Blogging the Palin Acceptance Speech

On Sarah Palin’s speech:

Three minutes in and no stopping in the cheering. The RNC LOVES her.

“Time to put the country first, not time to campaign”: you mean, time to put OUR COUNTRY’S NEEDS FIRST, instead of CAMPAIGNING IN IRAQ? Where is the talk about health care, about the housing crisis?

Oh God, tugging at the heartstrings. Palin is hammering her family’s involvement in the military—and now she’s spent...um...five minutes...talking about her family. Um. Six minutes. Introduces all her daughters. Fox News swings right past Bristol to focus on the six-year-old, who is freakin’ adorable. Special time spent on her son with Down Syndrome. Palin sympathizes with all the parents of special needs kids, saying that she knows how hard the parents have worked to make this country welcoming for them.

Well, sure. Because your children are gifts from God, whereas gay children are just choosing to be gay to be difficult.

Special time spent on her husband. Mentions his union involvement.

Wow, ten minutes on her FAMILY!

Two minutes on her parents.

She praises the heartland: their people work hard, fight our wars, grow our food. I like that—I have the same respect for the heartland, although I know it doesn’t always show.

Emphasizes her hockey mom background. Doesn’t mention that she was also a BEAUTY QUEEN and is nothing like most of the women of this country.

Good joke delivery.

Starting to talk about her political background: started in PTA and moved up to Governor. With all due respect, that is HARD-CORE.

Mentions Obama’s infamous quote about guns and religion.

More slamming of the Washington elite.

I pledge to America to SERVE THIS COUNTRY. On a platter? With a ticket from the kitchen? How, exactly, will you serve the country? Where is your stance on the ISSUES?

Says how much she “stands up to the establishment”.

Doesn’t mention that she is queen of earmarks, supported the bridge to nowhere, etc.

Jeez, this lady is really good; she is funny! If she really got rid of the jet and the cook, I’m damn impressed.

Oh—NOW she mentions the bridge to nowhere. She mentions how she eventually vetoed it, obviously.

Talks a lot about her reform in Alaska...in very vague terms.

Talks a lot about the natural gas pipeline and how we MUST be energy-independent. Certainly my thoughts as well. But what we need is not more drilling, we need more ALTERNATIVES. Gas will run out. Really, it will.

This is good: she’s very into local production of energy. Me too.

A little Obama bashing, here.

Obama is about NOT producing energy??

TERRORISM TERRORISM TERRORISM TERRORISM OBAMA SOFT ON TERRORISM OBAMA SOFT TERRORISM TERRORISM

Palin: Trying to sympathize with “small-business owners”. I haven’t seen anyone in the RNC with a suit or haircut under $200. Of course, her rhetoric about factory workers in Minnesota received a great deal of applause from these manicured, pearl-wearing RNC attendees.

I’m a little uncomfortable with her painting John McCain as a Washington Maverick, an unknown, a man who bravely stands alone, a stranger in a strange land: ...seriously?

I like how she says “Chosen the right man” like the Republican party had any choice whatsoever.

OBAMA AND BIDEN SOFT ON TERROR. MCCAIN WAR HERO.

Bad hand gestures.

Who is the pearl-wearing blonde they keep showing? Is that Cindy McCain? Oh, no—looks like Giuliani’s wife.

IF OBAMA WINS WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE.

MCCAIN WAR HERO. MCCAIN WAR HERO.

WOW this is really boring.

MCCAIN WAR HERO.

In all seriousness, McCain really is a war hero, like you all need to be told. He is way, way hardcore. It would be morally wrong to remain unimpressed by him.

Oh My God, I am completely sickened by her trotting out her pregnant daughter and fiancé. If she doesn’t want people to talk about it, quit mentioning it. Are only YOU allowed to talk about it?

Can John McCain not raise his arms above his head? His waves look so stiff.

Wow, Palin’s effect on the audience has been pretty amazing!

MCCAIN even mentions her family. “Wow, aren’t they BEAUTIFUL!”

Their slogan: Country First. Damn. Darn. Whatever. For the first time I am really scared about Obama’s chances of winning this election.

In all honesty, I wasn't offended by her remarks on Obama. If he has a sense of humor he'll find them funny--I thought her remark about after Obama was done "parting the sea and curing the planet" was pretty clever. I fail to see the "bashing". Certainly nothing she said was worse than what Democrats say about McCain and Palin herself.

