Two-Thousand Vertical Feet of Foolishness

Yesterday I dragged someone along on a fool's errand that no one in their right mind would have agreed to accompany me on, unless they had given birth to me or perhaps really, really, really wanted to date me. I made someone take a day off of work to drive with me to Crystal Mountain to hike up two-THOUSAND vertical feet in order to help me look for a lost ski. The errand was a complete bust, and it's a wonder my mother is still speaking to me.

However, we DID get a really amazing hike in, the kind of hike that preps you to climb things like Mount Rainier, and of course we got a chance to talk, also fun. My mother is an inveterate people pleaser, another reason why she'd agree to hike up a mountain with no path and slide down same mountain on her rear on the way back down, and we talked about this and how I've inherited it.

"But I don't mind if people don't notice me," she said. "I just can't stand it when people DON'T like me."

"I'm not quite the same," I said. "I need to be noticed more than liked. I'm okay with people liking me or despising me. I can't stand it when people don't see the POINT of me, like I could suddenly stop existing and the world wouldn't change for them at all."

Which brings me to my story of the weekend. After said two-thousand vertical feet I went to my gorgeous new friend A's house for some wine and chatting with several other ladies (and a few gentlemen) and during said chatting, the audience got the story of That Time I Brought Two Dates To The Same Party.

"How did you, logistically, HANDLE it?" queried an male acquaintance.

"I told the second one," I said. "I was dating one guy, and then I started dating a second guy, and I told the second one that I was dating the first one, but I was throwing this party and the first guy was going but I also wanted Guy #2 there, if he wouldn't mind the slight awkwardness."

"See, at that point I would just say to myself, 'This isn't worth the trouble,'" said the male acquaintance, and unspoken was the implicit follow-up, "and I can't see anything so special about you that would make me change my mind."

Oh, well. Some people just don't see the point of me. And those people are probably more sane than the people who do. But who needs sanity in this day and age?

Did Something Important Happen?

So, all of you may have heard that we had some election or other. I have no idea. I just voted, and went home after work, puttered around the house, and got to sleep early and blissfully.

HA! HA! Boy, sometimes I crack myself up.

Who am I kidding? I was definitely out. Watching the election results roll in at McCormick and Schmick's, sitting next to a Republican. When Obama won, everything in the bar stopped; all servers and bartenders dropped what they were doing and rushed to the TV screens. I became emotional, as did the waitress next to me. We hugged each other.

I teared up again, along with the Republican next to me, at McCain's concession speech, one of the classiest and most gracious concession speeches ever, and at seeing Governor Palin up there, blinking back her own emotions. I pointed this out to the Republican. "She's never lost anything before," he reminded me.

And then on to Obama's speech, which I found inspiring and blessedly realistic, and then out into the streets, where there were crowds unseen even at the millenium New Year's Eve. Hordes of people blocked the streets, dancing and singing, marching and hugging. It was a huge party. People banged on car windows and on bus windows, shouting and cheering; every bar was packed. Up in Cap Hill it was only a little quieter. People set off fireworks. It was wonderful, to see so many people so excited about politics, and humbling, that I could be a part of this great nation.

Scarily Optimistic

All right, people. It’s Election Day. I’ve voted. I’m sure you all have voted. In fact, today was the first time ever I prayed in a polling booth. Fortunately, this being America, I don't have to tell you who I prayed to, and I hope that continues forever.

And I’m here to announce that although I’m obviously pro-Obama, to tell you the truth, if McCain wins, I’m not going to fall into a pit of depression. He’s a good man, a war hero, and a sensible politician.

And if he dies—Blog Forbid—then Palin will be President, and the best part about that is that we’ll have a FEMALE PRESIDENT! That would be pretty awesome, regardless of what party she represents or how she got there. We as a nation would finally join the rest of the world.

No matter what happens today, I have a scary feeling of patriotism and hope for our country. Whoever wins, there’s not enough love and compassion in this world and I’m going to try my best not to subtract from the little there is. If McCain wins, I’m going to find someone who voted for him and hug that person. What’s most important is that we, as neighbors and citizens of the United States, can talk to each other, understand each other, and have compassion on one another.

May the best man win. And Go America.

