My site can be pretty.

Beauty from the bridge.

Shore.

More Shore.

Sigh!

Much better.

Thank you to everyone!

Thanks to T-Town Girl, who forced Hot Buttered Rum upon me, and T-Town's sister, who is hysterical.

Thanks to kiwi, for my package. (BWA-HA-HA! She said package!) (Although no, I haven't gotten it yet. The post office sucks. And they close at 4:30. Sorry. Tomorrow morning, I can get it.)

Thanks to my mother, who listened to me vent, and cheered me up by telling me that SHE is learning from ME.

Thanks to B-----, believe it or not, who has chosen this week to make me feel like the MVP. My career is moving along well and I have reasons to hope for a big raise, although I also learned today that two of my new hire friends already make 10% more than I do. Which is a lot. No wonder they can afford to live in the heart of Queen Anne. Oh well. Soon, soon!

Also, thanks to B----- for being the sponsor of the largest employee owned and operated community fund in the world. (The Fund gave away 32 million dollars last year. And 19 million of that was in the Puget Sound Region alone.) And thanks to them for also providing a pizza lunch while a really hyper lady talked to us New Hires about it, and thanks to my aforementioned overpaid new-hire friends for giving their money away through it, because all of those events together--and reading thank you letters from people whose lives have been touched by the Fund--have given me a little Christmas spirit today.

And most of all, thanks to all of my sorority sisters, whom I love dearly. I sent out a big mass email to my long-lost friends to get snail mail addresses, and I heard from a bunch of people and I loved all of them. Now I can't wait to send out Christmas (Holiday) cards.

Also, it's beautiful here. Pictures are coming soon.

Also, by a fluke, I weighed 132 pounds this morning. Seriously. Wow.

Mean Reds, or Remember, Poinsettas are Poisonous

So, it's not like I'm unhappy, or anything. Not recognizeably. My birthday's coming up and I'm in a new relationship. Work is going well.

There's some issue, though, that I can't put my finger on. I'm a little depressed, and I know this because I'm continually sleeping though my alarms and getting to work three hours late. (I can't believe that work is going as well as it is, as I'm getting at 9:00 am or later every freakin' day.)

I'm just having one of those periods where I want to say, "Fuck it." I want to stop eating well. I want to eat everything in sight, actually: lots of cheese, peanut butter, and cheesy garlic bread. Pizza. Wine. Beer. I want to drink every night.

I want to wake up late and skip work, I want to cheat on CAE (not that there's anyone in particular to do this with, I just want to ruin the relationship). I don't want to do the things I'm supposed to do. It's a case of the Mean Reds, as Holly Golightly would say.

And yet I'm happy today (or I SHOULD be) because these pants that I'm wearing fit beautifully. And I bought them in early high school. When I was swimming five hours a day. But should my weight be so important to me that a good weight day should overwhelm faint depression? Probably not. So maybe this is a good thing.

The always wise kiwi remarked, "Was something anguishy going on this time last year? I find I get emotional echoes quite a bit. Maybe you're unhappy that you're in a relationship again, even if you're happy in the relationship. As it were."

And that's certainly possible--I mean, Jesus Christ, I had planned on being single for much longer than, say, a month. I might feel a little stifled. But I like CAE. So, here I am, back where I started. Sigh.

Fuck everyone's cheesy posts about how this is their favorite time of year. Bah humbug.

Part Two of an Occasional Series: SIWALTA

I was killing some time at work today, looking at the "gifts for men under fifty dollars" ideas on MSN. (Note: this is from Christmastime two years ago, so don't look for this article now.)

The price range was under fifty, the gifts were simple yet high quality, and I was surprised at how cheap these name brand items were: I mean, a Moschino shirt for 34 dollars? My pair of moschino jeans (bought at a thrift store, she adds hastily) was originally 145 dollars. Ugg slides for 49.95 when the boots are 125? A Clarins facial treatment set for 37.50? The lotion alone is usually 37.50. And finally, the thing that killed me: a Fossil wallet for 35 dollars. I had just seen Fossil purses at Macy's for 115 dollars. What was going on?

It came to me in a flash of light: men's goods are cheaper and of better quality than womenis goods.