Keywords

First level: TEEN PREGNANCY REPUBLICAN
Second level: TEEN SEX PREGNANCY SEX REPUBLICAN ELECTION SEX TEEN GIRLS SEX

In all honesty, this story has been handled relatively delicately, I think. The words "Bristol Palin clearly had to have UNPROTECTED SEX for this to happen" haven't really been said.

But they sure should be. I'm annoyed at the way the Republican camp is treating this: Miss Palin's pregnancy "happened". It "occured". What is this, the Immaculate Failure of Abstinence-Only Education? Yeah, yeah, I get that there is this hands-off policy when it comes to the children of candidates, but this only serves to give more protection to a candidate's daughter than Mary Sue down-the-street would have. If I had gotten pregnant at seventeen, EVERYONE would have talked about it. Instead, we're not allowed to talk about it because Bristol Palin's mother happens to be the vice-presidential candidate? Really?

And what about her age? The young woman--emphasis on the woman--is seventeen. She's old enough to join the armed services. She's an adult, for all intents and purposes. The age of consent in Alaska is 16, and she is certainly over that. And on a related note, the phrase "teen pregnancy" really bothers me. Although I don't recommend the procedure, plenty of girls get married at 18 and get pregnant. Do their pregnancies count as teen pregnancies? No, of course not, because they're MARRIED.

Anyway.

Even with this hands-off policy in place, we--the public, and the reporters--should certainly be allowed to make Miss Palin's unplanned, out-of-wedlock, teen pregnancy an issue. Much like famously anti-gay-rights Republicans who have been discovered in sleazy hotel rooms with their same-sex hookers and sandy piles of meth, the Republican party's very emphasis on "family values" makes this story actual news and not titillating gossip about teen girls and sex. Miss Palin has decided to carry the baby to term, fine, and she is marrying the father. If she was Mary Sue Down-the-street, she might have decided to have an abortion--she doesn't need her mom's consent in Alaska. But of course, since she is the daughter of a strongly pro-life Republican Vice-Presidential Candidate, she can't possibly get one. Her life has been decided for her. A theme with her, since I'm sure she was given zero options about how to prevent herself from getting pregnant, either, except for abstinence, and between a randy boyfriend and abstinence, guess who won?

More information:

Palin Rebuts Rumors

Palin's Daughter's Pregnancy Stirs Strong Emotions

A Private Matter

A Story Palin Should Tell (I was especially surprised at the ignorance and hatred mentioned in this one.)

A Typical Middle-Class Struggle (Except that the Palin's aren't so middle-class, certainly not the middle-class that I think of. Not the two-car, small house in a small-town middle class. They have resources. Mary Sue Down-the-street--who is quickly becoming my best friend--wouldn't have near as many resources to raise this extra mouth to feed. It's sure nice of this blogger to graciously include REAL middle-classers in the "struggles" of the Palins, though.)

The Palin Pregnancy and the Party Platform.

Odds and Ends

On Eating Your Words Off Paper Plates

A week ago, I had my friend Brandy over for dinner, not for any special reason, just so that the two of us could hang out and catch up without spending money at a fancy restaurant. I was making spinach and arugula polenta with a sun-dried tomato puree, and I was trying to use my old and stubborn blender, and I couldn't find the lid.

"Just put a paper plate over it," Brandy suggested.

My eyebrows almost flew off my head in horror. "Excuse me," I said, snottily. "There's no paper plates in THIS house. Do you even KNOW how WASTEFUL they are?"

Brandy, appropriately chastened: "Oh. I just suggested it because there are some paper plates right there on that shelf." She pointed.

I spun around, and sure enough, there were paper plates. Whoops. "My mother must have brought those when I moved in a year and a half ago," I mumbled.

Brandy, because she is a sweetheart and a half, didn't give me the hard time I so deserved, which made my crow-pie all that much harder to choke down.

Lessons at Goodwill

In the same way that everyone should spend some time at Farmers' Markets, everyone should, at some point, spend some time at a Goodwill. Not only for the bargains, but for the visual reminder that everything you are buying new now will be junk in a year, and barely worth the shelf space it takes up. I got three books for 2.26, and this amount makes me ashamed to admit how many books I have purchased full-price in airport bookstores to entertain myself for a mere three hours, only to never read said book again. Ugh.

One of My Favorite Things:

People who can make fun of themselves, and do it well, without giving you the impression that they're fishing for compliments.

