got me the job--was called Susie Homewrecker, meant to be a parody of an advice column in which the advice columnist only gives really terrible advice. My editors at the time loved it and gave me the job, and I wrote four whole columns before the entire thing folded.

Anyway.

It's times like this, when I'm on my own again and can be just as bad as I want to be without hurting anyone, that my mind goes back to that column. I am doing everything you are not supposed to do. I am staying out late, I am dancing, I am barely eating--and when I am eating, I am eating cheese and that is it--and probably I scarcely need say that I've stepped up my alcohol consumption. Not the kind of drinking in which you tell the bartender just to leave the bottle at the table, but the kind of drinking in which you purposely slow your consumption rate so you can go for the burn. (Don't worry, Mother--soon I'll get fat and have to slow down.) You COULD, of course, describe this behavior as "staying away from ice cream and getting regular exercise", which is absolutely true. Or you could describe it as, "hanging out in bars and sometimes eating", also absolutely true. It just depends on your perspective. (Hey, a lot of salsa dancing takes place at bars, okay?)

Anyway.

Because of this, I have lost a little weight--all the alcohol hasn't caught up quite yet--and when I mentioned this to a friend, she demanded of me, "WHAT have you been DOING? Whatever is, tell me your secret."

And I said, "Um...I broke up with my boyfriend and have been subsisting on brie and sparks, and I've gone dancing seven hours a week." You see? Terrible advice.

Shocking

I have been SO long without blogging that I had to re-enter my password! That is NOT okay! What have I been DOING what my time?

Well, giving rides to strangers, for one thing. I was driving around late at night on Thursday, after giving rides home to R and A (hi guys!) and as I was driving down Mercer, I saw a girl on the side of the road, walking home. Nothing particularly unusual about it, except something about her movement caught my eye. I thought she was disabled at first, and then I realized...no. She was really that drunk. I quickly thought about my options. She looked about my age, maybe younger, and she seemed harmless. And I would have felt terrible about just driving by. I made a quick U-turn and pulled up beside her.

I rolled down my window. "Hon, are you going to make it home?"

"Idonkno," she said. I nodded.

"Get in, I'll give you a ride home."

"Imna'far," she said. "Jus' the nex' corner."

I understood. "You don't know me, and you don't HAVE to get in the car. But if you want a ride, you can have one."

She climbed in the car so quickly I thought maybe invisible bad guys were after her. "Than' you SO much," she slurred, and sure enough, she wasn't far--maybe another ten blocks. I dropped her off and she told me I was her best friend.

"Hon," I said, laughing, "you aren't going to remember this in the morning, but thanks. People have done me a good turn or two myself, so pass this on when you get a chance."

So. My good deed for the week.

Also, and there is no casual way to say this, the LT and I are no longer together. It seems like we might be able to salvage a friendship--even a good friendship--so that's good, at least.

Ode to My Stylist

It seems ridiculous that I have been with my hairstylist long enough to be a "special" customer, but it's the truth. I was with her when I was Young, Broke, and Barely Legal--I got my second real haircut in T-Town from her--and as I matured into Old, Rich, and Upstanding Citizen, she got her own salon and took me with her as her customer, and then she got a bunch of other services at her salon and she and the aesthetician took me under their collective wing and made me the relatively well-turned-out girl I am today. She was the one who cut off my hair when I donated it; she was the one who convinced me to color it, she is the one whom, now, yells at me to get my highlights touched up more frequently and get in and see Jamie, the aesthetician. (She and Jamie are big believers in tough love, which I need.)

One fine Saturday morning I arrived at the salon maybe, slightly, hungover. Okay, let's rephrase. I was so hungover that a lit match around me would have burned blue--that much leftover alcohol was wafting from my skin. Tyson--my stylist--spent about five minutes with me before bringing me a juicebox. "Here," she said. "Drink this before you pass out."

A little while later Jamie came in and Tyson called to her. "You would not BELIEVE how hungover Aarwenn is," she chortled. "Come and yell at her."

