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Click the title to see my 2006 Resolutions.
SO! It's that time. I've been slow on this, partly because I've been busy living my life and skiing and stuff instead of thinking about living, but it's a slow Monday here at work AND it's lunch time, so...well, it's perfect.
I resolved to do a lot of things in 2006, some of which I did, and some of which...get recycled! Yay recycling! Um.
2007 Resolutions, For Real This Time
1. I resolve to DRINK MORE WATER. Sheesh.
2. I resolve to DETOX MORE. Again, sheesh. How hard can it be to not consume coffee, alcohol, or salt for just one day?
3. I resolve to never care about my skin again. So far, as it sits dirty, and has for days, it looks better than it ever has.
4. I resolve (again) to take a business training class! (Fun stuff, like applied microbiology, or composites. See? My job is awesome.)
5. I do NOT resolve to take a language class! Instead, I resolve to buy Spanish on tape and teach it to myself.
6. I resolve to write up a list of things I would like through the year, so that when Christmas rolls around, I won't be stuttering, "Um, er, gift cards," although they are awesome.
7. I resolve to continue creating a stranglehold on my finances, so that I can save for a condo down payment in 2008.
8. I resolve to try mineral makeup, which may seem petty, but it protects your face from the sun, doesn't clog pores, and is easy to wash off! Can it get better?
9. I resolve to listen to the stations 103.7, 98.1, and KEXP more.
10. I resolve to download KEXP programs and listen to those when contemplating buying more CDs.
11. I resolve to USE THE DAMN LIBRARY when I want new reading and listening material!
12. I resolve to NOT see a movie or read a book that I've already seen or read, when there are literally millions of amazing movies and books that I have not yet experienced.
13. I resolve to take my grandmother to see the Leonardo Da Vinci exhibit.
14. I resolve to listen to more live music!
15. I resolve to go to Central Cinema, literally a stone's throw from my house, to watch cult movies and have a pint.
16. I resolve to investigate getting free tickets to events, and coupons for products.
17. I resolve to grocery shop on Member Days at Madison Market.
18. I resolve to buy books and media used, not new.
19. I resolve to pack my lunch EVERY day.
20. And my breakfast.
21. And not go to the cafeteria "just for coffee".
22. I resolve to send more thank you notes.
23. I resolve to clean out my cupboards, stationery boxes, and collections of "inspirational" magazine spreads, and either use what's there or toss them.
24. I resolve to make only TWO trips to the grocery every month!
25. I resolve to buy no indulgent coffee during the week!
26. I resolve to stop talking about saving money!
And finally...
27. I resolve to Attach Monetary Value To Everything I Own. With a label-maker, if necessary. Then, when I forget about a chapstick, I will think, "That's 2.74 down the drain! FIND THE CHAPSTICK!"
Ha!
Anyway, if you got this far, thanks for reading, and this is always my favorite part of the post because I get to talk about the Things that I DID Do in 2006:
1. Resolved to move to Seattle...and did so!
2. Resolved to keep weight steady...and did!
3. Resolved to stay out of Starbucks...and did! (Mostly.)
4. Resolved to be overdrawn less...and I was!
5. Resolved to love my job more...and I do!
6. Resolved to get less involved in church...and I did!
7. Resolved to get involved in Youth Programs...and I did!
8. Resolved to finish cataloging and organizing my mp3 collection...and I did!
Yay me! I hope everyone is just as excited about starting 2007!
IT’S TIME FOR...
2006 Regrets!
You all may remember my long, slightly TMI post from last year, and if you don’t, be thankful. I’ve edited it slightly for the increased, rather mixed audience, so if you DO remember it, have fun trying to figure out what I’ve changed and erased!
Insert Evil Laugh Here.
2006 has not been as crazy a year as 2005. I’ve moved less and dated less. I accomplished some resolutions, which is good, and…well, I got to keep others! (Read: they’re still on the list as unaccomplished.)
In fact, I regret very little, so little that I can’t think off the top of my head anything I regret, at this moment, and if I can, it’s all little stuff. I regret miscalculating and becoming overdrawn at the bank this month, for example. I regret losing the cell phone charger that goes along with my phone (Read: The LT’s phone that he is lending me after I lost MY phone in Houston!)
I guess now I might as well make a list:
1. I regret LOSING STUFF LIKE IT AIN’T NO BIG THANG. It’s ridiculous, juvenile, and more importantly, expensive!
2. I regret penny pinching on small things and throwing money away on big things.
3. I occasionally regret being a very typical yuppie, i.e., spending tons of money on coffee and groceries and no money on credit card payments.
4. I regret not drinking enough water or eating enough celery.
5. I regret never sending out Christmas cards this year, although on the plus side, I'm all ready for next year!
Ho-hum, I know. I can’t decide if this is a good sign or a bad sign, but no matter what, this post is way shorter and more boring than last year’s post, and although that is bad for you, my blogging audience, it means I move into 2007 with fewer regrets. And that, my friends, is a very good thing.
Things I Have Done:
Washed Helter Skelter (Jeep)
Bonded with Titan over a weekend and a long walk
Switched insurance companies for a much lower rate. (Anyone else have Esurance?)
(I sound like a commerical.)
Made lots of food over the weekend.
Set up my tutoring schedule for the week
Successfully avoided Starbucks for two days.
Things I Have Not Yet Done:
Found a new place to live. :(
I have a personal organizer and it is my new favorite thing ever:
No, you can't search inside this one. Try here.
And now I spend all my time with it instead of on the internet or with this blog!
But have no fear. I am Not, Under Any Circumstances, the kind of person who can be Personally Organized. The affair will be short.
It’s lipstick red pleather, which is hot, and it has a bunch of sections, which is also hot, but I worry about their practicality. “Calendar” is actually being used, so far, although I’m not used to having to label my own days. It feels sort of like I paid for a device that will continually test me on my ability to recognize and record the passage of time, perhaps not a bad idea. (Now that I have typed this, the LT will make me get a watch I have to operate by manually filling in the LED screen with a red pen, in the vain hope that I will eventually gain a grip on just how many minutes it actually takes me to get ready to go anywhere.) “Addresses” is clearly a holdover from another time, or perhaps another universe. It has one address, my tutoree, who calls me “Toot-toot” and treats me as one big joke she’s playing on her parents, and enjoys getting into my stuff and leaving “CLAIRE WAS HERE” signs, like many high schoolers do.
My “To Do” Section has been used; it has exactly four entries, one of which is “Recover from Hangover.” (It’s been checked off.) The others are, in succession,
1. Create Budget
2. Find new place to live
3. Peruse more secondhand bookstores.
Or, in other words,
1. Track money so you can save it.
2. Spend a lot of money all at once, erasing spending money for anything else.
3. Spend your spending money instead of saving it or buying a condo.
Obviously ALL of my personalities were involved in this particular activity. Way to work together, guys. Next time, let’s at least agree on a general direction first, okay?
Much like many Sunday evenings, I am making dinner and sipping a glass of red. I'm trying to get better about both eating more cheaply and cooking more sustainably, as in making enough for leftovers and NOT using an entire paper towel roll just mindlessly. I would talk more about it, except that Crazy Aunt Purl has already said everything I would say, and ten times better.
More in-depth explanation: Crazy Aunt Purl has started a regime--I think it's for three months--in which she is not buying anything that is not NECESSARY FOR BREATH OR FOOD OR SHELTER, a noble goal. And I was inspired! And I thought, I will do that, too! Hah. Let me tell you, it is more difficult than it looks. I did okay yesterday--if you don't count the Soy Chai at Tully's, when I was tutoring, or the Cinammon Dolce Latte today. (Ahem. Or the eight bucks I spent at Ross, or the fifteen dollars I spent at Target, or the forty-three dollars I spent at Circuit City.) (I swear all of them were necessary. I SWEAR.)
I'm also trying to make this policy extend to groceries, as it has become apparent to me that expensive groceries are sucking up most of my paycheck, so I'm cooking at home a lot and desperately trying to make the groceries in my cupboard already and the last thirty-seven-dollar bill at TJ's stretch all week.
Statistics aside, I've had an interesting weekend, not because I did anything, but precisely the opposite: I've had an interesting weekend because I did almost nothing. Because, you see, after six days straight spent in each other's presence, the LT ran off for a "ski with the boyz" weekend, and frankly it has been a pleasure to see Other People, as in my own personal friends, and go out, just a big group of single and single-for-a-night people, and come home and wake up when I wanted to and loll about Saturday night in bed, doing nothing except surfing the web and reading magazines and watching a movie that I know the LT wouldn't be interested in. I read Boobs, Boys, and High Heels, a used copy of which cost me 37 dollars on Amazon.com, and thought about me and life and Titan and houses and furniture and really, anything that came into my head. Lovely, and restful.