Case in Point: My girls and I went out in honor of one of our friends, who has recently announced her pregnancy. (Yes, instead of throwing her a baby shower, we went out in her honor...without her. Hey, she's in Melbourne!)

We went out in Capitol Hill, because more of us live there or are familiar with there than anywhere else, and because said Girl Of Honor lived there, and I invited two of my friends from West Seattle who hardly ever go out in Capitol Hill. They were both a little surprised by the rag-tag punk element, which I don't notice anymore. (As Molly said: "Oh yeah, I saw tons of punks where I grew up...in the suburbs.") I shared a few of my tips: "Don't show fear, don't make prolonged eye contact with the homeless. Remember, the punks are going out to have a good time, just like you, even if they all have dyed black hair and piercings."

Molly, especially, took this advice to heart. As long as I live, I will never forget the sight of her throwing up horns at the Comet Tavern, screaming, "This pink cardigan I'm wearing is SO HARDCORE!"

How Not to Make Zucchini Patties

Decide it will be easier to smash your own breadcrumbs instead of dragging out the food processor, since it can be difficult to clean. Also decide it will be easier to grate your own zucchini--on a grater--than it would be to throw it in the food processor. End up using about fifteen different bowls in the process. Fail miserably at smashing dry bread, and toss out bread. Find crackers from Japan--three months ago--and smash those instead. Take about five hours to smash up crackers, sweat pouring down your face. Grate zucchini, spraying bits of zucchini and water all over the kitchen--seriously, it ended up on my walls--and stop and wipe out the grater about every five minutes. Let zucchini sit to allow water to drain.

Make jalapeno poppers in the meantime, for breakfast.

Having now taken ten hours to grate zucchini and smash breadcrumbs, grate your parmesan cheese, chop your onions and garlic, mix everything together. Go ahead and add two eggs without waiting to mix after the first egg so that your zucchini cake mix ends up too gooey. Fry zucchini cake mixture poorly--make sure you achieve just the right balance of cooking time so that your cakes turn out burnt and still don't hold together. Look up after three hours of kitchen torture and realize it's raining. Realize you have spent the hottest part of the day cooking instead of riding your motorcycle. Realize it will now rain for the rest of the day--when you COULD have been cooking--so that you CAN'T ride your motorcycle. Burst into tears. Eat your zucchini cakes.

How was everyone else's Sunday?

Also: More Difficult Than I Thought

Trying to get into a dance club with a big purse...that has empty baggies inside. Fortunately, I managed to convince the huge bouncers of the truth: they're doggie bags, dawg.

Excavation, or, A Month In The Life

My wallet--which I finally replaced with a new one from The Rack, one of my favorite stores in the world--has reached maximum size, and so it is time to excavate all the receipts and cards and matchbooks and what-have-you that I receive from the ether and stuff in there. I love doing this, I get such an interesting picture of my life. There is no other reason to keep receipts--I don't record them, although that's always what I think I'm going to do--but it's such a kick to read them back.

Four Weeks Ago: St. Louis! "Bobby" showed me the time of my life, I barely slept. My receipt from El Maguey in the Loop marks the consumption of some excellent Mexican food for the grand total of 8.60 with tip. I loved St. Louis, it reminded me a lot of Pittsburgh. And so cheap.

Two Weeks Ago: South Lake Union Block Party! Unlike Capitol Hill, which is now so far from its hippie roots that they charge to even LOOK at a bar, it's free and you can bring your dog, and it's not full of snarling teenagers with trust funds. Shout-outs to Calsee and Sarah, who loaned me various pieces of clothing as I had only brought Titan to keep me warm, and to Dan and Nina, who demonstrated their ability to leave the Eastside and fulfill their roles as downtown hipsters. That night I also learned that Whole Foods sells wine and beer ON TAP, for relatively cheap--four-dollar wine pours--and that walking up Denny Hill all the way from SLU to Capitol Hill gains you 203 vertical feet in a mile. And then we collected Randy and went to Peso's. The next day I had a 14-hour bachelorette party that started at 11 am. It was a long damn weekend--about 5 pm I had to wuss out and take a disco nap. Later on I got to see the cabaret show at the Can-Can--everyone go, immediately, and say hi to my friend Benihana--and the bachelorette group attracted so much attention that we ended up on at least three tourist cameras.

Last Week: My receipts say that after I saw Sydney get married, I ran into half a dozen people that I know at Linda's, went dancing at the War Room, went to Boom Noodle, met friends of friends who were on their way to Beijing to see their cousin compete in the synchronized swimming even, went to the beach with Calsee, had a great time at the Chinatown Night Market, and tried Congee for the first time.

