Blogging the Relationship (7)

It always comes down to this. This moment of indecision. This point in the telephone conversation in which neither party has a strong opinion. And you're trying to decide something, anything, be it the movie you're planning to watch or the restaurant to go to for dinner or who's going to who's house, and the silence stretches on and on and because you're on the phone, you can't read their expression or tone and you want to disctract yourself by tickling them or stripping or getting up and getting a glass of water or changing the volume on the radio or really, any one of a thousand little things people do to cover up the fact that the silence is still going on, but you can't because you're ON THE GODDAMMED PHONE, and now you begin to doubt yourself, you think, Do I realy have an opinion on this? I thought I didn't, but maybe I should create one just so I have SOMETHING TO SAY, but then you become worried you'll make the WRONG snap decision, and the silence is still happening, and you begin to wonder how much plane flights are to the Bahamas and if it would be easier just to hang up and break up with the person rather than trying to ignore the fact that both of you are spineless wimps with nothing better to do than sit on the phone and attempt to make a simple decision that doesn't matter in the long run, anyway.

Roommate was once dating a girl. (I swear, it happens!) (Hi, Roommie!) (Blogging Audience: in real life, Roomie is a stud that has no trouble finding women.) Anyway, things were going along okay, they weren't making wedding plans or anything but they enjoyed each other's company, until one fateful day when she said she was hungry and he said, "I'm not, but we can go pick something up for you, where do you want to go?"

...And she didn't have an opinion on the FOOD SHE WANTED TO PUT IN HER MOUTH.

"Pick for me," she said.

Roomie, telling me this story later, broke off here and said, "I was like...seriously? You're really serious? Because now I'm beginning to think I'd rather claw my eyes out with a fork than date you anymore."

So! Decision making! Important! And hard to do, especially on the phone, especially when you want to say I SWEAR I'M NOT BEING A SPINELESS WIMP, I JUST REALLY DON'T HAVE A STRONG OPINION, SO GO AHEAD AND DO WHATEVER YOU WANT AND I'LL BE OKAY WITH IT.

The LT and I, on the phone:

LT: So, I could come over tomorrow.
Me: Okay.
LT: Is that okay?
Me: Sure, I love having you over! But it's a long way.
LT: And I'm not sure how demanding my work schedule will be.
Me: And I'll see you on Thursday anyway when I go over there.
LT: ...so am I coming over?
Me: If you want. I mean, I'd like to have you, but I don't want to put you out.
LT: I don't want to encroach on your alone time.
Me: And I appreciate that! Part of my responsibility in this relationship is to a) recongize the vague but unhappy feeling I get when my alone time is being encroached upon, and b) speak up, and I promise I will do my best to do both those things, but I'm not feeling that way right now.
LT: (Laughing) Okay.
Me: Believe me, there will be times when I REALLY NEED YOU TO COME OVER BECAUSE I WILL FALL APART WITHOUT YOU. But this is not one of those times.
LT: So I could come over tomorrow.
Me: Yes, if it works with your schedule.

--Five minutes more of this go on, and then:--

Me: So I guess we've arrived at this question: if there's no pressing reasons why we SHOULDN'T see each other, and we have time, does that mean we should?
LT: I think Yes.
Me: Me too.
LT: Okay, I'm packing a bag.
Me: Yay!

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Me: It's a little bizarre seeing my short hair and skirt in the pictures at S's.
T-Town: Why?
Me: I feel like my look is changing so much right now that I don't recognize myself.
T-Town: Well, you are changing a lot of things lately.
Me: What things? I got hair cut again, true, and I'm blonde, but that's old--at least the blonde part is, although I'm still surprised when I look in the mirror sometimes. I guess it's because I'm there with a boyfriend and I'm wearing a skirt, and a big sweatshirt that's not mine, and I have really, really short hair.
T-Town: Right. You live in Seattle, you have a boyfriend, you decided to go vegan and you no longer consider yourself Christian. You don't live, love, eat or believe the same things any more. In the space of three months.
Me: Hmmmm.
T-Town: Pretty much everything except your job and your dog has changed.
Me: I guess I should slow down, but it's hard.
T-Town: You seem to be pulling it off ok.
Me: Thank you.


At least I still have scabby knees.

Faults

After dropping the LT off at the ferry last night, I drove away and immediately said, out loud, “Man...I could really use a cigarette.”

I heard my own words and was surprised. I didn’t WANT one. I could have really USED one. For what? Why? What use can I possibly have for a cigarette? (Besides punctuating sentences, as an excuse to talk to boys, as an excuse to NOT talk to boys, an excuse for girl time, or really anything fun.)

But I digress. In this case, having a use for a cigarette reminds me of a sunny Pittsburgh morning, leaving the room of my boyfriend at the time, and lighting up. It was hot and sunny outside, not the right time for a cigarette, but it tasted great. Just a few steps away from his apartment, I heard him running after me. “Don’t you want me to walk you home?”

I looked at him, then looked around. It was a Saturday morning. It was sunny. The streets were fairly quiet. There wasn’t a reason in the world why I’d need to be walked home. I appreciated the thought, but sent him back to his room without much ceremony. “Besides,” I said apologetically, “I’m smoking.” He wasn’t a smoker and he didn’t like the taste—who does?—but he still wanted to come. I shoved my cigarette in his face and he eventually turned back.

It wasn’t about the cigarette, of course. It was about alone time. Sometimes a girl just needs to be alone.

(Note: This was not so much a “walk of shame”. I was wearing jeans and flip-flops—hardly left-over party gear. I was leaving my boyfriend’s room so that I could go back to MY dorm and work, do laundry, and get on with my day. There certainly HAVE been walk-of-shame times when I would have appreciated an escort. And the reasons for why you want to be escorted by the guy whom you just fooled around with and don’t want to be escorted home by your own boyfriend, not the least of which is validation, are myriad and varied even beyond the immediate surface and certainly not appropriate to describe here.)

The cigarette in this case was a barrier. A symbol of independence. It said, or at least I thought it did, “Yes. I am a young woman with faults. I smoke and party and deliberately poison myself. I enjoy the eff out of my faults and am not giving them up any time soon and especially not for you, Mr. Mormon Holier-Than-Thou Boyfriend, because you and I both know that my vices are what attract you to me, because I am NOT a nice Mormon girl, and therefore I revel in them and you do, too, and therefore yes I WILL use them to both draw you in and push you away when it is appropriate.”

And now that I have a) gotten older, quite a bit older, and b) let go of some of my need to be That Girl, the one in knee-high black leather boots that won’t be tied down, I find myself dropping my faults. I could go into some sort of long (even longer than this post is already!) drawn-out discussion about how young women are pressured to be “the good girl” and how cigarette smoking is on the rise in young women partly in response to this sort of pressure, and how young women especially are pressured to fit into social norms, and I might especially mention the Madonna/Whore syndrome and how girls are pressured to be one or the other, yada yada yada, and this would be true, but instead what I’ll say is this:

Especially today, with the genders being treated more and more equally—yay!—young people of both genders feel a deep-seated need to BE A BADASS. Smoking, drinking, drugs, lots of sex, fast driving, dropping out of school, getting pregnant, whatever it is, whatever form it takes, if you call it being a badass or “sowing your wild oats”, whatever, the point is that you develop and cultivate a collection of faults, and it becomes your barrier, your shield, between what you know the world expects of you and the inevitable crushing disappointment you know you will feel when you don’t live to the world’s standards, as you know you won’t.

And as you get older, you begin to come to terms with the kind of person you are, and you lose the need for this shield. In some circles, this may be called “maturing”--sadly not an actual requirement for growing older. You may keep some of your faults or you may not, but part of the maturing process is DROPPING YOUR SHIELD.

And in my case, cigarettes—in some small way, at least—were part of that shield. Leaving a parental unit or function, or a boyfriend that I suspected I would ruin because he was too good for me, or an event where I had to be on my best behavior, I looked forward to the time when I could get away into my car or behind the gas station and curse, smoke a cigarette, see girlfriends, and escape from the pressure to be perfect.

Now, at 25, I am dropping my shield slowly but surely. In some ways I feel raw, scraped out with a spoon raw, naked and exposed, without my barrier between myself and the world, without the self-delusion that I really am A BADASS WHO DOESN’T CARE ABOUT SOCIAL NORMS...but only if I'm not in the public eye. In other ways, I feel damn healthy. I know that I can act out and break rules when it’s appropriate—I can make a statement, and I certainly have in the past—but I also know that I can survive in social functions without looking at the clock, aching for my escape. I feel that I may have lost some of my social functionality—it’s hard to be perfect if you don’t have a ready escape—but I’m okay with that. Being an adult, after all, is not parading your faults around as if they are something to be proud of, but rather accepting them, and in the process, accepting the person you already are.

Blogging the Relationship (6)

The LT and I talk. A lot. It's one of my favorite things about us. I guess I started it, although accidentally. I had given up Christianity and was thinking about Paganism, and I knew he was Christian, and so as we were walking Titan just a week or so after we started dating, we crossed into the park and I said, "Ten dollar question."

"Three-dollar answer," he responded.

"How important is religion to you?"

"WHOA!"

He proceeded to give me at least a twelve-dollar answer, for those are curious.

We talk about fashion and women and advertising, we talk about veganism, we talk about religion, we talk about how men and women relate, politics, the government, abortion, etc. Some of my posts have grown out of conversations we've had; other times, it's the other way around.

