Dating Episode # 255, or, Introducing Molly

It's a bright Saturday morning after my neighbor's house party, and the nice thing about having a house party at your neighbor's apartment--which is across the hall--is that you can just run next door for anything that a guest might need, like Scotch, or matches, or perhaps a flatbread pizza. (Yes, I have flatbread pizza just waiting at my house for guests. I am personally keeping my local Trader Joe's in business.)

Anyway, the bad thing about all that trekking back and forth is that you might forget something. Like...your coat. Which has your wallet in it. And the next morning you might have a date with your posse for breakfast. Breakfast, which costs money. Which is in your wallet, which is in your coat, which is in your neighbor's apartment, which is locked, and you are already late for breakfast and your ride is honking at you from the parking lot.

Molly, my ride, finally called me. "Where ARE you?" she said, irritated, and I explained the situation. She laughed at me. "It doesn't matter, just get in the car," she said. "We HAVE to get to breakfast, because I have a voicemail I have to share with everyone."

By the time we get the restaurant, the rest of the posse is sitting down, and Molly whips out her phone. "YOU HAVE TO LISTEN TO THIS," she says, and presses play. The restaurant is so loud that we can't all hear it at once, so Calsee gets to listen first. It doesn't matter, because watching Calsee's face turns out to be the most fun.

Calsee's face goes from interest to shock. "Is he...CRYING?"

"Just wait," Molly says.

"Oh my God," Calsee says, "Is he SINGING now?"

Five minutes pass. The boy cries his heart out, sings, "I'm All Out Of Love", and then tells Molly to stop being a brat and just call him. Calsee hands back the phone, a priceless look on her face.

"How long have you known this guy?"

Molly is a hot, hot blond with a subversive streak and a barely hidden contempt for most social niceties. This is unsurprisingly a potent combination for attracting just about every male under 40--and especially the weirdest possible males under 40, which Molly dates for entertainment value, both for herself and for us. There was the hockey player. The body builder with the Adderall addiction. The thirty-two year-old man who played Christina Aguilera and drank White Russians. The man who sent her shirtless pictures of him flexing in a mirror. And I'm sure I'm forgetting someone.

And now, the Art Student from Axis who, after meeting her once, set her a five minute voicemail of crying, singing, and berating all mixed together. In the next week, I fully expect her to meet a circus clown who proposes marriage. And it is going to be AWESOME.

Sleep. Deprived.

Just yesterday I was burbling, annoyingly, to my mother, "I'm getting less sleep overall because of my more crowded job schedule, but I'm getting much better sleep quality because my brain is tired! No more insomnia! This is great!"

Today I am bloody tired. I have not slept more than five or six hours a night in a week. The bags under my eyes may become permanent. Domino, my favorite decor magazine ever, is closing its doors. I am way more scared about the economy than I ever was before and I have the horrible premonition it's going to get worse. I personally know two people who have been laid off, one from Starbucks Corporate and one from Microsoft, and another friend lost two and a half weeks of pay because his company put everyone on unpaid holiday over Christmas.

On the other hand, the cold snap has broken. (Global warming somehow skipped Seattle. It has been about 20 degrees here for a week. Before yesterday, I hadn't had any feeling in my hands since the New Year.) And I still have both my jobs. It could be worse.

Things I'm Supposed to Love, But Don't

Rock Band.

I've tried it several times, and I have finally accepted this truth about myself. Seriously? People play this nonsense? Learn to play a real instrument or don't bother.

Hey, I'm not a snob. I'm all for amateurs--music doesn't have to be perfect! At an inauguration party recently, we busted out into a badly harmonized version of The Star Spangled Banner that had the only music major in the room cringing. (The harmonic IDEAS were there. He insists we were off by a crucial minor second. Whatever.)

Back to the topic: amateurs are awesome. I'm definitely for karaoke, for busting some jams with a friend, for singing on the street. It's important to know your limits, of course. But there's no need to keep quiet just because you don't play with the Seattle Symphony.

But to recourse to Rock Band--ugh.

Friday Morning Snippets

Friday mornings turn out to be not so bad when you have wakeup calls and iSnooze.

Of course, I've only been up for two hours. Ask me again at lunchtime.

Happy Friday, everyone! I got about five hours of sleep, give or take, after salsa dancing until midnight and getting a parking ticket--also around midnight--for parking HEAD IN instead of REAR IN.

That seems to me to be the last word in frivolous--seriously, you ticketed me at 11:30 pm for parking in a real spot, but in the wrong direction? I mean, I guess we are in a recession, so Seattle needs the money. But seriously?

Fortunately, none of my friends have been laid off yet--not even from M'soft, which will cut 1400 jobs in this region by today--and Obama will end the funding ban for groups abroad that provide abortion services or counseling, a small gesture that is completely awesome, although expected. (Reagan passed the ban as he took office. Clinton reversed it. Bush re-instated it, etc, etc.)

Also, I have a fancy dress party to attend tonight, and nothing to do tomorrow! HOORAY!

A Good Hair Day

Me: "Sorry I had to hang up in the middle of calling you. I just had my hair done, and as I left the salon, a man just stopped me on the street and asked me to go have a drink with him."

Sarah: "WHAT? Did he look normal?"

Me: "Yes!"

Sarah: "What did you say? What did he say? What happened?"

Me: "I was in the middle of dialing your number, and I smiled at him and his friend as we passed. He smiled back, and then he kept looking at me and turned around to walk with me, ditching his friend. He said, 'Who are you?' I told him my name, and he said, 'My friend and I are going to go have a drink in Belltown. Would you...like to come?' I said, 'I would love to, but I have to go buy shoes.'"

Sarah: "By the way, you are really testing out that 'A girl can never have too many shoes' idiom."

Me: "I like to go the extra mile. IN REALLY CUTE SHOES."

Sarah: (Sighs) "Moving on. Then what happened?"

Me: "He asked me if we could have a drink some other time, and I said we could."