Listening to: The Very Best of Maria Callas
Currently Consuming: Glass of Target Cube Wine, Red.
Cooking: Aarwenn's Specialty: Mexican Flavored Veggie Nonsense. (A more complete description is here.)
Things to Remember: DON'T BURN THE GARLIC, YOU MORON.
Update: I did NOT burn the garlic! I am awesome!
Further Update, just for the LT: All this talk about the value of alone time aside, I miss you, sweetie.
I'm in Seattle! On a main street! There is a Starbucks not four blocks away!
It's not that I didn't like Texas--in fact, I did. It was big, and empty, and flat, and SUNNY, and it had the Gulf of Mexico and houses on stilts and boardwalks and beaches with actual sand, sand so real and densely packed that you can DRIVE on it, for miles and miles. There we were driving on the beach, watching pelicans hunt down dinner, it was completely surreal. Because where I come from, the beaches have rocks, not sand, and we are so afraid of disturbing our natural habitat that Titan, much less a car, is not allowed on any Seattle beach for fear of him "threatening" the local wildlife. My ass. Like seagulls need protection?
Anyway, it was extremely restful, and we did lots of touristy things, and it was very lovely. I spent six days non-stop with the LT and we are still together and even, indeed, still speaking to each other. It's not that Texas was so different, although it certainly was, because obviously the idea of a permanent home is not anything I need to stay mentally stable, although some would argue that I'm never mentally stable.
The thrill of being home, even in a bedroom which I am only renting and has no permanent value for me whatsoever, is in recognizing the magazine titles on the newsstand, and recognizing freeway signs, and knowing which direction the water is, and hearing the "skkkkkhhhhhssss" of milk being foamed, even at ten at night, and admiring the Seattle fashion in the airport, and taking a deep breath and filling my lungs with Pacific Northwest air.
I'm in Texas, and so is my work laptop, iPod, camera, and most of my jewelery.
Which is good because had it been in Seattle, it would have been taken when M's house was robbed yesterday afternoon.
We didn't lose much, thank God--I didn't lose my skis, which for obvious reasons I did NOT take to Texas--but M and his boy lost their laptops and iPods. The theives dumped out my purses, although the overall mess level in my room probably didn't change much, and tried to take M's big flatscreen off the wall, unsuccessfully. They left all his stereo equipment.
Everyone please send good thoughts as we deal with the aftermath.
And also: wine.
In RURAL TEXAS.
We are way past the suburbs, y'all.
On the plus side, it's only an hour to a town with a Starbucks, and at least it's not dry; I'm on the Gulf Coast, so there's lots of water. And also: fire ants.
I haven't met those yet, though.
So far I have spent a full day riding around in a big pickup with the LT and my hosts, the country music on high. I have been in stores that sold religious artifacts, lots of them. I have drank at a refined honky-tonk. I have been in restaurants in which you can smoke at the table. I have met parrots, seen pelicans and herons, driven by several oil refineries, and been on a boardwalk on the Gulf. I have eaten at Landry's. I have been to Galvaston and walked on The Strand.
I have been to church, wearing a skirt AND pantyhose.
I can only imagine what wonders tomorrow holds.
Fill in the blank.
I drive more than three miles: Stop for gas.
I buy gas: Withdraw money from Bank Account #1.
Bank Account #2 goes overdrawn: Put in money from Bank Account #1.
I get home: Drop by company store. (Insert soul-selling joke here.)
I leave work: Retrieve food from fridge.
(And I am stealing space in someone else's fridge, because MY office's fridge is now a mold colony and NO ONE HAS MOVED IT OR MADE AN EXECUTIVE DECISION ABOUT IT WHATSOEVER. It's been sitting there with mold on it for three days now.)
I leave for Texas: Bake cookies.
I leave for Texas: Pack.
Packing: Do Laundry.
Texas: Send out tutoring paperwork.
Texas: Make Briefing Chart for a meeting almost two weeks from now.
Said Meeting: Make an agenda.
The End of February: Move Out.
I move out: Find another place to live.
I find another place to live: Get pre-approved for a mortgage.
I get pre-approved: Wait for my raise to come through.
I implode: Scream.
Today, there was a shooting at a high school in Tacoma, my hometown. One shooter, one fatality, sadly not the same person. Not much is known about it yet, but it's on BBC news and CBS, and of course in the hometown news, too.
*
In lighter news, I finally rolled up my sleeves and fixed my completely fubared Firefox, something plaguing me for six months at least, and I am pleased to report that I'm sporting the brand-new version AND Google Toolbar AND I finally re-installed Sage and rebuilt my feeds! So beware, bloggers. I will be a commenting machine.
I have a new boss at work, and I wish she and I had met in a former life and she could adopt me to be her little sister. THAT'S how cool she is. Although I wouldn't make a very good little sister, and I get the impression that she wouldn't make a very good big sister, either--we're both pretty competitive! Fortunately as she is my manager, the lines of communication are clearly drawn, and I hope I can manage to bond with her as my mentor, without making her feel like I'm sucking up (I'm not!) and also make her proud by successfully wrangling my projects, especially the one that I'm leading. Yes, leading.
You know your gchat profile is good when you edit it, and ten seconds later, three people gchat you to talk about it, and it spurs discussion in other gchat circles, and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about when I say gchat circles.
I started with: "I'm pro-environment, but that’s like saying I'm also pro kittens and daisies. Because who isn’t for the environment? Who screams, “Down with the ozone!” while crazily releasing chlorofluorocarbons into the air? No one. At least no one I know."
Within two seconds I got:
Ben: Well I'M anti-environment!
Me: You would be!
Kiwi: I totally do. I'm like, fuck you, mother earth.
Me: Actually, I burn plastics in front of big fans.
Kiwi: Sinner. I'm totally pro kitten though.
--Later--
Kiwi: "Fight Global warming. Leave your fridge doors open!"
I know, I know. Everyone's a comedian.
I haven't made resolutions yet this year, much like I haven't yet sent out Christmas Cards, even though I've bought them, and I barely even wrapped my presents. (This whole "Christmas Spirit" thing fell completely by the wayside in competition with things like long skiing trips and my birthday!)
So it would be silly to say that one of my resolutions was to bring my lunch from home more often, since I don't HAVE resolutions.
But it WOULD be safe to say that I have a lot of leftovers in my fridge, and that some more of my (non-existent) New Year's Resolutions are to stop food waste and stop wasting so much money on food, a fact pointed out to me by the LT every damn time we go to one of my overpriced yuppie grocery stores and he looks at the price of meat (not meat for ME!) and says, "I can get four times this much meat for half of the price! THIS is where your money is going! Quit complaining about being broke!"
"I don't know what you mean?" I say politely, as I buy Tofutti Sour Supreme at 3.99, two blocks of Follow Your Heart Vegan Gourmet fcheese at 3.49 a piece, guacamole for 4.69, and a dark chocolate bar for 2.19, not to mention four frozen meals at 4.59 a pop.
Sigh. (AlsoIhavenotevenlookedatmybudgetsinceSeptember.) So far, though, I’m avoiding being quite as broke as I was LAST year at this time, barely barely. Barely.
It’s really only my own stupidity that has kept me from saving money on food, thus far. I don’t make big versions of things at once because I don’t like leftovers. I don’t like how leftovers, left in the pan, dry out at the very top. Some leftovers taste better the next day, but others really don’t, and I end up having to add sauces and things to them, not a bad thing in any case but it begins to feel like I’m cooking them again, and I don’t know. I have a block about leftovers. Especially when I make a large bread dish, for example, in a pan, and then I take out servings one at a time and the bread begins to gray on the edges because the pan is old and transferring its metal content to the bread, and the bread begins to taste rusty, almost bloody, and I think about throwing the whole thing out. And then I’m talking to T-Town and she says, “Why don’t you just split up the dish into Tupperwares? That’s what I do, right away, or else I won’t eat it.”
Like, DUH. Brainwave, anyone? This does mean, of course, that I’ll have to wash more dishes, but whatever. Landlord has a very nice dishwasher. But, anyway! Tupperware! How easy! I immediately divided the LT’s Christmas dinner leftovers among tupperwares, washed out the big pans, and felt very Betty Crocker.
And so this morning, when I left for work (first day back, hi everyone!) I just grabbed two tupperwares, and when I rolled into work, happily skipped to the fridge to put them in cold storage until lunch, and almost threw up.
OH MY GOD. SOMEONE LEFT THE FRIDGE UNPLUGGED OVER BREAK WITH STUFF INSIDE IT AND THE DOOR CLOSED.