Regardless, someone reading a transcript of our relationship since its inception would see this phrase a lot: "So, I have a question," or simply, "Question:"

Just yesterday we were on our way to the premiere of Accepted, and as we had just been frantically rooting around in my apartment for the free pass--which I had lost, because I TOTALLY SUCK--he had seen a lot of my papers and such.

"Focussing on our disimilarities today," he said, as we occasionally joke that we're too alike, "I noticed you're a member of the ACLU."

"That's right," I said, "and the Human Rights Campaign."

"Whereas I am a member of the NRA."

"I know." He owns two guns. I grew up with a military grandfather and was expecting it, particularly the handgun in the nightstand, which my grandfather had until he died. Not that I'll pretend that the morning after the First Time it wasn't a little disconcerting for the LT to say, "If you reach in here because you need condoms, don't be scared when you find this..." and pull out his gun, but it was nothing I hadn't seen or shot before. The handgun is one thing--it was the long shotgun that he offered to loan me once when I was pissed at...well, that's a secret! But I digress, because this is not about guns. (Not today.)

"What do you think about gay marriage?" he asked me.

I chose my words carefully, taking too long, until I had to say something. "I'm taking a long time, not because I don't have very strong and immediate views on the subject, but because I want to say it right," I said, stalling.

Let's just say: we disagree.

But not badly.

Still. I used to think that this question--like abortion, actually--would be a deal-breaker for me. I'm surprised to find out that as long as he's not radical...it's not. The discussion didn't get heated. We talked, and the conversation trailed off, and that was okay, and we went on to see a funny movie about college.

Huh.

Blogging the Relationship (5)

"I don't get enough water," I said to the LT, as we were both desperately chugging out of my new, ADORABLE pink Nalgene to fight the special kind of dehydration caused by five days of 95-degree heat with no air conditioning and a heavy drinking schedule and tennis games and rock-climbs.

"Neither do I," he agreed. "Well, maybe I do. How much water are you supposed to drink?"

"Eight glasses a day," I returned immediately.

"No. I definitely don't get enough."

Once again, I was knocked sideways by the fact that he really didn't know how much water he was supposed to drink per day. I mean, HELLO! HOW CAN YOU IGNORE A FACT THAT HAS BEEN BLASTED AT US FROM EVERY HEALTH ARTICLE OR MAGAZINE IN THE WORLD FOR THE PAST SEVEN YEARS?

It reminds me of an article I read long ago where a wife said, "I don't have penis envy. He can have it for all I care. What I'm jealous of is that my husband can COMPLETELY IGNORE the fact that the children haven't eaten anything green since the Clinton Administration!"

Reason Number #4,653 why women are their own worst enemy. Yes, we might be healthier, nutrition wise--assuming that we manage to scavenge the actual TRUTH about nutrition from the thousands of conflicting diet and nutrition books written especially for our low and getting lower all the time self-esteem--but all the stress and obsession we attach to nutrition?

Ladies, stress will kill you faster than a whole lifetime of red meat. A good lesson for us all.

Heat

Hello. I am Tired. And also wrapped up in the LT and maybe a little neurotic.

But really, what else is new?

Also, it is Monday, and I am Broke and looking ahead to the next four months of being Broke, and it is very hot, like it is everywhere, and I am Tired.

And there is a lot of negative energy in the world. People are uptight, I suppose because of the heat; although it’s unlikely that Seattle will have a drought, I suppose we can’t help, as humans, looking at available resources and looking at the number of hungry, thirsty humans, and thinking, suddenly, in our darkest moments, What if there isn’t enough for me?

Also I do not have air conditioning. My apartment stayed 95 degrees. All weekend. Just sayin’.

My two favorite bloggers in the world have written several posts over the weekend, and not like we’re in a race or anything, but I feel lazy because I haven’t. Because I have basically dived into this relationship headfirst and refuse to come up for air. Because although apparently I can write whole posts about alone time, in the end, at the same time after long, lazy weekends like the lovely one I just had, I think, I haven’t done anything in months except hang with the LT.

But—and here’s the kicker—that’s just not true.

Three day weekend this week—don’t hate me, I work nine hour days so I can have the occasional three-day-weekend—and I spent a solid third, almost a half, NOT with the LT at all.

I took a road trip with Titan, just spending time in the Jeep in the sunshine with the windows down and the radio on, and we cruised up the Kitsap Peninsula and crossed the Hood Canal onto the Olympic Peninsula, also known as one of the most beautiful places in the world—and I LIVE here—and then took a cute little ferry onto Whidbey Island, also known as the longest island in the world, top to bottom, and I drove down to the southern tip to a dog park with beach access and met one of my very best friends and her daughter, my niece, and if there’s anything in this world more wonderful than watching Titan be gentle with my darling niece, than I don’t know what it is.

(Not that my niece isn’t still the best birth control ever. Good LAWD I am not ready for kids!)

I called my mother on the way home. “How DO you do it?” I asked. “How do you wrangle a two-year-old and a car seat and a dog and food and towels and dirty baby parts and diapers and dog poop and dog poop bags and your own sanity and everything?”

“You just do it,” she replied, and because she is wise beyond her years, she did not say, “And fathers who don’t help can go fuck themselves.”

Anyway, after this I had just enough time to get home, except I didn’t because some very unfortunate person had run over a police car, and traffic was at a standstill getting off the ferry, and then there was a goose in the road, just standing there and honking back at the cars who honked at him, and so I called the LT, who happens to be an effin’ NAVIGATOR for the Navy, and he took me on back roads and such until I got home in only an hour and ten minutes, not bad for 20 miles in Friday rush hour traffic, and I had just enough time to throw on a little black dress and the hottest wrap-up-the-leg sandals ever before my date (Hi, K!) came and picked me up for Friday Night’s Booze Cruise.

AND THEN I was on a boat with a bunch of really, really crazy B engineers, mainly male, and if there’s one thing that engineers do well, it is drink. I have no memory past midnight. My signature on the taxi receipt—that I discovered, many days later—was a thing of beauty.

AND THEN I got up and played tennis the next morning, not even that badly, and then drank coffee with my neighbor and went with him to go get a haircut, and then the LT came over and we got Titan defurred and walked around Greenlake, and had just enough time to eat and shower before driving to Tacoma to see eight or nine old friends at a great slide guitar show, and one of my friends took a guest spot on vocals and she was effin’ incredible, and then later we (where we = me) went on and sang karaoke.

AND THEN the LT and I and Titan all slept in, not surprising after two days of heat, beach, lake, tennis, and drinking, and went to REI and attempted to climb the 65-foot pinnacle and went swimming in Greenlake with Titan and ate a homecooked vegan meal (watch me go!) and watched the worst movie I’ve seen lately, (kidding, baby) and...and...and. Sleep, blessed sleep.

SO. The POINT of all this writing was to convince myself that I have done something besides just hang with the LT all weekend, and indeed I have.

So the question becomes: what is it in women’s minds that picks out the only things we have NOT done—in this case, the annual shopping trip with my mother and aunt at the Nordstrom’s Half-Yearly Sale, which you may notice is NOT on the list above—and beats ourselves up about that?

Why do I feel like I am letting down “the side” by hanging with my own boyfriend, someone who I generally like and care about and with whom I have a relationship that I would like to continue, thankyouverymuch, and sure I haven’t done chores but let’s get real, I probably wouldn’t have done those ANYWAY, and the only thing I missed was family related, and frankly when it comes to my friends I’m seeing them fairly regularly, so WHY DO I FEEL THIS HUGE BURDEN OF GUILT?

And I think the answer is: I don’t.

Best Idea Ever

Hello. It is Thursday. I am listening to Kanye West and Common rapping live on The Chapelle Show, back in the good days when it existed. It’s hot outside, and getting hotter by the hour; by the time I arrive tonight, it will be an oven in my apartment. Both fans are on. Like that’ll help my furball any way. Sorry, baby, I can’t defur you until Saturday!

I am working on my research team’s website, mainly trying to organize the wealth of information that my lead engineer sends me, and eating pumpkin seeds—raw, from Trader Joe’s—while attempting to not spill them all over the floor, which has happened, or drop them down my cleavage, which has just happened.

Whoops.

Although it’s sunny and I have a lot to do and I’m listening to hard, cheeky rock (Buckcherry) that is mainly about naked ladies and getting lit up, I can’t help thinking about a gray morning just two mornings ago, in which I made the cardinal sin of saying that I did, yes, have time for coffee with the LT when I didn’t actually have time at all, and we made it all the way out of the coffee shop before I started to bawl on the sidewalk.

Partly because the LT introduced me to Buckcherry, I guess, and songs by Buckcherry—especially about sex—make me think of him, because, well, grrr, baby! Very grrrr!

Is it hot in here, or is it just me? Excuse me. Desperate fanning is needed.

Whew. As I was SAYING, he was comforting me on the sidewalk, he in his full uniform, including hat and shined shoes, and me dressed up for work in a black pleated skirt, white tank top, pink sweater with ¾ length sleeves and pink pearl buttons, and pink slingback heels. We must have looked like something out of a 1940s postcard. In the middle of my tears, I laughed, and he agreed, thinking of Capitol Hill’s reputation.

“You know, we’d fit in more if we traded outfits,” he said, and we laughed some more and split ways and I got over my tears.

Getting to the B, I mentioned this story to The Intern, and then it came to me in a bolt of lightning, the Best Idea of All Time:

LAZY B CROSSDRESSING DAY.