Sarah: "Where the heck do you get your hair done? And do they have openings?"

Me: "Seriously."

Sarah: "Are you going to go out with him if he calls?"

Me: "He won't."

Sarah: "What? Why not?"

Me: "I asked him if he normally stopped girls on the street, and he said no. And I asked him, 'What makes me so special?' And then I went ahead and answered for him, and I went on and on about my hair and the salon."

Sarah bursts out laughing. "You asked him what made you so special and then you answered the question for him?"

Me: "Yes. I'm an idiot."

Sarah: "But an attractive idiot, apparently!"

Working and Cars

(And working ON cars.)

Speaking of cars! My car runs and there's beautiful sunshine today! HOORAY!

In fact, it's been sunny all weekend here, which is enough cause to throw a freaking party. I went for a long sunny drive to the beach (in the car! which runs!) and back, which was pretty fantastic, and my parents took me out for lunch after my dad rearranged my computer station for maximum awesomeness and my mom walked Titan.

In between those things, though, we had one of those epic nights at the restaurant that makes servers so bitter.

My friend T worked a double--he was already at the restaurant when I got there, so he had been stuck inside all day on a nice day, but that happens. We were pretty busy, according to the reservation book, so we were all girding our loins, but that happens, too.

What doesn't normally happen is the hot water disappearing. Which meant we couldn't use the dishwasher. Because the dishwasher won't run without water at a certain temperature. And the dishwasher doesn't have a heating element. So our dishwasher had to wash everything by hand. And in order to get hot water for the hand dishwashing, we had to BOIL IT ON THE STOVE. Parties kept calling and changing their numbers, meaning that my GM ran around like crazy trying to fit everyone in. Therefore, the servers absolutely could not make a mistake, because if you fired something wrong, it would be half an hour before the GM could get to the computer and authorize the void. Which would make your table wait half an hour for your check. We had a whole party of screaming children. A table of four completely stiffed us after their child threw cheerios all over the floor. I forgot entrees on two separate tables, both birthdays. At eight o'clock, the calculator broke, so in the middle of going crazy, we had to split checks and calculate 18% tips by hand. We technically close at nine, and the restaurant was still packed to the gills at nine thirty.

Nights like this make me happy that serving is no longer my primary source of income.

Moving on. My new job at my actual career is going well, which is awesome, although let me tell you that waking up every day at 6:30 after being at a restaurant the night before until 10 is not as easy as it sounds. I worked three shifts last week and didn't eat dinner any of those nights. As a result, I have lost three pounds. Hooray!

Gas Not Included

I drove to work. I drove home from work. I drove to the restaurant. I drove my manager to the bus stop from the restaurant. I got gas on the way back.

I noticed, when I got in my car, that I smelled like gasoline. "Hmmm," I thought. "I must have stepped in some. My cuffs are long. I will switch jeans when I get home."

I get home and switch jeans. My apartment STILL smells like gasoline. Five minutes later, two neighbors knock on my door. "Can you smell that?" they ask. I say that I think it's me, and the downstairs neighbor--who is fabulously gay--picks up my abandoned jeans and sniffs.

"JESUS, honey," he says, "what did you do? Bathe in it? Roll around in it? Did you shoot a porno at the gas station?"

I throw my jeans, shoes, and belt outside.

Five minutes later, my apartment STILL smells like gasoline. I realize that some of the windows I have opened for ventilation are directly over my jeans, now outside. I close these windows and open other ones.

Ten minutes later my apartment still smells like gasoline. I run out to my Jeep to see if she is leaking gas. I can't smell a darned thing.

Back inside, I also throw my coat outside.

Twenty minutes later, the smell seems to be dissipating.

Love and Value: A Eulogy

I know that it's wrong to speak ill of the dead, but I think the time has come for me to say how I really felt about Helter-Skelter, aka Trouble, aka my Jeep, aka the Worst Financial Decision I Ever Made.

I liked Helter, I did. And unlike Titan, who I can actually get mad at, I couldn't really get mad at Helter. It certainly wasn't her fault that she was so expensive. I chose to pay that high price, and I chose not to negotiate because I wanted that specific car, and the car salesmen knew it and they bled me dry.

Readers, I paid something like 33,000 dollars for that car. And I had 7.5% financing.

It's an outrageous price, an outrageous rate, and my monthly payments were equally outrageous. Add in the fact that I was driving a brand-new car and I had a terrible driving record, and you can imagine that my insurance premiums were pretty outrageous, too.

It all seemed worth it at the time, mainly because I had no idea what money was, how much it was worth, how long it took to earn enough money to pay for that car. Six years seemed like eternity to me, so why care? Why try to push for five years? Why try to lower the price? $564.90 a month seemed fine. I had no concept of reality, of what you COULD get for 565 dollars, how to measure value. I had never seen a car payment before and I had no idea what my parents paid a month, either for car payments or insurance. I had no idea what a good deal was. And even if I had known, it wouldn't have really helped. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I had money, what seemed like a LOT of money, and I was very ready to spend it.

And so Helter and I began our relationship, and in her defense, she tried her best to live up to her hype. She never caused me a moment of trouble--not likely in four years on a new car, but still it's worth mentioning--and she got me into and out of many a tight spot. She never rolled off that cliff or refused to start. Her radio, although nothing special, worked every day and accepted my iPod connections later. She never rolled over on me, in spite of my best efforts, and although she would never win a drag race, she gave it her all when I pressed down on that gas pedal.