I rolled my eyes. Jamie appeared, stroking my hair and sniffing. "Have we FED her?" she asked Tyson. Tyson rolled her eyes in return. "I gave her a juicebox," she said, with the air of washing her hands of the whole event. "And I wouldn't let her have coffee." Right after my cut and color, I went to meet with Jamie, who poked and prodded at my skin. "You see all these little bumps?" she said. "This is all the toxins you've been pouring into yourself coming out through your skin. This is PARTY skin."

"I know," I murmured, "and I've worked damn hard for it." She smacked me on the back of the head. "Well, now you get to pay for it," she said, and got out her extraction tools. (Note to the uninitiated: extraction of blackheads HURTS.)

I absolutely love them, all the women at that shop, and I love them more because of our different worlds. The salon is all women, and of course my daily environment is all men. I know nothing about beauty, and they know nothing about technology--of any kind--which means that sometimes my arrival at the salon is hailed by cries of delight. "Thank GOD you're here," Tyson will say, pulling me back into the break room. (A sign of true privilege.) "Our computer won't do so-and-so. Can you fix it?"

"Of COURSE I can fix it," I like to say with haughty grandeur, and I haven't been wrong yet. The littlest things amaze them--how fast I type, keyboard shortcuts, Alt-Tab, the fact that I know what a "cookie" is, and not the chocolate chip kind. We're learning from each other, even. At first I was worried that the flow of knowledge was going all one way, that my skin and hair were looking better and better but I hadn't contributed much beyond my IT services. I love the challenge of trying to break down what I do for the layperson, but I wasn't sure it was having any affect until Tyson said to me, with pride,

"Hey, you know how you were telling me what 'nano' was? We had a hella fancy shampoo company in here last week giving us their sales pitch, and they were going on and on about nano-this and nano-that and finally I raised my hand and said, 'Doesn't "nano" just mean "small"? I mean, seriously?'

I laughed. "Good for you! Did that send her down a peg or two?"

"OH my god, it was like I had kicked her puppy," Tyson said, pinning my hair up. "The entire sales pitch was based on how cool this 'nano' was, and they were going on and on about surface area and all kinds of technical jargon, and I just said, 'But doesn't it just mean "really small"'?"

"It does, and it ALSO has to do with surface area versus volume," I said, and, unable to let an opportunity for education go by, gave her the Reeses Cup Analogy. (Later post.) She listened attentively, but even if she hadn't, it didn't matter. I'm bringing nanotechnology understanding to the masses! Hooray!

And I have pretty hair, also Hooray.

The Need to Ball

No, not the need to bawl. The need to ball. The need to floss. To flash your bling. Okay, people over 35: The need to...oh, heck, I don't even know the older slang words...the need to flash your wad? Ah, I got it! The need to show off by the use of fancy toys.

It's a little long.

Anyway. Sorry I haven't been blogging much. I've had a lot on my mind, and while sometimes it's good to blog about that kind of stuff, sometimes it's not. I've been working on losing weight again--down eight pounds!--and working on saving money. I've been contemplating simplicity versus stuff. I've been drooling over my friend Sarah's apartment, which is a perfect little studio with the CUTEST kitchen and bathroom ever. (It makes my place look too large and overdone.) I've been obsessing over Mint.com, which has a bunch of new and amazing features, including a graph that shows how much money you've spent versus earned in the past six months, and if the numbers are right, all I can say is: No wonder I'm carrying a balance on my credit cards. Wow. My new plan is to visit Mint six times a day, hoping that the very act of doing so will prevent me from spending money, which will in turn hopefully swing the balance of earned vs. spent back to black. (However, in spite of all my other faults, my net worth is not too bad. My 401(k) balance exceeds my car loan and credit card debt, so disregarding my student loans, my net worth is positive! Um. If that even counts.)

It's so interesting, this need to floss. I COULD, of course, take the bus to work, and walk up the stairs, and drink tea, but I sure feel a lot spiffier driving my Jeep right up to the door of my work, getting a VIP parking spot in the shade, walking four steps, riding the elevator up to the fourth floor, taking a sip from my Starbucks mug and drawling to my personal assistant while raising my massive sunglasses, "Anything important, darlin'?"

Perhaps my imagination ran away with me on the last part, but that doesn't negate the ease and spiffiness of driving and elevating rather than walking and stair-climbing. Sadly, it's never cool to arrive somewhere out of breath and rushed. (Busy, self-absorbed, and on the phone, though, is still totally cool. Totes.)