EAT YOUR HEART OUT, FRANCE!

Blogging the Relationship (4)

Just last night, the LT was over, and we were on our way to a birthday dinner, and I had just gotten a box from Vicky’s in the mail, containing two pairs of cute shoes. (No need to get excited, men—just shoes this time.) I did what any female in that situation would do: I put on the left shoe from one pair and the right shoe from the other pair, and modeled both at once. If the LT had been my father, he would have said, “Well, not that pair, honey,” and thought it a good joke, but fortunately he is not. (To Freud: Phooey on you.)

Instead he said, “I like the right one better.”

I gaped at him, open-mouthed. Why would he say that? Did he think I would actually RETURN one of the pairs? Did he think I hadn't bought both pairs, intending to keep them, and certainly had no plans to abandon the less-wanted pair in its time of need? Did he think I was that heartless?

And then I remembered. Men live in a world in which one pair of new shoes is enough.

Formatting note

About something no one will even NOTICE except me! Yes. I = OCD.

Although the B has so far been extremely liberal regarding my computer usage, the time has come to buckle down, which means I can't just hang out on blogger, composing and editing posts at my leisure, the way I used to.

So I will now compose them in Word and cut-and-paste them to Blogger.

So the apostrophes and the commas will look different. Which will bug me, and I'll want to go through and change them all, but I won't have time, which is a good thing for both my career AND my little problem.

Yes. It will bug me. I = OCD.

Missed Connection with the Homeless Lady Who Took My Stuff

I can be slightly territorial, I suppose. And perhaps it's not a good idea to cross me before my first cup of coffee.

I'm just saying, is all.

Snippet From The Other Blog

Eating out VEGAN for the first time last night was actually not impossible. (Love you, Seattle!) The LT and I went to the Six Arms, a local pub, and got beers and small-ish meals. Our order conversation could have been taken directly from "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus":

Me: "I'll have the black bean burrito, no sour cream, no cheese."
LT: "I'll have a cheeseburger and fries."
Waitress: "...Oooooookay."

Blogging the Relationship (3)

The LT (in which LT = Lieutenant in the US Navy, in case you were curious) is tough.

Very tough. The boy served on a SUBMARINE in IRAQ, for Chrissakes. With a Commanding Officer who used to throw things at him. He's tougher than beef jerky that's been left outside in Phoenix for a year and then run over by a fleet of semis. He's that tough.

For example, the evening of the day of his LASIK surgery, his contact fell out for the first time. (Yes, you read that right, it fell out for THE FIRST TIME OF MANY TIMES that weekend.) It is maybe five hours after his surgery. His corneas were just scrubbed off with a rotating brush. He no longer HAS corneas, which is why he has contact lenses--they're there to replace the corneas until they grow back. Now one contact lens has fallen out. When this happens, you're supposed to go right into the hospital, because having your entire eyeball exposed to air is incredibly drying and painful, plus your cornea won't heal as fast because your entire eyeball is focused (ha!) on trying not to convulse and can't put all its energy towards healing, instead.

The problem is, it was 9 at night, and we had been drinking. Heavily. (With him on percocet, whoops!) Neither of could possibly drive anywhere. We had to get the contact back in. We had been drinking, maybe I mentioned that, and we had been cooking. WITH CHILI POWDER. And now I have to put MY FINGERS IN HIS EYE. "I'm all right, sweetie," he kept saying, as I stuck my drunk, clumsy, chili-covered fingers in his eye with the contact, needing four tries to get it in, but he was in so much pain that his face was actually twitching with effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "I'm fine, sweetie. I'm fine." I began to cry. It didn't help.

Right, the crying part? That was ME. The one NOT WITH CHILI IN THEIR NON-CORNEA'ED EYE. Me? Not so tough. In fact, I'm a little bit of a wuss. About many things. Which include, but are not limited to: getting up early, going to bed, washing my face, vacuuming, doing laundry, brushing my dog, brushing my TEETH, flossing, etc, you get the picture. Maybe "wuss" isn't quite so accurate a term as possibly "lazy slack-ass". Given the option to either a) do a task I find distasteful that will take two minutes, or b) complain for half an hour, I'll choose option (b) every time.

Maybe I should have gone into the military. (My parents are convulsing in laughter right now. Thanks, guys.) (I am maybe not so respectful of authority.)

Perhaps this is why, several years after college, I still have a big problem with, say, getting up in the morning, and the LT just gets up, no snooze button needed. All calm, taking a shower at 4:30 in the morning after we've been asleep for maybe five hours, while I am not just asleep, but FIGHTING TO STAY THAT WAY, GODDAMMIT, AND IT HAD BETTER BE GODDAMNED FUCKING IMPORTANT if you want me to wake up. (I curse more in the first hour of my day than in all the rest of the hours of the day put together.)

This morning I finally struggled out of bed at 5:15 and made coffee for him as he was putting on The Uniform, and I looked over at my shaved, calm, fully-dressed boyfriend--complete with hat and shined shoes. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw: humongous bedhead, skin like a jar of spaghetti sauce had exploded on it--I HATE WASHING MY FACE--and that bed stank you get when you've slept on unclean sheets and drooled on yourself and it's dried funny.

You know what I'm talking about.

I was almost afraid to hug him goodbye--what if I polluted his uniform?

Word of the Day:

Blargh. Used extensively by the LT and myself today. Made up by me. Perfectly descriptive of many things.

In a sentence: "It's so gray outside. I forgot my phone charger. Blargh."

Happy Anniversary, sweetie!

Also, a note

I may have misled my blogging audience in a previous post.

When I use the word "bloom", I mean, "my features somehow stopped looking like a cackling witch in training--and I don't mean the kind of hot voodoo witch in Pirates of The Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (go see it!)--I mean the kind of baby witch that was ditch-delivered by a drab and abandoned at birth, and grew up hunchbacked."

Really, that is what I looked like. Until about...16, maybe. Maybe a little earlier.

It wasn't that I became the beauty I am today directly at sixteen (HA!), it was that my features no longer scared children on the street. I looked normal. Until about junior year in college, when a very special lady (Hi there, Redhead!) taught me to apply makeup, and my world has never been the same.

THE POINT is that I was using the word "bloom" to describe "grew into my nose", not "fill out".

Because if we want to have an "I filled out earliest!" contest, I'll take people down! Because you know how when little girls grow up, they want to either ride horse or be a ballerina?

If you develop breasts at fourth grade, there is NO WAY you can be a ballerina. I rode horses instead. Which gave me excellent practice for my current stallion. (Ba-dum!)

Come on, you KNEW that joke was coming!

Oh God, the Office

The best thing about summer at the office: the INTERNS! (Hi, Intern!)

The worst thing about summer at the office: Being. At the Office. And apparently everyone else thinks so, too, because BOY ARE WE ALL GRUMPY.

The Intern and I have started an occasional series of sightings: "When Old Men Attack!"

RAWR!

And also this: The Intern and I were chatting this morning about Nickelback and Buckcherry--more on this later--and a stranger stopped by our shared four-top cubicle. I was in the middle of a sentence and he talked right over me. "ANYONE KNOW WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS PRINTER?

The Intern and I at first were shocked into silence, as out-and-out rudeness can do that to a person. Finally I said, "I believe the secretary is on the phone."

He stared at me silently.

The Intern and I exchanged glances, and finally I said, "But let me see what I can do."

I walked to the printer to see him punching the same "Print" button over and over again, obviously believing that if he hit it hard enough, he could bully the machine into working. "See?" he kept saying. "See?" Stab. "See?" Stab. "See? Nothing." Stab, stab, stab. I suddenly feared for his wife at home--does sex equal this guy poking at her clit with one finger, and occasionally saying, "Are you done?"

"Let me try, sir," I said, my restaurant skills coming back to me.

I opened the lid and almost laughed out loud. Now, admittedly, our printer is screwed up, but that's not its fault. The Cro-Magnon had put the sheet he wanted to copy on the WRONG SIDE OF THE PRINTER VIEWER. Yes. He had disregarded the big green arrow that says, in printer language, "Place paper here."

I slid his paper over. "You have to put it by the arrow," I said kindly. I closed the lid and pushed the Print button. It printed. Cro-Magnon stood, open mouthed. "Happy to help, sir," I said, and went back to my cubicle.

I give Intern and I a lot of credit for restraining our laughter to occasional snorts while Cro-Magnon finished his print job. (Incredibly difficult.) We didn't actually bust up laughing until AFTER he walked away.

Alone Time

More than you ever wanted to know about me: I get my best ideas generally while grooming, cooking, or walking with Titan. And all this time I thought: Well, obviously it's because I have something to do with my hands, and that frees my brain up to think. Makes sense, right? Yeah, right! It's bullshit! My brain doesn't need to be freed to think!

(Um, I'm not really sure what I just wrote, but you get the idea, right? I'll spell it out for you: IT'S NOT ABOUT THE HANDS.)

No-Segue-at-All-Newsflash: I'm an only child.

The only child of Older Parents. (I mean, not OLD, but ol-DER than maybe...uh...whoops. There goes my inheritance. Hi, Mom and Dad!)

I did not have a lot of what is now called "socialization" when I was growing up. My parents tried their best, bless them. I had music lessons, which I excelled at, and sports, at which I excelled rather less. (Not only was I bad, but I didn't know how bad I was. I thought outfield was where they put all their best players! What?)