After four years of crashing her through underbrush, backing her into telephone poles, rear-ending minivans, spinning her out on the freeway, crawling rocks, and turning left in front of speeding motorcycles, she slipped on a patch of black ice and gave up the ghost. Poor Helter. I never gave her a chance, really. By the time I realized how much I had paid for her, working to get the most value from her frame seemed impossible. I would never get out what I had put in, and so from the start, I never valued her. I never babied her, not once. I never loved her. I liked her, but it wasn't love. I treated her like a junk car that I had paid a pittance for, and by the end of her time, she looked like it. I couldn't use the rear wiper anymore because when I backed into a telephone pole, the back gate had bent so far in that the spare tire no longer gave the rear wiper enough clearance. She was black, and I never washed her. The interior was also black, and I never bothered to pick up the Titan hair, so the exterior and the interior were basically gray. I melted wax on a seat and stained the dashboard, and of course I drenched her in coffee. Her sides were scratched up, and she was beginning to develop rust spots on her hood from bird doings that I never cleaned off.

Maybe she committed suicide on that ice patch out of depression because she knew I didn't love her. I'll never know.

Now I have a new car. She's only a year younger than the girls I tutor, all of whom are now seniors in high school. When she rolled off the factory floor, the first Bush was still president. She already has 174,000 miles on her. Her hood is losing its paint, showing the primer underneath, and her interior lights are gone and there is actual mold on the console. I paid $800 for her, and put an additional $550 in her right away, in the form of all new fluids and an oil change. And I can tell already I will value her more than I ever valued Helter.

She doesn't have a name yet, but that doesn't matter. She needs babying and I am here to give it to her. She drives great and handles great and her four wheel drive works great, and everything else, I can fix. She doesn't have a radio, she doesn't even have cup holders, and I don't care. She's mine. Not shared with the bank and my dad: she's MINE. I paid for her, and I worked for every dollar that I used to buy her, and she's mine. I'm in this relationship for good. If it's under a year, so be it. If it's five years, I'll be there at the end.

Of course, I'll be a little more comfortable in her once I clean out her mold.

WE REGRET THESE ERRORS

By the way, this is--as always--inspired by The Stranger article of the same name. Which is just as funny this year as it has been every year, and that's pretty damn funny.

I recently went to Mediterranean Mix for the first time--after hearing about their falafel from about everyone--and it did not live up to the falafel hype. Mediterranean Mix regrets this.

Hallava Falafel regrets that it had to move to Portland due to the Georgetown Brawl.

The people involved in the Georgetown Brawl, specifically the guy from Smarty Pants, regret that they are such fucking idiots.

Seattle regrets that it now has no good falafel. Seattle should have done more to keep Hallava Falafel here, in spite of Hallava Falafel's too-cool-for-a-storefront thing.

Hallava Falafel regrets that it is too cool for a storefront.

Moving on to music: I regret that I never got to see the Massive Monkees battle with Dyme Def. That would have been an awesome show. Furthermore, I regret that there's still posters up in my neighborhood advertising that show, rubbing in the fact that I never got to see it.

Having just discovered the Duke and Dutchess, I regret not having found them earlier. They are awesome.

I regret the lack of really good women blues singers.

I regret the entire designer denim market. Specifically, I regret that now, due to the plethora of options and the flooding of the market by designers with no taste at all, that you can look just as bad in a simple denim trouser as you can in the REST of your over-designed clothes. Adding to this, I regret girls who wear jeans that fit them so poorly that the fancy pocket stitching sits half on their thighs.

Possibly related: also, I can't find a pair of designer jeans that looks good on me. I regret this.

Seattle regrets its mayor and snowstorms, both, but especially regrets the two of them together.

Travel Regrets:

On my trip to New York, in spite of all of my obsession about what to wear, I completely failed to look cute at any point in that trip. I sincerely regret this. A lot. I should have never worn my rather old and oversized winter coat, in spite of the 20 degree weather.

On a side note, I regret my winter coat, which has served me faithfully but really needs to be retired and updated.

In fact, I regret cold altogether.

Speaking of cold, I regret attempting to find a lost ski on Crystal Mountain in late October. Everything about that trip turned out poorly and I should have known better.

While in Tokyo, a very nice West African guy helped me buy a subway ticket at 5:10 a.m., when I was on my way to the Tsukiji Fish Market and he was getting off his job as a bouncer at a club. He asked to see me while I was in town, and I rejected him, as I had a boyfriend, I wasn't sure how to communicate that, and I didn't know what he was looking for, or how people dated in Japan. I regret this. It would have been awesome to mingle a little among the locals. Plus the club scene turned out to be impossible to break into if you weren't Japanese and it would have been great to have an in.

Jack in the Box and Taco Bell regret that they were torn down this year, making it impossible to find a bite to eat on the Hill for less than ten dollars an ounce. Everyone regrets this, especially stoners, drunks, bar hoppers, dog walkers, and...okay, everyone.

Dicks does not regret the sudden lack of competition.

Titan regrets eating carrots, hot cocoa, brie, saran wrap, almonds, and bread. He does not regret eating lamb stew.

I regret Titan eating my lamb stew.

My figure regrets me listening to the siren call of Starbucks. And not, say, the siren call of running.

My love life has not run perfectly smoothly this year. I have lied to people, I have been lied to. I have led people on, I have shied away from confrontation, I have passed on information that wasn't necessary. I regret all of this and resolve to do better in 2009. (Except for the telling of white lies, which I almost always regret NOT telling.)

However, the demise of my love has given me a lot more free time, and I do not, in any way, regret the number of awesome girl friends I have made this year!

I hope they don't regret becoming MY friend.

I regret Jaeger. And vodka. And tequila. And beer pong. (Some of the time.)

I do not regret red wine. In any shape or form.

And most of all, I do not, in any way, regret my birthday run, skydiving, or buying a motorcycle!

Happy 2009, everyone! May you strive for many more regrets!

Bordering on Giving Up Altogether

I had one of the worst days of my life ever, yesterday, ever. It reminded me of the old joke: It's a recession when your friend gets laid off, but it's a depression when YOU get laid off.