Other Things of Note: Gift receipt from a baby shower gift, about five million Century Ballroom receipts.

Yes. So.

In Which I Start to Talk About Japan

I have already talked a little about Japan; for previous summary posts, try First Japan Post, Second Japan Post, Third Japan Post, Fourth Japan Post, Fifth Japan Post, or Japan Summary Post.

Anyway. Once more, with details!

At the start of my trip, I flew into Tokyo on my own--the Js wouldn't arrive until Saturday--and I was deathly ill, an experience I never want to repeat. I had read several guide books telling me how polite the Japanese were and how I needed to cover my mouth when I coughed and you CANNOT blow your nose in public, but not one guide book addressed the problem of what to do when you break out into a coughing fit in a crowded subway and it's either blow your nose or drip onto your seat, and your mucus is bright green because it's so infected. Shockingly.

I survived the whole way from the airport to the neighborhood I was staying in, Ikebukuro, and I couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. I was really, really sick. I don't remember which line I took from the airport--I think it was private, i.e., not one of the main lines that services the Tokyo area. If this sounds confusing, it is. Tokyo's subway system is not centralized; it's a mishmash of about three or four different companies, but they do at least attempt to work together. After several mistrials, the Js and I found that the best thing to do was to buy a low-fare ticket--making sure it's for the correct company--and then go through with our whole trip, possibly changing Metro companies without knowing it, and then, attempting to exit the subway station. If our ticket was accepted, we got to go; if the machine spit it back at you, you could take it to a machine and add a little more on, the surcharge for switching companies or the extra distance or whatever. It was easier to do it this way than try to predict how much we'd need or if we'd cross subway lines.

However, at this juncture, I was all by myself and got to struggle, which was fine--this was part of the reason I'd flown in early in the first place. I wanted to get a few days by myself. I arrived in Ikebukuro and, after wandering around for a few minutes in the dark with all my luggage, broke down and took a taxi. Ikebukuro isn't popular the way Ginza is, but it's still very crowded and I was surrounded by crowds of young Japanese laughing, talking, smoking, and I was very aware of how nerdy and out of place I looked and I just wanted to get to the hotel. My ryokan, the Kimi Ryokan, was very close to the station and I got right in and encountered my first problem: for reasons known only to the universe, I had had serious debit card issues right before I left for Japan. I had lost one and the other expired, or something, so I get to Japan and I have no way to get any more cash, all my money is in the account that I can't access because I have no PIN number, and I have $300 from traveler's checks to last me until Blog Knows When, and all the guide books I read told me in no uncertain terms that Japan is a cash-based country and NOWHERE takes credit cards. I was so worried I would do the wrong thing that I accepted my guide books as gospel, and it didn't even occur to me that places like Starbucks would definitely take my credit cards until the Js arrived and laughed at me, carrying my wad of cash around.

Anyway.

In spite of my misplaced fear about cash, my ryokan was one of the few that would NOT take credit cards, and I didn't have enough cash on me for more than a few nights--and I was staying five, and I had to eat some time--and so I had to tell the front-desk guy that I would pay just as soon as I could, really. He was nice about it --for the moment. I was shown to my room--no key cards, everything is done with real keys and locks--and I almost cried with relief, it was perfect. I highly recommend the Kimi Ryokan. It is very small and basic, but very clean and very lovely, with gorgeous dark wood everywhere. I got a real Japanese bath, struck out for some food, and crashed into bed.

The next morning I woke up at 3:30 with a coughing fit and figured, while I was up, I might as well get up and sight-see, which I did.

One of the reasons I've postponed getting my pictures up for so long is because I had the devil of a time trying to figure out how I was going to juggle so many formats. Finally I figured that I would write posts, like this, and divide my pictures on Google Picasa accordingly into photo albums with notes, and I would embed the photo album for each post, like below:

Flying Into Tokyo!

Does this work? Comments, questions?

Melting

It is hot as the dickens here. It's supposed to be 89 today and 90 tomorrow, and I realize this doesn't seem hot to some folks--some poor, misguided folks who live in, say, LA--but now imagine 89 degrees and NO AIR CONDITIONING.

Yes, that's right, folks. We here in the PNW do not normally need air conditioning, and so we do not have it. A lot of STORES don't even have it. I mean, Target certainly does, but my gas station on the corner does not. Just as a for-instance.