It was just my luck that music is a solitary activity, where Sports is definitely...not. If you suck at music, no one knows except your parents, your teacher, and the few other parents unfortunate enough to be at the recital. But if you suck at sports, on the other hand, no one knows except the twenty-three other girls on your team, their siblings, their parents, grandparents, your parents, the checker at the corner store, etc.

And I, as I already stated, sucked at sports. I wasn't in bad shape, but I wasn't built for fast running even then, and my hand-eye coordination was even worse. So in my only group activities, I wasn't exactly an asset to "the group"--even when I wasn't hitting my coaches' hands with the bat (true story!)--and therefore I didn't have a lot of what are now called "friends". (Let me just say that I taught myself to read at three.) And I took with me into adulthood the insecurity that no one really liked me and was just smiling at me because their parents made them--and I'm probably not alone in this, but it seems to be compounded in my case by a lot of alone time as a child. A LOT of a alone time. (See Music Lessons, above, and Not Good at Sports, also above, also, see, Speed Reader at Age Three.)

Yes. I was a late bloomer. (May the LT never find pictures of me before, oh, 17.)

(This is all relevant, I promise.)

The POINT is that I eventually, well, Bloomed. In a Big Way. So in spite of--or maybe because of--the fact that my personality is little more than an open, raw, gaping need for attention, I have been able to surround myself with people, clearly hoping in some small way to erase the "scars" from childhood. Community theater, high school theater, youth symphony, sorority in college, various committees, bring it on! I'm not the natural volunteer that my mother is, and I don't like authority, but dammit if I'm not a joiner of clubs in spite of all that! There was even a period in my life where I would take roommates off the internet--anyone, really--(hi, all of you! I swear you were special!) instead of living alone, because I COULD NOT STAND TO BE ALONE FOR EVEN ONE SECOND, OH MY GOD I MIGHT WITHER AWAY AND DIE, I NEED AN AUDIENCE 24-7.

Since this time period, though, I've grown up a little. (Okay, it was just a few months ago, but you know how these things go--once you make a decision to grow, it happens overnight.) After all, I live alone now. Lots of time with just me and my thoughts. And it's worked. It's worked well. (My neighbors think I'm a little weird, as I talk to myself while grooming, cooking, and walking around the neighborhood, but whatever.)

And maybe it's because of this that I've finally discovered the value of alone time.

For example: if, thanks to being on vacation with the LT and his buddies and a general honeymoon atmosphere in which we are always together, often without clothes...if, thanks to all that, I don't get any alone time, life feels different. It feels weird. It's a little hard to think. And harder still to talk properly, and even harder to type--I had to double and triple check this post for homynyms.

I mentioned this to him just a few days ago, as I noticed that I hadn't spent any recent time mentally composing blog posts--i.e., I'd actually had things to do in REAL LIFE--and he said with concern, "Should I leave you alone?"

Which was a pertinent question at the time, as we were actually both in his bathroom, him leaning on the counter, watching me mug for him in the mirror as I went through my out-of-shower routine.

"Not at all," is what I believe I said, and I meant it 110%. I'm infatuated, after all, and if giving away brain cells is what it takes to hang out with him, then here I am, world, stick a needle in my brain and start sucking!

Is it true that women bloggers are less funny after we get in relationships, and if so, is this why? And if I'm okay with this, am I letting down "the Side"? Discuss.

Notes on Blogging the Relationship

Writing a novel is easy: you get to make stuff up. I write made-up dialogue well. No one yells at me if how I quote them sounds entirely different from what they actually said.

Writing down things that were actually SAID is DAMN HARD. The LT is funny and well-spoken. If he sounds otherwise on this blog, that's transcriptionist error.

Also I'm writing a really long post on being alone and I've spent five days on vacation. Expect a lot of "catch-up" type posts. WOO!

Blogging the Relationship (2)

The LT read my last post as we were relaxing at his house on our respective sofas, with our respective laptops.

"This is unfair," he reported. "Your audience is going to think I'm some kind of typical jock frat-boy, and I'm not. You forget to report that we cooked a four course meal, enjoyed fine wines, and hung out at a gay/straight club for several hours."

Well. And that's technically true.

But it wouldn't be FUNNY.

One of the Guys

Every girl has said, at one point in her life, "Oh, I'm just one of the guys."

Especially if you, say, have an engineering degree. Especially if you maybe have two of them. ESPECIALLY if your graduating class was eight women...and FIFTY-FIVE MEN. You might really especially say this if you, say, like cars, and own a big dog, and spent your entire career in math and science classes.

Especially if you, say, work at a place that has stats of TWENTY-FIVE TO ONE, men to women, and so all the people you work with, hang out with, all your friends from work, EVERYONE you know, is a man.

Especially if maybe your boyfriend is in the military, and all his friends are...you guessed it...men.

ESPECIALLY if you, say, don't shower regularly, don't generally cook, and don't even own measuring cups or a cookie sheet.

You might be allowed to say that you were "one of the guys".

But when you're hanging out with three guys, and you realize that in just two hours, you've seen at least 8 "adjustments", with absolutely no shame...

...you know you're really one of the guys.

Blogging the Relationship

So, if you're dating a new boy, and you spend all your time with him (physically or mentally, when you obsess, and by "you" I mean "me"), and you know he reads the blog occasionally (hi, baby!) so you don't want to write about him, but you really have nothing else to write about because you haven't done anything except hang with him in WEEKS, what should you do?

1. Write it out in the longest run-on sentence ever. (above.)
2. Stop blogging. (yeah right.)
3. Force out posts that don't involve your boyfriend. (See all recent posts.)
4. Write about your boyfriend. In your blog. (HELLO!)

So, doors number 2, 3, and 4.

And if you've read this blog before, you know what I chose to do, because we all know I don't learn from history.

"Can I blog about you?" I asked, choosing my time carefully. (Read: I was naked.)

"Sure," he said, after a pause. "You don't have to ask me, you know."

"I know."

"You definitely can, but I want to make a rule."

"I'm listening."

"If you have a problem with me, I want you to talk about it with me first."

"I can do that," I said.

"Good."

Hi, LT!

Definition

Guilt: the difference between who you think you should be and who you suspect you are. Also see: a waste of time.

Very quick post

Um...

I was in Bremerton and Tacoma almost all weekend, so if you want to know what I did, you can just read T-Town's Blog instead.

I'm not as broke as I was.

Going vegan, slowly but surely. Have been reading a lot of blogs.

My friend Geeb and I created a new drinking game with Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Easily the worst idea of all time. I blacked out halfway through--and I NEVER do that!

Get to leave work!

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY TO EVERYONE!

Snapshots

Do not drink anything if you've had two hours of sleep the night before. At the BBQ last night I think I WAS the entertainment.

Me: "Hey, do you have..."
Friend: "Do I have what?"
Me: "What?"
Friend: "You just asked me if I had something!"
Me: "No I didn't."
Friend: "ARGH."

And this choice tidbit:

Me: "Hi, I'm Aarwenn. So do you work at B?"
Nice Girl: "No, I know Friend through [this extracurricular activity]."
Me: "Oh, that's cool. So what do you do at B?"
Nice Girl: "...what?"
Friend: "Don't mind her, she's a retard with no sleep."
Me: "Hey! I am not a...what did you call me?"

And also, at the movies two days ago:

LT: "Two for Tokoyo Drift, please." *Pulls out his military ID for the normal AMC Discount.*
Ticket Guy: "Oh, we don't have a military ID at this particular theater, sir."
LT: "...Oh, okay. Weird."
Ticket Guy: "Yes, it is weird. Are you a student?"
LT: "Nope."
Ticket Guy: "I'm going to ask you one more time: are you a studnet?"
LT: "...Why yes, I am!"
Ticket Guy: "Great! Here's your discount!"

And finally, a choice tidbit from T-Town as I leave Large Aerospace Company early to go to OzzFest:

"Just so you know, you are not alowed to be a hippie of a vegetarian, an urban professional, and a metal chick. It's confusing."

Laundry List--and I Hate Laundry!

So, I haven't posted in awhile because I have nothing to talk about except give a laundry list of my activities, and really? Snoozeville. I mean, come on. But I have nothing else to offer, so here goes:

T-Town's apartment is ADORABLE! I'm jealous as hell. A little far away from the nearest Starbucks for me, however. Note: she is more moved in to her place in one week than I am, and I've been in my place for going on three months. WAY more moved in.

I am not a homemaker.

But I can IMPROVE! Really, I can. I have a duvet cover--I'm sure I've mentioned it. It's even on the bed. The dust ruffle was IRONED. (Full disclosure: my mother ironed it, because I wouldn't have.) And I did laundry. Two loads. (Full disclosure: I wasted my third dryer load because I forgot to empty the lint trap from my first one.) (My sorority sisters always knew when I had used the dryer because the lint coating the trap was a) thick, and b) black and blue. I may need to start wearing color again. Whatever.)

Being vegetarian is going well...and I bought only vegan items on my recent shopping trip, which was yesterday. The Dark Side is near.

I was so worried that Titan wasn't eating enough--and I upped his food intake so much--that now he's putting on excess weight! Whoops. Not good for his hips. (Excess = you can still feel his ribs. But he's bigger than he was.)

Getting through a barbeque--last night at a co-worker's house in East Capitol Hill--as a vegetarian is super easy. Getting through one as a vegan when I can't eat my favorite Gardenburgers because they have cheese in them: NOT SO EASY.