The POINT is, I was recently talking to a grad-school friend, who told me that in waiting tables he had earned more than enough money for the whole summer and couldn't decide if he should keep working or quit and devote more time to his side projects. "Uh huh," I said thoughtfully, doing some fast mental arithmetic. Let's see, call it $150 per shift including hourly wage and tips, he's worked about ten shifts...okay, so $1500. We'll call it $2000 to be generous. Sure, that's a lot of money. And then I looked at Mint again and realized that I spent, on average, $4200 a month. (And no, I don't actually make that much, hence my problem.)

What happened to my days of subsisting on $500 a month? That summer in which I lived at my sorority for $300 for the entire summer, waited tables and participated in a few medical experiments, and had more money than I knew what to do with? Times were certainly tight, or could be, but the cash flow of tips makes up for a lot of budgeting ills. There was always more money. And there was always food, at the restaurant. A human's needs are actually very basic: food, shelter, transportation. (We'll take for granted that said human lives in a city and has access to clean water--this is basic living, not post-apocalypse living.) Once you've paid for the roof over your head and you have a place to get food, the rest of your money--which exists mainly to ensure your food and shelter in the future--should be excess, right? It seemed so, at that time. I imagined what would happen if at some point in the future I got a real job. I might make $50,000 a year, I thought. I would never want for anything ever again.

HA. That is not what happened. Instead, my needs expanded to fit my income. Suddenly I had a LOT of needs. I needed a car--and not a used one, a brand new one, and then I needed insurance and gas, and then I needed to drive fast, so I needed speeding tickets and higher insurance rates. I needed a nice apartment. I needed a lot of nice apartments because I chose poorly the first time, so I needed to spend a lot of gas driving back and forth between various apartment locations. Let's not forget that I needed to fill up those apartment with nice furniture. I needed new work clothes, and I needed (NEEDED) new work shoes. I needed high speed internet and cable TV, and then I needed to rent movies, and then I needed a Netflix account. I needed a better cell phone package. I needed to be online everywhere, so I needed a year-long contract with AT&T Wireless at Starbucks PLUS my home high-speed bill. Instead of drinking at dive bars where pitchers were 11 bucks, and that was all we got, I needed to go to fancier places with my new yuppie friends and order martinis.

Good LORD did I need a lot of things.

I thought that once I got a real job I had to change lifestyles--from the Young, Broke, and Barely Legal to the Old, Rich, and Upstanding Citizen. And I thought the Upstanding Citizen NEEDED all that stuff.

I was wrong, obviously. Completely wrong. I didn't need an apartment; I could have lived in a RV if I wanted. I could have even lived in a van, bought a $25/month gym membership at Boeing, and showered in the gym locker rooms. If I decided to get an apartment I could have gotten a studio. If I had chosen to get a one-bedroom I didn't need to fill it with furniture. Even after I got my work computer, I could have gone to a library all day and used their free wireless connection instead of buying one for myself at home. (I won't even mention how little I actually needed the one at Starbucks.) No one actually needs cable TV. And NO ONE needs MARTINIS at ten dollars a drink.

I'm getting on towards four years into my Old, Rich, and Upstanding Citizen lifestyle, and in some ways, I'm cutting back. I'm replacing martinis with beer and drinking fewer beers. I just cut my cable TV. (Need my internet, though.) (Yeah, sure I do.) I finally settled where I was going to live and I've lived there for more than a year, going on two. I carpool to work and take the bus where I can. I haven't gotten a speeding ticket recently and my insurance has gone down. I switched my bank account (FINALLY) so I no longer pay overdraft fees. Little steps.

But it's not really about that, because as soon as I freed up some money I found an amazing lingerie store and went to Japan and redid my apartment, putting me back in the hole. It's about reminding myself that the only thing I HAVE to do every day is shower, put on clean, presentable clothes, and go to work. I don't NEED anything beyond food for myself and Titan. I don't NEED Starbucks or to go out to lunch and I don't NEED to buy a cart full of groceries every time I'm at the store. I don't even need any more work clothes and I certainly don't need any more shoes. I can try to floss all I want to, but at the end of the day, Titan isn't impressed anyway and I'm home by myself bemoaning my credit card debt. Nothing flossy about that.