Titan is lollygagging on the floor, tongue hanging out, although he is not too hot to occasionally stir his stumps, walk out to the computer, and look at me pathetically. Also, he is trying to get me to take his cooling vest off, which he hates but I actually think works. I haven't eaten anything that can't be cooked in a microwave or served cold in days, except for coffee. I have my one pathetic fan on and the sweat is dripping down my face. And my friends Sydney and Matt are getting married, OUTSIDE, at FIVE PM, on one of the hottest days of the year. I had a nightmare last night that I missed the wedding, that I was taking swimming lessons while the wedding was happening, and I was secretly happy because I knew I was cooler than the people at the wedding were.

Help! Send me AC.

Family Talk

Hello, I am buying a motorcycle--in fact, I have already bought it--and up until Tuesday I had only told people under 40, and more importantly, people that were not related to me, that I was doing such a thing. And I have received uncensored acclaim.

I told my mother on Tuesday, and she was very upset about it, as I had predicted she would be, but she tried as hard as she could to remain polite and civil about it. She didn't say anything nasty, like, "Your desire for attention sickens me".

But when my uncle called me today it was a little more of a shock. My uncle is a funny, sarcastic, intelligent man; I dig every second I spend with him, and I especially dig his partner, a lovely and extremely talented graphic designer. Both she and my uncle laugh at my jokes and get me good books for Christmas presents, which is about all I need to like people. However, they are relatively private people, and my uncle especially is not given to large displays of affection. I was especially not expecting him to make a rare phone call to say to me, "I hear you have bought a motorcycle, and I disapprove."

Being my uncle, he said it much more creatively than that--he said, "I called so that you and I could put on a skit in which I play the old fuddy-duddy, and you play the rebellious teenager, and I can tell you what I really think about you buying this motorcycle, and you can respond by rolling your eyes and not taking my good advice." But the fact remained that he disapproved, that he was worried about me, and wished I wouldn't. The irony here, of course, is that my uncle is no fuddy-duddy--he's a modern man who feels no need to control the youth. He has never called me to say such a thing before, ever, not in 27 years of my life, and I knew he called me out of true concern for my well-being and that it took effort for him to make such a call, and he took that effort because it was so important to him. I can't just brush this off. Because of that I am now much more conflicted about this purchase than I was just a few days ago, although of course I'm still going to buy it--it's a great bike, it's a great deal, and I'm already committed.

My father hasn't yet called to do this same thing, although I expect it any day. It's particularly frustrating because both he and my uncle, although related only through my mother, owned motorcycles, and my grandfather--my mother's father--owned a motorcycle, and put me on it when I was very young. And I have ridden around on the back of the LT's motorcycle for almost a year. Never have motorcycles or the safety of motorcycles seemed to be a conversation topic of high importance in my family. I never heard a WORD about motorcycles until this week, in fact. And now that I am buying one, oh my Blog, the world, it is ending. I do not understand.

Much, Much, Lighter, and There Is Pepperjack!

I was in near hysterics reading this post from WideLawns. I can hear myself saying all week, in my head,

"You have heard about this? The bread with banana?"

Revisionist History

I was just reading my post about Wall-E and how I cried throughout the entire movie, and I can tell you all now that it is, indeed, a very good movie, but perhaps not as touching as I found it right then. I was incredibly sad on a daily basis, already; I was watching my relationship shudder and jerk its way to a halt, and Wall-E is about robot love, about a robot who falls in love with the human race--and then another robot--and has so much love to share that he gets humans to become human again.

Perhaps saying that my relationship was shuddering and jerking to a halt is too harsh. I certainly felt very neglected, but perhaps I didn't know how to ask for what I wanted. Then again, I wasn't sure the LT would have dropped a pail of water on me if I had caught fire, so I figured that asking for more attention would be a waste of time. And besides--even if I had been sure of a welcome reception--it is so humiliating to ask for more attention, like Esther at the tip of King Xerxes sceptre. What are you supposed to say? "I want you to look happy when you see me"? "It has been a month since you've told me I was good looking, a compliment I get daily from strangers, and it would mean so much more coming from you, it would be like a glass of water on a hot day, PLEASE tell me you think I'm pretty. Please, otherwise, I might die."

And you DO die, lying in bed looking at someone's back, little bit by little bit, starved for attention, crying yourself to sleep softly because he might hear and you don't want to say how needy you've become, jumping at his every word, trying to make him happy, so that he might smile at you again and give you some hope that he still likes you. You don't want to admit that his opinion means more to you than anything, and that not hearing it kills you.