My friend got laid off and my Jeep was TOTALED, so I guess I'm somewhere in between a recession and a depression, and let me tell you, that is nowhere like being between a rock and a hard place. It is more like being in a dream sequence where a bad guy is chasing you and ahead of you is a cliff and you CAN'T STOP. Yes, my Jeep is gone, that Jeep that slid into a guardrail after hitting a patch of black ice going MAYBE 35 miles an hour, two weeks ago. Yes, two weeks ago. Seattle entered Thunderdome status after the worst storm we had in two decades and the body shops have all been a leetle backed up, not to mention the entire city is sold out of rental cars, I called seven places, DO I SOUND HYSTERICAL YET?

Plus I forgot my lunch today.

Help me. Send wine.

Greatest Picture Ever

Random sawhorse, some random street, Capitol Hill (Pike, I think):

Transference

There has been no recycling or garbage pick up in a month, maybe more. The bins are overflowing, both at home and on the street. People have stopped picking up their dog messes because once bagged, there is no place to throw them. The streets are filthy, Titan has a sore paw, I am out of wine and I CANNOT GET THIS PLASTIC CONTAINER OF PINEAPPLE OPEN.

However. The Starbucks are still operating. All is not lost.

I was standing by the side of the road on Monday, shivering in the 25 degree weather, waiting for the tow truck, watching the de-icing truck cover the spot I'd just slipped off, and all I could think was, "There are eleven people coming to my house in an hour and I will not be there. Also my place is a mess and I have no provisions. I had counted on having an extra hour to clean. Also I can't get there and I can't get to the store first anyway. What the heck am I going to do about all of this? Also, should I call the insurance company?"

My friend Calsee actually got into a head-on collision on Aurora and walked away without a scratch, a Christmas miracle, and as her roommate went to go pick her up and drive them both home, all Calsee could think about was apples. "I have no apples," she told Kit, her roommate. Later on when they got home she scoured their cupboards for apples. As they repaired for the night--again--Kit asked Calsee if she really felt okay. "I'm okay," Calsee said, "but I never got my apples!"

The human mind, when put under stress and cooped up and after noticing that the daily routines it depends on have completely failed, does very, very weird things. It reminds me of seeing Children of Men with a friend of mine. (It's a phenomenal movie, by the way. If you haven't seen it, do it. But perhaps not during the holiday season.) It's supposedly set in 2027, and the friend and I argued about whether England--and the rest of the world as we know it--could descend into that kind of chaos and despair in 19 years.

Given the rate at which Seattle has shut down given a complete lack of city support for three weeks, I'm increasingly sure that it could.

Boy, am I cheerful or what? Sorry. I just find human nature so fascinating. What makes minds go crazy? Why do they do it? What makes compulsions like OCD seem better than facing reality? Why did I only focus on my party after I'd run into a guardrail?

Still Here

Hi everyone. Seattle is having the worst storm in decades, there's snow everywhere, and all the businesses have shut down--and half the roads. My friends and I are celebrating by walking to each other's houses and having get-togethers, which is pretty awesome. My Jeep hit a patch of ice and and ran into a guardrail, which was not so awesome. (I'm fine, and the Jeep is repairable.) As I waited for the tow truck, the de-icing truck came along.

Now that's irony. And snow. So, everyone, stay warm, and enjoy each other this season.

A Little More Sunshine

Remember when I went to Boston? Like, a year ago? More than?

It was beautiful, and I took some pictures. And here they are.

From Boston, Fall 2007

From Boston, Fall 2007

From Boston, Fall 2007

From Boston, Fall 2007

From Boston, Fall 2007

From Boston, Fall 2007

Warmth By Computer

I don't know about you all, but it is 28 degrees here and snowing up a storm, and I haven't barely even warmed up from freezing to death in NYC just two weeks ago.

I desperately need warmth, y'all. Also I weighed a terrible number of pounds this morning that I can't talk about, really, and I can't drink sugary coffee anymore. So in lieu of hot chocolate, I bring you the following from L.A.

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

From LA

Warmer yet?

From LA

President Bush Has Fast Reflexes

The man must work out.

Bush Dodges Shoes On Farewell Visit to Iraq.

Definitely watch the video--the President moves quickly! I'm impressed.

That Time of Year AGAIN

You guys! I am going to turn 28 in two days!!!

It's true that most birthdays are celebrated in bars--at least, most of MY birthdays. Possibly you celebrate yours at home with friends, or alone on a sailboat, or naked and howling at the moon, or whatever. I won't judge.

This birthday will be slightly different. I blame it on all the runners I've been hanging out with recently. (Thanks a lot, ladies.) The Seattle Jingle Bell Run happens to be on my birthday, you see, and...well, I'm going to run it. With the aforementioned ladies, and a few gentlemen. Yes, we are waking up early Sunday morning and running a 5K. We may be hungover. We may be still up. We may have gotten a full eight hours of sleep the night before--hey, it could happen! (Unlikely.) But we are running it. Fortunately, a 5K is not a long distance--basically a fast stroll in the park. I'LL have trouble, but all the marathoners I hang with will be doing crossword puzzles while they're running, or possibly solving Rubik's cubes. Be sure to give them a hard time. In fact, come on down and give ME a hard time! We'll all have pink signs taped to our shirts and pink hats on, because we are classy.

And the Jingle Bell Run happens to benefit Arthritis Research. My dad has this disease, along with 20% of Americans. You may not think it affects you, but I bet you that you or someone you know has this disease. So, if you want to give, in support of my birthday run (what, the world doesn't revolve around me?) then be sure and go here and donate.

If you'd like to.

And thank you!

Sincerely,

Aarwenn

New York, New York

Radio City Music Hall Downstairs Lounge.

It was freezing, filthy-gorgeous, and kind of amazing.

I had been there before, but it had been some time, and going at Christmas is obviously one of the best times, although it's colder than the dark side of the moon. Rockefeller Center was all lit up, all the trees were lit, Saks Fifth Avenue had a light show (that my Little actually designed and built), and I got a real New York experience: my Little and I were leaving the St. James Theatre after Gypsy. The snow was falling and there were huge lines of musical fanatics waiting outside every theater trying to get autographs. Across the street, there was mass hysteria--Equus had just gotten out and Daniel Radcliffe himself was signing autographs on the way to his chauffered Range Rover. He's a lot shorter in person, which I realize is true about every actor ever.