Movie Reviews

Everyone go see Wall-E immediately, IMMEDIATELY, seriously, drop what you're doing. It is really that good. Warning for sensitive people: BRING KLEENEX. I bawled through at least three quarters of the movie, often while laughing hysterically at the same time.

However, there is absolutely no rush to go see Wanted, and in fact, you could easily go without ever seeing it. You could watch Domino or Gone in 60 Seconds and have the same effect. Better yet, you could make a screensaver with shots of Ferraris, Angelina Jolie, and shiny guns, interspersed with screen-caps from The Matrix, and you would have the entire movie. Oh, and maybe a shot or two from Fight Club. Having said that, I enjoyed it, because I like all those things--Ferraris, The Matrix, etc--and getting them all together in one movie wasn't bad. Still. Not a work of art for the ages.

Overwhelmed by My Obligations

I have barely started on Japan pictures, I went camping last weekend and I have several good pictures from that, I did mostly nothing this weekend because I was down with strep throat, but I did see the fireworks. And so on. Blech.

Wednesday Links

Hey, I may not have anything interesting to say, but the internet probably does.

Some really good things from Slate today:

A Slate author lives for a day on a gas rig.

Can breast motion be harnessed to run, say, an iPod? This would be awesome!

Things To Read If Bored

This lady made a New Year's Resolution to use her crock pot every single day in 2008, and the resulting blog is funny, useful, and delightful. Meet The Crockpot Lady.

And if you grew up by an ocean, were fed raw seafood from an early age, and are slightly obsessed by all things briny, then you'll love this blog as much as I do: The Hama Hama Oyster Blog. Seriously awesome.

Note: do not apply these two blogs at the same time. Oysters are best enjoyed raw, seared, or broiled, or possibly grilled. I'm not sure they would be very good cooked on low for 6-8 hours.

Salsa Lessons Have Started!

The LT and I have started our Salsa Lessons; one down, four to go. We are still speaking to each other! Hooray!

And we learned things about each other--and ourselves--right away. I am apparently a very stiff follow compared to all the other girls, which I knew, but is still embarrassing--and necessary--to hear. And I introduced the LT to a Salsa Friend, who I then asked to dance, who joked that he was worried that the LT was going to beat him up. The LT was surprised, but I wasn't--I don't think he realizes how intimidating he can be, and how much he subconsciously calls out physical insecurities in others, although it's not his fault at all, poor guy. (Really, he's a sweetheart. Most of the time.) Dancing is so physical; it's hard to lie about yourself or others. I realized after a few rotations that I must be intimidating the hell out of my leads, because they kept backing away from me until they were stepping off the edge of the dance floor, and even then none of them tried to push me forward or even suggested that I might want to take a few steps backward. Next time, I'll write it on the insides of my eyelids: SOFTEN UP, you tense disaster. The world will not end if you don't get this move perfectly, but what WILL happen is that leads will start to avoid you, so soften up, already!

Either that or I hadn't worn enough deodorant. Hey, I report, you decide!

Poor Man's Twitter

Sunday Night

Titan is throwing up and I'm annoyed about everything.

No, Titan throwing up isn't anything serious. He drank a lot of lake water today and then got into chocolate, which is MY fault, sadly. I managed to get him outside for some of the ill effects (the ickier ones) but NOT in time to prevent him from throwing up half the pond in my living room. He's asleep in his bed now, a good sign.

Reflection on Monday Morning

LT and I did a smorgasboard for dinner--I just pulled out all the leftovers from all the fancy meals out I've been eating lately, and there have been a lot, between the anniversary dinner and sandwiches on the road--and it would have been yummy, had I had my salad ready and Titan hadn't decided to be sick. It amazed me, since I was already annoyed, how much the LT sitting at my computer while I got dinner ready bothered me. This is a long issue: I like to be entertained while I'm doing things, and the LT likes to leave me alone, hoping whatever task I'm performing will be done quicker with fewer distractions. I yearn to be watched while I put make up on, and chatted to while cooking. I actually don't multitask well, but light background conversation with just the LT isn't much of a drain on the mental resources, although of course I hang on every word of the LT's. (Hi, baby!)