Of course, you could rationalize this, if you wanted to. Simpler construction? Okay, I'm prepared to believe that Ugg boots are more expensive to produce than slides. Fair enough. And, okay, maybe IN GENERAL purses are more expensive to make than wallets, but a large man's wallet and a small woman's clutch are roughly the same size—and the woman's clutch is, basically, an envelope with a zipper on top, and a man's wallet tends to have so many folds that it shapes his butt after awhile.

Anyway, to economically account for such differences would take a LOT of added complication. And if amount of material/ease of construction was the only thing that affected price, women's goods should be generally cheaper than men's because they’re smaller. But we all know that this is not the case. No. Women’s goods just cost more. And why?

Because women are more willing to pay money for useless crap.

The saying goes, "Women will pay ten dollars for a twenty-dollar item they don't want, and men will pay twenty dollars for a ten dollar item they do want." You'd think this would imply that men are more willing to pay high prices, but that's not the case at all. The point of the saying is simply this: men have a greater innate understanding of the value of money.

Yes, men get into credit card debt. Yes, men overspend on alcohol, food, and girls; yes, men are more likely to waste money gambling. But men have a clearer understanding of what they want, and they are willing to pay for it. They do mental math: I want this (37 inch flat screen TV) (hooker with 38DD breasts) (round of drinks for the entire bar) and I am willing to pay (this much) for it.

A woman’s thought process: "I want a black skirt for work. Oh, look, they have pink sweaters on sale! This is a great price for angora. Am I really a pink sweater person? Can I be a pink sweater person? What if I got a new shade of lipstick, too? What if I got my hair done? Oh, they have blue sweaters on sale, too. What if I’m a blue sweater person?" If she remembers about the black skirts at all, it’s because she sees a rack of them, dismisses the price as too much money to pay for a skirt—"You can find skirts for half that much!" and goes home with two sweaters (on sale), a new lipstick shade (and she got a free gift with her purchase), and plans to get her hair cut, and no black skirt, which means she wakes up at the crack of dawn for work the next day having spent $83 and still has nothing to wear.

The First in an Occasional Series: Stuff I Wrote A Long Time Ago

...and have just now found. Many thanks to Hardware Engineer, who hates me for breaking up with him and doesn't read this anyway, for fixing my desktop computer.
---------------------------------------------
We are our own Prince Charmings. Our mothers saw Cinderella singing, "Someday, my prince will come" and believed. When we grew up, our divorced mothers told us bitterly that no one's coming, so we set out to make sure we'd never need to be rescued. And now we have the uncertain pleasure of being so far ahead of the guys trying to date us that we need to rescue them. Call me old-fashioned, but I don't want to be in the habit of rescuing my boyfriends; if I wanted to be a mother, I'd get knocked up. And, frankly, I don't want him to rescue me either; frequently depending on someone else makes you ungrateful and bitter.

Last night I was awoken by my dog barking ferociously; apparently, a bee the size of a small plane had flown in an open window and was beating itself against the walls of my apartment. There was no hope for it; I had to wake up, turn the lights on, and stand ready with a Pierce Transit schedule book to smack the living daylights out of it, or both my dog and I would stay sleepless in Tacoma. Eventually the poor bee landed on a wall close enough to my reach that I was able to kill him and bury him in the garbage can. The crisis passed. Dog and girl went back to sleep. Musing sleepless some hours later, I realized that it hadn’t occurred to me to call a nice man. My dog is adept at killing monster-truck-sized spiders, but not so good at catching bees. And I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep comfortably knowing that a 747 of a bee was flitting around my apartment, possibly about to sting me with a stinger the size of a hypodermic syringe. So I, quite calmly under the circumstances, stood ready with a bus schedule. No problem.

This may be partly because at this time I don't have a man to call. Had a nice man already been present, I would have definitely squealed and clutched him, pointing out the bee with a shaking finger and cowering in the corner, leaving him to take care of it—even though I knew I could have handled it quite well myself. Is there a dichotomy between the two actions? No. In this hypothetical situation of a man being present, I probably would have cooked dinner for him earlier in the evening. And possibly cleaned my apartment for his arrival. And these are well-known gender-specific actions. So why shouldn't I depend on him to kill my bugs? He shouldn't get the benefit of my femininity if I can't take advantage of his masculinity.