More New York Experiences

I saw these guys performing:



Back to Saks Fifth Avenue: My little is a lighting designer and production manager. In New York City. She's kind of big time. Watching this, I just could not believe that I was standing next to the girl who BUILT it. My Little is amazing. (This isn't my video. It's way too high-quality for me.)



Besides Gypsy, we also saw the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular, which was over the top, but very watchable due to the incredible talent of all the performers. The building itself is worth seeing.

Lobby Staircase.

Downstairs Women's Lounge.

Lobby.

So stunning, so amazing to actually visit in person.

Way more pictures coming. I meant to post some last night, and instead, went to drink wine with two of my closest girls. It was definitely the better decision.

Trying to Pack For New York, Five Hours Before I Have To Wake Up.

The bus I have to catch to get to SeaTac leaves at 4:37 am and it's two miles away. I really, really, do not want to walk two miles in the dead of night carrying my luggage. I would leave now and just sleep in the airport except the bus has stopped running. (It stopped an hour and a half ago, at which time I was still at work. Boo Seattle and their non-24-hour transit.)

After some exhaustive research, during which I learn that none of the scheduled transporters leave early enough to make my flight, I finally decide to just take an effing cab. I console myself that I will take the bus BACK, at the normal traffic hour of 7:30 pm on a Monday, when there will be plenty of people out and so forth.

Packing is difficult. In spite of reading Lucky like it's required for my job, I have no idea what "normal but stylish" people wear in NYC, so I've packed: A lot of black. My long underwear, because daytime forecasts show a high of 38. A scarf, a hat, and my armwarmers. Sweaters. Button-downs and sweaters. (Hey, I look good in them.) Running clothes. (Just in case.) And a dress and boots, just in case. And one drape-y top.

Plus my longest coat, obviously.

And a snippet from the "duh" files:

I was sitting with a sorority sister of mine recently, in from out of town. We were in my apartment, and it was the last few hours I was going to see her for some time, and she was chatting away, and I had to check my work email, and my computer started behaving so badly that I cursed at her. She stopped talking, startled and hurt.

"I'm sorry," I quickly apologized. "Just give me a few moments of silence to get this worked out."

Once I had hurt her feelings, the laptop worked like a charm, of course. I finished my business. As we walked to the car, I felt terribly guilty.

"I'm so sorry," I said again. "I don't know why things not working the way they're supposed to drives me into such an uncontrollable rage."

She looked at me with long-suffering tolerance. "Possibly because you make things work for a LIVING," she pointed out. "Every day, your job is to make things work. I'm not surprised that when things don't work, it's an insult to your very being. You know you could design it better."

...

I stopped dead on the sidewalk. Titan sniffed a plant. "Holy CRAP," I said. "That never occurred to me. Ever."

"Hey," she said, herself no slouch in this department. "I'm a lawyer. Interpreting situations is MY daily job. I get you."

Only Dropped Things Twice + Some Looking Back

Fortunately, on two different days.

Hello! I have now worked five shifts at said restaurant position and all has gone swimmingly--enough so that they immediately added me to the schedule, after the first day, and today was my first day out of training. (WOOT I GOT TIPPED.) Also my new Lazy B position does not start until practically the new year, at which time I may have enough seniority at the restaurant to control my schedule and keep it down to a few shifts a week. It's a very chill, family-type atmosphere. Unlike huge places that have as many as 10 servers on at once, with another 10 bussers, there's a whole six servers total at V, and only three of us are on at any given time, with maybe one busser on the weekends. Already I know everyone, and have given a cook a ride home. (She lives within four blocks of me.) It's a blast and a half, not yet tarnished by the realization that I have to wake up and go to my real job every morning.


I took to it just like riding a bike, and I love it just as much as I did before, which is reassuring. I was worried that I had been unecessarily nostalgic about waiting tables due to a number of things happening at that time in my life--good support system, dating a longtime friend of mine, living with my best friend, etc. My life--the last time I waited tables, four years ago--was incredibly good and incredibly settled, and I only saw that getting better after I started working at The Lazy B.

WELL. My life got both better and worse, although not at the same time, and it certainly wasn't as settled. For some time after that.

Now, though, it's pretty settled. I have lived in the same place for two years and I easily see myself continuing on for a third. (The longest I've lived ANYWHERE after graduating high school.) My job, although it has changed, has been with the same company for four years, and I don't see THAT changing any time soon. (Cross your fingers.) And I'm waiting tables again, finally, which I love.

As for my dating life, well...a girl's gotta change up SOMETHING, right? :)

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Now playing: The Cambridge Singers (Holiday) - O Magnum Mysterium
via FoxyTunes

Ch-ch-ch-changes, Again

My life has changed radically and I owe it all to two very good friends, Ben and Molly. (Shockingly enough, both blondes.)

The first was Ben. I had been complaining to him for some time about how stagnant I felt in my position at the Lazy B. (Not the Lazy B's fault.) "Look for a new job," he suggested.

I laughed him off, and then I did so. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I'm proud to announce that I have a new position at the Lazy B, starting in the middle of December. It's a promotion and I'm pretty excited. I owe Ben a huge drink.

The second was Molly. Around the same time, I was complaining that I didn't get to wait tables anymore, and reminisced a little about how much I enjoyed it. "Start doing it again," she said. "Just one shift a week. You'll earn a little extra money and I won't have to listen to you bitch." (She was way too polite to actually say that last part.)

I also laughed HER off, showing my inability to learn from my mistakes. And then I investigated some "Now Hiring" signs.

Which is why I'm running off, in half an hour, to my first restaurant shift in four years. Hopefully I still remember how to hold trays steady.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! If there's one thing I'm thankful for, it's my ability to get hired. Blog bless jobs in this tough economy.

