I Shake My Bumbershoot In Your General Direction

Hello! How was your Labor Day weekend? Good? Excellent. Did you go to Bumbershoot? I did not, in spite of invitations, and I hear it was great. But one can't be everywhere, and instead I spent a lot of time with people that I really dig, and also I redecorated my kitchen, almost got thrown out of a bar, (related: survived a bachelorette party) and put a blonde to work washing my dishes. I opened my house up to guests, and also, spent quite some time away from it. I got my bridesmaid's dress tailored! I went to West Seattle twice! I went to a LOT of restaurants and brought home pounds of leftovers! I found TWO new good hip hop places! (God, I miss dancing.) I had two very serious and productive relationship talks! Did I mention I redecorated my kitchen? Like, for real? No pictures, sorry. I didn't want to stop and take the time to take "before" pictures, and without the "before", the "after" won't have quite as much affect. I still may take some, though.

Now that I have redecorated my kitchen so that it is, in fact, usable, and even attractive, my next project is to inventory everything in my fridge and cabinets. Yes, everything. Since this fridge isn't yet within my budget (or lifestyle), I'm trying to simulate it with cunning. And hacks.

Speaking of, has everyone seen this? This is what I see when I close my eyes. Every. Day. This is the future, and it is SO CLOSE. This is going to happen. It's already happening, somewhere else in the multiverse, and this one is going to jump there, if all of us keep pushing to change this world.

Sometimes Life Just Works Out

I couldn't figure out what I wanted to listen to, a moment ago. I called up (on the new application Spotify, which is pretty good, everyone go check it out) the first two songs that were stuck in my head:



And then Jane Fonda, by Mickey Avalon, a song that I am not linking to because it's so dirty (but great!), and then:



(The above song isn't all that clean, either, but way less dirty than "Jane Fonda".)

And then I couldn't decide what was next. Ambient? RJD2? Or classical? Finally I just went to my RJD2 station on Pandora, my old standby, and THIS song came on next:



Thanks, universe. That was pretty great.

Like If You Described the Bible as a Story About Some Guys Who Travel Around and Talk To Each Other

"Like the Princess Bride?" I said, raising an eyebrow.

"I haven't seen it," he said.

Silence on my end.

"WHAT?"

"What?"

"You haven't seen THE PRINCESS BRIDE?"

"What about ME would imply that that is a movie that I would want to see?"

I looked at the angry, smartass engineer across from me at the table at lunch. He enjoyed all the same webcomics I did, and we even had the same phone. Sure, he tended more heavily to straight up sarcasm than I did, me preferring to stay on the side of snark, but there was no reason that he would NOT like The Princess Bride. Wait.

"Do you KNOW anything about the movie?"

"I know it's about a girl who falls in love with a guy who goes away and becomes a pirate, or something, and then she thinks he's dead and marries someone else, but he comes back for her. And there's a guy with six fingers."

A little part of my soul died, but I was relieved.

"Okay. I see the problem. Hmmm. Okay, you've seen The Big Lebowski, right?"

"Of COURSE I've seen The Big Lebowski!"

I held up my hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, okay. Just checking. Okay. Describing The Princess Bride as a movie about a girl and a guy who becomes a pirate, and there's a guy with six fingers on one hand, is like describing the plot of The Big Lebowski as a movie about a guy who gets his rug peed on by a low-class criminal and gets involved with a rich guy and his weird ex-wife. It's technically TRUE, but the movie is about so much more than that. It's the environment that's created, and the quotes, and the interaction between the characters. It's not about the plot. The Princess Bride is the same way."

He stared at me.

"Okay. Maybe I'll check it out."

"Okay."

The End of the First Trip with T.C.

After the launch tweet:

"Local place with coffee, gourmet sandwiches, ice cream, and air conditioning. Clutch. (@ Caffe Chocolat) http://4sq.com/osegWh."

Snarky tweet to appease my mother: "Yes, T.C. and I were on our phones the whole time during the launch wait, duh, but we DID actually see the LAUNCH."

(Also, it was 100 degrees at the launch. To say that is "hot" is...well, you know. T.C. and I felt we should get extra credit for surviving Orlando at 100 F, when even the locals were complaining.)

Launch lunch finished, we discussed what to do next, doing that polite but weird thing in which you totally like this person but you are different from him, and you're realizing for the first time how different your likes and dislikes are, and I had the additional challenges of being paranoid and crazy (every day, for a woman, but certainly more likely on this, the first trip with T.C., coincidentally scheduled directly over my PMS week) (hi dad!) and T.C. still hadn't recovered from his tummy bug (did I mention we were sharing a small hotel bathroom?) and...yes.

Of course, I wanted to see *everything* while we were already out on the Atlantic, and he wanted to go home and maybe do it tomorrow, when we weren't so exhausted.

"August 5th: T.C. and I not adjusting to East Coast Time well."

Reminded me of traveling with my father and mother. My mother wants to see everything, my father wants to read in the comfort of his hotel room, eat great meals, and see good museums. Not much of an outdoor guy. Similar situation here. T.C. and I came to easy compromise: he would come to Daytona Beach and would find shade and nap in the car, running the engine and with the AC on if necessary. (It was.) I would do my thing. He might meet up with me later, or might not. Simultaneously, I released him from any obligation to come out to the Gulf Coast with me for this trip, as long as he didn't mind if I left him alone for five hours. He didn't. Excellent. On to Daytona Beach.

From the August 5th Twitter Feed:

"Hello, Daytona Beach! twitpic.com/61gkgv"

"Self explanatory. twitpic.com/61glfa"

"Daytona Beach Strand is a little less crowded than I expected. Heat getting to everyone, maybe, even locals. Tonight may be busier?"

It was less crowded on both sides, the Daytona Beach side and the...other...beach side. I can't remember what it was called. I preferred Daytona Beach--more to do, less touristy, more "real" things, like Walgreens and 7-11s, that showed that some people actually *lived* here. T.C. and I made a stop to buy crucial charger adapters, including one that could live in the car. T.C. made a name for himself because his apparently bat-like ears picked up the sound of the engines coming from the race track over closed windows and the radio and ME TALKING, and he rolled down both windows and I stopped talking and turned the radio off and the cars were doing! laps! and we both had a freakout moment. No matter what you think about Nascar as a social symbol, we are both of the gearhead persuasion and that SOUND is OMG VROOM SO SEXY.

We got a break from the heat on the way back to Orlando, driving through a rainstorm. We didn't make it back for the free Happy Hour, sadly, and we went and got pizza for dinner and I had a minor freakout--not in a good way--in which because he told me he was tired, but I could certainly go out on my own if I wanted, I was so paranoid that I thought he was trying to tell me he was breaking up with me. (This is the time at which I decided that I could not, under any circumstances, allow this emotional state of affairs to continue. I am trying certain supplements.)