What does this mean? Being able to revel in typical gender roles has become a luxury. I would have cooked dinner for myself anyway, but it's a luxury, the fulfillment of a fantasy, to cook for someone else. I feel like Sandra Dee. I could have killed the bee myself, but it’s even more of a luxury to let someone else do it.
----------------------------------------------

Update on the above: when I crashed my car (because I'm a terrible driver), I didn't call TheBoy, my boyfriend at the time. And he wasn't happy about that.

And now that I'm dating CAE, he pays for things, even though I make more money than he does, and that's okay--he likes to do it. It's sexy to him, to be able to treat a girl that he really likes to something she wants, even if it's as small as a cup of coffee, even if she can afford it by herself.

It's a luxury to him.

And now that I live with a guy, although he's Roommate and not CAE, it was an absolute pleasure to bat my eyes at him several months ago when I dropped a pearl earring down the sink. He rolled his eyes and said of course he would fix it, and he did, right there, while I oohed and aahed. Last week when I worked from home two days in a row, I made cookies and cleaned the entire house. I enjoyed the thought of him coming home to a clean house.

On the other hand, he cleans the house a lot more, overall, and recently scrubbed out the tub. And I could have retrieved my own earring.

CAE still cleans up frantically before each time I arrive at his house, likes to drive when we go out, and gets my drinks, and I enjoy wearing lingerie for him.

Gender roles are both a necessity, like good manners, and a luxury, like dressing up and eating pate; they make the world go around, and yet when you perform them with someone you really like, they become heavenly game. Because there's nothing sexier than being so comfortable with your power as a gender-inspecific citizen of the world than being able to dress up in girliness, and being able to play-act with a guy who's so comfortable with himself that he can ENJOY picking up the reins because he knows you could drive the relatioship if you wanted to.

Interesting, wordy, and hawt.

The Human Race: Doomed or Not?

First, a very scary story:

This weekend, I and CAE met some mutual friends at a bar called The Rocker in Mill Creek. Beers were had, pool was played. The friends all left together--four guys, carpooling. My friend M was driving. As they drove down 164th, a car pulled up on their left, passing them, they thought. They heard four loud pops. And then in a shaky voice, their friend J in the back seat said, "Guys...I think I've been shot."

He had been. The driver of the car apparently though that my friend M had cut him off earlier, and so he did what any normal person would do: follow the guys that cut him off for several miles, drive up next to them on their driver's side, get his .45 out of the glove compartment, lean across his girlfriend in the passenger seat, and shoot at them, four times.

One bullet lodged in the driver's side windshield. Two went into the floorboards, and one went through the back door, glanced off J's leg, ricocheted around in the car, and landed in another passengers lap. All were fine--J had a large welt on his leg, but he was fine. Yes, they called it in right away, and the police caught the shooter. (He still had his gun IN his car.) His girlfriend spilled her guts. My friends spent three hours between the police station and the hospital.

And my friend M (the driver) and C (the shotgun rider) STILL went skiing with me and 12 others at Stevens Pass the next day. Yes, that's how we roll.

So, is the human race doomed, if people like this shooter exist?

Maybe not. After all, Great Britain has legalized 'civil unions' for gay couples. Not the real thing, as gay activists here are quick to point out. But it's a step in the right direction.

Quotes Of The Day

From the always clever SheWalks:

"steamy, foamy eggnog mixed with espresso is pretty much hot orgasm in a cup."

(so glad she's back, by the way! after mean comments and ish-ness and god knows what else, she's back, and she's funny as hell.)

And of course from T-Town Girl, whose entire post today is just a beautiful thing:

"I will, as long as I live and breathe, cherish my God given right to order and ship a stranger’s shit to anyone I know."

(side note: try saying, "cherish and ship a stranger's shit" five times fast.)

Note To All Spammers:

I have given into the devil. I have word verification.

Woo!

The PHONE. And associated mysteries.

My previous boyfriend (ExTheBoy) did not want to talk on the phone. Hated it. Even when we lived miles apart and only saw each other on weekends, he hated it. He did it for me, but he hated it.

Which I hated, at first, his hating the phone. And then I got used to it. Plus I was told by several Men I Respect (including my dad) that Most Men Don't Like The Phone. So I resigned myself to the fact that I was never going to date a guy who liked to talk on the phone, and I might as well Get Used To It Now. And then I began to look at The Phone objectively. And then I realized, hey, you know what? Most people don't give good phone. I am one of those people. I CAN have good conversations, it's just that talking to someone on the phone night after night for hours at time...well, what the hell am I going to talk about all that time? I began to dislike the phone, and enjoy my dislike. And I thanked the male race for, once again, releasing me from the shackles of femininity.