La la la. OZZFEST TONIGHT!

HAPPY HAPPY MONDAY

Warning: I'm spazzy.

I had a helluva weekend, a FANTASTIC weekend, and I hope everyone else did too. House Parties were good, my new neighbors are awesome, it's record-breakingly gorgeous outside, and I get to home very shortly.

La la la. Pictures from the weekend:


One of my favorite pictures of Titan and I evah!


Titan being adorable.


Action shot!


More Hot Dog Action.


And a Tale of A Tennis Ball:


A-One...


And A-Two...

Ker-SPLOOSH!


And finally, the beauty of nature:


Oh, wait, I'm sorry, I meant the beauty of the WATER. Because we were SAILING. Right.


Beauty. And Water.


More beautiful, gorgeous water.

Fast winds, bright sunshine. Green Tea Frappucinos. Seeing Bling. Seeing Pink. It's been a good weekend. Hope everyone's weather is just as good as mine.

TGIMFF

For the record, that's TGI Mother-Fucking Friday!

It's 75 degrees and sunny. I'll be out of here in a couple of hours. I took the bus so I don't have to drive, so on the way home I can kick back with my iPod, my Doubleshot, a book, and a feeling of contentment big enough to cause a tidal wave.

(Hey, I worked hard today, swear it on my mother. Long telecons, persuasive arguing, document revision. SWEAR. But you don't want to hear about that, do you? I thought so.)

It promises to be a very busy weekend, which is awesome, although with the added challenge of the previous post--a cash limit. No matter. I will press ahead toward the goal. Want to know what I'm doing? Want to know how I'm going to squeeze in happy hour, one house party, two house party, red house party, blue house party, tennis, taking Titan to the beach, going sailing, going out at night, breakfast, coffee with T-Town, feeding at the parental units', and BFD all in the same weekend?

Well, me too! In fact, I'm probably the only one who cares. But assuming that you really are just dying to know Where in the World is Aarwenn?, click that Google Calendar link, over to the right on the tool bar! And then you'll know! And knowing, as they say, is half the battle.

Announcement

In my ongoing quest for Self Improvement, I have another blog. Find the link if you can. :)

It's not private, per se, but it will be much more boring, if that is possible. So. Now you know!

Seattle on -$45 a Day

Tuesday afternoon dawns sunny and fine, and I have visions dancing in my head of a long walk with Titan and maybe a glass of wine on the patio. Get home early from work, salivating over this vision. But there are a few things on my mind, like:

1. I know I have about $100 to my name, which will cover gas, dog food, and a ferry ride. And it has to last nine days. Scary, but doable if I really tie myself down.

2. I realize I have forgotten to cancel the power at the old place, so I pick up my phone to call Tacoma Power.

3. That's when I realize that I forgot to pay the phone bill. For two months.

4. My service has been disconnected. And it will STAY THAT WAY UNTIL I CAN PAY IT, WHICH IS NEVER.

5. Immediately have a nervous breakdown, because worse than the thought of no phone is the thought that everyone who calls me will get that "Service has been temporarily disconnected" message and they will KNOW that I didn't pay my bill and that I'm a loser. This list of people included my friends, my BOY, and my MOTHER, y'all. This could not be worse. (Until I broadcast my troubles on teh Internet.)

6. I immediately call Verizon and commence getting shady with credit cards. I read them every card number I have. All of them are declined. The lady on the other end is not sympathetic. You can tell she thinks I'm a loser. This is getting worse and worse, and now I can't call Tacoma Power.

7. I hang up and cry.

8. It occurs to me: hey, checks take a few days to post and will buy me some time!

9. I pay by electronic check!

10. I HAVE SERVICE AGAIN!

11. I have no idea what will happen when the check is posted, as I'm already $73 dollars in the hole. Will the bank cover it and charge me? Bounce it all together? Who knows? So I'm reprieved, but definitely not home and dry. Oh well. I'll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.

12. Now I have $40 to my name. For gas, dog food, ferry rides, and nine days. I will not make it. I pray for money to fall from the sky.

13. I take Titan on a long, long walk.

14. Wednesday: still praying for money to fall from the sky, I open my mail from Monday, which got ignored because the LT was there, and...

15. THERE'S A SMALL REFUND CHECK FROM MY INSURANCE COMPANY! Why? Who the fuck knows? I'll take that! It's twice as much as I'm currently worth!

16. Only seven more days to go.

Stranger in a Strange Land

SCENE

1. Aarwenn walks east down the hall. Another person, a man, is walking towards her.

2. Aarwenn and The Man exchange brief eye contact. Aarwenn realized The Man is obviously trying to check her out without seeming obvious. Aarwenn rolls her eyes and focuses on her office door.

3. Aarwenn reaches her office door in safety.

4. The Man's thought are almost audible: "SWEET! Now I can check her out without getting caught! The Man commences staring at Aarwenn's rack.

5. Too bad Homeskillet didn't notice the trashcan in the hallway...

6. BA-BAM!

Food Porn

The dinner went awesome! I used this recipe, which has the added value of not only being vegetarian but also VEGAN, which is cool. The LT asked for seconds. (He reads this occasionally. Everyone say hi!)

UPDATE on the food porn: I had leftovers from this dinner today for lunch (some of them, because I made a TON) and it was just as good, if not better. It was so good that I got distracted eating the cold leftovers in the tupperware instead of getting up to microwave the plate of leftovers I had just dished out. That's how good it was.

Eating out veggie is going well, so far. I ate at Quizno's today (which I've loved ever since the spongemonkey advertisements) and had the Veggie Sub (scroll down) which was AWESOME. It's not vegan--but it is totally yummy! Sunday I ate at the local Annapurna Cafe, which was sadly underwhelming. They do Indian, Nepali, and Tibetan food, which I think is too much for one restaurant and may lower the quality of all dishes, but what do I know? I do know that I had the Himalayan Curry with tofu and veggies and didn't bother finishing it OR taking the rest home. Bland! Sad. (My dad loved his Mango Mazza, though, so who knows?)

Fortunately, eating at The Green Papaya was NOT bland or sad. I had the Claypot Tofu, which was AWESOME--I took the leftovers for lunch yesterday and made The Intern jealous. Love, love, love it. But at the same time, my two dinner companions thought their dishes were only okay, so again...who knows? An important part about The Green Papaya: they stress in their menu that separate cooking things are used for the vegetarian entrees. Always good to be reassured.

Announcement

I'm going vegetarian!

This was mentioned earlier, offhand, but I wanted to make it REALLY SUPER CLEAR.

Also, I've changed the links on the sidebar. The Pandora link is still up, but I've taken off other things and added blogs that I like for other reasons, like house blogs, veggie blogs, and fashion blogs. Blog, blog, blog. Hey, it's cheaper than therapy!

You know you're not the only one feeling the stress WHEN:

On a business email, someone hits reply all and types one word:

"Bullshit."

YEAH, AEROSPACE!

Religious Thoughts and An Orgasm At The End.

Yeah. It's really, really gray outside. But I soldier on! Trudge, trudge trudge.

So, About Religion.

Father's Day went well, in spite of (or maybe because of) our discussion of politics and religion. I didn't mention that I had started reading about Wicca, but I did break the news that I no longer considered myself a Christian. My dad, bless his heart, took it well, although to him it was like telling him that I planned to kill myself the next day. (If I'm not a Christian, he won't see me in heaven, and I'll be doomed to hell forever, unless I repent. Which is, I'm sure what he's hoping for.)

Yes, I'm reading about Wicca. Do I feel like every "I'm not religious, I'm spiritual" freak I've ever rolled my eyes at? Yes. Do I still believe in Christianity? No. Why? I don't understand a religion that views this life as a preparation for "eternal" life. Christianity believes that it's not the kind of person you are--all you have to do is believe that Jesus Christ died for your sins and ask him to take them away, and you're saved. This sort of thinking is what leads to people thinking that it's okay to lie, cheat, and steal, because hey, I'm going to heaven anyway. This makes NO SENSE--not only does it fly in the face of scientific cause and effect, but it doesn't demand Christians to be good people, therefore ensuring a terrible life on Earth. "Look at the results," I said to my father. "Christianity does not demand results! It makes this life on Earth meaningless!"

"That doesn't matter," said my father. "The only thing that matters is the Eternal consequences."

Yeah. I just can't believe that that's a good way to live your life. Especially when I look at time travel and quantum physics, and then I try to jive those concepts with idea of a Person, one who killed everyone except the Jews in the Old Testament and then preached love in the New Testament. I can't believe.

On the other hand, my dad is a relatively good representative for Christianity. He's a nice guy, he accepts everyone--especially homosexuals--and he believes The Church is DEEPLY flawed, so at least we agree on most things. We differ on what you might call exclusivity: Wicca believes that any path towards enlightenment, as long as you're not hurting anyone or yourself, is valid, and Christianity that they have a lock on salvation and no one else has the right idea.

If my dad has one flaw, it's that he's rather...patriarchal. Not about ME--his only child and daughter, the light of his life, is allowed to do anything she wants--but his views towards women like Hillary Clinton, teenaged mothers, women's rights, etc, etc--are awfully tough for me to not rail against. We survived our political discussion anyway.

Moving on.

Odds and Ends.

I've started travel journals here.

I'm trying to go vegetarian. Maybe even vegan. I've been partly inspired by this girl's post, which centers around this book. Try. Read. Fascinating.