Who in their right mind, may I ask you, unplugs a fridge without checking it first? Who unplugs a fridge and leaves it CLOSED? The entire office mini fridge is covered with green mold. It’s on the shelves, it’s on the walls. I don’t think it can be saved, and even if it could be, I’ll never put my food in there again. Oh. My. GOD. I almost hurled. And then I almost punched our secretary in the throat, because it was MY food that was in there! I mean, sure, I should have taken it home, but who doesn’t know that if you unplug a fridge, you should OPEN THE DOOR FIRST? Hello! The fridge is a sealed object! If you unplug it, the ice will melt! And then the humidity in the fridge will rise to an all-time high! And then it will mold!
I really, really want to ask for my money back, for my fifteen-dollar calzone, my three dollar nacho fcheese, and my four dollar fsour cream.
Sigh.
And now, on my first day back from break, I sit here eating my bread and tomato sauce, going rusty on the edges, and hope that my shepherd’s pie and alfreda sauce doesn’t go bad before lunch time.
I’m off to track down another fridge.
WANTED: One personal librarian. JOB DUTIES: Organizing my large and ever-growing collection of personal and public media; including, but definitely not limited to: journals, emails, food logs, bills, photo-sharing sites, blogs, forum memberships, family obligations, my social calendar, my voice recorder, and my brain. PAY: Nothing. HOURS: 24-7. BENEFITS: Constant entertainment, of varying qualities.
To take a few steps towards this goal myself, before I hire someone at a less than nothing salary, because I'll probably borrow money from them too, I have added both the LT's photo-sharing site and my own photo-sharing site to the links, on the side bar. I realize that it is way cooler to put pics in the blog, but until I can hire someone to do that for me, or at least until I can find an easy way of posting pics without first downloading them to my computer, this is the best way.
Currently Consuming: Leftover Roasted Brussel Sprouts, microwaved, with lots of fresh-ground salt and pepper. I assumed I would need the Alfreda Sauce I also got out of the refrigerator, but I guess not--they're surprisingly good plain. That's good because I'll need that sauce for the Shepherd's Pie from LT's Christmas Dinner.
Currently Listening: Dogs snoring.
Currently waiting for: My damn jazz CD's to come in the mail!
Movies Seen Recently: Children of Men. I loved it, LT hated it.
Current New Year's Eve Plans: Dinner!
Friday, Dec. 22nd, noon: Get Hair Did.
Friday, Dec. 22nd, midnight: Jager-Bombs for Birthday!
Saturday, Dec. 23rd, noon: Christmas Celebration (Part 1 of 4)
Saturday, Dec. 23rd, midnight: Christmas Party with Killer Jenga
Sunday, Dec. 24th, 10 am: Singing in Choir.
Sunday, Dec. 24th, 10 pm: Singing in Choir.
Monday, Dec. 25th, 8 am: Stopping at only open espresso drive-thru.
Monday, Dec. 25th, 10 am: Cooking up a storm.
Monday, Dec. 25th, 1 pm: Christmas Celebration (Part 2 of 4)
Monday, Dec. 25th, 6 pm: Bringing Christmas and Christmas Dinner to Navy boys on duty. (Christmas Celebration Part 3 of 4) (See Cooking up a storm, above.)
Monday, Dec. 25th, 11 pm: Zzzzzzzz.
Tuesday, Dec. 26th, noon: Picking up Titan.
Tuesday, Dec. 26th, 3 pm: Watching TV with LT.
Tuesday, Dec. 26th, 6 pm: Shooting pool.
Tuesday, Dec. 26th, 10 pm: Zzzzzzz.
Wednesday, Dec. 27th, 8 am: Eating entire container of Zatarain's Red Beans and Rice. Sitting on couch. Watching TV. Consuming coffee with lots of f.creamer.
Thursday, Dec. 27th, 8 am: SKIING!
Occasionally, my life sucks.
Or rather, occasionally certain things go wrong in my life, and because I'm obsessive and melodramatic, I blow small things completely out of proportion, go crazy, and take my support group with me.
For example: two years ago, when I got fired, got screwed out of the 300 dollars by the bank, and couldn't pay rent, right before T-Town was about leave for a month and a half, I was fairly calm about it, because really, what are you going to do? I called the bank, got them to refund my money, found another job, and went happily on my merry way, paying rent and holding down the fort until T-Town got back.
I always tend to be calm during catastrophic events. There's the time that I was moving, coughing up lungs, and contracting profuse nosebleeds. I kept moving my stuff, asked my mother and boyfriend for help, and hired a truck. There's the time that the water pipe burst overhead, at 2 am, in the apartment that I shared with T-Town. We moved our electronics out of the way, unscrewed the antique light fixture, and split ways to spend the night at our parents, with our respective dogs.
But when I hear the news that a few people I know don't like me anymore? OH MY GOD, CATASTROPHE. THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH. My hair falls out. My skin has literally started to flake off. I call people and bitch them out. I shower attention on those who don't need it.
And I focus on what I CAN do, and HAVE done well, already.
A Partial List Of Things That Are Not Fubared In My Life:
LT.
My promotion.
My security clearance.
My house, yet.
The four reports I wrote in the last week.
Work friends.
LT's friends.
Singing.
Skiing!
Night skiing for free because a nice boy found me a ticket!
Eating!
Cooking!
The most adorable girly Christmas presents ever!
DIGITAL CAMERA!
New jazz CDs!
LT!!
Family.
Old friends.
New friends!
Paid Christmas vacay!
And last, but most importantly,
Hummus, wine, and crackers. Thank you and good night.
My 26th birthday passed with a typhoon, geometry, roses, cupcakes, candles, opera, a vegan feast, family laughter, and my boyfriend whisking me away on a surprise vacation to Mt. Bachelor.
Many thanks, also, to all of my college friends, who could somehow sense that I needed a little extra love this year and wrote messages, emailed, myspaced, facebooked, and called. I love every single one of you. Sometimes I wish I lived on the East Coast just so I could be closer to all of you. (Okay, I wish that OFTEN. Well, sometimes. You know what I mean.)
Many MANY thanks, last, but definitely NOT least, too all the hometown people wishing me a happy birthday.
Yay 26!
I am 26 TODAY!!!
Horoscope Today:
Ferociously proud and somewhat vain, you like to be impressive and to be seen as Somebody Special. You are not timid, meek, or self-effacing, and are rarely content being in the background or in the subordinate position. You are a natural leader, and do not take orders from others very well. You must have something of your own, something creative - be it a business, a project, a home or whatever - that you can develop and manage according to your own will and vision. Whatever you do, you do it in a unique, dramatic, individual way. You like to put your own personal stamp on it.
You are a gambler and an adventurer at heart, one who loves to take risks, to discover and explore new worlds, and to take the untried path rather than the safe, reliable one. You are an independent soul, freedom-loving, and often very restless. You need a lifestyle that provides opportunities for travel, movement, change, and meeting new people. A steady routine which offers much in the way of security but little in the way of space and freedom is odious to you.
Who, me?
My friend Shrew has this unbelieveable quote on her gchat profile: "Sometimes the mind, for reasons we don't necessarily understand, just decides to go to the store for a quart of milk."
I don't know who said it--a quick search on Google has turned up nothing--but I know it's not hers because she couldn't spell "necessarily" right on the first try, not that I don't love her dearly anyway. It's a perfect quote for her, my Partner in ADD, and for me. (Or did I say that already?)
I have good days, where I'm really on, and bad days, where the LT gets worried that I haven't finished a sentence in four hours and I keep staring off into space, and, really, can I FOCUS for JUST TEN SECONDS, THANK YOU VERYMUCH?
For example, suddenly today, after successfully being fingerprinted, making a new girlfriend in the Security Clearance Office, securing (ha!) a temporary security clearance for myself, navigating my annual performance review, and checking on my PROMOTION (yay!) I had a PANIC attack about a social engagement and emailed a friend to say that the LT and I were not going.
And then suddenly I remember that the LT and I had already talked about said social engagement and HAD planned to go!
So I just as quickly emailed my same friend that, wait, haha, I'm an idiot and we ARE going after all! I think? Maybe? And what day is it today? Is the world still round? Hello? Am I CEO yet? Are my eyes still pointing the same direction?
The response: "Oh. My. God. How easily I forget."
...Is that even an answer? Because if I wanted character assasinations, I could just go to my MOTHER'S house, thank you VERY much.
Anyway, I imagine that as my friend CP was typing his response, he was simultaneously emailing his fiance his heartfelt thanks that she was not half as crazy as I am, and also possibly wondering what kind of man the LT is and if he failed horribly in one of his past lives?
But it does not matter! Because although I have started at least five thoughts this weekend that I never finished, I have officially bought the BEST CHRISTMAS PRESENT EVER for the LT, and that, my friends, will make up for a lot of...