And now I'm dating CAE, and we live farther apart than ExTheBoy and I did. (Fifty-seven miles.) And of course, what happens? It turns out that CAE LOVES the phone. Calls me every night. Tries to keep me on it.

When I all I want to do is get off the phone, read old archives of SheWalks, wash my face, and go to bed. But he's dying to keep me on, and so I ask intelligent questions, at a time when my attention level is very low, and I'm praying I can remember this conversation in which he poured his heart out to me in the morning.

Also, things I am thankful for.

1. My Teddy Bear, asleep on the couch. (Yes, we allow dogs on the couch in our house.)


2. Sascha, who is Titan's girlfriend, moral support, play buddy, little sister, and lover.


3. Doggie Relationships.


3. Roommate. And one of the best living situations I have EVER had.

4. Friends. Both old and new.

5. Jeep.

Self Portrait in Jeep.

6. Mountains. Especially mountains on which I can ski.

7. Whistler!

8. The person who invented skis.

9. My family. (In spite of everything.)

10. Victoria's Secret.

11. Retail therapy.

12. Shoes!

13. Tacoma!

And finally,

14. Blogger. And all of you!

Happy Thanksgiving!

UPDATE: no, I don't know why my camera pictures do that. Click for bigger. Thanks.

Happy Thanksgiving to EVERYONE!

I'm super cheerful this morning, so bear with me.

First, my boy is adorable. We're in the "make others puke because we're so cutesy" stage. It's a good thing.

Second, I have double date plans with T-Town and T-Town's Man for tonight! Because there is a Chopstix within walking distance of my house! And it's awesome!

Third, I'm going skiing on Friday!

Fourth, I'm going to Whistler for three days in the beginning of January! I'm taking vacation time! I'm going to Canada! I'm skiing for three days straight! With a bunch of B----- engineers! We're going clubbing every night! I might be able to get VIP passes! There's a hot tub! WOO!

Fifth, I get to see my...colorful family tomorrow. Including the uncle with the drug problem who last year found a bottle of really good champagne given to my mother as a gift, drank the whole thing, and stashed the bottle in the effin' laundry room. This year we're locking up the alcohol. Which is too bad, because after we're done I will REALLY need a drink.

And Sixth, CAE and I are going to a party given by a B----- mutual friend as a couple. I get to make salad and rolls. CAE has offered to help, of course, and I'll put him to work, but he's freely admitted he can't cook. (Apparently he barbeques well, though. I'll report on that when I experience it firsthand.) So I get to show off a little.

Funny exchange: He and I were discussing our cooking abilities, and I said,

"Have you ever used your oven?"

And he said: "Oven?...OH! You mean the pizza cooker!"

In the Tradition of Crazy Aunt Purl...

It's a more serious weekend post.

First of all, I know that Tacoma is a rough town (it's not called Tacompton for nothing) but we seem to be in a scary crime rise. My dad's car was broken into last week, my wallet was stolen this week, and today, there was a shooting at the Tacoma mall. One person is in critical condition, three are in serious condition, and the mall closed down for hours as the gunman held three shoppers hostage. The situation has since been resolved--the hostages were released unharmed, and the cops took the gunman into custody. The really scary part (like this isn't scary enough) is that when this happens, it usually means: gang war. Thefts go up because the gangs need more money, violence goes up because, hey, they're fighting a war. Which means: it could easily get worse. Until the war is over.

I broke things off with Hardware Engineer last night. Last night it was really hard; today it's not bad at all. CAE is, so far entirely worth it. Entirely.

Up and Down and Down and Up

Up: I learned yesterday that I'll be awarded an award (hehe) because of all the work I've done on this project I ended up running! I get a certificate, it goes in my employee file, and I get a little cash! Woo!

Down: My wallet, the one that was stolen? I was hoping it was accidental, or that I'd just lost it, or something. No such luck. Which I know, because I forgot to cancel my corporate credit card. And that's the one they used. Double damn. The charges can be dropped, but still...complications. And it makes the situation--my wallet being stolen from my best friend's house--that much more messy and unhappy. :(

Down: I'm cowering in fear because apparently my very old-school manager--as in, the one who can barely operate a computer--is frowning on this idea of me working from home. Apparently working from home twice a month is too much. WTF? I thought B----- Corporate was all about it? I guess not.