"I just used #Shazam to discover Fortune Teller by Robert Plant & Alison Krauss. http://shz.am/t45328882"

From the August 6th Twitter Feed:

*Crickets.*

We did almost nothing--we chilled out in the hotel and saw a movie (our 2nd of what would turn out to be three movies, it being too ridiculously hot to hang out by the pool, I never put my swimsuit on once the whole trip) and that night we found an anime convention across the street from our hotel and we rejoiced. And we got dressed up and got drunk and went over to see the Con. And it was good. (It was GREAT. It was about the best time we had on the trip.) I got to put on the cocktail dress that makes taxi drivers give me free trips. And I gave T.C. the following speech: "I am way more dressed up than you. I will need a lot of personal attention and possessiveness from you, or else I will feel like an idiot." Him: "Done. As long as you don't leave me hanging, just to make a point." Me: "Done."

The next morning I got up early, grabbed the Challenger keys, and felt like a real pimp, cruising in my skirt and tank top on pilgrimage to a Starbucks at a quiet strip mall. T.C. had not moved, beyond asking me if I had made a deal with the devil. Our attempts at using the osmosis method to share my hangover recovery skills failed completely, and I went out to Ybor City alone.

From the August 7th Twitter Feed:

"Ybor city is a ghost town on Sunday morning, even now at 11. There's a big bar kind of place that obviously does a swinging brunch crowd, but that's a little too bust-ly for me."

Then, after strolling down the street and back, I found the perfect place:

"Crucial food stop. Plus a mojito. Adorable bartender named Christian just added bonus. (@ Carmine's) http://4sq.com/pxa3WN."

(My mojito looked so good that three other tables around me asked me what it was and then followed my example.)

I thought about getting all the way out to the Gulf beaches, but decided T.C. would start getting lonely, and besides--I was lonely, too. I'd rather have had him with me. So I headed back. Plus, I'd been to the Gulf before--on the Texas side.

I did a little meditating, and of course I called my mother, on the way back. And a little Shazaming, thanks to the crucial car charger we had bought at Daytona Beach.

"I just used #Shazam to discover Bright Lights Bigger City by Cee Lo Green Feat. Wiz Khalifa."

My life, for the past 22 days, in tweet form

Monday, August 1st: "Hello, World! Computer is up and running." (For those who are curious: Dell Inspiron Zino HD.) "No need for the help of Mr. Neighbor. Well, not yet."

Wednesday, August 3rd: "Pit stop before airport! (@ Cafe Besalu)." Thanks to the Foursquare app for Android.

We had called a cab with an hour to spare! It was an easy Wednesday morning! We were feeling fine! WHEN SUDDENLY...

Wednesday, August 3rd: "Okay, it's been half an hour. Where is the cab?"

Travel Companion and I start phone bombing the Yellow Cab offices.

Wednesday, August 3rd, safely on airplane: "Totally the closest I've ever cut a flight, and that is really saying something. Actually not my fault this time."

Wednesday, August 3rd: "For the record, we waited an hour for the yellow cab. I keep saying, "never again", might mean it this time." (I didn't, but you know...)

Wednesday, August 3rd: "Travel companion flagged down gate agent & convinced her to print our boarding passes."

Wednesday, August 3rd: "I talked stone faced TSA agent into letting travel companion & I through 1st class line or else would not have made it. Go team!"

Wednesday, August 3rd: "Not worth it, though, even for good story. Stress was overwhelming."

Wednesday, August 3rd: "98 degrees in Charlotte. Fortunately not final destination. Unfortunately Fla will be hotter."

Wednesday, August 3rd: *Took picture posted below.*

Thursday, August 4th: "Orlando is very hot. And strip malls as far as the eye can see."

Thursday, August 4th: "We're in a part of the world that has more Denny's than Starbucks. Truly strangers in a strange land."

Friday, August 5th: "Keeping in theme of trip, Traveling Companion is sick and we caught the absolutely last bus from the visitor center out to the probe launch."

Friday, August 5th: *From NasaJuno*: "We are GO for launch!"

@NASAJuno: "LIFTOFF of the Atlas V 551 rocket carrying the Juno spacecraft on a mission to Jupiter to reveal the giant planet story!"

From Me: "Traveling comp. and I were mainly on our phones for much of the time, duh, but we did view the actual liftoff."

NASAJuno: NASA's Juno Mission: Wow there’s a kick! Rocket staging complete. Centaur upper stage now on 1st of its 2 planned burns

NASAJuno: Payload fairing separation confirmed! Atlas V & Juno are now above the bulk of Earth’s atmosphere!

Whew! Tweeting to the blog is exhausting!

And then they set the sky on fire.

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Part 2: Love Letter to My Parents, on Their Fortieth Wedding Anniversary

Because Roommate and I have been exploring this subject for a while, on and off, in our mid-evening talks: "Our parents succeeded brilliantly in raising us. WHY? Our parents are not similar in their lifestyles or methods, and yet, you and I turned out very similarly. If it's not about the small details, then what is it about?"

I mean, we don't necessarily take after our (very different) parents, either of us, and so I think both of us occasionally worry that our respective parents think they did a poor job of raising us. Or that maybe they wish we had turned out differently. Or that we were more...normal, maybe. Less likely to really stand out in a crowd. Softer. Less sharp tongued. Less apt to have lives that we can't really even talk about in mixed company. More apt to spend time with family. Especially because we are both girls; this kind of "I can act normal, but I could also make you REALLY uncomfortable" is not perhaps what every parents dreams of in a daughter.

And yet. As I recently exclaimed to Roommate, the other night: "I mean, both of us are rather intelligent, rather talented, rather sane, not unsuccessful, or addicts, or even alcoholics (debatable) or divorced, or lovesick retards, married to someone who's all wrong for us and barely has a job, etc..." and here she interrupted me: "We beat the spread."

Yes. We beat the spread.

It's important to note here that I've never once thought that my parents just "got lucky" with the way I turned out. They WORKED at it. They always had the best of intentions; they are loving parents. But so many other parents had good intentions and were loving and kind and caring, and yet the product of their efforts didn't turn out the way they intended. Their children didn't beat the spread. Why?

Love Letter to My Parents, on Their Fortieth Wedding Anniversary

*This will be in many, many parts. MANY parts. Hi, Mom and Dad! I love you.*

To be clear, my parents' fortieth wedding anniversary was in fact two weeks ago (when I STARTED this incredibly long piece, anyway, and now it's been a month and a half) and in fact I'm still not even sure of the correct DAY.

Yes. Me, their only child, I don't know the day they were married and the ONLY thing I know is that I am two weeks late at least, because that is the kind of caring, thoughtful, and involved only child that I am.

Ahem.

In my defense, it is all THEIR fault because they got married on a holiday (Memorial Day) that shifts days every year, and who can be expected to remember that?

Anyway, on this, their fortieth wedding anniversary, it occured to me to say a few words about how they are the best parents any girl could ever wish for, and because I have two engineering degrees, I won't expect you to just believe it; I will also use two references for proof: Tina Fey, and Mindy Kaling.