I am drinking a glass of wine so rough that I could chew it, but it's necessary. Necessary because I just got my new Lucky Magazine in the mail and dear God, the eighties, and now the seventies, and dear God, the clothes are so UGLY RIGHT NOW! The Lucky fashion editors may not think of themselves as old, and I'm sure they are happy to return to a time (fashion-wise) which may hold many happy memories for them, but darlings, I was not even born in the seventies. By the time I was born, Ronald Reagan was already in office. I do not remember wide-legged jeans, I do not like vests, and LEATHER BACKPACKS? You're recommending leather backpacks? For the LOVE of GOD.
Anyway.
Also on the disappointment list: the LT and I watched The Sting and Laura this weekend--we chilled a lot this weekend, as we also watched Pearl Harbor, Van Helsing, and Cars--I now wear a size ten and not a six--and I was making a big deal of watching Laura because it's so classic film noir, very big deal at the time, all that, and we watched it and it's so...huh. Some good camera work. And of course Gene Tierney is great to watch. But...otherwise...well. Kind of slow. And really heavy on atmosphere. I'd seen it before, and remember liking it, but...well.
It's possible, also, that my 15 inch laptop didn't do it justice.
You thought I was done with the pictures.
I'm so not.
LT, when taking these pictures, ordered me around like Hugh Hefner, telling me to turn my thigh this way or that way. Finally, I said, "What's the problem?"
"Your skin reflects too much light," he complained. (See, Pasty-white flab, previous post.)
"Well. EXCUSE ME."
Remind me to get a tan next time.
Note: This will NOT be a post about me begging my invisible 300 readers to COMMENT ALREADY, JESUS CHRIST, IT'S NOT HARD. I will never be one of Those bloggers, do you hear me? Never! Okay. Now that that's settled...
I was talking to Roommate (now much previous, but will always be called Roommate in this blog, because why not?) the other night, and I said, in passing, "If you want to see the biggest bruise ever, check out my blog." (And let me take this moment to say that it is now TWELVE TIMES BIGGER THAN IT WAS IN THOSE PICTURES. It consumes my entire thigh, front AND back, and most of my knee. Please do not ask me how you can hit both sides of your leg at once on one, stationary, rock. Should be impossible. HA, HA. Guess it's not!)
Those were some really damn long parantheses.
Anyway. Roommate. Right. I was telling him about The Great Bruise of 2006, or GB'06, as I like to call it, and he said, "I'm already a regular reader of your blog."
And I was surprised. I mean, I always KNEW he could read, but to hear that he read DAILY...
Ha. Ha! Joke! Funny! Anyway. I was surprised because, except for once, maybe twice, the boy has NEVER COMMENTED ON MY BLOG. How would I know he was there, if he hadn't told me?
No, I am NOT one of those bloggers, the ones that beg for commenters. I wouldn't do that, would I? Of course not. I mean, that is just lame and sad. And pathetic. And possibly just plain wrong. (COMMENT, PLEASE. EVERYBODY. FOR THE LOVE OF BLOG.)
But really, it freaks me out a little. I mean, I have a stat counter, I know people read, but you guys are just...out there. Sitting. Reading. Late at night, I sometimes think I can hear you breathing.
Anddddd....perhaps I should just go to bed now.
UPDATE: There was some sort of CLICKING noise outside my window last night. I woke up in a panic, ran around turning off all the lights, (a good idea in any case) and hid under the covers. Cannot wait to sleep in a house tonight that does NOT have gorgeous, hard to secure windows all over the ground floor.
So. I have a leg. A right leg, to be specific. And it has this bruise on it. Which, after these pictures, might well be entitled The Great Bruise of 2006.
The Bruise, on Friday.
The Bruise, again Friday.
The Bruise, Saturday.
The Bruise, today: OH MY GOD A BLACK, FLESH EATING VIRUS HAS CONSUMED MY ENTIRE THIGH. AND NOW MY KNEE.
I tried to show my bruise to my roommate and landlord, M, and his boyfriend. I was all enthusiastic. "HI GUYS! Want to see my BRUISE?"
Their lips curled, much like the smoke from their cigarettes. "Um. No."
Me: "TOO DAMN BAD. I will show you anyway, and you will LOVE it."
I unzipped, pulled down my jeans, and showed them. I believe my landlord's face actually turned green. "Um. Okay. Ow."
What he didn't say: "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN. I did not choose a lifetime of hardship and heartache, looking at beautiful sculpted boys, just so I could be forced to look at YOUR PASTY-WHITE FLAB. PLEASE PUT IT AWAY."
On the other hand, the LT, a guy with both his fair share of bruises AND inordinate interest in my thighs, is only too happy to give his opinion of my bruise every time I show him.
Something tells me I chose wisely.
Dear Google Powers That Be,
I have lived in Seattle most of my life, barring a brief but succeesful college career at Carnegie Mellon, and always ALWAYS the bus system has sucked sweaty goat balls. Buses twenty minutes late, buses crawling down busy streets and blocking traffic for miles, some bus drivers who believe that their buses and passengers are all senior citizens who will die if our speed exceeds 20 mph, and other bus drivers who are trying to pound their buses (and passengers) into submission with gratuitous use of jack-rabbit starts and stops-on-a-dime. As a Seattlelite, I of course have a Starbucks cup surgically implanted into my right hand, meaning that in slow buses, I almost explode with nervous anticipation, and in fast buses, I end up wearing my five dollar coffee. I have started driving instead.
Intellectually, I know that Google cannot fix our bus system, although in my heart I believe that Google can change the world and set the course of the stars. But maybe a useful search engine tool would be some help, in lieu of exploding the Metro Transit office and installing all new cube monkeys. In addition, the highly anticipated light-rail system and Sounder Trains between Tacoma and Everett make the wealth of transit options confusing, although not any more efficient. Please, Google Transit, come to Seattle! We could sure use you.
And so could my dry cleaning bill.
Sincerely,
Aarwenn
Got this gem in one of the previous comments, and wanted to repost it here:
L-T says: "You know, there's a saying in the Blogosphere: TTIWWOP! This thread is worthless without pics!"
And so, with much further ado, I bring you: Pictures.
On our way up to Whistler. Notice the big smiles. We are ready to SKI! Nothing will stop us! No sirree bob!
Getting ready, still unware that Anything Bad Would Happen.
I wish this was me; I wish that my fall had been in so much powder. This is a representative shot of all the tumbles that were taken on Friday. You can see that there is enough snow to cover several mountain ranges. How did I find the one rock patch? Ask my skis.
After the first day--I'd already broken myself against a moutain, but the boys are all in fine shape...so far.
Myself and Nina. Notice how nice and happy we look here. You can't see how bad my thigh is, and I'm all smiley because I've had all day to rest, have just gotten in a hot tub, and taken six advil. My mood on this night will get drastically worse.
The Girls, at breakfast, Sunday morning. You can see that we look a little more raggedy here. We are all bundled up, even inside the cafe, because it is REALLY FREAKIN' COLD outside, although you can't tell that from the picture.
An absolute gem of a picture, and my reaction to T-Town's broken leg, caught on film. I am on the phone with her at this very moment. Also indicative of my normal life, that is, a bunch of stuff happens around me while I'm on the phone. Typical.
I'm not the only one feeling the pain. We are all about to leave, and we are tired.
Really, Really tired.
But are we going again? WELL HELL YES WE ARE!
We are insane.
In the continuing tradition of rescuing my friends from ever needing to start their own blogs or even update them once they have them, I'll add to the previous post: I heard from T-Town (the girl, not the city) today.
I was in the Dublin Gate, an Irish pub and restaurant at the bottom of the gondolas in Whistler Village, waiting for LT to finish skiing so we could start the long and tortuous journey through six inches of snow and 20 degree weather when my phone rang, and I answered it.
"Hello? Oh, hey, T-Town."
"Blah blah mfffle garble-warble leg," she said.
I pressed the phone a little tighter against my ear. "I'm sorry?"
"Blah brark garble-warble LEG," she said again.
Me, totally guessing: "Oh! Did you read my blog?"
T-Town: "What?"
Me: "Maybe I misunderstood. Say it again."
T-Town: "I BROKE MY GODDAMMED LEG, YOU STUCK-UP ONLY CHILD! IT IS NOT ALWAYS ABOUT YOU!"
Me, silent while this sinks in: "OH MY GOD! You broke your leg? What happened? Are you okay?"
T-Town: "Well, now that I'm done shouting at you, I'm fine, except for this broken leg."
Me: "Sweet! So did you read my blog?"
T-Town: "Oh, $(*&@# you."
But I'm improving, I swear I am. Last time I was in Whistler, I wrecked my knee on the very first run of the very first day. And then I skiied on it all weekend. This time, I waited to wreck my thigh until the SECOND run! Huge improvements were made! (Sigh.)