Sunday Night Transparency

I was sitting at my computer, minding my own business, not really watching the clock. Sure, I had a dinner to go to, but I wasn't planning to eat and I hadn't really settled on a time to leave, which meant I might leave ANY time, really.

And then a Gchat window from Tri-Tip pops up.

"We know you're just blogging," he says.

I was confused. I was just blogging? Was there something else I was supposed to be doing? Had I promoted false advertising about my computer activities? Had I told someone I was actually writing?

"What?" I typed back.

"Get over here," he commanded.

And then it hit me. Tri-Tip was at the dinner that I was supposed to be at. Due to his fancy phone, he was on Gchat, and he noticed that I was also on Gchat, realized I was at home when I was supposed to be at dinner, and taken the opportunity to virtually hound me. I had never felt so naked in my life. Tri-Tip may as well have had a camera over my desk--his ability to pinpoint me was that good. He couldn't see me, but he knew where I had to be.

Of course, if I had a fancy phone with Gchat on it, like his, or if I had set my computer to never show me as inactive, his surety that I was physically at my computer would not have been as strong. But those who know me know that I only have that Gchat program on my home computer--I won't put it on my work one and my phone doesn't support it. So! Combine personal details with computer knowledge, and...virtual sight.

It doesn't upset me; I think it's neat, of course, because I am a techno-geek like that. And you better believe I jumped out of my chair, slapped on some makeup, and rushed to dinner.

"Man," I said, pulling up a chair. "You can't get away with anything in this town."

I Found My Polling Place, And You Can Too

Can you even believe that Election Day is LESS THAN A WEEK AWAY???

I've stopped watching the news, actually. I'm just going to vote. And I know where I'm going to vote, because I took the time to go to MyVote.com a month ago, check my registration, and register to vote in Seattle, and then I checked my status this morning to verify that I was registered in King County, which I was.

And then I called this number: 206-296-VOTE (8683). I pressed (2), I entered my birthdate and house number, and boom: the recorded voice told me where I was assigned to vote. It was very quick, very easy, and I didn't have to talk to a person, which was a good thing in this case. I know where I'm going to vote on Tuesday! Hooray!

Which is a good thing, because I'm flying out that day to go to St. Louis. The end of the year Crunch Time has begun.

Little Green Bits

I took a weekend and went to The Homestead, this weekend, to see some people and do some things and generally make a nuisance of myself, which I did to the fullest extent. I got to see Jennie for the first time in maybe six years, and I got to see a bunch of hometown friends and I got to go out in Tacoma, certainly an...individual experience, and it was all well and good, except that all day Sunday I had to sing. Yes, sing. Which is normally an activity I like. I'm not very good--and certainly I'm way out of practice--but I can carry a tune and read music, and I like to do it.

Except when I've been out the night before among Tacoma's alcoholics, shouting over people--and when the night before THAT I had been up here in Seattle, at Neighbors, of all places, shouting at my friends over the very loud dance music. (The topic of the night at Neighbors: are those very friendly boys military and enjoying their don't-ask, don't-tell policies? Or are they just imitating the look?) (I voted for actually military.)

ANYWAY. Shouting over dance music and then shouting over Joy Division, two nights in a row, is not recommended. Sunday I took four aspirin and sang for hours, and then Monday I woke up with no voice at all, and coughing up little green bits of phlegm.

But you know, these things happen. It's the price I willingly pay.

So There I Was...

Titan and I were just walking along, minding our own business, passing a pair of dogs with their owner, when all of a sudden there was an Altercation with one of the dogs. I tried not to panic, stayed out of the way, grabbed Titan's leash when I could (NEVER get in the way of a dog fight!)--and pulled him out. The dog owner and I exchanged "Ohmigod, are you okay?"s, and after giving Titan the once over in the dark, we went ahead and walked on to my apartment.

On the way into my apartment, Titan rubbed his left ear on the wall and I didn't think anything of it. We entered my apartment, with Titan shaking his head as if to dislodge something from his ear, and suddenly I noticed that I had a drop of blood on my hand.

"I must have gotten scratched during that brawl," I thought, and that was the last coherent thought I had for some time, because it was about then that I noticed that half of Titan's ear was missing. And like a camera coming into focus, I lifted up mine eyes and saw a sea of blood, all over my apartment, all over the floor, all over my papers and in my wine glass and all over the walls and door and mirrors. I thought about Titan rubbing his ear on the wall up the stairs to my apartment and, dreading what I might see, opened my apartment door again.