And Up: This just came in from CAE.

Me: "I know you're busy, but really quick: did I mention that my class is performing tonight for a much more advanced class? That's right. Rowr."

Him: "You're soooo cute! Let me know how it goes."

All together now: AWWWWWWWWWWWWW...

Nothing better than a brand-new relationship. :)

A Cavalcade of Poon, and then I dropped my money in the toilet.

Isn't that the best phrase ever? Thanks much to kiwi, for proving his wordsmith ability. Even better, the context doesn't make it any less stunning. Several nights ago, he sent me a drunken text message reading,

"Ill bet ur find ass is stil up." (sic)

Me, much later: "It IS a very fine ass, and it was still up. with company."
Him, right away: "Which of ur many suitors was with u?"
Me, right away: "U don't read my blog?
Him, right away again: "Uh, not in last 2 days? And even if u said, its not like i'm always able 2 connect the dots with ur cavalcade of poon.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

In more laugh out loud news, not an hour ago I dropped my passport and cash in the toilet. They were in my back pocket, I sat on the toilet to do my thing, stood up, FLUSHED, and then they dropped in. So it wasn't as bad as it could have been, but...ewwwwwwww. They're wrapped up in toilet paper now and will be sprayed with disinfectant once home. Can't think of anything else to do. Suggestions?

I'm Famous. And a Cheater.

First, Tacompton Tiffany and I went skiing, and although I can't find a link to the live interview on the lift (yet), here's the article! I'm famous! (By the way, Tacompton and I agreed that it was one of the best first-day-of-the-season-days we have EVER had. It helps to not be 16 and poor. Nothing to prove regarding stamina and skill, no need to wring the most possible runs out of that $29 investment. Lovely.) (Also, skiing is the best workout ever. I've been at 135 pounds consistently for days. In spite of hitting the gym once last week, as opposed to three.)

Woo!

I may soon be even more famous than I anticipate, if the identity in my stolen wallet ever morphs into a fake person. Yes, my wallet was stollen this weekend. Yes, it was a messy experience. On the plus side, I got given a really hot new shirt, for free. Yes, I'm cancelling everything. Yes, I'm upset. Thank you for asking.

And after several days of psuedo-dating, the lonely guy from the previous post (Chicago Aerospace Engineer, or CAE) and I are, officially, dating. After many games of beer pong, we lost ourselves in a romantic haze, he asked me, "Will you go with me?", and I said yes. Exclusively.

T-Town, when I was telling her this story, said, "He does know that that's just something fun you like to say, right?" I laughed hysterically, because she's entirely correct. I haven't, for example, told Hardware Engineer yet. Don't know if I will, don't know if I won't, don't know what I want. I do know that I'm terrified (again, one might use the term "pathological") of putting all my eggs in one basket, of pinning all my hopes on one person.

Below, an excerpt from an old post from my formal livejournal:

"The problem is, I have no middle gears when it comes to relationships. I'm either uncaring or too caring. Usually when I feel myself falling for someone, I'll fritter away some of those cares on other guys, helping to spread the load, which has the added benefit of making me care about the guy I'm with somewhat less.

Because really, there are very few guys who could handle me full time all the time. Now the prospect of being with just him both fills me with dread and makes me want to make every girly mistake under the sun. Now I, and this is ME we're talking about, wants to ask him if he wants us to have kids, and what he thinks our kids would look like, and if he wants to get married or sees himself as more of an outside the rules kind of person. I want to follow him around but since I can't do that, I want to call him and commit verbal suicide by giving him a running commentary on everything I'm doing ("Now I'm peeing. Now I'm retouching some spots on my countertops. Now I'm petting Titan--Oh, what a good boy!") just to keep him on the phone and feel like he's near me. I'm infatuated, big time."

And I am infatuated. I've spent all morning imagining our future life together, in a Seattle loft high-rise with exposed brick and a fantastic kitchen. Having pets. Hosting couples dinners. Having art on the walls. Knowing artists. Competing in our careers and then, when one of us retires rich and famous, starting new lives as philanthropists. And possibly artists. I could write and make t-shirts and promote bands. Traveling. I want to wrap him around me like a blanket. Never mind that he enjoys his apartment in Suburban Town outside Seattle and, since he doesn't like curry or sushi, probably doesn't like traveling, either.