I'm still too much of a chicken to actually detox. Besides, I detoxed while sick--four days without coffee, alcohol, or cigarettes! If that's not detoxing, I don't know what is. (Okay, so I drank tea. Whatever.)

Making Mix CDs for every mood helps with the June Gloom. So does coffee. MMMMMM, COFFEE.

I'm making dinner for the LT tonight and it has to be vegetarian because I am! He seems okay with that. Hope he's okay with mushrooms.

And last but certainly not least: Happy Orgasm Day!

I own a CUTE duvet cover!

FINALLY!

Take a look.

Timeline of a sickness

Diary of a Sick Girl, Day 1: Huh. Sort of sniffly today. Quick check: I have sick leave. I'll stay home.

Diary of a Sick Girl, Day 2: Not 100%, but I don't want to waste my sick leave! Back to the office!

Diary of a Sick Girl, Day 3: Still not at 100%. Took afternoon nap when I got home. Not the most restful, as Titan whined the entire time because he wanted to go out and I sweat like a motherfucker in the sunshine. Dinner for both Titan and I is late. I go to bed even later.

Diary of a Sick Girl, Day 4: Definitely getting worse again. Stayed at work late for no reason reading archives of Dooce online. Go home, let Titan out. Sit up and play Solitaire for no reason at all. Go to bed late.

Diary of a Sick Girl, Day 5: Don't have to be at work, thank God. Not feeling TOO bad. Go to a high school and be around a bunch of germy kids all day. Got home and my glands are HUGE. Went out anyway. Not a good move.

Diary of a Sick Girl, Day 6: Woke up too sick to make my tennis date, do chores, or really do anything except curl in a ball and moan. Took Titan out, drank fluids. Eventually left to make a house party in Tacoma. It was a necessity, I swear.

Diary of a Sick Girl, Day 7: Woke up sick and hungover, but not as sick as the previous day, so maybe there is hope. My famous appetite has left me, as I discover at a fabulous breakfast place when I get a huge plate of wonderful wrecked eggs and just push them around on my plate. The waitress came by and I said I was done and Former Roommate looked over at my plate: "I don't think she's even started." Later on at my parents' house I ate half a grilled cheese and got a Frappucino with The LT. It's easy to feel better on a sunny day at your parents' house in a beautiful part of town with a Navy stud mentally undressing you.

Diary of a Sick Girl, Day 8: Woke up sick, but decide to go to work anyway. Had a friend over after worked. Stayed up very, very late.

Diary of a Sick Girl, Day 9: Woke up extremely sick and crabby. Yelled at friend who had spent the night on the futon. Crawled in futon with computer, connection to work, and CSI. "Worked" from home. Started heavy application of water, vitamins, and Top Ramen.

Diary of a Sick Girl, Day 10: GODDAMMIT I AM TIRED OF BEING SICK. I'm staying home and doing NOTHING today except BEING SICK. I have to go buy more Ramen. Maybe some cheese toast would help. I will buy throat lozenges with zinc and eat them by the bagload. I will take echinea every hour on the hour. Where is my water? I NEED MORE WATER.

Help me.

One-Upmanship

T-Town: I am here for a 10 hour day today, on barely six hours of sleep and a wicked Champagne hangover.
Me: I just have my glands swollen to the size of baseballs. As in, they are visible to little children, who run away from me now on the street. They may actually be glowing. And I got FIVE hours of sleep.
T-Town: At least that is not your fault.
Me: Well, not DIRECTLY. I mean, who knew that a lifestyle of no sleep, wine, and cigarettes could be bad for you?
T-Town: I will also be $200 in the hole at any moment.
Me: My rent check bounced.
T-Town: Well, this weekend cost me $300--and I was spending my money on OTHER PEOPLE.
Me: I spent $25 on cab rides ALONE on Friday.
T-Town: So this weekend I just need to:
1. Keep my bank from overdrafting
2. Pack my whole house
3. Move
4. Pack for Mt. Rainier
5. Climb Mt. Ranier
6. (Make a TOP-SECRET life-changing decision, edited for privacy.)
7. Work 40 hours in four days.
Me: Well, I have to have dinner with a new boy!
T-Town: ...
Me: Okay, back to you. So, in this week you will: move, xxxxxxx, and climb a mountain, not to mention work ten hour days and fight with your bank.
T-Town: Yes.
Me: Fine, you win. I'm only $900 in debt.
T-Town: Thank you.
Me: ...so, can I help?

Sunday Evening Contentment

Good Things: I went to Target today! I bought necessities--facial wipes, a dog food container--and non essentials--silver shoes, a wine cube.

Bad Things: I feel asleep on the couch instead of going to the grocery store.

Good Things: I pampered myself! Legs shaved, face masked, arms covered in heavy lotion.

Bad Things: When you fall asleep on the couch with heavy lotion on your arms, you pick up couch wrinkes twice as fast.

More Bad Things: When you sleep on your hair wet...

Really Bad Things: When the Hot Metrosexual across the hall knocks on your door, and you jump up half-asleep from the couch and open the door, and he says, "Oh...wow. I can see this is a bad time."

Good Things: The tuna with sauce packets that Trader Joe's sells. HELLO! AWESOME!

More Good Things: Dinner date on Wendnesday!

Trying to convince myself it's a Good Thing: It's Spring. Time to detox!

Bad Things: No caffeine, sugar, salt, or nicotine.

Really Bad Things: UGH.

Good Things: I'll feel so much better when I'm done!

Really Bad Things: UGH UGH UGH.

Good Things: At least I can wait until Wednesday to start, because really, what kind of girl would I be if I went on said Dinner Date and then refused to eat anything on the menu?

Bad Things: Welcome to Seattle!

Question of the Day:

Are the birthdates of the world evenly distributed over the days of the Gregorian Calendar as we know it?

Original question between me and T-Town: Is there an equal number of Virgos (she) and Sagittariuses (me)?

T-Town: No. Birthdays are not evenly distributed. But I have no proof.

Me: The Intern and I think that they are, although although there might be nation-centric patterns depending on differing social customs.

T-Town: Also in countries with poor health care, babies born during harsher months might be less likely to survive, so there would be less people living with those birth months.

Me: But does it even out overall?

T-Town: Thanks to Hallmark, I can tell you that:

• More people are born in August than any other month (9.07 percent). About 21 million Americans have birthdays in August.

• In recent years, July ranks number two in birthdays (8.80 percent of births) and February is last (7.55 percent)

And also bring you this handy chart:

Rank Month Percent
1. August 9.07
2. July 8.80
3. September 8.62
4. October 8.60
5. March 8.51
6. May 8.30
7. January 8.25
8. June 8.15
9. April 8.12
10. December 8.07
11. November 7.96
12. February 7.55

Me: So the months are pretty evenly distributed, with not more than 1 and a half percent between smallest and largest. But even with that low difference, there ARE more Virgos than Sags. Because I'm low on the list, whereas you are high. So by definition, there actually ARE more Virgos than Sags, especially because both months that contribute to virgo and both months that contribute to sagittarius are close to each other, in their high and low spots, respectively.

T-Town: So are you saying I am more ordinary than you?

Me: Duh.

Because Lists are SO Five Minutes Ago.

Good Things: I'm working from home today!
Bad Things: It's because I'm sick.
Really Bad Things: In an effort to be a responsible adult, I'm refusing to drink coffee.
Really, REALLY Bad Things: OH THE MIGRAINE.
Good Things: I have drunk a lot of really good tea instead.

Good Things: I made chocolate chip cookies! I BAKED! And Not Under Duress!
Bad Things: Being home puts me closer to the gigantic plate of fresh cookies.
Really Bad Things: I've had four. Today.
Good Things: I only baked 15 in the first place, so I can't get into too much trouble.

Good Things: Also I have clean clothes!
Really Good Things: YAY CLEAN CLOTHES!

Good Things: My blind date--thank you, Craigslist--went well on Saturday.
Bad Things: It may not matter because I just discovered last night that I have a crush on a friend.
NOTE TO SELF: DRINKING AND MEN FRIENDS OR NEIGHBORS DO NOT MIX.
Good Things: I did get to see my friend, and it's always nice to see someone you care about.
Bad Things: We really CANNOT start to see each other. I'm tired of my ruining my male friendships with sex!
Really Bad Things: Uh...I swear, the sex is not that bad. I'm not that bad. I swear.

Good Things: Got to see the Hot Metrosexual Across the Hall.
Bad Things: It was in order to borrow his cookie sheet for the cookies.
Good Things: So far in our relationship he has dressed me, taken out my trash, made me coffee, and loaned me cooking utensils.
Bad Things: Most of those things I should be (according to gender roles) better at than he is.
Really Bad Things: This ruins any chances I had of sleeping with him.

Okay, that wasn't a short post

But this is.

Things T-Town (the girl, not the city) and I have decided after discussing our incredibly drama-filled weekends:

1. Drinking and male neighbors don't mix. I think I will need to be dry for a week before I feel better.

2. Sometimes I just think I should never have been left in charge of my own life.

A List, and a Short Post

Things I did this weekend:

1. Washed my sheets and futon cover (read: ALSO a sheet).
2. Vacuumed!
3. Got Titan de-furred!
4. WASHED AND VACUUMED MY CAR. Which really needed it.

And I'd like to thank the City of Seattle for all of this. For allowing me to be a yuppie. Which may be the easy way out, but at least it got done, right?

Was that hard to understand?