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Now playing: Duffy - Syrup & Honey
via FoxyTunes

Things Not To Say To Bachelors

There I was with a nice boy, having a nice time, and I wanted to compliment him. I took his arm; he properly held his arm at just the right angle so I could hang on gracefully.

"I like that you're domesticated," I said, giving his arm a little squeeze.

BANG went the arm. "DOMESTICATED?" he cried. "I object! I am NOT domesticated! I trash my apartment! I burp when I want to! I...I...have a line of hookers waiting outside my door every night! I....I..." he floundered.

"Buy condoms by the case?" I suggested.

"Yes! Every time I walk into the Walgreens, I just wink to the guy behind the counter. 'Put it on my tab,' I tell him."

"Uh-huh."

"That's RIGHT," he said, feathers settling. "And don't forget it."

On Reading The Call of The Mall in the Heartland, After Obama's Election

It was 8:30 pm local time, only 5:30 my time, and I was nowhere near hungry--but I had to eat, and I thought I would get out and see what there was to see.

A nice waiter seated me in the only local restaurant for miles, and I asked for a glass of red wine and opened my book, the Call of the Mall. Paco Underhill, the author, is discussing the mall parking lot. "Out on the edges of nowhere, these stores" (Farm and Fleets, who sell everything a rural person might need, from jeans to harnesses for your donkey) "sit in the middle of endless parking lots. Rural land is still cheap."

Here I am, in the middle of all that rural land, staying in the middle of a strip mall exactly like thousands of others. My hotel is two parking lots away from the restaurant, a boon for me, since I don't like driving the automatic Pontiac sedan the rental car company has given me--I have about as much control over it as riding an elephant. (If the elephant goes where I want him to go, awesome. If not, how the hell am I going to stop him?)

Of course, I chose my hotel because the website said it was near "shopping", and the website was correct. I'm by a huge--and well-kept-up--mall that has completely empty parking lots, four weekends before Christmas, at 8:00 pm. It's possibly the economy, although I don't think so--Chattanooga is a relatively booming town full of new business prospects. Mainly it's the overwhelming SPACE of the area. Anyone who is going to shop at this mall, on this night, would have to drive 45 minutes away from their house--at least--and 45 minutes back. That's a late night after going to work all day. Of course, on weekends, I assume this mall will be packed.

Inside the restaurant I sat quietly with my book and made small talk with my waiter, who confirmed that on weekends this restaurant--right by the mall--is packed to the gills. Still, this restaurant is huge, enough to swallow five or six Seattle restaurants in terms of square footage alone, and it has at least three serving staff that I can see, plus two managers on duty. In Seattle, that would be a lot of labor cost to wait on six tables, but here, of course, the servers only make $2.13 an hour. It's amazing to me how so much land makes everything so cheap. The food is cheaper, the gas is cheaper, the labor is cheaper. I don't know why a surplus of land makes this so. Supply and demand, maybe?

Let me say right now that I absolutely love the Heartland, and I can't seem to shake it. Maybe it's the surplus of land? The flatness that implies that there's enough space for me to do whatever I want? Whatever reason, I'm happier when I'm here, and no more so than tonight, three weeks to the day, practically, after our historic election. The racism that I was so concerned would ruin Obama's chance at the presidency doesn't seem to exist here in Tennessee. Out of six or seven tables, at least three contain African Americans, and two of those three are mixed. Ahead of me, a pair of married ladies--one white, one black--giggles over wine, obviously having a girls night out. To their right, a black couple eats dinner, and to my immediate right is the most interesting table: a good looking blond guy is eating with three very good-looking mixed-race girls, and enjoying himself immensely. With his tan and his long-limbed biceps, I at first think he's whiter than Joe America, but then hearing his speech pattern, I begin to guess that he's part Hispanic, a guess that's confirmed when he breaks into Spanish a few times. His audience appears to follow along just fine. It's then that I notice that's he's pretty darn tan, for a Northern American blond. Everyone at his table has similar combinations of sharply North American faces with dark skin, or naturally blond hair with classic African American texture.

They're all stunning, of course. If I sound a little obsessive about how different races combine to create beauty, it's partly because I'm a little jealous--I'll always look classically Scandanavian. No exotic mixes for me. Huge blue eyes, yes, but that's about all I got. I wonder what these girls would want to be called. All of them are obviously black, in some fraction, but they may prefer not to be called any label at all. Informal readings among my black friends has been inconclusive. My friend Charles and I were talking about Obama's race the other day, and I referred to our President-Elect as black. Charles--a black man--snorted.

"He's half and half," he said, rather witheringly. I pointed out that Aaron McGruder, the arguably crazy cartoonist behind the Boondocks--would consider Obama to be black, no ifs, ands, or buts. Charles knew who I was talking about, rolled his eyes, drew in a little on himself, and then he said the most provocative thing I've heard recently:

"That's slave mentality," he said, and then he moved on to something else.

I was officially speechless. I couldn't think of anything worthwhile to say. I was blown-away-impressed that he'd refer to such an evil mark on America's past so casually, especially one that was built on race--HIS race--and then move on with the conversation. He didn't take that lead to become Angry Black Man--he just said his piece and moved on to the Seahawks. At the same time, of course, he was factually correct. The practice of counting anyone who had as little as a sixteenth or more African heritage as "black" DO come from slave times, and if Charles disagreed with the practice, I'd make a note of it. While a woman's struggle for equality is much more subtle and much less violent--we may have gotten the vote later but we were never treated as group property--I'm still sensitive to a minority group's struggle for equal rights. Let me not stand in the way.

Back to a more superficial level, the blond guy enjoying himself while he entertained the table full of hot mixed-race girls cheers me no end. He was putting on a show for them, and they enjoyed it, and he did, too. Good, old-fashioned flirting still has its place in this day and age. As I paid my tab, it reminded me of a recent conversation I had with a boy.

We were talking about Michele Obama. "Have you ever dated a black girl?" I said.

"No," he answered.

I thought for a second. "Do you find black girls attractive?"