The ski patrol was there in moments, almost faster than the LT, but not quite. Because I was ahead of everyone else, only our friend J saw me actually fall--he saw my skis fly up in the air and then everyone heard me scream, and, as J put it later, LT suddenly appeared out of nowhere, flying over to where I had been--J swears his skis actually came off in the air--so he could land by me and pop MY skis off, because I could not move my leg.
I'M FINE. I just body-planted on a rock field really, really hard. I didn't break anything, I hardly even broke my skin--my ski gear and helmet stood up well to the onslaught. My thigh bore the brunt of it--it wouldn't bear weight for several hours, but today I can walk, and almost go up and down stairs. It's just a great big charley horse, nothing permanent, but DAMN was I upset that I couldn't ski! Oh well. LT is skiing today. He texted me to say the snow is terrible, which was very sweet of him, given that Whistler got several inches of fresh powder over night and it is probably, actually, quite good.
The ski patrol guy asked me if I was allergic to anything, and I said, "Yeah, big fucking rocks," and he was so cool that he wrote it down: "Allergic to rocks." I almost laughed, except that it would have required moving. I got to ride in a toboggan, a very interesting experience and something I hope to never do again, although it's good to say that I've done it, and he got me down to the ski patrol "clinic" (read: "shed") and asked if I'd mind if he took a look and I said no, of course not, and I stripped down a little and he took a look.
"Seems okay," he said. "I don't think you fractured your femur. You should be okay after a few days. But are you always this vocal?"
My mind blanked out for second. "Am I always this what? WHAT?"
"Well, you make a lot of little noises," he said, not embarrassed, just asking. "Is that normal for you? Or are you in a lot of pain?"
I was speechless (possibly answering his question) while I considered the answers:
1. "You'd be vocal, too, if you'd just hit a rock wall going twenty miles an hour!"
2. "I don't know. Are all Canadians as boring and quiet as you?"
3. "I don't know, maybe you should ask my boyfriend." (Dials phone.) "Honey? Was I more vocal than usual, last night?"
(Hi mom and dad, I meant vocal while ARGUING, of course. Duh.)
Regardless, I answered that, yes, I really was always that vocal, feeling a little like a Siamese cat or something, and he said okay and bundled me into a taxi and got me home, and I made soup and read Douglas Adams and applied ice and elevation. LT, when he came back, was very supportive, and I went on to go out to dinner and get in the hot tub and do all that, and today I can almost go up stairs like a normal person! Yay!
Am I always this vocal? Oh yeah? I'LL SHOW YOU VOCAL, MISTER!
The world continues, as it always has. My mother has once again completely charmed my landlord.
This tradition is becoming to come in handy, for obvious reasons: once my landlord, whoever he might be, gets tired of renting to a slob, my mother shows up, cleans the house, cooks for him, and entertains him for hours. It keeps me in shelter with a roof over my head, always a good thing, although reducing my current house to "a roof over my head" is doing a great disservice to Landlord. (Your house is gorgeous, honey. You know it is.)
I realize it is now Wednesday and any post I might write referring to last weekend is hopelessly out of date, but this story was so good I had to share it. I hung out with a bunch of boys all weekend, not unusual in my case, especially on a weekend in which I went skiing, pool-shootin', and James Bond-ing. (HA! Bonding!) (Bad joke, but Bond was awesome.)
Anyway, here we are, five boys and myself, and we're killing time before the movie by drinking, one of our favorite activities. We're just ordering our first rounds from the server. All the other boys got Dos Equis, but I proudly ordered a "floofy" drink, with mixers and salt around the rim and all the fixins. The boys looked longingly at my drink when it arrived; many of them asked for sips. Finally I asked, "If you guys wanted fancy drinks, why didn't you order one?"
One of LT's friends, Amateur Photographer, sent me a look of derision. "Um, hello. I'm at a table with four other guys and a girl who is not afraid of me. I absolutely CANNOT order a fancy drink!"
Who knew that I would go down in AP's personal history as The Girl Who Is Not Afraid of Me? Not me, that's who. I feel like I should get a plaque or something.
In other news, I'm applying for a security clearance. (Yay!) And...those of you who have applied for these can already see where this is going...you have to, for this application, provide every address you've lived at for the past SEVEN YEARS.
I'll give that a little time to sink in.
For those who haven't realized, I've lived in three different places just since STARTING THIS BLOG.
My application may be the longest that damn office has ever seen. Send coffee.
(Note: LT did not like Casino Royale; in fact, it might not be hyperbole to say that he detested it. So you can bear that in mind, as you wish, but really, everyone else loves it, including all the critics, so if he wants to explain why he doesn't like it, he can start his own damn blog. THANK you so very much.)
When someone wrongs you, what do you do?
Let’s say you’re at the grocery store, and a cashier accidentally rings up a purchase twice, and you notice it. Let’s say it’s a cheap item, no more than four bucks. Would you say, “Hey, you just rang up that item twice?”
You probably would.
Now let’s say that the cashier is in a bad mood and doesn’t like you anyway, and he or she decides to get in your face. “I did not!” Would you push the issue?
I certainly would, because, hello, there’s a running electronic total right there and you can clearly see that the cashier rang up the item twice. If I were me, I would get a manager, if that’s what it took. It wouldn’t matter if the item was 90 cents, for me. It’s not about the money. It’s about BEING RIGHT, DAMMIT. The cashier charged up the item twice, he’s claiming that he didn’t, the proof is right there on the receipt and I WILL shove that mistake in his FACE if I have to. I’M RIGHT. The End.
But let’s say, instead, that it’s, say, a bullshit charge on a bank account, like overdraft fees, or a charge to transfer money between accounts, or a random service fee. Would you call and complain? I’ve successfully argued overdraft fees off my account before because it was the bank’s fault, and I’ll happily drive to the bank and get a cashier’s check and physically deposit it into another account instead of paying a transfer fee.
BUT, if I don’t have time, and need to transfer money, I’ll call the bank and try to sweet-talk them into waiving the fee. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. No biggie. In a case like this, whoever I’m talking to on the phone has a corporate policy, which he or she has to follow. Telephone Operator does have the privilege of waiving the charge, of course, but if he or she made a practice of that, someone would notice, and TO would soon be out of a job. I don’t take it personally if TO chooses to not waive my fee, and I can’t remember the last time I got mad about it. (Note: I am not a saint. See above case of the cashier who refused to admit he was wrong. I will scratch eyes out to prove that I am RIGHT.) But a corporate policy…well, that’s bigger than both TO and myself, and I’m not going to accomplish anything by yelling about it—it just adds to the unpleasantness of my day and their day. My mother always got great service—or almost always, because there are always a few bad apples in retail—because she is so good with honey and not vinegar, and I’m a firm believer that Nice Is Always Best.
So when the LT, his friend Tall Kiwi, and myself returned to a local mall last night, looking for a water bottle that my brainless self had left in a movie theater, and we couldn’t find it, and we returned to the parking pay station to pay our fourteen minute parking ticket, and they charged us three dollars, I was surprised, but not upset. The three of us had been expecting that our in-and-out ticket would be free, because it usually is free when under fifteen minutes, but they explained that there is no in-and-out grace period after five pm. So, no big deal, three dollars, right?
Apparently I was wrong. LT and M went apeshit. They raised their voices in arguing with the attendants. I was shocked. M stormed off, saying, “I can’t even talk to these people anymore.” LT claimed that he was never parking here again. I stared at their anger for a few minutes and then asked them to step back, saying, “I’ll handle this,” and I did—by paying the three dollars. The parking attendants were very nice, they apologized as they were running my credit card that it was a corporate policy and there was nothing they could do, and I believed them, although it didn’t matter to me if they couldn’t actually waive the fee or if they could and were choosing not to—I certainly wouldn’t have for the behavior of LT and M.
It was an interesting moment. I thought I would be embarrassed to be seen with two guys who were making such a scene over three dollars, but I wasn’t—the boys were technically right, it WAS ridiculous to be charged three dollars for fifteen minutes of parking. The fact that they were, perhaps, disproportionably upset, doesn’t invalidate the fact that they were correct. And I was touched that they were working so hard to protect my three dollars. But I was also a little upset that they were yelling at the parking attendants, who made minimum wage in order to deal with the public every day, and had no control over corporate policy. I’ve waited tables, I know how awful the public can be. LT and M were certainly not anywhere near the worst-behaved customers I’ve ever seen, but the idea of taking your anger out on the service-industry wage slave was so rank that it upset me.
The incident passed quickly, thank God, and we found the right elevators and made our way to my car and I drove them to the ferry, and we joked around and said our goodbyes and there were no hard feelings.
I wonder now: is it a gender thing? Was LT and M's collective reaction enhanced or magnified by their combined anger? Would another man have gotten just as mad? Would I have gotten more upset had I not had them around? What would my mother have done? What about my father?