Tina Fey, as you may know, has just come out with a book, Bossypants, and Mindy Kaling's book will appear in October. And so I have been reading Tina Fey's, and it is of course AMAZING, and reminded me how much I also appreciated Alisha Tyler's "Swerve", a few years ago, speaking of funny, mouthy, women.

These two women (and also Ms. Tyler) are two of the most brillliantly funny writers to hit comedy in the past twenty years, and it's only a SLIGHT bit of a thing that they are, in fact women.

They haven't succeeded because they have made big protests on the lawn of the SNL headquarters. They have succeeded because they were so funny, and so good, and so DETERMINED, and--here's the kicker--not determined in the kind of way that makes you stage protests on the lawn of SNL HQ but rather the kind of determined that only happens because you're too confident and stubborn to do anything else. It's naievete masquerading as stubbornness, really. You don't know how hard it's going to be, but all you know is that you're confident and that you don't know how to do anything else and you have a healthy sense of humor. A REALLY healthy sense of humor.

From Bossypants: "In 1995, each cast at The Second City [Improv touring show] was made up of four men and two women. When it was suggested that they switch one of the companies to three men and three women, the producers and directors had the same panicked reaction. "You can't do that. There won't be enough parts to go around There won't be enough for the girls." This made no sense to me, probably because I speak English and have never had a head injury. We weren't doing Death of a Salesman. We were making up the show ourselves. How could there not be enough parts? WE'RE MAKING UP THE SHOW!"

And then there's me: I had been at B about six months when I met several other people my own age, which was great, and one day I was visiting one of these gentlemen at his desk, and he introduced me to his coworker, who chatted with me for a brief second before saying, "So, how long have you been here?"

I answered. And he said, "Ah. Okay. I'll shorten your learning process right now: Women who succeed at B are either a) ugly but smart women who keep their heads down and act like men, or b) pretty and dumb women who do exactly what they're told to do."

It was the kind of thing that leaves you speechless, and let me add here that I am rarely speechless.

I wish now I'd had the wherewithal, the CHUTZPAH, to answer him, something snappy like, "Oh yeah? So which one will I be?" But it's possibly a good thing that I didn't because then I might be living up to that today, if I had been told at that formative time what, exactly, to be.

And yet I didn't let that stop me, of course, and now I think I'm actually higher than he is, on the engineering promotional ladder. Not that I've noticed that or anything.

About the same time one of my friends on a different program in the company got told by a man she worked with that her kneepads (for crawling around on the inside of a plane) would come in handy at her performance review with her boss.

For the record, it is comments like that that are why women don't stay in engineering. Or leadership roles. Why they quit before they make partner. Comments like that will sink into your head and keep you up at night, and they will poke at your psyche and your confidence over and over again until they're full of holes and you're going back to school to become a nurse...if you let them.

What allows you to keep going after comments like that? Why did I stick around engineering? Why did Tina Fey and Alisha Tyler and Mindy Kaling keep going in spite of the people around them?

Because your parents raised you to have more confidence and kickass-ness than that, and so you keep going. But how did your parents actually do that? Confidence isn't a pill you can give; it's not a one-day seminar. Strength, and courage, aren't carried in your genes. They're instilled in you by whoever raised you, and the people around you. And so, having suddenly realized that they have been rather successful (in spite of comments like the above) Ms. Fey, and Ms. Kaling, and also Ms. Tyler, have written books, part memoir, part instruction guide for life, with some comments on how to raise your own version of a really kickass daughter, and it turns out that there are some very strong patterns.

Very, very strong. And it also happens that my life fits into this pattern. As I was reading, I kept thinking..."That could be ME!"

How? I'm happy you asked! This love letter to my parents will continue in the next episode. Please stay tuned.

Stream of Consciousness on the KTX

Seoul is warm and very hazy today, with the sun trying to break through the tan dust everywhere. I’m wearing the same shirt, vest, and blazer that I wore yesterday and I don’t care—it’s not like I care about impressing my coworkers, and my customer didn’t see me yesterday. Eff them.

(In a good way, if there is indeed such a thing. I would never offend a customer by wearing the same thing two days in a row. Fortunately I don’t have to worry about it.)

A red-head (even with my hair up) full on RUNNING for a train in a suit, backpack, and patent leather high heels will attract a lot of attention in Seoul Station, it turns out. Fortunately that worked out to our favor—a janitor type person stopped my Korean coworker and motioned to us that we were going the wrong way. “They’ve changed the KTX entrance,” he said, and by God, he was right.

Seoul is such a SAFE town. I don’t know anything about the organized crime here, but I do know that my Korean coworker has no compunctions about leaving his suit jacket and briefcase on his seat in the train while he goes to the restroom. He knew that I was there (probably) watching them, but still. Also, Seoul is incredibly friendly. The janitor had no problem with flagging Korean Coworker down and directing him to the right place, and even more strangely still, Korean Coworker had no problem stopping to listen. I’m not sure if I would have stopped if a janitor had flagged me down in NYC, for example. Maybe I would, since the janitor would immediately use words that I would understand.

Seoul is a weird mix of formal and informal, aloof and accessible. They bow all the time, and can be incredibly genuflectious, if that is even a word. Even just in formal business settings. And I’ve been in places in which I’ve been full on ignored, like at Nam Dae Mun market, in which I was the only white girl for miles, or because I’ve just joined a table of men and the waitstaff are obviously waiting for the men to flag them down to get me a cup of coffee, and their eyes slide right over my frantic hand signals. On the other hand, in Korean business, NO ONE ignores me. A Korea conference table is a like a lit up stage, I’m on so much display. And Korean Coworker just returned to his usurped seat and reached over the man now sitting there to grab his bottle of water. Neither the man nor Korean Coworker seemed aware of each other’s presence nor exchanged a word, and they passed within a hair's breadth of each other.) In America, someone leaning over my seat would immediately put me on high alert, but the Koreans (and I think they share this with most Asian cultures) have no sense of personal space whatsoever. They will breathe down the back of your neck. It’s disconcerting, but also friendly, or at least, familiar. Koreans will stand and argue with the ticket taker or flight attendant for what seems like FOREVER, and they obviously feel comfortable doing so.

I wish I had brought my phone. The countryside is really quite beautiful today, even in the haze; it’s incredibly green. And my mood has improved from yesterday, in which I was so heartsick that even the huge chunks of free Brie seemed unpalatable; I will have QUITE a lot of time today to walk and run errands and take pictures, and that is a wonderful thing. I think the tan high rises everywhere are apartment buildings, if I had to guess. They’re sure building a lot of them, and they’re all marked with numbers on the side. I wonder if there is some standard apartment building labeling system to make the post easier? Would make sense. Seoul is growing by leaps and bounds.