And after awhile, being unwilling to say how much you've been starved and are still starving, you just...give up. You decide, if he doesn't think I'm really that great, I can at least take up a hobby, something where I might be around men who will have some reason to touch me, and so you take up dancing, and you enjoy yourself and it's a lot better than going to bed early to lie silently next to someone who ignores you, and so it begins to take up more of your life until your boyfriend starts to get mad that you're spending so much time not with him, and so maybe he becomes even more critical and then the whole relationship spirals downward in a matter of months.

So. That's what happened.

YouTube Is My New Boyfriend

I just discovered a seriously wonderful use for YouTube: Monty Python sketches!!!

I don't know why it didn't occur to me before that YouTube would host so many. I've found hundreds of scenes from movies, after all. Monty Python sketches would fit neatly into that category. And yet I just discovered it, thanks to this post in Slog.

So as to add to the fun, here are two of my favorite written comic sketches in the world. Not that there aren't sketches that are just as funny, but I fell in love with both of these seeing them performed by my friends, so they have a special value for me. As a special bonus, they require no props whatsoever--it's just two people talking. Undeniably brilliant.

Lighter

I just spent a whole ten minutes of my life--okay, maybe five--looking for this commercial, which struck such a chord in me when I saw it that I still remember it, even though I only saw it once.

And I thought you all should share in my joy.

Bad Advice

Did everyone know that I had a brief job writing for an online magazine called "Pretty Witty"? I did. It was very, very brief, both the job and the site. But it gave me a chance to write a real column--which Editor Extraordinaire Anna tells me is supposed to have a beginning, middle, and end, unlike my posts--and throw around a lot of snotty comments about "my editor". The column I came up with--the idea that got me the job--was called Susie Homewrecker, meant to be a parody of an advice column in which the advice columnist only gives really terrible advice. My editors at the time loved it and gave me the job, and I wrote four whole columns before the entire thing folded.

Anyway.

It's times like this, when I'm on my own again and can be just as bad as I want to be without hurting anyone, that my mind goes back to that column. I am doing everything you are not supposed to do. I am staying out late, I am dancing, I am barely eating--and when I am eating, I am eating cheese and that is it--and probably I scarcely need say that I've stepped up my alcohol consumption. Not the kind of drinking in which you tell the bartender just to leave the bottle at the table, but the kind of drinking in which you purposely slow your consumption rate so you can go for the burn. (Don't worry, Mother--soon I'll get fat and have to slow down.) You COULD, of course, describe this behavior as "staying away from ice cream and getting regular exercise", which is absolutely true. Or you could describe it as, "hanging out in bars and sometimes eating", also absolutely true. It just depends on your perspective. (Hey, a lot of salsa dancing takes place at bars, okay?)

Anyway.

Because of this, I have lost a little weight--all the alcohol hasn't caught up quite yet--and when I mentioned this to a friend, she demanded of me, "WHAT have you been DOING? Whatever is, tell me your secret."

And I said, "Um...I broke up with my boyfriend and have been subsisting on brie and sparks, and I've gone dancing seven hours a week." You see? Terrible advice.

Shocking

I have been SO long without blogging that I had to re-enter my password! That is NOT okay! What have I been DOING what my time?

Well, giving rides to strangers, for one thing. I was driving around late at night on Thursday, after giving rides home to R and A (hi guys!) and as I was driving down Mercer, I saw a girl on the side of the road, walking home. Nothing particularly unusual about it, except something about her movement caught my eye. I thought she was disabled at first, and then I realized...no. She was really that drunk. I quickly thought about my options. She looked about my age, maybe younger, and she seemed harmless. And I would have felt terrible about just driving by. I made a quick U-turn and pulled up beside her.

I rolled down my window. "Hon, are you going to make it home?"

"Idonkno," she said. I nodded.

"Get in, I'll give you a ride home."

"Imna'far," she said. "Jus' the nex' corner."

I understood. "You don't know me, and you don't HAVE to get in the car. But if you want a ride, you can have one."

She climbed in the car so quickly I thought maybe invisible bad guys were after her. "Than' you SO much," she slurred, and sure enough, she wasn't far--maybe another ten blocks. I dropped her off and she told me I was her best friend.

"Hon," I said, laughing, "you aren't going to remember this in the morning, but thanks. People have done me a good turn or two myself, so pass this on when you get a chance."