It was a new moment.
Me: One of my customers is...well, he's an engineer.
T-Town: I hate those.
Me: Yeah. Me too.
And this is funny because I AM an engineer, so I'm hating on myself. Get it? GET IT?
Me: I just tried to dial my mother and dialed myself instead, as in, the number of the phone that I was on.
WorkFriend: If that isn't a deep cosmic metaphor, I don't know what is.
Preface: Hi, I'm aarwenn. I am opinionated. And I exaggerate. Yes! Me! I do this! (Audience: Noshit.) And I tend to be a little self-deprecatory in my posts. Which is mainly due to the fact that, duh, I'm already WRITING ABOUT MYSELF, so writing about myself in an overly self-congratulatory manner--or even a slightly self-congratulatory manner--would make this blog no more than my own personal creamfest, and no one wants to read that, ever. (Audience: Use of the word "creamfest" was gratuitous, unecessary, and frankly gross.) (Me: Whatever.)
(Side note: I'm eating a snack of Black Peppered Cashews and Tamari Almonds from Trader Joe's. I should never buy Black Peppered Cashews again. Way too good.)
Which is why when my mother occasionally calls, concerned over This Post or That Post, I think, Doesn't the woman KNOW me? I mean, really, she's known me for 25, almost 26 years, and the LT knew enough to discount half of what I say after three weeks.
For example, the below snippet, taken from a phone conversation not too long ago:
Me: (made some accidental Freudian slip)
LT: (laughing) You know, I still remember the time you came to my house, before we were dating. I asked you over to help me pick out curtains or possibly help paint, and instead you drank my wine and fell asleep on my couch.
Me: That was not my fault! You never fed me!
LT: Most adults feed themselves on a regular basis! How was I to know that you'd pass out on my sofa if I didn't feed you?
Me: Oh yeah? Well. (Struggles for a comeback.) Look on the bright side. You got to hear me ramble incoherently on low blood sugar.
LT: And you were in rare form, too. Remember that comment about what would or wouldn't fit in your mouth?
Me: You could probably start your own blog, someday. "Accidentally Dirty Things My Girlfriend Has Said."
What he didn't need to say: Why bother? You do all the work for me by writing it on your OWN blog.
And then I would have said, because I like being stubborn: Not this time, sucker!
...Dammit.
But really, what else is new?
Thanks to our office OA/CPR person, who is also a mother with a daughter slightly older than I am, it went much better than my killer nose bleed a week ago. Much like my non-swimming friend J felt better during Seafair because my Hot Navy LT was on the boat with us, I felt better and more relaxed just knowing that the person who was handing me paper towels, while not as comforting as my own mother, at least had basic medical training.
And unlike during the move, when I was happy just for a reason to sit down and not move for awhile and had no one pushing me along, at work I needed the nose to STOP BLEEDING, ALREADY, AND ACT LIKE A NORMAL OLFACTORY SENSE. Thank you.
(Whoever comes by my desk today will be mighty surprised by the blood-soaked paper towels in my wastebasket. I tell you, nothing turns red like blood.) (Possibly Duh.)
The condo search continues, sort of. It's hard to force myself to look because it's gray and rainy outside, and the place I live is so freakin' beautiful that I don't want to move, but at the same time I miss Titan and can't wait to have my own space again, and it's also partly true that my beautiful living space inspires me to start my OWN pretty space. (Did that make sense?) So far, though, I've found condos that either:
1. Don't publish their square footage, which is Not A Good Sign, or
2. Don't take dogs, or
3. Are in Sea-Tac, or
4. Are just plain fugly.
Also, Firefox has stopped working on my computer ALTOGETHER, I haven't unpacked yet from my move, and I have not, as yet, woken up on time to make my boyfriend coffee before he leaves on his long drive to work after staying with me in the new place. And I am not wearing deodorant. (But I AM wearing clean underwear!)
Okay, maybe that was a little too much information. Moving on.
I have come up with A List Of Things I Must Do After Work TODAY:
1. Pay Car Insurance.
Because I am a terribly White Trash Person and my car insurance has LASPED because I FORGOT TO PAY IT. (Note: Although this is bad, this could be SO MUCH WORSE, in that my Windshield Attack could have been more like a Full Body Attack and I would have been Uninsured At That Point and I would have cried like A Baby.)
But that did not happen! Windshield is very cheap to replace and I would not have involved my insurance anyway! Thank all the gods in your immediate vicinity for small mercies!
2. Pay Dental Bill.
Again with the White Trash. I owe my dentist almost five hundred dollars and STILL they continue to make appointments for me, most of which I cancel maybe five hours ahead of time, and in one memorable instance, just an hour before. I cannot believe they still speak to me.
3. Put up shelves in closet
Because, when your boyfriend noses about your room looking for a place to put his overnight bag, and cannot find even ONE clear square foot of shag carpet, you have a problem. Especially with shag carpet, because obviously all those fibers contribute to the possible surface area of the rug, you know?
I'm not really sure what I said there.
4. Call policeman about incident report.
For obvious reasons. I'm sort of hoping he'll be cute, just for fun, but of course he won't be half as hot, even in uniform, as LT.
5. Go grocery shopping!
Not that eating out three meals a day hasn't been fun.
6. Maybe go to Target!
Because what can't be fixed by a trip to Target?
7. Collect mail from old place.
Because, duh, and also, there might be a check in there!
8. CHANGE ADDRESS.
Because. SO Duh.
9. Sleep.
Yawn.
...Saturday morning: M calls. "Hi, your Jeep was broken into. They hammered on the windshield with a brick. The brick is still sitting on your hood. Your HOOD is fine. The windshield is still slightly intact, but there's glass all over your front seat.
...Saturday afternoon: I drive with Realtor to see a condo. We get into a fender-bender on the way.
...Saturday afternoon: Condo is not worth it.
...Saturday night: Massive intoxication.
...Sunday morning: Crankiness.
...Sunday afternoon: Loneliness.
...Sunday night: Make appointment with All-Star Autoglass to come fix Windshield.
...Monday morning: B's Car (in which I am carpooling) runs out of gas, gas station credit card machine is broken.
...Monday lunch: sit blearily through two hours of traffic on bus ride home.
...Monday afternoon: All-Star Autoglass calls to say they can't fix Windshield in this weather because glue won't dry or stick. (Seattle is flooding.)
...Monday evening: COOKING! And movie!
...Tuesday morning, lunch, and afternoon: Work
...Tuesday evening: VOTING!
GET OUT THE VOTE, EVERYONE! GO NOW!
And all the way to Friday! WOO-HOO!
Things I Have Done This Week:
The best--BEST--picture ever, or at least, of the weekend:
The LT and I, in costume, playing Beer Pong. Caught in a moment.
It makes me smile.
So. Blogging.
It's this thing I do. Sometimes I do it for others, sometimes I do it for myself. Not all of my posts are published. At least two HAVE been published and then yanked. Some are published because I really need to get feelings out, like the love letter to my mother or the long post about LT and I arguing. Some posts I start and can't finish.
Some posts never get written.
I'm going through a rough period in my life right now. I'm not technically broke or in major debt, I have sympathetic family nearby and friends and a car and a great dog, and I have a good job, and I'm in love with a terrific man, and he happens to think I'm pretty sweet, too. So if you add up the "pluses" column, especially in the Long Term Happiness category, I'm doing pretty well.
But. The short term column?
My friends got promoted. Notice that I did not get promoted. I cannot find a good condo. I can't afford a good condo, I guess. I have to move out in four days and I don't have a solid place to go, yet.
I have big deadlines for work that aren't finished yet. I have The Cough That Will Not Die. (For days I've been going around breathing on people I don't like.) I should get it checked out, but I don't have TIME.
TIME. Time to move out, time to work, time to tutor, time for Halloween, time for LT, time to breathe.
I have two days to get through. If I can just get through tomorrow and Tuesday, I'll make it. Wednesday morning will be a whole new world.
Thanks for reading.
...and it comes courtesy of T-Town, of course.
"You are so lame sometimes. Like right now, for instance."
TODAY, October 26th, is the day of birf of two very important women in my life:
1. My mother
2. My Little Sister in Alpha Chi Omega.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LADIES!
(Note: my mother turns fifty-mumble and my Little turns 23!)
(Note to my Little: SEND ME MY STUFF.)
(Note to my mother: I love you.)
(Note to my Little: I love you too, sweetie!)
Like I said, I'm managing to tutor okay, which is good--especially since I'm now depending on that income to make my eventual condo payment--but apparently my tiredness is not so easily hidden from the rest of the world.
Case in point: Hot Neighbor and I ran into each other at the mailboxes yesterday. We're chatting along about my apartment and the suckiness of the Tacoma to Seattle commute, and when all of a sudden he stops and says,
"Sweetie, you look absolutely exhausted. Is everything" and here he drops his voice to a whisper "...okay?"