They’ve changed the wifi system; either that, or I only get free wifi in the first class car and I arrived too late today at the station to get a first class ticket. No matter. I can post this later

Quite a lot of this countryside that I’m currently passing is using solar panels. I wonder if there is a special incentive applied in this district?

I’ve been thinking a lot about my post from yesterday, and I want to emphasize that I am not an anthropologist or a psychologist, nor do I have any training in the field. And I haven’t run my ideas by a Korean person. I may be 100% wrong. Maybe the closets are over the windows. Maybe clothes in the window (because it’s certainly not 100%) signifies something sinister, or class-oriented, or some other social cue that I can’t pick up because I don’t know. I’m just making it up as I go along.

I want to get a few pictures of Seoul at dusk tonight—there’s quite a few Christian churches by me (I’m in an area heavily populated by ex-pats) and they all have gorgeous neon crosses on them. As a mix of contemporary, foreign, and an attempt to also make the church building itself blend in with the landscape (which is only, itself, probably 20 years old) it is fascinating. Also, of course, I’m trying to convince my roommate to let me have a neon cross in the apartment.

I REALLY wish I had brought my phone. I could have gotten an excellent picture of the “Sweet Long Sugar”. Maybe I’ll grab a packet on the way back.

Things I’d like to do today:

Drop off my suits

Tour the palace by Insadong

Buy postcards at mm/mg and send them to people.

Possibly stroll the grounds at the Grand Hyatt? If I have time?

Go by the Body Shop and buy wipes? So far my skin is awesome. The Yes To Blueberries stuff and the Argan oil has really made a fast difference.

My hands are just okay. They haven’t fallen off yet, so that’s a good sign.

*End stream of consciousness post.*

Seoul at 3:30 am

My bladder and my internal clock conspire and at 3:30 am, my eyes snap open, staring at the ceiling. Good Morning, Pacific Rim!

This hotel room has a little JBL iPod speaker, which is really...pretty awesome. Gives me something to listen to at 4 am besides my own thoughts. Since I actually brought an iPod, which I always forget to do. (By the way, it is actually my mother's iPod. That she wasn't using. Thanks, Mom.) (In fact, I feel incredibly well-prepared for this trip. I'm sure it will turn out that I forgot something amusing like socks or underwear.)

(I may write a much longer post on How I Pack For Trips soon, as I have become--rather unexpectedly, to some people who have known me for some time--a phenomenally light packer. It's more than a phenomenon; I'm almost a guerrilla packer. I'm a fanatic about it. I do it by combining a number of my more asocial tendencies, and it weirds some people out, but it works well for me. Maybe later.) (Because the point is that I barely brought socks or underwear, ON PURPOSE. Okay. Leaving the damn parantheses.)

This 3:30 am HELLO! is common, by the way, when the human body crosses this many time zones; it's no cause for alarm. I'm not particularly susceptible to jet lag, but it usually happens at least the first night. No problem. A little music, a little stretching, a little coffee, and I'm good to go. Sometimes I attempt to go back to sleep, but it never happens and this way is really better. I have to get up in another 1.5 hours anyway. I wonder what time the pool opens? I don't have a cap, but I brought my suit. (I am prepared for anything! Yes!)

Of course, I woke up STARVING and there's nothing open, but the Grand Hyatt even thoughtfully leaves out oranges and water. (Why oranges? I don't know, but they're actually SUPER helpful when you need to pump up your blood sugar at 4:30 am. Good looking out, Grand Hyatt.)

I had a short conversation with my mother's carpool partner right before I left, in which I said I was going to Seoul, and she said, "Oh...how do you like it?"

I said, "I love it!"

She said, "Oh...really? Hmmm. I was there for one night and my husband and I weren't big fans. It was so EXPENSIVE, and the neighborhood we stayed in seemed kind of...run down."

"I don't think it's that expensive," I said lightly, and the conversation moved on, and then I got here and I realized I was paying $25 bucks for internet service and $18 for a plate of spaghetti. $13 for a glass of white wine. Not...outrageous, but certainly not Seattle prices, either. Of course, I'm on the company dime. I would be doing things differently if it were just me.

And the bus ride from the airport took us by downtown, working, Seoul, in which I realized the Saturday and Sunday markets had closed down for the day, and all the pallets and garbage was stacked out on the sidewalks. (Bundled up neatly, but still.)

It is so weird what different cultures see and don't see, what registers on their radar as "trashy" and what doesn't. I think most of the non-American world runs on the same assumptions that the Koreans do: the market streets here look much like the markets streets look in Paris, and in Japan. It's more about function than form--but at the same time, it's NOT. No one can accuse the Koreans of not loving their form. The shopkeeper makes sure the customer part of his booth is clean, and that his goods are laid out beautifully and perfectly--no one can present a collection of off-brand purses like the Asians; their innate sense of order and symmetry makes them able to plot arrangements that are light-years ahead of the kind of detail that Americans can even dream of registering--and then he stacks all his trash to one side and leaves his food out and smokes while he's talking to you, because that is *not meant for your eyes.* That is the private part of the shop, but there isn't space to have an actual private space, so it becomes...mentally private. If I had to guess, the Asians--and we'll just stay with them, because I haven't spent as much time in Paris, for example--simply expect that their customers won't even look at the trash. Or the extra shoes on the curb or whatever. The customers only look at the part that is meant for them. And after 1500 years, give or take, that kind of cultural assumption is pretty set in stone.

Because most of the world has ALWAYS lived in the kind of tight quarters that Americans are only now encountering. You lived tightly together. You had to. The fire would only reach so far. Trash was a part of life. You had to put the trash somewhere. You stacked it neatly and your neighbor's eyes slid over it politely, and now, two millennia later, it is an ingrained part of the cultural assumption.

Man, I make a LOT of unbased generalizations at 5:00 am.

The strange thing is that the TRASH probably represents most of what Sample Korean Shopkeeper actually OWNS at that second.

Stay with me. The rest of the world doesn't collect clutter. Not like we do. The most they collect--and most of what takes up room in their shop, and such--is in fact, trash. (Most of it gets reused, the pallets and so on, but it resembles trash, at least for the purposes of this conversation.)

Because no one collects actual CLUTTER like the Americans. (There isn't room for it, remember?) What other culture in the universe has a show called Hoarders, with spin-offs?--but at the same time, no one is so concerned with outside appearances, and everything looking NEW and PRISTINE, like the Americans are. Because most other cultures in the world are most about the INSIDE than the OUTSIDE.

Walled houses, plain houses with decadent interiors, interior gardens, interior plazas...we don't have that in North America. But they sure do everywhere else. EVERYWHERE else. And that mindset persists even in the lack of actual walls. Young Koreans stack all their surplus stuff, the kind of thing that you and I might put in a closet, BY THE WINDOWS.