I'll try again. In the middle of watching a very nice team of men washing and vacuuming out my car, I called T-Town (the girl, not the city). "Seattle is amazing," I said. "How so?" she said.

Let me put it this way: in Tacoma, which is quite a large city on the general scale but still smallish in terms of services, I had a house. And a yard. And a dog brush, and a hose, and soap. While I COULD take my car to be washed professionally--i.e., pay someone else to do it, because it's not like we're talking about the Daytona crew here--it seemed like a waste. I had space! I had parking! My hose reached all the way to my car! Besides, who was I to say, "Oh, I don't need the exercise/chance to prance around in my bikini/impetus to stay looking good in my bikini."

(Speaking of, has anyone else seen that incredibly on-point Women's Health Magazine commercial? The commercial is awesome, but the magazine is tripe--and I've eaten tripe. Their opening article this month is: Can You Be...Slimmer??? Yes, I can, once I throw up all over your magazine.)

But I digress. The point is, I had a do-it-yourself dogwashing place and a yard and a dog comb to brush Titan out, and a hose, and SPACE. I had space.

Here in Seattle, I have two parking spots--one in back of the other in a narrow column. My landlord has a hose--but it won't reach to the parking lot below the apartment building. I still have a dog brush--but no place to brush Titan out unless I drive him out to a park or forest and brush him out there.

Fortunately, in a big city, you can just...PAY someone to do all that for you!

Not that I couldn't have done that in Tacoma, like I said, but...in Seattle, I have no choice. Really. REALLY. I have no choice. Especially with my car.

So I pay people to do stuff I can't do for myself and do my best to shake off the Yuppie Shadow that haunts me, every day.

In other news:

I may have a tennis partner! (Note to self: Get racket!)

I changed my tagline. (Look, it's different!)

Re-arranged my ENTIRE apartment! (Because the metrosexual across the hall is showing me up. And this Cannot Happen.) (Hi, Neighbor!)

Bought Snacks and Wine. That I will Not Touch Without Company. (Because when the world comes to you, you'd better have something to offer them.)

I have issues. It's been verified by two independent--and yet identically-named--sources.

"You have ISSUES, girl," said the seventeen-year-old victim of incest that I'm mentoring. "And I know issues!"

"You are a piece of work," said T-Town. "You know that?"

Note to Those of You Who Thought I Was Going Overboard With My Last Post:

1. Eff you. I have to do something with all this nervous energy that I'm NOT spending on jail, right?

2. My brain still hurts. It hurts on the inside.

3. (That MIGHT have something to do with the coffee and the lack of sleep. But Mom, I've been eating right, I promise!)

4. My connection has gone out five times in an hour.

5. And Finally, What Happened With That Damn Jail Term?

Very simple. The cop's calibration on his laser was out of date!

He still paced me at 85 mph, which is still pretty reckless, but it's not jail time. No jail time, no suspended jail time, no revoked license, nothing--but a $200 fine! Yay!

The REAL kicker is that apparently 97 mph is an eye-brow raising, shock-whistling speed. I was FAMOUS today, y'all. (And not in a good way like before.) I was the fastest speed case on the docket. Other lawyers that I called (when I was shopping around) had remembered me and my excessive speed, and they were all watching Garrett, my attorney. One of them asked Garrett, "Hey, where's your high-speed girl?"...right as I walked up behind him. (Garrett's reply: "Actually, she's right behind you!")

So, there's a fine, and a reckless driving conviction, but no other consequence. It's a heavy speeding ticket! YAY!

Now to bum around in D.C. for two days while I wait to fly early standby home. Sigh.

So, I'm a free woman!

But I don't want to talk about that right now.

Instead, two things that I really want to talk about, but are impossible to explain in any words on this planet:

1. How much I hate T-Mobile.
2. How much I can't stand annoying noise.

How Much I Hate T-Mobile

Such a myriad of reasons, not the least of which is that they once tricked me into buying a year-long contract--that I couldn't get out of. Thirty dollars a month. For 12 months. I wanted to punch T-Mobile in the throat every time. Some months, that payment made me OVERDRAWN. For a CONTRACT I could not GET OUT OF.

(Full Disclosure: I'm using a T-Mobile connection to type this. And it's just as craptastic as every other connection I've ever used, thereby proving my point.)

But I HAD to. Kind of like how I HAD to go to Starbucks.

Because in Seattle, which is basically fueled by free wireless internet and bottomless cups of coffee as dark as our skies, both things--coffee and internet (and darkness) are in HEAVY supply. Four strong connections bleed over into my apartment. Capitol Hill is wired by the city. Every coffeeshop worth its salt offers free wi-fi.

And of course, the coffee kicks ASS.

Here in D.C., where I sit in Foggy Bottom after being released from my impending doom, the closest I can get to this feeling is, of course, the nearest Starbucks. Its internet is not free--TEN DAMN BUCKS for a Daypass--and the coffee is mediocre. But it's the closest fascimile to Home I can get. Yes, I could have gone to a Cosi for cheaper internet, and I probably should have. But the coffee. And the ATMOSPHERE. And the...the...it's like being home. It's a crappy imitation, yes. But it's as close to home as I can get right now. And since all I want to do for once in my life is go home, I'm a slave to Starbucks from now until I leave.

Sigh.

How Much I Hate Annoying Noise

This is even more difficult to describe, since it's, you know. Noise. And these are, you know, words. And if millions of poets since the dawn of time have still not succeeded in connecting words on a page directly to the other four senses--although some of them have come damn close--then who am I to try?

But I will anyway.

Okay. It's not noise, per se. After all, I live in a noisy area. Usually four or five sirens go by on a nightly basis. (Club Drug Overdoses, my favorite!) I love loud music. I like to shout when I talk. I like to scream when...well...you know. I'm a loud girl!

But I'm not repetitive. If repetitive noise starts to occur--be it an alarm clock, a smoke alarm--OH MY GOD THE NOISE THAT DROVE THIS POST JUST STARTED AGAIN AND I DON'T HAVE MY EARPHONES OH MY GOD MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP. Whew. Okay.

Sorry about that. Repetitive noise, as I was saying, does this thing to me. It makes the imp on the inside CLAW ITS WAY OUT OF MY BRAIN. MY BRAIN MATTER SHREDS BEFORE ITS FRANTIC CLAWING OH GOD MAKE IT STOP.

It would be safe to say that when the smoke alarm goes off, for example, I cannot focus on ANYTHING ELSE UNTIL I CAN MAKE IT GO OFF OH GOD MAKE IT STOP PLEASE I'LL DO ANYTHING.

Yes. It would be safe to say that I freak the fuck out. (The Kiwi was over just a few nights ago and watched this happen. He was calmly continuing his sentence, assuming it would turn itself off in a few minutes once the smoke dissipated, and I was screaming at him: WHAT ARE YOU DOING CAN'T YOU HEAR THE SMOKE ALARM OH GOD WHY ARE YOU STILL TALKING OH GOD YOU DON'T DESERVE TO BREATHE UNTIL YOU CAN STOP YOUR MONOLOGUE AND PAY ATTENTTION TO YOUR SURROUNDINGS FOR ONCE IN YOUR GODDAMN LIFE OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD THE SMOKE ALARM!

Perhaps it would be safe to say that in addition to the imp that CLAWS its way out of my brain, an army of small-brained mice runs around and around a cloistered piece of cheese while the water rises on a small family trapped in a boat and a twister descends on a tiny, defenseless town as the wind whips cows through the air. It's THAT BAD.

And I am not getting better about it, and I don't care.

Debauchery

The "Before" shot:



The "During" shot:



The "After" shot:



WOO!

Also, huge shout-out to my boy Mark, who took me as a passenger on his sailboat yesterday out on Lake Washington. Pictures of the Lake, NOT taken by Mark or myself:

Marina.

Bellevue. Bill Gates lives somewhere by there, on the Lake.

Nature Shot.

More Nature.

We didn't take our own cameras because the boat is REALLY, REALLY small. Anything we brought had the possbility of going over the side at any time, and if I lost my camera...well...I would cry. A lot. For days.

Besides, I spend most of the sailing trip in my underwear, so would the pictures even allowed on this blog? (Hey. HEY. I had to pee, and we were miles from the marina, and there was no wind...so I stripped, dove in, and peed in the water. Happy?)

I could not for the life of me find my black bikini, or else I would have worn it. SORRY. Mark wasn't sorry.

Work is my Savior

Last night, in the middle of a downward spiral--a SERIOUS downward spiral--I tried to post, but my spotty (stolen) wireless connection prevented it. Probably a good thing.

Because today I feel tons better, and I think it's because I'm at work. I can't believe I'm saying this out loud, but it's true.

Being home is like being trapped in the darkest recesses of my own mind. There's laundry to be done, Titan hasn't been groomed, I need to vacuum, I should be writing, I should be putting more pictures up, something, ANYTHING, I'm broke, I'm going to jail, OH MY GOD I'M HAVING A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN.

Being at work involves lights, a faster internet connection, more people, less opportunity to waste time playing Freecell, Things To Do, a fancy color printer. It's better. And that's all I have to say about that.

Now and NOW.

It's cloudy here today after four days of GORGEOUS sunshine. Although gray is the Seattle standard, it's almost painful to have beautiful weather shown to us and then snatched away.

It's a Blue Friday for me. I am wearing unfortunate jeans and having a bad hair day. All I can think about is the future. Not the immediate future--THAT's filled with jail and brokeness.