Therefore, one of the reasons I was happy, on Sunday afternoon, to happen upon the smorgasboard method of dinner was that I thought my prep time would be nil, so the LT and I could hang out in the kitchen for at least a few minutes, but then I wanted to make salad and the LT immediately escaped to my computer to read about a plane we had seen that day, because he was curious, and then he tried to show me, and I've never cared much about classic planes and I've never cared less about them than I did tonight, with a sick dog and a strong case of annoyance going on already. SIGH.

The Rise of the Geeky Girl and Reactionary Men Who Should Be Sterilized

Or, Gender, Gender Issues, Power, and Powerlessness.

Welcome to Thursday. Let's get right down to it, shall we?

I'm not sure who has seen this article already--I know that my own mother had to bring it to my attention: Geek Girls: Revenge of the Nerdettes. Go ahead and read it, I'll wait.

Done? Good. This article is characteristic of the worst parts of Newsweek's "fluff" reporting, which is too bad because it allows really stupid people to take shots at the badly written article and then use those shots to try to smear the Nerd Girls. Although I should have expected that kind of slant from a site named Men's Activism.com: Reaction to Newsweek Article.

I especially like how the post and subsequent comments react to statements not even in the actual article or video, such as claims that the women in question are blaming popular culture or complaining that 'guys' can't tolerate a strong woman. Huge projection issues, anyone?

I shouldn't get so upset--I have no idea how many readers MensActivism.com has per week, and three comments to a post doesn't signify widespread beliefs, thank BLOG. It just burns me. It burns me like anonymous commenters saying Jennifer Love Hewitt is fat, it burns me like gross, paunchy men twice my age leering at me, it burns me like a recent comment from a homeless man about the supposed "girliness" of the LT's bike. (The LT's sport motorcycle is yellow. Not as manly as, say, a black Harley, perhaps, but no one sane, under any circumstances, would consider his monster of a bike not manly.)

I'm trying to find a common theme here. What, specifically, burns me about these encounters? Is it simply a question of reality? For example, Jennifer Love Hewitt is not fat. Under any circumstances. She may not be perfectly toned--therefore exposing a few lumps and bulges in a swimsuit--but I'd bet she still fits a size 4. So first, these people are factually wrong. Second, it also burns me that people--even a very few selected persons--feel qualified to judge, since according to statistics, it's very likely that the people marking Jennifer Love Hewitt as fat are size 16s themselves. For example, it burns me that the homeless man felt qualified to judge the LT's bike for being girly. I mean, seriously? You think you have room in your life to judge other people's possessions? And the few commenters who bitched about the claims they thought they saw in the Nerd Girl piece--how can you bitch about hypocrisy and dumbing down of standards when you've just proven you can't read what's actually on the page?

Perhaps it's reality. I know that my version of reality is right--especially in the areas of "people who wear a size 4 are not fat" and "homeless people have no room to decry the quality of motorcycles"--and it bothers me that a few don't agree. Or maybe it angers me more that the few who don't agree don't realize how wrong they are, don't realize how dumb they are, don't realize how far they've fallen to the bottom of the social ladder or how out-of-step they are with the rest of society. But what would I be able to achieve by somehow holding up a magic mirror to those I deem unworthy? Is my desire to hurt people that strong? And what if I discovered I was wrong and it was really me who was too far around the bend? My need to punish people who burn me in this way--especially, for example, old men who leer at me--scares me. And yet so far I've managed to stay on the right side of my anger.

Tuesday Morning

Talking with a Friend

Is more valuable than ten cups of coffee. I’m tired and sleep deprived, no one’s fault but my own, and I rolled into work this morning completely incapacitated. My friend L and I got some coffee, and my life was 50% better after coffee and 100% better after chatting with her.

(The Lazy B has three on-site Tully’s stands. Also dry-cleaning services and DVD rental services. There is some value in working at a site as large as most cities in America.)