...And he said it in the kind of voice that means he was expecting at least one if not all of the following: a major cocaine and/or meth addiction, lots of time spent in shady bars, the kind of time in which I tell the bartender to just leave the bottle, several nights spent fighting and then making up with the LT, a death in my immediate family, impending termination from my job with a side-order of humiliation, several missed periods, etc, etc.
On my shopping list now: extra strength under-eye concealer. Do they sell bleach for under your eyes? Does anyone know?
I’ve always been proud of my communication skills. Maybe a little overly proud. (Example: well, this blog. And this one. And this one. And THIS one. Duh.)
Well, all that has gone out the window. Newsflash: if you don’t sleep, incoherence isn’t just a word in the dictionary for you, anymore.
I can still tutor well—in fact, I’m doing better than well—but apparently I don’t talk to my boyfriend anymore. Like, at all, ever.
(See that shining example of articulation? Perhaps you begin to see what I’m talking about? Yes. I thought so.)
We just went to this wedding, you see, the wedding of two Old College Friends of mine, a relationship that had been friendship for four years before they started dating, and therefore they had a lot of mutual friends, and they (we) all came to the wedding, and it had been quite some time since we had seen each other, so of course there was much rejoicing and catching up, and I was introducing the LT around, or so I thought, but he was being sort of quiet, unusual for a guy who can make himself at home anywhere.
We stepped away to look for a bathroom for me, and when I came back I found him hanging back by a mirror.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, in that voice people use when there damn well IS something wrong, but they’re not sure how or why to tell you. “But…how do you know these people, again?”
I looked at him, amazed. “I went to college with all of them. So did you, actually, but that’s obviously beside the point. We were all science-type freshman majors together.” (It’s a little known but true fact that I started out my college career as a chemistry major before switching to chemical engineering.)
“Oh,” he said, and it could have ended there, except that the next words out of my mouth: “I could have SWORN I told you that already.”
As anyone who’s had a relationship can tell you, this is NOT a constructive thing to say, ever. Really.
More examples of really constructive (not) conversations the LT and I have had recently:
A few weeks ago, we drove by my old high school, and they were re-doing it, and I wanted to sneak around the back to see it, even though the streets were blocked off. The LT saw the cops and flashing lights and was apprehensive, which is understandable. I was mad that he was questioning my judgment at all. I went ahead and did it even though he was more than a little unhappy. Ah, the little touches that really make a relationship.
As we successfully passed the cops by me pretending that I lived in one of the surrounding apartment buildings, the LT said, “You used to live here?”
I was speechless, and also blazing mad. “YES. I USED TO LIVE HERE WITH T-Town. I’ve only told you that about a hundred times. My mother and I point that out every time we drive by my old high school.”
Again, readers: this is not a constructive way to have an argument.
And more recent constructive conversations:
Me: “We have plenty of time to catch this flight.”
LT: “No, we don’t.”
Me: “Yes, we do.”
LT: “NO. WE DON’T.”
Me: “YES WE DO.”
(And then, when we did:)
Me: “HA! I TOLD you we would make it.”
Me: “You’re driving too fast.”
LT: “No, I’m not.”
(Me, gripping the Oh-Shit-Bar.) “YES. YOU ARE.”
LT: (Nothing. Speedometer does not move.)
Me: “This cup is glass.”
LT: “I’m pretty sure it’s plastic.”
Me: “It’s GLASS.” (I should have said: “I study MATERIALS for a LIVING, jackass.” See Chemical Engineering Degree, above.)
LT: “Honey, it’s plastic.”
Me, the girl, gives in to the man’s superior knowledge. “Maybe you’re right, sure.”
It became obvious that it was glass when it broke a day later. So much for that.
The worst part was driving back from the wedding, on our last night—we were so sleep deprived that I was beginning to hallucinate, I think, and we got lost, and of course I was navigating, because he was driving, and we were arguing about directions—really arguing—and he ended up being right about something, and I was so mad by this time that my reply was, “Fuck you.”
He looked at me, dead quiet. I started to bawl.
(On the plus side, I discovered that Urban Decay’s Primer Potion works to keep mascara from running, too!)
On the plane today, on the way back, the “fuck you” of last night forgotten, we were cuddling and talking and I said, “This reminds me of the time I flew with Geeb and we talked about the air circulation patterns.”
“The what?” he said.
“The air circ patterns on a commercial aircraft,” I repeated. “I haven’t told you?”
“No!”
So I explained it to him, and it was good. And then we got to talking more, and I realized I hadn’t told him about how I met most of my work friends, the fact that we’re building a new building at work, how the condo search is going, or much of anything about my tutoring students. Complete strangers that I met at the wedding know more about me than my boyfriend does.
“Do I EVER talk to you?” I said.
“Apparently not,” he answered.
So: Communication? I might be good at it in a meet-and-mingle setting, but apparently on a day-to-day basis I suck. Simultaneously, I’ve realized that my work attitude is severely lacking because, frankly, I’m not being friendly with the people I work with. I’m just not friendly towards them, at all. They probably think of me as that stuck-up bitch in the corner cube. Not good.
SO! The point of this extremely long post is to remind myself—and you, readers—that if you feel people aren’t listening to you or being friendly, maybe you should try being a little friendlier yourself. And opening up a little.
Because while I was on this train of “Open up your mouth and TALK to your boyfriend,” I broached a difficult subject. “We were using the L word for a while, and now we’re not,” I said, breathing slowly, in and out. “Why not?”
(Full disclosure: this start and stop usage has possessed me for months. I have been worried that he no longer likes me, or that he had said he loved me when infatuated and changed his mind. It’s not like I haven’t eaten or gone to work, but it has eaten several holes in my self-esteem. Not that I’ve told him this, of course. I don’t talk to people, remember?)
Anyway, back to the L word, and I’m not talking about the TV show. “You didn’t reciprocate,” he said.
Me: “WHAT? I thought I said it more than you did!”
We stared at each other.
Like I said: This is an example of how NOT to run a relationship. So if you’re mad at your significant other today, or insecure for any reason, start talking. It’s a good thing.
No, I haven't disappeared or actually run away to join a startup or the circus or anything. The LT and I took off to Boston to watch my freshman year roommate get married, and the wedding was LOVELY, although absolutely freezing (it was outside in OCTOBER in Boston) and we got to stay with old college friends (shoutout to K and A) and it was truly a great trip.
Even with all the baggage.
And I don't mean just the HUGE ones under my eyes! (LT and I have gotten--roughly--twelve hours of sleep in three days.)
But more on that later--we're boarding here!
Everyone wish the LT a great big HAPPY BIRFDAY. He's 27 today!
Although all these boys are quite good looking, mine is the hunk of love muscle with the Forearms Of Steel on the far left.
Happy Birthday, love.
On the phone with the LT, last night:
LT: "So, how was tutoring?"
Me: "Good. I told both of my girls that I'm taking you out for dinner tomorrow. K wishes you happy birthday, and C made you a card!"
LT: "SWEET! I have a new girlfriend!"
Me: "Honey, she's sixteen!"
LT: ...
LT: "...I mentioned the part about me being a sailor to you before, right?"
Me: "Very funny."
LT: "Hey, is she the one that also dislikes Napoleon Dynamite?"
Me: "NO."
LT: "Dammit."
Ah. Sunday evening, again. Still. Take Infinity. Etc.
Because the wonderful thing about life is that it Keeps Going. And although it is terribly bourgeosie to measure time in weekends and weeks, neither is it right to sneer at such an inclination just on principle. It's simple and stark, yes, and Terribly Routine, but it's only limiting if you find routine limiting. And that's the general post-modern idea, isn't it, that Routine is Terribly Limiting and should be Avoided At All Costs?
Well.
Let me tell you that at a time in my life in which I have moved, on average, every five months, and dated six different men, and not known which way was up half the time, being in love with my job some weeks and ready to give up the next, making plans to join the Peace Corps one week and deciding to become a teacher the next week and planning to move to Tahiti the week after (this last one is just wishful thinking), and starting and failing to finish a spanish class and starting and dropping out of a dance class and, and, and...
Well.
I am reveling in the routines I have left. I am reveling in going to work, Monday through Friday, because I know what I do there. And I am reveling in coming home and maybe pouring a glass of digestive (read: red wine) and kicking off my shoes and washing a few dishes and maybe starting a load of laundry and maybe settling into TV on DVD, because it is wonderful and relaxing and most importantly, routine.
Routine. My savior. Life CAN be measured in days, in Sundays, in Fridays, and I can see from this blog that I have begun to do this almost exclusively, as a way of passing the time, and I believe that I am doing this because my life IS so changeable, everywhere else, because the one thing I cannot change is my order of days. Monday always comes after Sunday, a weekend always follows a week, water always flows downhill, we will always have to pay taxes.