On the other hand, I know I need to do some internal work: break it off with Hardware Engineer, for one, although that won't happen right away. Find a new area for myself in B-----. (I like where I am, but I need to run away and get more experience before I can make it what I want.) And I'll have plenty of time. Because Chicago Aerospace Engineer is awesome, but we both have a lot of growing to do, so although the fantasy life is fun, I'm not holding my breath.

And Right After I Bark Along to America the Beautiful, I'll Balance this Yellow Ball on my Nose.

Obvious Point of the Day Number #347: I like to please people. I like to please people, a lot. One might use the term "pathological". One might use the term "needs help". No wonder I identify with dogs so much. It's true that perhaps I could get a cat and learn from her, but chances are that I'd go crazy instead from her constant rejection and end up in a loony bin. Assuming that's not my current destination anyway.

There is a guy here in Seattle, a lonely guy from Chicago, went to Purdue, really smart guy, also really moody. And bitchy. Doesn't like Seattle. Been here for a year, doesn't know any locals except me, doesn't like his life, doesn't like anything. I like him, God knows why, and so what have I decided to do? Yes. I have decided to make it my MISSION to have him like Seattle. (Also, I have a side mission to trick him into dating me.) Which means I have now aligned myself with my city, giving him the opportunity to reject both my city and myself all at once. Why allow him to make two separate rejections when one will do? Now I find myself planning nice surprises for him. Nice surprises, for God's sake. For a man that is not my boyfriend. He looks at me, I instantly smile, trying to get him to smile. He has a hard day, I listen to him vent. To get him talking, I prattle on about cool stuff I'm doing at B-----, mixed with Fun Stories from Aarwenn's Past. (And yes, there are a lot of those.) Anything to keep him cheerful. And after I've chugged this entire Irish Car Bomb, I will now tell The Funniest Joke In The World, complete with gestures.

It's not like I haven't had practice: the guy who writes Clublife? Sounds exactly like the guy I dated for almost three years. It was my job to entertain him; I was court jester, magician, and courtesan. I pulled rabbits out of my hat, prattled on about polictics (although never disagreeing with his viewpoint) and, when all else failed, jumped him in bathrooms. I've noticed that Hardware Engineer, although slow to get an email conversation going, responds beautifully to funny, clever emails. If that means I take time out of my workday to compose them, so what?

And after I recite the Prologue to Romeo and Juliet while jumping rope, I'll demonstrate my ability to smoke a cigarette with my toes.

A Cure for Sundays. And Impotence.

(scroll all the way down for the second cure if you just can't wait.)

(I didn't think you could.)

So, first, the best cure for Sundays ever!

Sunday Night Dinner!


Girls and Wine.


More Girls. Yes, that's me on the far right. And that's Tacompton Tiffany in the middle!


Resident Jailbait.


Resident Mountain Man, and T-Town's Man. (Yes, T-Town is coming out of the closet.)


Resident Blonde.


Resident Hoodlum. Also, The Chef. (If he and Tacompton Tiffany hadn't already built this incredible life together, I would recommend that all girls in the area immediately find this man and throw themselves at him. A man who cooks the way he does cannot be underestimated.)


Cheesy and gorgeous Tacompton Tiffany. (I would kill for her skin.)


T-Town Girl! Out of the closet and onto the Internets!


T-Town and Myself.

Did you catch that? What it says on my shirt? Here it is again:




And FINALLY (and I knew you were waiting for it) it's the Cure For Impotence:

Last Week On The World of Aarwenn, or, why I hate Sundays

(sniffle, sniffle, hacking cough) (wine hangover)

I would like to thank all of my friends, relatives, and Roommates, who allowed me to grab them and chatter wildly at them about my love life this weekend. Let it be known here, on this blog, that I have solved the problem. I Know What I Am Doing Wrong.

(Just, um, 7328 more wrong things to go.)

But the one that I have recently discovered and may actually Do Something About is this:

I live in my life in one-week story arcs.