On Being Tired

Before I left for Japan, when I started going to a hip-hop class about two months ago, I knew I was out of real dancing shape, but I had been running a few times a week and doing a little yoga. I was surprised at how difficult the class was, but also surprised that I could almost keep up. And I was pretty bendy.

Fast forward one month: in Japan, I walked what felt like miles and miles of stairs, but after retuning from Japan, I didn’t feel like running and I barely walked. And I haven’t done any yoga, or really stretched at all, period. Hip hop class last night was NOT my friend. I was creaky, non-bendy, and my muscle memory was shot. (Climbing the 99 stairs at the water tower and riding behind the LT on the motorcycle this morning didn’t help either.) My quads are definitely yelling at me today. Phooey.

On Finding Things That Work

My hip hop class works for me. I’ve been to good classes and I’ve been to bad classes, and the first time I attended this class I knew it was the right one. It’s difficult, it uses real music—hard, fast, slightly dirty—and we do a little toning before we start dancing. It doesn’t involve dated moves, 90’s music—or, god forbid, 80s music—and they really work us hard. I’ve run into enough bad classes to make me very thankful for the good ones I find. I still miss my kickboxing instructor—Tiffany—from Tacoma, and I was the thinnest I’d ever been in my junior year of college because I took a fantastic class at college from an instructor named David.

Complete Lack of Conclusion

Because I am very tired. Thank you.

On Vegetables

I STILL can't make myself buy the right amounts of vegetables and then use them correctly--or in a timely fashion--when I get them home. It's so frustrating. I can't figure out a limit of vegetables I can actually cook or eat in a week, or I tell myself that I'll overcome that limit when I'm actually buying the vegetables so I should get more. When the truth is I've NEVER looked in the fridge, hoping for vegetables, realized that I was out, and sighed and eaten macaroni and cheese instead. I have often put aside fresh vegetables in order to eat mac and cheese, however, and then been surprised when my vegetables turn to sludge in my crisper.

A whole pound of fresh asparagus sat for two weeks, until I roasted it. And it’s now roasted, covered with olive oil and sea salt and smoked salt, and still going bad in a plastic bag in my refrigerator. Maybe I should just admit to myself that I don’t much like asparagus—or maybe that I just don’t like the idea of it. I eat it if served to me, and I enjoy it thoroughly. But in my own refrigerator it loses its appeal. Why? Who knows?

I do like spinach, though, and have I bought that? No. And potatoes, and onions and garlic, and sunchokes, and all manner of dark leafy greens, or lighter salad ones, and peppers of all kinds (especially roasted, yum) and tomatoes—even bad ones—and all sorts of other veggies, yet I’m stopping myself from buying more until I eat the damn roasted asparagus. Phooey.

...For a White Girl

Last night at salsa I was dancing with a guy from Kenya who told me that I had a nice strut...for a white girl. I smiled at him, startled, and he could tell.

"No one's ever told you that before, huh?" he asked me, grinning.

"Actually, you're the second person tonight who's told me that," I was able to say to him, wiping the smile off his face.

That was true--a guy from the Dominican Republic had insisted not half an hour before that I must have some latino blood in me--and the Kenyan guy would have been wrong anyway. I HAVE been told that before--both explicitly, although that's much more rare, and implicitly. Usually it comes from men of color, although there's a few white guys that have braved such a remark. It's an old joke: white people got no rhythm.

Like most stereotypes, this is mostly true, but not always. I've seen plenty of white people with rhythm, and I've met a Mexican girl who just could not dance. And I've met a few black guys who couldn't dance, and the Dominican guy who insisted I had some latino blood in my couldn't dance, either, although he tried damn hard. But in general, taking all things into consideration, yes. This is mostly true.