Oh. Blog. It looked exactly like Jason had dropped by my apartment building and stopped for a second to clean his chain saw. A huge swath of dog blood ran the entire length of the wall.

And then a lot happened all at once. I dragged Titan into the bathroom, washed his ear, and tried for the life of me to stick a bandage on it. Let me tell you how hard it is to get a bandage--ANY bandage--to stick to a furry, soft, flexible ear. Every time I'd think I had it on there, he'd shake it off--and spray the bathroom walls, shower curtain, and mirror with more blood.

Finally I got it somewhat bandaged and dragged him into the hallway while I used hydrogen peroxide on the blood stains, and about then I had to call for help. Fortunately a very nice boy had some good advice and offered his services.

"Just come over here," he said, himself the owner of a big dog. "I have liquid skin, and a big plastic cone. I'll help."

On the way, flustered and lost, I ended up in U Village and thought I would take the time to get bandages at the Bartells. And then I looked at myself. I looked exactly like I'd been in a room with blood spatter--it was on my skin, on my arms, all over my white tank top, and of course I'd been too flustered to bring along a damned jacket. Sarah called me about this time, as I was digging out my motorcycle jacket from the back of the car.

"Sorry," I said, juggling the phone from one ear to my shoulder to the crook of my elbow. "I'm putting on my motorcycle jacket."

Sarah, on the phone, sounded a little confused. "Are you going for a ride?"

"Oh no," I said, maybe a trifle hysterically. "Titan got his ear bitten off and I need to buy bandages and I can't go into the store to get him any bandages in my blood-spattered tank top!"

Sarah: "...Well, as closing lines go, that's a pretty damn good one."

Outclassed

Sarah and I, talking about depression and comfort foods:

Me: "I've stopped even putting brie on bread--I just eat smooshes of it off the butter knife."

Sarah: "I've started eating FAKE guacamole."

Me: "...Wait, what? Are you just eating the green avocado paste?"

Sarah: "No. I've started eating the PRE-MADE stuff. That's how lazy I am."

Me: "Are you telling me that you normally make your own guacamole??"

Sarah: "Well...sure. Don't you?"

Re-Reading: A Short Ode

I'm not the only one who re-reads obsessively! Gretchen Rubin does it, too!

Comfort Food For Your Mind.

Gretchen Rubin's blog, The Happiness Project, is not just fascinating but also useful--as opposed to my blog, which is just fascinating. (RIGHT?) Today she has a post about finding comfort food for your mind in the midst of stress and anxiety, which is not only a great idea, but might prevent people from EATING comfort food, since the whole point of comfort food is to relax your mind. Wouldn't be easier just to relax your mind without the food? Go straight to the source, as it were?

And also, you might get skinnier?

In the post, she mentions that Victorian literature or children's books are comfort food for the mind, for her, and that she often re-reads: "When I’m upset, I want the comfort of knowing that I’ll love the book and that I won’t be upset by some unexpected plot twist."

AMEN, SISTER. I admit in full view of Blog and Everyone that I am an obsessive re-reader, re-watcher, and re-player, often to the detriment of those around me. The "repeat song" option on iTunes was invented for people like me--before its arrival I had to Alt-Tab over to my mp3 player and actually hit the "<<" button every time I heard the song coming to an end, which was imprecise and broke my concentration. I once sat, writing, in my then-boyfriend's single dorm (hi, SP!) and played the same Metallica song over and over and over again, until he finally rose up and closed the mp3 player.

People arriving in my apartment often comment on the number of books I have--a lot--and I've read some decluttering articles about how books are a source of clutter, and every right-thinking person should cull their collections occasionally. That's a Palin-load of nonsense. Not only does Freakonomics' Stephen Levitt back me up--a high concentration of books in a home has been linked to higher grades, and heavy library visits don't have the same effect--but a big source of happiness for me is to have my own private library of favorite books that I can read over and over, twice in a day, three times in a day, maybe as little as once a month. Re-reading is the bomb.

My Weekend on YouTube

This isn't really my weekend at all--no one appeared in Viking hats, sadly.



But nevertheless it's an excellent song for exactly what everyone does in L.A, which is where I am.