Driving by high rises, the windows are PACKED with stuff: brooms, clothes, boxes, extra office chairs, whatever. To my American mind, it makes the very nice high rise apartment look like a tenement. No American would ever stack their winter clothes by the WINDOWS, so it's the first thing that walk-up visitors see. But the Koreans have grown up with the idea that Trash goes On The Rim Of The Place, and that's where they put it. Of course, their places are tiny. Even in this very nice luxury hotel room, there isn't much space. I don't know what apartment closets are like. They may not have any. Or they may, and they might keep other things there? Who knows. But the trash goes on the Outside Rim, and therefore they put it in the window.

Not that they have much clutter anyway. But the stuff they have, they move it away from the center of the place, and the front door, because the inside--what the guests see when they walk in the front door--is way more important than the outside.

It's fascinating. It's totally fascinating to me. People are FASCINATING! The world is like a gigantic buffet, and I want to try everything.

Speaking of, OMG, breakfast opens in 20 minutes!

Diet For Past Thirty Six Hours

Monday Morning: Few swallows coconut water, 1 oz shot of apple cider vinegar, black coffee, Shiitake Mushroom and Tofu in Black Pepper Sauce over white sticky rice. (Microwave meal from Trader Joe's.)

Monday Lunch: Coffee with coconut creamer.

Monday Afternoon: Half a Naked Green Machine, half a Starbucks chocolate banana smoothie with a shot of espresso. 1.5 oz tequila. Entire range of supplements.

Monday Happy Hour: Half bottle of white wine in the park, in the sunshine.

Monday dinner: Half a precooked eggplant curry packet over SOLID serving of frozen precooked brown rice medley. 1 oz tequila. Mini corn muffin.

Tuesday morning: 1 oz shot of apple cider vinegar, few swallows coconut water, other half of Naked Green Machine, other half of Starbucks chocolate banana smoothie.

Tuesday early lunch: Broccoli soup, 99% broccoli with some salt, oil, spices, and nutritional yeast.

Tuesday after-early-lunch snack: Coffee with 2% milk.

I need to buy smaller jeans.

This Is Me, Today.

Clinging To My Youth

This Conversation AGAIN.

He watched me pick up my phone, look at it, sigh, and set it back down.

"Another lovesick swain?"

(He is a writer, and from New Zealand, and allowed to say things like that.)

"Not LOVESICK. Just a guy who texts me more than I want to text him back."

"And how much more?"

"Well...greater than zero. He texts me more than never. That's annoying. I wish he would just go away."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes. I HATE it when cute members of the opposite sex text me."

I blew him the raspberry, because I am mature, not to mention well-spoken and courageous.

"Seriously. If you don't want him to text you, why don't you just tell him it's over?"

"There's no good reason for it to BE over. He's nice, and employed, and cute, and by the way has a great body. He's PRETTY. And he's in school to get his Master's. And he wants to be in a long term relationship like he needs air. He went COUCH SHOPPING with me on our third date. My mother would be salivating, except he is Asian. But she's coming around.

"So, what's the problem?"

"I'm just not that into him."

"You should tell him."

"I'm so bad at that."

"HOW CAN YOU BE BAD AT THAT? Jesus, you must get enough practice."

"Gee, thanks."

"Seriously. Have you ever been dumped?"

"Once or twice, yes."

"Yeah. Okay. Therefore you must be on the dumper side more often than not. I know your love life. Why aren't you better at this?"

"I'm a slow learner?"

"And I know THAT'S not true, either," he said. "The truth is, you're a coward. Man up."

Debrief, Or, Love Letter to the Blond Squad: Epilogue

I shared this entire story with Roommate, one warmish afternoon not too long ago.

“He’s right,” she said, of Handrolled, herself the product of at least two live-in boyfriends, one of which she was engaged to.

“You really don’t know what you’re talking about. You learn so much more living with a person than you ever do just staying with them.”

Hmmmm.

And then I shared with S, one of those seven original members, just last night.

“I see where he’s coming from,” she said, apparently agreeing with Roommate.

“I moved in with D” (her boyfriend, and they have NOT had a smooth relationship) “mainly FOR that reason. I was really concerned about what living with D’s eight-year-old son would be like. And I wasn’t sure that D and I were meant for each other in the first place. So I moved in on a trial basis to see if we could work it out, as a qualifier for marriage: ‘If we can handle this, then maybe we can get married.”

Me: “Okay.”

Her:

“But HE moved in with totally the opposite point of view. For him, moving in together was already the commitment. He thinks marriage is a final step, for sure, and he wants to get married, but the way he sees it, it’s sort of a by product of the REAL commitment, which is moving in together. He wouldn’t have moved in with me if he wasn’t already 99% sure.”

Me, thinking about the many books and studies I’ve read recently:

“That’s very continental. I’ve read that that’s how the French, and most Western Europeans, seem to view it. It’s not that marriage isn’t important. Eventually. But if the pair keeps dating for awhile, and agrees to move in together, that’s 99% of the way to ‘death do us part’. Living together is not really a test. It would take a LOT at that point to break up the relationship. Way more than just some dirty dishes in the sink.”

Her: “Yes, I’ve heard the same thing. And I understand it. But I guess that’s not where I was.”

Me:

“I wonder if that’s why so many ‘living together’ relationships fail? Because one party moves in thinking this is just a final step before the ring happens, and the other party moves in because they’re still not sure the relationship will last, and decides to see if dirty dishes take care of the breakup for them?”

Her: “Ouch.”

Me:

“Yeah, neither party ends up looking good there. Trying again: one person moves in because they want to wake up next to the person every morning, pretty much now and forever, and the other person moves in thinking they *probably* want to get married to this person, but aren’t sure, and would like to see how they feel about living with the other person first?”

Her: “Maybe? I’m certainly no expert. Thanks to you, I just realized I was dating my mother. IN MY BOYFRIEND.”

Me: “Sorry.”

Her: "Maybe I should be paying YOU $75 an hour."

Me: "It's easier for me. Your therapist just met you. I've known you for three years. And I just did the same thing myself LAST year."

Her: "Still. Maybe get a second job?"

The Debrief, or A Love Letter to the Blond Squad, Part 3

Read Part I and Part II First.

"Yeah. And it's kind of been contentious because she's had a hard time finding a job, so she occasionally emailed us to say that she was bumming around the apartment, picking up her boyfriend's dirty socks." Did I mention they lived in 246 square feet? So there was no way to get away from each other?

"So?"

"Well, she wanted a place of her own."

"Okay." Delayed reaction. "Wait, WHAT?"

"What?"

"You said she wanted a place of her own, but she ALSO wanted a ring?"

"Well, they ARE in pretty tight quarters. Besides, how does moving out and getting a little space interfere with getting engaged?"

"WHAT?"

"I'm serious. A girl needs her independence."

"Hold UP. Are you saying you would get engaged, and married, to someone, without living with them first?"

"Yes. I don't think it's important. And in fact I think it's not a recommended activity."

He waved his hands in the air, exasperated. "It's only the most crucial thing! You have to see if you can LIVE with someone BEFORE you get married!"