The FUTURE future, on the other hand, is the early spring of 2009. It has me sipping coffee on sun-drenched balconies in Spain. I'm a published author--maybe three times, by then. I have gotten a work visa for Canada and ski-bummed for a winter in Whistler during the 2008 Olympic Winter Games. I have been to Cuba. I have taken a road trip with my girls to Mexico. I have camped and hiked and rock-climbed. I have been to Africa.

I am 25, in early 2009 I'll be 28, it is three short years from now and I won't make it. Let's get real. In three years, I'll still be working here. I will have been nowhere. I will still be in debt.

I'm FAMOUS! Part Three

Really, I mean it this time! Check me out in the Stranger, now on newsstands everywhere. They printed my letter!

(It's the one titled 108 Pages of Suck.)

Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics

Number of Sparks currently in my fridge: 4
Number of Sparks ORIGINALLY in my fridge: 6
Number of days ago that I bought the six-pack: 3
Number of girls that will be appearing at my apartment needing Sparking, including me: 5
Number of days this will be happening in: 2
Number of Sparks I need to buy: at least 17.

Days until jail time: 8
Days until I leave for jail: 7
Days of vacation I will waste: all of them.
Dollars I spent for a one-way plane ticket: 190.
Dollars I will spend on lawyer fees: 900.
Number of dollars I will have left over: 0.
Way I will get back to Seattle with no money left: Hitchiking, maybe?
Weight, in pounds, this morning: 137.
Weight, in pounds, after walking back from D.C.: 120.

Hey, it's an exercise program!

Number of cigarettes I had yesterday: 3
Number of cigarettes I will have on Friday, the Night of Debauchery: 217
Number of cigarettes I will smoke in preparation for going to jail: 1,489.
Number of games of Freecell I will play: 16,834.

Number of hot U.K. guys I talked to last night: 3
Number of drinks I got bought for me: 11
Ways in which I love Rolls-Royce: 15

Pounds of hair that Titan is shedding: 4,000.
Number of days until I get him trimmed: Possibly forever, see, number of dollars I will have left, above.

Number of ways I've considered selling myself: 6

Number of ways I love my friends: Countless.

I am an island.

So, as always happens when I try to work on my actual WRITING--as in, stuff that has a beginning, middle, and end, and maybe some kind of point--my blogging has completely disappeared. I'm trying to get art back into my life, and while I'm succeeding in that--stage-managing a show about femme queer art and trying to write a script for a playwriting contest--my blogging has completely fallen by the wayside.

In some ways, living by oneself allows one to tunnel further and further into oneself, becoming certainly more insular and, if one is also obsessive complusive, then exponentially more narcissistic as well. Examples of insularity: because I am naturally a dirty person--shout-outs to the two people among my reading audience who have lived with me--I am likely, with no outside influence, to get dirtier and dirtier. Last night after wearing the same clothes for almost a month, taking them to Pittsburgh, and moving in them, not to mention usually sleeping in them, I realized that I STUNK.

Also I realized that I had a pot that had originally held mac + cheese soaking in my sink--for days now--and the mac+cheese water STUNK. Enough to put me off mac and cheese for a long, long time.

And I could have let those travesties go on even longer--Titan wouldn't mind, certainly--but I pulled my socks up and got to it. I did two loads of laundry and washed all my dishes. I hung up my clothes. I finally unpacked--fully--from Pittsburgh. I went to bed at 1:30, tired but content.

See what I mean? There is nothing interesting about the above story WHATSOEVER. I'm excited to have a clean house, and even more excited that the entire apartment now smells like Mrs. Meyers Lemon Verbana scent, but no one else should be excited by this.

I could mention that I was hit on, fully and obviously, while buying Sparks--a cute young punk saw my Blockbuster bag, asked me what movies I was watching, and then said, "Would you like company?" I was so suprised I asked him to repeat himself, and he said, slowly and clearly, "Would you like. Company?" And I smiled and said no, but I appreciated the offer--true--and went off, smiling to myself. And I might be able to make a good story out of that, but that's not HALF as important to ME as the fact that I have a clean apartment--well, clean-ish, I still have vaccuumed or fully unpacked--and so I don't want to write about it. I only want to write about boring stuff. Like laundry.

Sigh.

For all those who laid bets at the time of the New Male Roommate announcment, we're dating now. Just so you know.

Very, Very Early, or, Notes on Living Alone

Like last Saturday, this saturday I woke up early. Only earlier. 7:00 am, this time. And could not go back to sleep.

I don't remember this ability to wake up early from the last time I lived alone--but I barely remember anything about the last time I lived alone. It's a mishmash of gorgeous hikes in more gorgeous weather, knocks on my door at all hours that preceded yet another complaint that I was making too much noise, doggy day care as I was traveling for my Bob, fighting with TheBoy, and eating. Compulsively. (The gorgeous hikes were both a reason to spend as much time as possible out of the apartment, and a way to burn off the calories I was ingesting because of the stress of living in that apartment.)

The weeks I have spent in THIS apartment, however, have been some of the best of my life, and I say that about a time period in which I broke up with a boy (one of them) and got arrested. I was terrified about living alone--I'll admit it. I was scared it would be like the last time, or even the time before, in which Titan and I lived in a beautiful studio and I was depressed as hell.

But it hasn't been. I see now what everyone is talking about when they say everyone needs to live alone. Everyone needs to live alone, even if they hate it at first. It took me three tries to find the right combination of neighborhood, apartment, and neighbors. From me to you, if you hate living alone, I say: stick with it! Try and try again, and when you are successful, you will discover how much you enjoy your own company, and you will never be lonely again.

Now that I have the strength of my convictions, I made what may turn out to be the worst decision of my life just a few hours ago, and I don't care. I got a call from a lawyer, whom I had called yesterday, and within a few minutes on the phone I knew he wouldn't be the lawyer for me. He talked...very...uh, uh...slowly...and he called me...from...his vacation...while...talking...to his, uh, uh,...little boy. And he talked. And talked. And TALKED. 37 minutes later he was STILL talking. He took long side trips to tell me about his 30-year-career, his kids, how his littlest was definitely going to law school (because he comes from a chain of lawyers. duh.) And halfway through I thought, This man represents everything that I hate about the patriarchy. Because of that he may be a better choice to help me win my case. But I simply cannot give my money to him without a part of me dying. I hate him and all of his ilk. I cannot support him and would rather die on the barricades.

Vive la revolution.

Continuing in the "Good Quotes" category

Me: "Can I just say right now that I am listening to Ashlee Simpson. WILLINGLY."

K: "I have both of her CDs. And Lindsey Lohan's."

Me: "Darn, I could have had you burn them for me!"

K: "Trust me, you don't want Lindsey's." (Because ANYONE SANE would want ANY of the CDs we're discussing?)

Me: "Okay."

K: "I like the first CD of Ashlee's better, but her voice is better on the second one."

Me: "..."

K: "I seriously can't believe we're having this conversation."

Me: "Me either. I was just trying to figure out what to type in response."

K: "..."

Me: "Okay. We're officially moving on from A. Simpson, that talentless whore of the music industry who inexplicably has us in her thrall."

K: "That'll work."

And, talking to T-Town:

Me, talking about a boy: "Besides, we know it's not what he looks like, it's the fact that he drives: (1) a Jetta 1.8T (new. Red.) and (2) A DUCATI."

T-Town: "I don't care if his jetta can cause an earthquake and then fly away from it, it is still a JETTA. The ducati is cool though, if you are into that sort of thing. And I know you are."

Me: "Hey!"

T-Town: "One has to raise their standards. A Jetta is by no means a bad car, I am just saying it is not lust inducing."

Me (muttering under my breath): "It induced MY lust."

T-Town: "And that is hard?"

...and I'm going to the slammer anyway.

The talented and funny Beau, talking about my upcoming jail time:

"It's too bad that you aren't a celebrity. Then you'd for sure get suspended jail time. Wait...why aren't you a celebrity?"

Me: "It's on my to-do list."

Beau (pretending to be me): "Okay, I've become a fanatically successful chemical engineer, I've sexually dominated Seattle, I've moved into a kickass apartment...oh SHIT, I forgot to become a celebrity! What is WRONG with me?"

At Long Last

Did I mention I have a very nice camera? A Canon SLR, 30 years old, that takes the most gorgeous pictures ever? and yet, they are not digital?

And did I mention I have a camera phone?

And did I mention that my camera phone pictures turn out very poorly on the blog, and I don't have easy access to a scanner for the Canon pictures? (Blatant lie. I do have access to a scanner. But I hardly ever develop my actual pictures. Yes, really. I have boxed of undeveloped film sitting around my apartment. That I have successfully moved at least four times now. But I digress.)

So, I don't have a lot of digital pictures. Of important things. Like, say, my haircut. That happened THREE MONTHS AGO.

BUT I DO NOW!

A bunch of very hot girls, and me. I'm on the bottom right, with the weird mouth thing happening. I think I'm about to say something? And you can see for yourself: short hair!

Me, drunk, with a drunk work friend. Awesome night. Yes, I stick my tongue out a lot when I'm drunk. And I have short hair!

A cute shot of my Big Brother Ethan and myself. (With short hair, in case you didn't notice.) Many thanks to his lovely wife and my lovely sister Sylvia!

And finally,

My favorite picture of my current life status, ever. Note the labeled parts.

For all those who love words

And to their friends who love them anyway!

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