Blog Block

The problem with everyone and their brother reading my blog is that if I start doing things that I DON'T want everyone to know about, I can't blog about it. And no, I haven't suddenly started making meth in the basement (because I don't have one) or going to the Mormon Church's Single Sundays--which do exist, by the way--because I have no idea where the nearest Mormon temple is around me and I don't care to find out. Really, it's a combination of motorcycle class (I have my REAL license! I passed the test with flying colors!) and dating and Blog knows what else--although the blog doesn't actually know, as I haven't yet shared--plus the fact that I haven't slept through the night in two solid weeks. I don't remember the last time I suffered this badly from insomnia and I am OVER it, people. So over it. Make a note.

But in spite of these obstacles, I will be back to blogging very soon. Promise.

Advice from Mom

Keep your hands away from your face.

Don't pick at it.

Smile, Miss Dear.

Pull your shoulders back.

Sit up straight.

Always have some green on the plate.

Wait for the boy to call you.

If you take hours in the bathroom, eventually your date will leave you.

Walk after dinner.

Coffee creates mood swings.

Sugar ruins your skin.

Eat more protein.

You can get water for free from the drinking fountain.

Don't be jealous of skills that other girls have. Each person gets something.

When in doubt, buy the next size up.

Don't get in a power struggle with a boy. Let him have his own way. You do things your way when you're not with him.

Blot--BLOT--don't rub.

When in doubt, a big smile will get you a long way.

Comb that hair, Miss Dear.

STAND UP STRAIGHT, sweetie! How will people see your beautiful figure if you slouch?

This idea copied blatantly from Maggeh, who besides having the coolest name in the world, is a genius.

In Honor of GET OUT THE VOTE Day

A great video:



For some reason, my firefox is acting up today, so if you can't see that, try this link on Internet Explorer. That worked well for me.

It's well-shot, and well acted, except for perhaps Halle Berry. Jonah Hill and Sarah Silverman are especially good. Send it to five friends! GET OUT THE VOTE!

Also, if you're in Washington State, the deadline to register is Oct. 4th, BUT you can still go to the county auditor's office and register for the next FIFTEEN DAYS, so HURRY. HERE is a list of all the county auditor offices. (Look at me, I'm doing research!)

What if you're registered--or think you are--but you can't remember where? No worries. Try here: MyVote.

Clarification on Yesterday

My life has not ACTUALLY gone to pot. My mother emailed me, concerned: "How can your life have gone to pot already? You're only 27!"

My life is really fine, thank you for being concerned, everyone. No worries. But my pipes have been backed up for three days and tends to put a damper on a girl's mood, not having plumbing or being able to use her kitchen sink or bathroom sink. It's amazing how dependent a modern girl can be on indoor plumbing. And I've been working a lot, because it's SAT week and my high schoolers are FREAKING OUT. Also I dropped a favorite mug a friend gave me and I'm sad about it, and I cut myself (AGAIN) on said mug, but beyond that, I am fine.

Moving on to vegetables: I ate my missing two cups yesterday, in the form of vegetable soup, and I've already eaten two cups today, in the form of vegetable soup. (Green on Green soup, to be specific.) Just half a cup of vegetables to go.

I know you're fascinated by my vegetable habit. Don't try to hide it.

The Vegetable Challenge

When the rest of your life goes to pot, talk about food instead!

Some absolutely terrific blogs I have found lately:

Heat, Eat, Review.

Are you single? Do you eat a lot of processed food? Is Lean Cuisine one of your actual food groups? You need this blog. It will absorb guilt, process your extra sodium, and actually tell you what processed food to eat and to avoid. And it's funny.

Cheap Healthy Good.

I didn't mean for my first two blog suggestions to both have three word titles, it just happened that way. 'Swear.

Anyway. Cheap, Healthy, Good is exactly what it sounds like--they focus on tasty, healthy food--and it has to come cheap. They break out all their recipes by nutritional info AND by dollar amount. That's pretty sweet. A favorite recent post of theirs analyzes the favorite foods of the presidential candidates.

Culinate.

I just found this blog, and I can't believe I didn't find it before. It's awesome for a number of reasons--the actual experience and knowledge of the contributors, the emphasis on how food shouldn't be fancy, just good, and most of all, The Vegetable Challenge, which I just joined. Now I have to eat five servings of veggies every DAY. But hey, I could win a cookbook!