"Yes," he said, without hesitation. "I don't like the ghetto stereotype--the girl with the huge ass and the hair-did and the gold nails an inch long, much like how I don't like, say, Emo girls. But I do find black girls hot. Naomi Campbell I especially like."

"Huh."

I mulled this over while paying my check. It was 10:40 local time, and it was time for me to be in bed.

On Twilight

Short answer: Painful to read, but I'm surprisingly meh over the social aspects. (For Baby-Boomers: "Meh" means "Apathetic", or possibly "Indifferent.")

Longer answer: I couldn't even finish the first one, it was so bad. I actually enjoyed Bella until she met Edward, so don't assume I'm hating on Bella. But the two of them together are insufferable. Not only is the writing bad, but the anti-feminist applications are appalling. Bella is a very normal girl with divorced parents who suddenly, for no reason at all, attracts the eye of Edward, one of the most beautiful men in the world, who just happens to go to her high school. The problem: Edward is a vampire. Why does she attract his attention? Certainly not by being special—the only thing special about Bella is her overwhelming talent for clumsiness and her ability to attract trouble. (I'm not being catty—both concepts are explored constantly in the book.) In spite of this, for some reason the scent of her blood is intoxicating to him. He can't get enough, he'll never leave her side, he tells her, and Bella responds by listing all the reasons she'll never be good enough for him, and he reassures her again he'll never leave her, and she protests he'll get bored, and…you get the picture. For five-hundred PAGES.  

It's every girl's dream, really, to think yourself ordinary your whole life and be resigned to a crushingly normal existence when all of a sudden Mr. Rochester—sorry, Edward—comes swooping down out of heaven to lift you up above all others, to proclaim your specialness before the world, to throw himself in harm's way for your precious skin at every opportunity. In fact, while writing this post about Twilight I kept humming the theme song to Cinderella, so intertwined in my head are these two stories. Although this fantasy is obviously terrible, insidious, and likely to make children out of grown women, it's certainly unfair to place the blame for the creation of this fantasy solely on Twilight. I mean, sure, it's a terrible example, but so what—Bella does have a few good qualities and there certainly could be worse role models. What scares me is the obsession that fully-grown women with husbands and children have apparently fallen prey to a kind of obsession with Edward and the rapture that Bella feels being loved by him. "I have no desires to be part of the real world right now," posted one woman in a fan forum. "Nothing I was doing before holds any interest to me. I do what I have to do, what I need to do to get by and that's it. Someone please tell me it will ease up, even if just a little? My entire world is consumed and in a tailspin." 

Uh, really? Wow.

However, other series and fictional universes have definitely created a similar kind of creepy obsession—Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings are great examples. So I find myself relatively compassionate toward Stephanie Meyer. She's a bad writer who's written a very bad, very anti-feminist series, but the obsession of grown women with the Cinderella fantasy is certainly not her fault. She's certainly accomplished more, writing-wise, than I have, and is probably a better writer after all that, anyway. 

A good write up on Salon.com is here. Be sure and read all the comments.

--

Have You Seen This?

Holy Blog, I WANT I WANT I WANT.

Polaroid PoGo Instant Photograph Printer.

I have wanted something exactly like this for, oh, say, forever. I like to take pictures of stuff around the house that I want to remember, or of stuff outside that I want to remember. And although possibly in the future I will be able to display those pictures because I'll have a computer screen that takes up one wall--and wouldn't that be awesome?--in this lifetime I have no way to look at them except to stare at my tiny, small computer screen, and let me tell you, my computer monitor went with me to college in 1999 and it is OLD, friends.

I want to PRINT PICTURES OUT SO I CAN SEE THEM. Is that so much to ask? This PoGo sounds ideal. It sounds like someone entered my brain while I was sleeping and wrote down everything I wanted and put it into a product, although that would be a little creepy.

Why is this so cool? Four words:

Refrigerator Photos Are Back.

I miss refrigerator photos. A lot. (My current refrigerator is about big enough to hold four photos, but that's another story.) I miss wandering out to the refrigerator early in the morning and looking at friends of mine, or snapshots of chairs that I liked, or a sleepy picture of Titan, or whatever. I miss looking at the pictures on other people's fridges. I miss photos hanging up in lockers, photos taped to binders, photos stuck in books. I miss photos. A lot.

Now if only this printer also printed with a few effects, like, say, a polaroid border, I'd be set for life.

Readers? Just because this is the first instant photo printer I've seen, doesn't mean it's the first or best in class. Thoughts?

In Which I Demonstrate My Inability to Learn. At All.

So there I was, hanging at a club with my friend Jennie. Let me say right now that Jennie is an effing KNOCK-OUT, and the only reason I can put up with hanging with her at ALL is because we've been friends since we were ten and I suppose I have to. Otherwise I would thnk up a lot of reasons to avoid hanging out with a girl who's 5'11" in bare feet and could easily grace the cover of Vogue.

I'm so altruistic, aren't I?

Anyway. As I was saying. There I was. She had had the audacity to show up at my house wearing a dress, forcing me to put on something cute, but it gets worse: she was wearing HIGH HEELS. And I had woken up Saturday morning with a SOFTBALL-sized lump of swell on my right ankle, necessitating immediate ibuprofen, at which point I realized I was ghetto enough to have EXPIRED ibuprofen.

And therefore--and I'm not proud to admit this--my ankle was so badly swollen (it increased to cover the entire right side of my foot by about six pm) that I had to wear flats to the club.

I know. My entire closet of hot shoes yelled as me as I walked out the door. Also, the ibuprofen may have been causing me to hallucinate.

How did I happen to hurt my ankle, you ask?

I'm so glad you did. I can't believe this, but apparently I'm taking a break from being an attention whore and am making something of a habit of hanging out with beautiful girls half a foot taller than me. Because the very previous night I was out celebrating my friend Leslie's birthday--who is knock-out 5'10" redhead with cheekbones to set a drink on--and we were walking out of the club and she was complaining that her feet hurt, and of course I laughed at her, as I was strutting along in my patent leather boots.