God Bless America.
This is the tenth day I have spent in my apartment without Titan, and I am beginning to whore myself out on the street so I don't have to sleep at home.
What's the point in going home, really? No dog to walk, feed, or love. At night, insomnia claims me. I sit up late, on my computer, eating Ramen and watching free streaming videos of 30Rock and Heroes. I could buy stuff online, but I don't have disposable income since I'm trying to save for a condo, and the whole ordeal hardly seems worth it.
For those who don't know, my apartment building decided, after some complaint calls, that they are not going to renew my lease because of Titan. They are not comfortable with having such a large dog in the building. They're probably right in their decision, and it's definitely my fault in this case--I should never have Titan off leash in an apartment building, ever again. I certainly won't in the future. But I learned this lesson too late to stay in the building, so...ta-da. I (we) have to be gone by November 2.
They didn't specifically say that Titan can't be in the building during this last month, but with him gone, I'm more flexible--I can head out to look at condos all hours of the day and night. Or at least I could, in theory. It sounds good, right? Suddenly getting a call from my real estate agent and being able to just leave without worrying if I've fed Titan or let him out recently, not having to take those extra twenty minutes, just being able to throw on a coat and shoes and go?
Sure. Like that happens. Like I said: with him gone, I have no direction, no need to stick to a routine. All I do bum around on the Hill.
In my head, that rhymed. Moving on.
BIG SHOUT OUT to my Building Superintendent, who hand-wrote me a super-long, super-nice letter about how much he had enjoyed having me as a tenant, how awesome I am, how much he adores Titan, and how sad he is to see me go. He states that he will write me a personal letter of recommendation and that he will be happy to help me restore the apartment to its virgin state. (I took off cabinet doors, for example.)
He totally rocks.
So, if you're heavily using benzoyl peroxide as spot medication, and on the bottle it says, "Warning: Causes increased sensitivity to sunlight", then you should read this warning carefully and commit it to memory. I sat out in the sun with my girl HH for lunch today, and...well. Had I simply covered my face with pink blush, I could have gotten the same effect and at least avoided the increased risk of skin cancer. GodDAMN I am pink.
Moving on.
Blogging Audience: Okay, you're a pink lobster, I get it, but why Chapter 13?
1. This VERY FRIDAY will be Friday the 13th.
2. I will soon be entering the equivalent of Chapter 11, because...
3. ...I'm considering buying a condo.
4. Which will be the start of a NEW CHAPTER in my life. Ha!
5. ...and I'm looking at possible condos, therefore starting this new chapter, ON FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH.
No, I'm not superstitious, and if you yourself are, please don't share your dire warnings with me, because I WILL start to believe them and then I'll light candles and then I'll get all crazy and the LT will refuse to have anything to do with me and it will ALL BE YOUR FAULT.
There's just a couple of problems.
1. I hugely, blatantly suck at picking out apartments. No, really. It's bad. My own mother is better at picking apartments than I am. And the thing about a condo is, if you screw up, you can't just end the lease.
2. OH MY GOD I'LL HAVE TO EAT RICE AND BEANS FOREVER.
3. Perhaps I can convince Titan to get a job?
4. Maybe I can sell his dog hair? You know, as wool?
So far, I haven't seen a single apartment except online, haven't gotten approved for a loan, and haven't a clue how much condo my preapproved amount will get me, but of course I already have my heart set on this one condo, have already moved my stuff in mentally, taken mental pictures from the balcony, and visualized my future trips to the dog park with Titan.
Um. Did I mention that I tend to get excited about a project and completely lose track of reality when I contemplate it?
Since I have no common sense whatsoever, I have asked for--and received--some Free Advice, listed below:
Mortgage Guy Says: You'll almost definitely be pre-approved for that amount.
Real Estate Agent says: Don't buy a condo without a washer/dryer hookup and a parking space!
Mom says: Go for it, honey!
LT says: Good, now we can be broke together!
T-Town says: Don't be afraid to compare the real estate market with another high-return investment.
Kiwi says: How will they feel about your monster? What if he starts to bark uncontrollably?
Mentor says: Stetch yourself when you buy so you can grow into your investment--get as much condo as you can.
Blogging Audience says: ? (This is you!)
Give me your Free Advice!
My mother does not like the previous post, now (maybe) temporarily hidden.
Phone call 1, at 7:06: “I read what you wrote on your blog and I’m concerned about it. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you—the hand that will eventually pay for your condo. Can you take some of it back, or something? It’s not good to have tales about your company on your blog.”
Phone Call 2, thirty minutes later: “I read what you wrote on your blog and I’m really concerned. It makes you look as bad as the people you’re advertising. Please do something.”
Three points:
1. Is what I have written on my blog incendiary, or specific, enough to get me in trouble? I’ve written tales about work before. And I thought about this post—a little—before I posted it. And I just re-read it, and I STILL don’t think I said anything wrong—the person in question truly is a fool.
2. Question: is this post bad news? I will send the original version to anyone who asks.
3. The real dilemma: It’s my BLOG. My WebLog. I keep it for me, not for others. It’s a funny story about a stupid person. I’m not always perfect, and I’m a good writer (and a modest one) so when I decide to skewer someone, I skewer them. It’s my BLOG. MY blog. The person in question doesn’t understand blogs or how to access them.
What to do, what to do? For the moment, I have yanked it. But I don't want to, just on principle! Free speech! Allow me to be mean and petty if I want! (Note: like I said, I read over the post just now, and I don't think it's mean--petty, but not mean.) On the other, no man is an island, and of course my mother doesn't want me to get fired, as it will definitely affect her, and her version of my happiness.
My version of my happiness involves getting my feelings out on my blog and respecting myself when I look in the mirror. If I get written up or fired, I'll sell my jeep, wait tables, and move to a smaller place. Whatever. I'm not dependent on this job for my self worth. It's just a JOB. Only in America do we define ourselves by what we DO for a SALARY--in Europe the idea is anathema! This is how the rat race chews people up and spits them out!
Ahem. So, I'm saying that I place more value on speaking my mind than I do keeping my job, and I'm very skeptical that such a moderate post would effect any sort of negative reactions anyway. And yet, to please my mother, I have yanked it for the time being.
Thoughts, audience? What would you do?
Which means that my cover of "writing" when what I'm really doing is "picking my nose while surfing the Vegan Freak boards" is blown. Dammit.
Hello, everyone! Welcome to Sunday Night at Chez Empty, now with MORE Target Wine!
Titan is at my grandmother's, you see. It's easier for him to stay there while I frantically travel, tutor, entertain the LT's father, and simultaneously look for a NEW place to live. My house is very empty. It's hard. I miss him. But I know he's happy there, and more important, my GRANDMOTHER just loves having him. She needs him more than I do, right now. I'm happy to help. (And, of course, I benefit by getting all this extra time!) (And less dog hair!!)
Still. I miss him.
Fortunately, I can fill that void by buying stuff, and what do I discover right as I decide I'm going to buy stuff?
The Perfect Store.
It's like they knew I was coming!
I am no longer sure what time it is or what day it is. I have a wake-up call set for 5 am tomorrow. That is 3 am Pacific Time. This I know.
I thought the airline had found my phone. Now I discover that they have not found it, and worse, someone ELSE has been using it. I called a very nice man at Verizon and he suspended my service. This I know.
I may not find my phone ever, but I have options until my free replacement comes around in February. This I know.
I am catching a shuttle to the airport tomorrow at 5:30 am. My flight leaves at 7:35 am. This I know.
When I get back to Seattle, I have to look for ANOTHER apartment, AGAIN. This I know.
I am now on the other side of tired, the kind of tired where you still function and go to business meetings and wow people, but where I can barely type. I have my plane and transportation to the airport and ride home from the airport set tomorrow, and my sleep doctor--I mean, my boyfriend--will be waiting. I can't wait.
This I know.
I have slept eight hours in three days. I have passed through three time zones, lost my apartment, bought a new battery for my phone, and then lost the phone.
I need to: find a new apartment, find my phone, go crazy, call my mother. I need a drink. I need a personal secretary. I need a condo. I need to run away and join a startup.
I need a personal dog walker. I need to sleep. I need to eat. I need to dance. I need more boots. I need a vacation.
So, I was blearily adding hot water to the dry oatmeal packet sitting forlornly in my Styrofoam bowl today, (The Secret Life of Glamour Girls In the Office! Film at Eleven!) when one of the standard, old, socially inept, ohmygodihavetotalktoagirl men that populate this office walked by. He moved aside and remarked, trying to be friendly, “You could eat better breakfast if you got up earlier!”
Sure. When pigs fly. Also, please kiss my ass.