My progress so far today: I ate 1/3 of a cup of frozen, mixed vegetables with my lunch. Only another two cups to go. Humph.

Pesky Exes

LT: "You should check Dave's latest posts to the photojournal. He finally got to the holiday party, and there's a decent couple shot of us. If you're still collecting those."

Me: "Wow, these are good. It's always weird seeing what my life was like nine months ago, though. According to Dave, we won't be broken up until April 2009."

(Our friend Dave, while a great photographer, is a slacker. Oh, and he went to Italy and is having a baby, or something else non-important.)

LT: "HAH! Talk about a crimp on BOTH our love lives!" "No really, sweetie," he said, addressing some future girlfriend, "we’re NOT seeing each other anymore! I swear!"

Me: "Yes. I was trying to find a specific picture from three years ago last night, with an audience. He watched me click through pages and pages of pictures of you and I and finally said, 'Really, you can find it some other time.'"

LT: "Whoops."

Me: "Yes."

Oh well, at least we can laugh about it.

How Do You Like THEM Apples?

Or, I Tried to Chop My Finger Off Again, and Then I Got Mad.

There I am, chopping an apple, minding my own business, and somehow my Wusthof paring knife slips through the core like it's nothing and catches itself in my thumb. AGAIN. Last time it was a peeler, this time it was a knife, but it was an apple both times. An apple a day fulfills your suicidal tendencies, as they say.

Oh, they don't say that?

After all the fuss I put in on the previous apple crop--the hours spent picking the apples with my family, the tree climbing, the buying of the peeler, the sacrificed finger tip--I was beyond irritated to learn that the crop was the wormiest crop I'd ever seen. The universal sadness of the failed farmer rose up and whomped me in the face. I'm a city girl 99.9% of the time, but my family has been growing apples--and a few other assorted crops--for a long time. I care about my food and I care about the time I put into it--or rather, the time that nature puts into it, because rain and sunshine do most of the work, you just have to wait it out. And when you've waited for months and planned out your pies, you're pretty devastated to see your plans dissolve. Each apple I cut in half to see worm tracks made me madder and madder, until I began to see the point behind DDT. Goddamn the birds, full speed ahead! Bleeding heart liberals who decry the fact that people could ever shoot Bambi should be lucky enough to put in months and months and months of sweat, blood, tears, and money into a vegetable crop, only to see a crop of angry deer trample your babies--I mean, vegetables. Your hopes, dreams, and tomato sauce for the next year, gone.

Of course, the situation today isn't that dire. It's America. My family has never been too poor to eat. The water is clean and food is artificially cheap. (And artificial, but that's another post.) There are always more apples. We aren't selling our apples for our livelihood, and even if the slugs get my mother's tomatoes, we can buy more. We aren't starving--in fact, that's the opposite of my problem!--but good Lord does it make me MAD, knowing how much time and effort went into that head of spinach, only to see it eaten by overfed snails.

Fooey.

Republican Warning: Read At Your Own Risk!

...but it is very, very funny.

A Conversation Between Obama and West Wing President Jed Bartlett.

Made it to Thursday!

I got over my cold, Titan's ear is healing, and the conference happened successfully. Hooray. And all that. My thoughts go to Quatoes, though, who had a worse week even than I did. :(

Also, the economy is tanking. But never mind that! Let's talk about fancy cars!



Calsee and I saw one of these the other day, on our girl's afternoon out--we also got super-high-quality sandwiches and went to SAM--in dark blue. And it's so goddamned impressive, I can't even convey it properly.

A Packed Four Days

Hello! It is Friday. I am stressed. I am coordinating a conference, I got sick--but am getting over it--and my dog got half his ear torn off. All since Monday. How has your past four days been?

After some frantic bandaging and frantic cleaning--because Titan shook his head over and over before I realized what was going on, and the blood spatter damage to my entrance hall and apartment cannot be described without dipping into terms like "serial killer" and "Jason" and "Friday the 13th"--I had a date, took Titan to the vet, etc, etc. The conference is still happening. I am getting over my cold. Titan's ear will live, Titan will live, I am going to the Raconteurs' concert. Hooray!

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.