So. My good deed for the week.

Also, and there is no casual way to say this, the LT and I are no longer together. It seems like we might be able to salvage a friendship--even a good friendship--so that's good, at least.

Ode to My Stylist

It seems ridiculous that I have been with my hairstylist long enough to be a "special" customer, but it's the truth. I was with her when I was Young, Broke, and Barely Legal--I got my second real haircut in T-Town from her--and as I matured into Old, Rich, and Upstanding Citizen, she got her own salon and took me with her as her customer, and then she got a bunch of other services at her salon and she and the aesthetician took me under their collective wing and made me the relatively well-turned-out girl I am today. She was the one who cut off my hair when I donated it; she was the one who convinced me to color it, she is the one whom, now, yells at me to get my highlights touched up more frequently and get in and see Jamie, the aesthetician. (She and Jamie are big believers in tough love, which I need.)

One fine Saturday morning I arrived at the salon maybe, slightly, hungover. Okay, let's rephrase. I was so hungover that a lit match around me would have burned blue--that much leftover alcohol was wafting from my skin. Tyson--my stylist--spent about five minutes with me before bringing me a juicebox. "Here," she said. "Drink this before you pass out."

A little while later Jamie came in and Tyson called to her. "You would not BELIEVE how hungover Aarwenn is," she chortled. "Come and yell at her."

I rolled my eyes. Jamie appeared, stroking my hair and sniffing. "Have we FED her?" she asked Tyson. Tyson rolled her eyes in return. "I gave her a juicebox," she said, with the air of washing her hands of the whole event. "And I wouldn't let her have coffee." Right after my cut and color, I went to meet with Jamie, who poked and prodded at my skin. "You see all these little bumps?" she said. "This is all the toxins you've been pouring into yourself coming out through your skin. This is PARTY skin."

"I know," I murmured, "and I've worked damn hard for it." She smacked me on the back of the head. "Well, now you get to pay for it," she said, and got out her extraction tools. (Note to the uninitiated: extraction of blackheads HURTS.)

I absolutely love them, all the women at that shop, and I love them more because of our different worlds. The salon is all women, and of course my daily environment is all men. I know nothing about beauty, and they know nothing about technology--of any kind--which means that sometimes my arrival at the salon is hailed by cries of delight. "Thank GOD you're here," Tyson will say, pulling me back into the break room. (A sign of true privilege.) "Our computer won't do so-and-so. Can you fix it?"

"Of COURSE I can fix it," I like to say with haughty grandeur, and I haven't been wrong yet. The littlest things amaze them--how fast I type, keyboard shortcuts, Alt-Tab, the fact that I know what a "cookie" is, and not the chocolate chip kind. We're learning from each other, even. At first I was worried that the flow of knowledge was going all one way, that my skin and hair were looking better and better but I hadn't contributed much beyond my IT services. I love the challenge of trying to break down what I do for the layperson, but I wasn't sure it was having any affect until Tyson said to me, with pride,

"Hey, you know how you were telling me what 'nano' was? We had a hella fancy shampoo company in here last week giving us their sales pitch, and they were going on and on about nano-this and nano-that and finally I raised my hand and said, 'Doesn't "nano" just mean "small"? I mean, seriously?'

I laughed. "Good for you! Did that send her down a peg or two?"

"OH my god, it was like I had kicked her puppy," Tyson said, pinning my hair up. "The entire sales pitch was based on how cool this 'nano' was, and they were going on and on about surface area and all kinds of technical jargon, and I just said, 'But doesn't it just mean "really small"'?"

"It does, and it ALSO has to do with surface area versus volume," I said, and, unable to let an opportunity for education go by, gave her the Reeses Cup Analogy. (Later post.) She listened attentively, but even if she hadn't, it didn't matter. I'm bringing nanotechnology understanding to the masses! Hooray!

And I have pretty hair, also Hooray.

The Need to Ball

No, not the need to bawl. The need to ball. The need to floss. To flash your bling. Okay, people over 35: The need to...oh, heck, I don't even know the older slang words...the need to flash your wad? Ah, I got it! The need to show off by the use of fancy toys.

It's a little long.