Yes, it's true. For my entire adult life I have hated Sunday afternoons and evenings, completely and fully. Hated them. With A Passion. I sink into a depression every week and refuse to be roused. And I had no idea why, until I was talking to T-Town (one of the many, many people I forced to listen to me this weekend) and I said something about how, oh well, this week coming up is a new week with no mistakes in it, and it HIT ME. While it is beneficial indeed to one's psyche to think of each day as a brand-new day, I have carried the notion too far. I view Sunday as the end of the hour of sitcom and am completely depressed at having to leave my viewing audience. And, like the Simpsons or The Family Guy, my main character (hi!), although she is taught important lessons each week, does not retain a THING from week to week and is doomed to repeat her story line, over and over again.

No longer. I'm trying to retain. Really and truly. In the same way that a relationship can be dual-personality drunk or sober, I think I also have weekday relationships and weekend relationships. Maybe it's due to me having a weekday personality and a weekend personality? Who knows?

In other news, apparently some of the other B----- New Hires (and some of their friends, mainly from places like Michigan or Wisconsin) think that I'm weird and sort of far-out. Not in a good or bad way, more like an animal at the zoo. Is this somehow connected to my weekday/weekend personality? Should I be worried that I am disassociating, encouraging both personalities at once, and possibly developing into a sociopath?

I don't think so. I think I am who I am--not to misquote Popeye--and that on the workdays I tone myself down a bit because, you know, B----- wouldn't be happy about me coming to work in black vinyl chaps (of which there WILL be pictures) and using the f-word all the time. Not that I enjoy it, this making myself bland--I long for the day when I own my own business and I can possibly wear Really Cute Jeans and a blazer to work--but it has to happen, and for now I'm okay with that.

I'm a Mutt!

Your Linguistic Profile:

80% General American English

10% Yankee

5% Dixie

5% Upper Midwestern

0% Midwestern

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

Which should be no surprise to anyone. With a mother from Florida, who also lived in Vermont for a time, and a father from the PNW, who spent his formative years in Hawaii, and both of whom spent a great deal of time in the South, and Midwest, and then they had a daughter who was born in Chicago, moved to the PNW by the time she was two, and then spent four years straight of her early adult life in various East Coast cities...yeah. Mutt, anyone?

I am a little annoyed that there's no West Coast dialect listed, however, although it'd probably be offensive. To get a West Coast dialect, leave off your ing's, have terrible grammar, use the f-word gratuitously (not all swear words, just that one) and also pepper your speech with Random Long Words and Awesome, Dude, Rad, Gnarly, For Real, Word, and the all-time favorite, Sweet.

Dating at Work is Hard.

Yes, it is. And yet, it's a very real possibility, and even probability.

Because B----- is a Very Large Company. Full, at this instant especially, of Young People. Most of whom are from Somewhere Else, and therefore Need To Bond. And who better to bond with than each other? Now, most of us are men (yours truly excluded) so most bonding takes place over work grunts and going out for beers. But some of us are women. (hi!)

And an even smaller percentage of us are single women. (hi again!)

And an even SMALLER percentage of us are single women that Do Something With Our Hair. (hi, still me!)

And an even SMALLER THAN THAT percentage of us are single women that Do Something With Our Hair, wear heels (woo, heels!) and have discernible breasts.

Maybe the best way to say it is that we have discernible femininity.

So, for this very small percentage of Discernibly Feminine Women, there's a lot of guys. That put gel in their hair, wear nice jeans, and know how to pick out a collared shirt. They can have their pick, in other words, except that they're stuck at work for 10 hours a day with this Very Small Percentage. So it's only natural that I might, say, meet a guy at a composites class, (woo! romantic engineers! those sexy composites!) and that I might spark up a conversation with him, and he might latch onto that conversation like a drowning man on a rope, asking me out on Instant Messenger and throwing caution to the wind.

Because really, y'all, I am not that fascinating.

And so, although we have a coffee date on Thursday, he might ask me to meet him in the hallway between our buildings. And I might do so.

And then we might talk for a little bit, trying to flirt without being work inappropriate, trying to size the other person up without being able to touch them, trying to hide our faces as his co-workers keep walking by him and winking. Trying to keep our voices low. We talk about sports. About this and that. About why we became engineers. We even talk like engineers--just the facts, ma'am.

When we're done, he reaches for a hug. He's not overly suave. That's a good thing. I give him one, thinking, Oh my God, I'm at WORK!

I walk back to my desk, beaming. I didn't have to get dressed up again or drive anywhere. I just had to walk to the end of the hallway. Sometimes it's nice to be able to date at work.