Dancing is so interesting. It's both a liar and truth-teller. A good dancer can be a bad person, and a good person can be a bad dancer. (Good people can also be bad cooks, and good cooks can be bad people. This especially annoys me.) Dancing (and cooking, but I'll leave off the cooking discussion until another post) is an artifice, after all; it's a set of pre-programmed moves, thought up before you existed, invented by someone else, and you are just following along in their footprints. Dancing, also, is NOT an artifice; dancing is just body language written larger and more expressively, and it takes a really damn good liar to lie with their bodies. Maybe it's more accurate to say that dancing can't tell an onlooker who you are as a person--all it can say is that you have a reasonable sense of rhythm, can follow directions, and might understand social cues. But it CAN tell an onlooker whether you're tired, or nervous, or clumsy, or self-conscious, or drunk. Or happy or excited. Sports aren't as good for this. You'd think they would be--sports and dancing are just ways of moving your body at specified times, and there's even some crossover--but they differ in an important way. Sports is about goals. You throw a ball because you want the ball to move from your hand to somewhere else; you shoot a basket because you want the ball to go in the hoop. In dancing, there is no goal in mind; there will always be another song, there is always another move. The moves themselves are the goals. It would be like if baseball became about the throws, moving your arm in the most aesthetically pleasing way every time, not caring where the ball went. Sports can tell you if a person is good at achieving his or her goals, whether that means getting the basketball in the hoop or practicing enough to get better. Dancing communicates mood.

Over time, though, both dancing and sports will eventually communicate character. Overcoming challenges is an important part of character, after all. I don't know much about sports, but dancing with someone, repeatedly over time, will tell you if your partner likes to dance with a few known partners or likes to get to know new partners, if the challenge of dancing with someone new is more or less attractive than getting better at dancing with a few people, if she's a snob because she turns down ugly partners for cute ones. It will tell you if the person has an overly large amount of confidence in their own rhythm or skills (and therefore a big ego that might not take kindly to being deflated) or if they like being the center of attention or would prefer you to do the twirling.

For myself, I know that my mental state plays a large part in how I dance; if I'm sad or unsure, I'm a bad dancer. Happiness won't necessarily make me a good dancer, though. Serenity, or maybe it's more akin to treating dancing as a form of active meditation, is the best possible state for dancing; to be of the music, not just in the music. Watching my partner helps me catch leads. And I dance terribly with lovers, which I'm sure the LT is excited to hear because I just convinced him to sign up for salsa lessons with me. (Hi, sweetie!) With a partner that I have a relationship with--and not just a friendship, because I dance fine with friends--I want to communicate more, I want to have a say in where the dancing is going. I don't know why only romantic relationships bring this out and me, and not just friendships. I've had only one boyfriend that I danced well with, and it's because he was an unbelievably strong lead, a swing-dancer of the "wrench the follow's elbows" type. Odd, especially since I don't have trouble (or very little) relinquishing dance control to leads who are complete strangers.

And yes, dancing is all about control, which is why it's so often linked to sex, only it's a lot more caveman than sex is in this enlightened day and age. In dancing, there can only be one lead and one follow, and unless you are very, very progressive, the lead is the man and follow is the woman. Which means, as the LT and I take our upcoming lessons, that even though I've been dancing a lot more, I have to follow his lead (not so hard) and his rhythm (HARD). I have to completely relinquish control of the dancing. Which can be hard, for a white girl.

Randomness By the Numbers

1. I saw the Sex and the City move and it was worth the 10.25 I paid for it. I had forgotten how funny the dialog is. Best lines as of right now:

Miranda: "WHY did you DO that?"
Carrie: "I'm an emotional cutter."

2. I'm dehydrated. I never drink enough water at salsa, and I went last night. And then I drank a glass of wine afterwards. With no water. Horrible idea.

3. I have a new acquaintance--a friend of a friend--that I don't really like and it's hard to stop myself from being mean to her. This disappoints me. I hoped I was a better person than this. She's probably a very nice person with excellent qualities. She just rubs me the wrong way and I snipe at her. So far, if she's noticed, she's kept to herself, probably another sign of what a nice person she is and what a horrible person I am.

4. Titan is out of dog food as of this morning and I have to go buy more.

5. I'm breaking out everywhere and I'm annoyed.

6. In a fit of jet lag, I recently saw Immortal Beloved, thanks to On Demand. It was about 3 in the morning and it was an imperfect but beautiful movie. Sadder and more passionate than I expected. If you like classical music, or slow-moving love stories, definitely rent it. Isabella Rosellini is especially enjoyable.

7. I decluttered and rid myself of a medium-sized garbage bag of stuff, plus a stack of magazines almost as tall as Titan.

8. I am very sleepy.

9. YAWN.