"You do, though," I said. I thought I had a pretty good idea of what it would be like living with HIM and we'd only been dating a few months. "You and I spend at least one weekend day and night totally together, sometimes, two, and we've already been away on two short but intense weekend jaunts. We've gotten into our first serious fight."

He almost thumped the steering wheel. "NO. LIVING with someone is totally different."

Then he looked over at me. "You've never lived with a boyfriend before, right?"

I had to admit it.

"Good, then we're not really disagreeing, you just don't know what you're talking about."

"WHAT?"

"I'm sorry, sweetie, but you really don't. Believe me."

Just a few hours later we were celebrating the ENGAGEMENT (!) of M and AD at the soiree, and M and AD--who have always been very up front and public about their entire relationship, to the extent of how often they perform certain sex acts (AD's parents are nudists and swingers, so psychoanalyze THAT)--were laughing about how small their apartment was and how happy they were to be moving into a bigger place in a few weeks.

"So now you don't have to move out," I said, jokingly.

She rolled her eyes. "I wasn't really going to MOVE OUT. It was just an empty threat that I liked to scream at him in the middle of crying jags. I wanted to get my ring; I wasn't going ANYWHERE."

Handrolled looked at me. "HMMM. Wait, you have to LIVE with someone before you marry them? And living with someone is a viable step on the way to engagement? Hmm. Imagine that."

The Debrief, or A Love Letter to the Blond Squad, Part 2

Read Part I first.

I leaned up in that way that women do, giving myself a once-over in the maplight, and started with powder.

"Okay. The original Blond Squad is seven people: K, C, M, myself, A, S, and a boy, M."

"M, your ex?"

"No! GOD no. M is gay. That was certainly confusing for awhile, though, especially because the boy that C broke up with was ALSO named M."

"Okay."

"Okay. We formed originally because we all broke up with our boyfriends at the same time--literally, six girls, all within two months of each other--and we needed each other to be our dates to things. And we all went platinum. And we had to include M because we LUV him."

Driver rolled his eyes. "Okay. So you were the Blond Squad."

"Yes. And that lasted for awhile. And then we got a lot more people, most of whom weren't blond, and some of whom had boyfriends, and the whole group grew to about 15 people and it's a lot harder to stay close when the group is that large. The group has evolved a little over the years."

"Okay. And who are we going to see tonight?"

"M. Two of the original members, C and M, both recently moved to Chicago, in unrelated events. M went with her boyfriend, and C accepted a new job."

"Okay. Why is M in town?"

"Her boyfriend AD brought her on a surprise trip, just to make her happy. She's had kind of a rough time in Chicago, although she did recently find a job, so that's good." It had been weird to see M so down, or at least, absorb it through email. M was always my shining example of financial stability; she was so frugal, and so careful, that she had saved (on a basic salary) enough money to NOT WORK FOR A YEAR. At the time that we met, that had seemed to me like black magic. We bonded due to being only children and the mother-daughter angst that that can cause, and she gave me exasperated reminders to not spend so much money on stupid shit. It was partly on her kudos that I bought the used car I still have today.

"Okay. So I won't be the only guy there."

"Definitely not, and not even the only date. AD will be there, and I'm sure M's boyfriend is coming." I finished my eyeliner and wiped my fingers on my jeans. "How do I look?"

The man has spent more years in ONE relationship than I have in all of my long-term relationships combined. He knows girls and their craziness. He looked over warily...

...then brightened. "Great! Hey, did you do something different to your hair?"

"You stellar boy, you," I said. "You just gained 7 million brownie points. I got my hair cut TODAY, in fact."

"Holy SHIT! That was amazing. I noticed it earlier in the sun on my deck but wasn't sure if I should say anything."

Three minutes later. "How awesome am I? I mean, really."

"Pretty awesome. I seriously can't believe you noticed. *I* can barely tell."

"Okay. So, M and AD. What's their story?"

"M wants a ring. She moved out there only after giving him a deadline."

"Whoa!"

CLIFFHANGER!

Japan

Japan

Japan

The Debrief, or A Love Letter to the Blond Squad, Part 1

He turns to me in the car, lighting a hand-rolled.

"Okay. Tell me about the group that we're going to go meet."

"Okay." I pulled down the visor mirror and started putting my makeup on, talking as I did so, feeling very...couply. It was such a "working as a team" thing to do, especially since for once it wasn't my fault that we were late. I had come to his house in plenty of time and he had pushed for some extra time to reunite after the long week apart. It was the kind of thing I could have refused, or could even at this moment be snippy about, and I made a conscious decision not to be. I was at least an hour late for everything in my life besides work and this time I happened to be late because a nice boy had wanted to spend a little extra time with me one-on-one. It was complete madness to turn him down just so I could be only 15 minutes late, like I had something to prove to the Blond Squad.

That was the worst of it, though. Because I DID feel like I had something to prove. My relationship with the Blond Squad had started out wonderful and something I desperately needed and had since become a source of much tension and angst. As it became a source of tension, I was later and later to events, or maybe that causality was reversed but who knows, and then it was mentioned to me (only because I PRODDED) that "some people" felt that I wasn't contributing enough to the pot luck events (which was EVERY) event and I did in fact need that wakeup call, so that was good. But all comments that sting because they feel true, I've never gotten over it, and that was fully two years ago.

And then there was another comment once when I hadn't...

...no. No. You know what? I am not dragging all this up again. I just had a WONDERFUL weekend with all of them at a wedding and I am not stirring the muck AGAIN just to write this post. Muck falls to the bottom where it belongs, and some touchy-feely people may feel like you're supposed to stir it up again ALL THE TIME so that you can keep that water nice and dirty, so you can see where all your muck is at all times, so it's nice and fresh and you can keep it in your immediate vision FOREVER, when what you WANT is to let the muck die down to the bottom, where it can harden and become rock, because what THAT does is become bedrock.

The bedrock. The foundation for your many, many years of future relationship.

I occasionally make mistakes. That is what people do. The Blond Squad had made mistakes too, and I love them and accept them as they are, and they do that with me, and I KNOW they do that.

Although at the time of this conversation with the driver of the car smoking a handrolled, the Blond Squad and I hadn't attended the wedding yet, it was pretty close to the horizon and I was already surfing the upward breezes of the rising warm air as the storm of my relationship with the Blond Squad was passing. I was getting better at accepting myself. And therefore, I could accept them. And therefore, I didn't give a DAMN if I was late. I wanted to catch everyone, and whatever time I could show up and accomplish that goal, I'd be good to go. And so, thinking of all of that, when this nice boy asked me to spend a little more time with him, I thought over all of that and said, "You know what? As long as we get there less than an hour late, I don't give a damn."

And therefore, here we were in the car, him lighting his hand rolled and me putting on makeup in his visor mirror, completely at ease.

*Part 2 Coming Tomorrow!*

Things I Have Learned About Busines Travel

1. Don't forget your blazer/suit jacket. You may not need it, but you'll feel better that you COULD dress up your outfit if you wanted to.