"Ha-HA," I said, chortling. "Whereas my feet are AWESOME. Because as I am not goddess-sized, missy, I actually have to get used to heels, and therefore I'm so good at heels I can jump around in them!"

I attempted to demonstrate. I'll let you guess what happened next.

My landing was so bad that I think I actually hit the ground with my ankle bone. Leslie was laughing so hard she could barely support me to the car, and this would be a lot less interesting if I hadn't done exactly the same thing a week ago.

Election Night, 2008: Memorable because we voted in a black president and I decided to frolic--wearing a very nice pair of patent leather boots. I frolicked down some steps, and I landed so wrongly--so very wrongly--that I shoved the heels of both boots up into the boot, breaking the shanks. And of course, I rolled my ankle.

This made the boots famous when I limped into my cobbler the next day with my broken soles (sorry. He looked them over and then looked at me.

"It's going to cost you, honey," he said, "and by the way, Aarwenn, how the hell did you manage to actually BREAK these boots?"

"I was frolicking down some steps on Election Night," I mumbled. He burst out into laughter. I snarled. (Yes, we're on a first name basis. Besides frolicking, I slam down on my heels when I walk--it's part of my famous strut--and I wear out shoes and heels very, very quickly. I recommended him once to a table full of girls and Sarah asked me where he was located. I just pulled one of his cards out of my wallet and handed it to her.)

Moving on. I've come to the conclusion that I should never actually WEAR these boots, because on the very day I picked them up from the cobbler, I put them on to go dancing with Leslie...and you know what happened there. The difference was, the boots survived this time, thanks to the cobbler. My ankle--the same one--took the brunt...again. Which is possibly why the second swelling took over my entire FOOT, this time.

Maybe I should take my ankle to the cobbler. Also, I bought a new bottle of ibuprofen.

A Light Funny

Everyone needs one of these on a Friday:



There's a whole series on YouTube--I didn't know that Apple Japan made their own, but several of them are very amusing.

Salivating Over Shoes

Start Drooling Now.



Aren't they gorgeous? I own them, and they are WAY cuter ON. So. Cute.

And these:


Rawr. And these look just as good on. Kind of amazing, actually.

And I'm REALLY into this style right now:



I love the huge business in the front--I think it's so sexy.

So, I've done a little shopping recently, possibly you noticed? I went to L.A. and got to see the excellent Ali and did a little shopping with her sister Sabrina on Rodeo Drive, and it was really, really fun, in spite of the Smythson store being closed. (I'm a pen-and-paper nerd. So sue me.) A few classic examples of Smythson:





Some other things I'm really looking forward to this season:

1. Armwarmers. I just bought these from Etsy, and I love them.

2. Great Big Hoodies. I don't actually have a good picture for this, because I haven't found the item I want. I want a hooded blazer-type item, both with sleeves and without, to wear over my button downs. I'm tired of sweaters.

And, one disappointment:

1. Victoria's Secret blouses. I used to love them. I bought them in bulk. And then they got a "new shape" and they no longer fit. I'm so annoyed. Hence the need for the freakin' cover-up hoodies. I might have to just go up a size, but of course, that's depressing all on its own.

But it's hard to be depressed with cute shoes! Yay, shoes!

I Is A Writer, Yes I Is

My blog post at Capitol Hill Seattle was mentioned in the P-I's Big Blog today!!

I can't get over it! I'm amazed they took notice! Not only is the post excerpted, but they mentioned the full post in "Recommended Reading" for today! Holy crap!

Drop by Capitol Hill Seattle to read the post in full.

Veteran's Day

Thank you, veterans.

I wrote about this last year, and it said a lot of what I wanted to say.

This year I'm a little less optimistic about our country, in spite of the presence of President-Elect Barack Obama (I could write it four-million times, and that phrase still won't get old) and the fabulous celebrating that went on in the streets after the announcement. It's not so much the state of the country, although that worries me too, but the state of the CITIZENS of the country that makes me pessimistic.

I'm happy about the record voter turnout, but unhappy that it's still barely above 50%. I'm unhappy about the bailout idea, which I think is ridiculous--let the companies die under their own debt. I'm annoyed that the middle-to-low economic classes who dared to reach for a piece of the American Dream are getting slapped back down, and of course there's no bailout for them, and I'm angered that the poor always ALWAYS bear the brunt of economic depression. At the same time, I think that people who bought houses they couldn't afford, planning to "flip" them to make a fast buck, deserve all their bankruptcy.

I wish there was a way to discern motives as well as results.

I'm annoyed at people who were basically born on third base, in the baseball game of life, and therefore assume that they hit a triple, and have no compassion on those who were born reaching for first. I'm equally annoyed at people who were born on first and expect the government to carry them to all the way to home plate. I'm annoyed at entitlement, I'm annoyed at people who cheat the system.

I'm generally annoyed at people, I guess, and the state of the people affect the state of the country. And so I'm pessimistic about the state of the country, too.

Which, of course, is no way to live life. I want to believe. I want to believe our public school system can change, that teachers will start to get paid living wages and that the whole profession will be revolutionized, that systems like welfare and healthcare will be revamped and shrunk. That farm subsidies will only be paid to people who need them, not to people like Ted Turner--although he is generally awesome, he's not in need of handouts from the federal government. I want easily-obtainable, locally produced, HEALTHY food for our schools and for our poor. I want empty lots to be turned into community gardens and locally-produced, artificial gasoline to fuel cars. I want a military with less bureacracy and more awesome toys, like whole fleets of unmanned, remote-controlled planes with cameras that see everything and breathable nanofiber uniforms that protect against bullets and poison gas.

Good food, good education, and security--and a kick-ass military--that's what I want for this nation. It's an odd mix, I guess. I'd be interested to hear from all two of my readers. (I might be up to four.) What do YOU want for the nation?

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!