2. Therefore, find a good blazer that goes with everything. Guys get to use navy blue, which would probably work well for me, too, assuming I ever find a good one. I also have a nice charcoal one I use. And I don't think black would ever be a bad choice.

3. Bring flat work-appropriate shoes. I only have heels. This is bad because my right leg is almost non operational and I've been forced to limp around everywhere on my sandals. I'm just ecstatic that I even had flat sandals that weren't flip flops.

4. Dry cleaning will make ALL THE DIFFERENCE. You will shine.

5. Find someone who dresses the way you would like to and steal all their clothes.*

*Possibly not actually recommended.

I Have Become My Father

I've spent so much of my life worried I was going to become my MOTHER that I was completely blindsided today by the realization that I am purposely keeping my apartment at 60.

Purposely.

And I didn't even realize it until I had set some Brie out on the counter to warm up. An hour later, it was still not warm.

I stood in the kitchen with a piece of barely warm Brie in my hand and laughed hysterically, standing over the sink, just me in the apartment alone, CACKLING.

My father, somewhere, is also cackling. At least chuckling. And marking off "Battle With My Daughter Over Her Determination To Keep The Homestead At 72" as a W.

I Just Realized What's Wrong With My Writing

I don't have my own voice.

I parrot other voices well, though. And other voices are good. It's not that parroting, or imitating, isn't a good idea. It's how you learn, right?

But I'd like to see if I can develop my own voice. And that will take a lot of work.

Bear with me, kids. Thanks.

That's One Small Step for Woman

I want to make clear that my feet have been shameful, really shameful, for a period of time that is in no way exact, but must span at least years, and perhaps decades.

Really shameful. People couldn't look directly at them in public.

The extra-shameful thing is, I *didn't know*. They were my feet. It seemed normal. Being able to walk on rough pavement and scratch leg itches with the calluses heels (I know) seemed normal to me. I had never known anything else.

This is what happens when you spend your development years at the pool. I had diving coaches whose heels had potholes.

Dear boyfriends of the past: I’m so sorry.

(I once had a pedicurist in St. Louis who spoke very little English pull me aside to give me some friendly advice because she was that concerned. “Don’t spend so much time in water,” she said. “Use more lotion.”)

I snarked about the conversation to "Bobby" later. "Spend less time in water? I barely shower as it is!" And then I waited two years to think about putting lotion on my feet. Turns out you TOTALLY CAN. I know! I KNOW! It's one of those assumptions you didn't know you had until it was suddenly broken: my feet are not some no man's land at the bottom of my legs. (In spite of the advanced topography.) You can, like, wash them, with normal soap, and put lotion on them, and all that stuff, because they are JUST SKIN. (Under the calluses.)

About this same time I discovered that they would also just SELL the magic feet-softening device that pedicurists use in the stores. To the public. Like, for three dollars at Target.

You don't have to show a perdicurists license or anything, if indeed such a thing exists. YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE A TRAINED PROFESSIONAL TO TOUCH YOUR OWN FEET.

I bought TWO.

It is basically a very serious blade that is attached to a handle, like a vegetable peeler only much more serious. It is not actually a softening device, if you are imagining a massager of some kind: it is, in fact, a callus remover. It is extremely unsexy and I don’t care. I have been using it religiously and for the first time last night, or possibly early this morning, I was in the thralls of sleep and I had an itch on my leg and I moved my foot to scratch it—keep in mind, not with the toes, but with the brillo pads helpfully installed on the sides of my heels, and…it didn’t work. For the love of blog, it didn’t work.

My feet may, at some point in the future, be ready for public view.

*This post is terrible and I can't figure out why, but I'm tired of looking at it so I'm just going to post it. SO THERE.

A Song and a Quote

Share Crimson and Clover by Tommy James and the Shondells

Also, everyone must immediately go read The Trephine, whom I found through Maggie Mason, WHO IS AWESOME.

A key quote:

"Cheesy music can really cheer you up. The cheesier, the better, really. Let Destiny’s Child offer you a strong moral message while also providing a beat to dance to in your new apartment. Note that your pets will not, in fact, throw their hands up at you, even if you entreat them to do so. Technically, they are not independent women, so I suppose this makes sense."

I laughed so hard at this that I woke up Roommate.

Boundaries

"Did you bring your bike with you?" he asked me.

"Yes," I said. "And the pump. Who's a poster child for medication? THIS girl."

"Now if only you had arrived ON TIME."

"Hey. Pills aren't MAGIC."

"Anyway. You get away with it this once because it's too nasty to ride anyway."

"I see. Then why did I bring it?"

"Well, I thought we could put it in the storage unit. Then we'll always have the option."

He looked at my face. "What? Did you have plans to ride to work this week?"

"No, but...you're inviting me to put something in your storage unit?

Silence.

"You know what? Good point. Never mind. Let's just keep it in your car."

"Allrighty then."

In Addition, I Return to Aiming For Pretty

Okay, this is flat out ridiculous. I have looked like a baby mole rat for almost a week, including a weekend jaunt to Port Townsend with a Boy to meet all his friends (fortunately, many of whom I had already met) and a couple dates and some important work things and it hasn’t really helped, and I am going back to using eye makeup, goddammit. I don’t care if my eyes fall out. And I have thrown out all the stuff I already owned and I have bought a whole new batch of stuff, and I’m excited about it.

(After some furious internetting, I have determined that what I probably have is blepharitis, which is a good explanation why no one around me seems to have caught what I thought was my pinkeye, including my boyfriend for all of last summer, when it was worst, and also my roommate, who—although we do AIM for separation—uses my eye makeup.)

Oh, I’m just leaving the damn parantheses behind. Blepharitis is basically malfunctioning tear ducts. They block up for some reason, and then your lower eyelids swell. It can be due to an overabundance of oil, which often happens in dandruff (ding!) and rosacea (ding!) sufferers, and it can happen because you’ve been on Accutance (ding!) and apparently the condition can hang on for many years and there isn’t much you can do. Drugs sometimes help if the infection gets bad. (Infection?) Mine aren’t infected, just a little swollen, which causes redness, and occasional eye styes, which are so tiny that no one can see them except for me. ANYWAY. It’s not contagious, and it can be easily managed with good eye hygiene and normal Visine-type eye drops. Good to know. Thanks, Internet.

And I did a little more internetting and poking around and I added a few supplements to my routine, and I learned you can enhance red hair with BEET JUICE, among other things, which I will try. Because I am apparently crazy. And I have given myself a pedicure. During which I bled. Right before a date. That’s the next post.

In Which Mr. Neighbor Makes Himself Useful

Remember the post in which I complained about controlling hardware experts (my, those people DO sound serious) coming over and rearranging one’s entire computer system?

My buddy Mr. Neighbor, formerly a CS major at Carnegie Mellon, now one of the hiring leads for a division at Amazon that is growing so quickly that they’re having to double up on desks (read: Mobile Devices) has, as you might guess, a few opinions on technology. He happened over a few nights ago, sniffing around for tequila to make up for the dinner date that we had already had planned but that I canceled on (obviously, at the last possible minute, it’s a wonder why anyone still speaks to me) and while he was drinking his apology tequila, I showed off the AV system.

“Hmmm,” he said, taking a quick look at the front, but then immediately pulling everything slightly out from the wall and checking out the connections. (The hardware equivalent of first kicking the tires and then popping the hood.) “I see you’re missing a few speakers,” were his first, ill-chosen, words. My hair stood on end.

“I am not MISSING a speaker!” I said, rather too loudly. “Are you saying I somehow need more speakers than what I already have?”

He looked up, surprised. “Well, you have seven channels here,” he said. “I mean, seriously. You could have surround sound PLUS two extra speakers.”

“I know,” I said, feathers settling. “But we wanted the towers. We liked the sound better, and we don’t watch a lot of movies.”

“And you don’t have anything with a slot hooked up to your screen, I notice,” he said, “making it difficult to watch movies anyway.”

“Well, physical ones, anyway. Thanks to your suggestion, we have a Roku box, so we can stream. But the towers are fine for that. We thought about getting a Blu-ray or a PSP, though, just for that reason. For the slot issue.”

“You could hook up your computer, since it’s right here,” he said, peering behind the receiver again. “That is, if you hadn’t made such a mess of hooking up your devices already.”

He was in luck; I was already feeling contrite. “Is there a way I can do it better?”

“Well, sure. This receiver can receive pictures, as well as sound. You could shoot everything here, and then have only one input shooting OUT to the TV. But you’d need more HDMI cables.”

“Oh, I have extras,” I said loftily. “I have a fear of running short of cables and I always buy extra.” (NOT always true, sadly. Roommate and I were stuck without INNERNET for a day after our second rearrange because Bread Winner—that would be me—hadn’t thought ahead about coax. But back to the story.)

“Well, some other time we can rearrange…”

“Um, why not now?”

“Because we’ve been drinking tequila?”

I just looked at him. He shrugged.

“Ooookay, I guess we’ll rearrange things right now.”

We rearranged, and it was good.

And now I have a new problem: my old tower doesn’t have an HDMI input, which means I spent some time standing in front of the “Cables” aisle at Office Depot this morning, trying to remember what kind of inputs I DID have on the back of my tower. VGA, yes, but that was being used. DVI? Well, I guess I’ll just buy it and find out.

Moment of Honesty

I have half a tank of gas, my car’s oil has been changed recently and I just got the emergency brake fixed, along with the thermostat and the cooling system.

 

The liquor cabinet is restocked, I fixed my favorite shoes, I ordered more coconut water from Amazon. I paid my motorcycle tabs. (It needs a lot more work than just tabs, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.) Titan has had his yearly bath.

 

I am not behind at work.

 

I have properly hydrated myself today.

 

And I even have a hair appointment scheduled for next week.

 

Trying to figure out what the heck I’m going to freak out about next!

 

Oh, yes:

 

I own several dresses, but none of them are right for the wedding I’m going to in Houston in a week and a half, and I don’t have shoes, either, OR a purse; and I need a pedicure and my feet are ugly.

 

Short on Kombucha for the apartment.

 

Need a radio for the Jeep.

 

Still haven’t bought window boxes for the apartment.

 

Nor have I cooked in two months at least, maybe more.

 

And finally, I haven’t worked out in two months either, and I could really stand to lose five pounds before the wedding.

 

And post-finally, I can’t seem to wear eye-makeup without my eyes freaking out.

 

Yes, men, this is really what women think about. All. The. Time.

Sitting Here About To Be Late For A Date

This could really be the title of almost all of my blog posts.

What Do Atheists Say When They're Grateful?

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single person in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a deity to thank.

I mean, seriously. I am fed, clothed, watered, and, in fact, indulged. There is money for red wine, and ibuprofen, and coffee. There is money for gas and books, and more importantly, there is time for some of the best conversations I have had in my life, many of which have happened only recently, and from which I am still reeling.

For example, I just saw my friend D whom I adore more now than I ever did, and we had a wonderful conversation about our work. Which doesn't sound very impressive until you know that I routinely fix culture clashes over two billion dollar contracts (that's with a "b") and she was indeed published before she was thirty, which is kind of a big deal, even when you're at Varhard, because she discovered the mechanism behind how to turn off double-stranded RNA when you want to. And in the world of genetics, so, ALL LIFE, that is kind of a big deal.

(And then we talked about why humans do what they do, why xenophobia exists, how to cure cancer--and I am not exaggerating--and epigenetics, not to be confused with eugenics, which sucks. And THEN we talked about boys and kids, just to be normal. And we also discussed biology and the role it plays in sex and gender, and how those are totally different things.)

(And before that, I had several discussions with both old and new flames, about human nature and life, and a wonderful conversation with my roommate about why the homeless exist and why, as a society, humans haven't retained the biological imperative to kill off our weakest, and therefore: eugenics (which still sucks) and why kids change people and how subservient we are to our biological clocks and how that differs in your gender.)

So. The point is, my life is way too good, and I don't know how to properly express my gratitude. Also, my friends are cool. The end.

Right After I Re-Caulk The Grout

Only Male Blonde Squad Member: "When is your trip to Korea?"

Me: "Possibly not until early May."

OMBSM: "That isn't far off!"

Me: "Yeah, my sense of time is a little jacked up."

Me: "Since 'three weeks' is pretty much an eternity right now, at the pace this work is going."

OMBSM: "Understandable. But you have a TV to entertain yourself now, so time should fly. You know, since you have time to use it."

Me: "Yes. I'll be sure and do that right after I start my organic herb garden."

Me: "And then possibly build a chicken coop and learn how to crochet."

OMBSM: "HA."

I Have Worked 64 Hours This Week Already And I Will Respond To Your Text When I Damn Well Please

"Thank you for calling the offices of The Justice League Of Sexy Bitches, Inc. Your call is not important to us at any time, and will not be answered in any order not determined by bribes. Flowers will receive a priority two, jewelery a priority one. Chocolate presenters will be laughed out of the office, but those who arrive in person with red wine may receive an immediate response, but may also be ignored. Now would be the time in which we would thank you for your patience if in fact we would ever do that sort of thing, which we wouldn't. If you get tired of waiting, feel free to visit our would-be rivals, The Simpering League of Overblown Bar Sluts, just down the street. Good day to you."

You Know What's Interesting?

Discovering that if you search my full name + the word blog, you find this blog. NOT good.

Also, you know what's hard?

Google stalking someone who's had top secret clearance, is a very talented coder, and has worked for the DoE.

If that dude does not want to be found, YOU WILL NOT FIND HIM, chemical engineer with barely the ability to remember the bold tag in html.