Anyway. Sorry I haven't been blogging much. I've had a lot on my mind, and while sometimes it's good to blog about that kind of stuff, sometimes it's not. I've been working on losing weight again--down eight pounds!--and working on saving money. I've been contemplating simplicity versus stuff. I've been drooling over my friend Sarah's apartment, which is a perfect little studio with the CUTEST kitchen and bathroom ever. (It makes my place look too large and overdone.) I've been obsessing over Mint.com, which has a bunch of new and amazing features, including a graph that shows how much money you've spent versus earned in the past six months, and if the numbers are right, all I can say is: No wonder I'm carrying a balance on my credit cards. Wow. My new plan is to visit Mint six times a day, hoping that the very act of doing so will prevent me from spending money, which will in turn hopefully swing the balance of earned vs. spent back to black. (However, in spite of all my other faults, my net worth is not too bad. My 401(k) balance exceeds my car loan and credit card debt, so disregarding my student loans, my net worth is positive! Um. If that even counts.)

It's so interesting, this need to floss. I COULD, of course, take the bus to work, and walk up the stairs, and drink tea, but I sure feel a lot spiffier driving my Jeep right up to the door of my work, getting a VIP parking spot in the shade, walking four steps, riding the elevator up to the fourth floor, taking a sip from my Starbucks mug and drawling to my personal assistant while raising my massive sunglasses, "Anything important, darlin'?"

Perhaps my imagination ran away with me on the last part, but that doesn't negate the ease and spiffiness of driving and elevating rather than walking and stair-climbing. Sadly, it's never cool to arrive somewhere out of breath and rushed. (Busy, self-absorbed, and on the phone, though, is still totally cool. Totes.)

The POINT is, I was recently talking to a grad-school friend, who told me that in waiting tables he had earned more than enough money for the whole summer and couldn't decide if he should keep working or quit and devote more time to his side projects. "Uh huh," I said thoughtfully, doing some fast mental arithmetic. Let's see, call it $150 per shift including hourly wage and tips, he's worked about ten shifts...okay, so $1500. We'll call it $2000 to be generous. Sure, that's a lot of money. And then I looked at Mint again and realized that I spent, on average, $4200 a month. (And no, I don't actually make that much, hence my problem.)

What happened to my days of subsisting on $500 a month? That summer in which I lived at my sorority for $300 for the entire summer, waited tables and participated in a few medical experiments, and had more money than I knew what to do with? Times were certainly tight, or could be, but the cash flow of tips makes up for a lot of budgeting ills. There was always more money. And there was always food, at the restaurant. A human's needs are actually very basic: food, shelter, transportation. (We'll take for granted that said human lives in a city and has access to clean water--this is basic living, not post-apocalypse living.) Once you've paid for the roof over your head and you have a place to get food, the rest of your money--which exists mainly to ensure your food and shelter in the future--should be excess, right? It seemed so, at that time. I imagined what would happen if at some point in the future I got a real job. I might make $50,000 a year, I thought. I would never want for anything ever again.

HA. That is not what happened. Instead, my needs expanded to fit my income. Suddenly I had a LOT of needs. I needed a car--and not a used one, a brand new one, and then I needed insurance and gas, and then I needed to drive fast, so I needed speeding tickets and higher insurance rates. I needed a nice apartment. I needed a lot of nice apartments because I chose poorly the first time, so I needed to spend a lot of gas driving back and forth between various apartment locations. Let's not forget that I needed to fill up those apartment with nice furniture. I needed new work clothes, and I needed (NEEDED) new work shoes. I needed high speed internet and cable TV, and then I needed to rent movies, and then I needed a Netflix account. I needed a better cell phone package. I needed to be online everywhere, so I needed a year-long contract with AT&T Wireless at Starbucks PLUS my home high-speed bill. Instead of drinking at dive bars where pitchers were 11 bucks, and that was all we got, I needed to go to fancier places with my new yuppie friends and order martinis.

Good LORD did I need a lot of things.

I thought that once I got a real job I had to change lifestyles--from the Young, Broke, and Barely Legal to the Old, Rich, and Upstanding Citizen. And I thought the Upstanding Citizen NEEDED all that stuff.

I was wrong, obviously. Completely wrong. I didn't need an apartment; I could have lived in a RV if I wanted. I could have even lived in a van, bought a $25/month gym membership at Boeing, and showered in the gym locker rooms. If I decided to get an apartment I could have gotten a studio. If I had chosen to get a one-bedroom I didn't need to fill it with furniture. Even after I got my work computer, I could have gone to a library all day and used their free wireless connection instead of buying one for myself at home. (I won't even mention how little I actually needed the one at Starbucks.) No one actually needs cable TV. And NO ONE needs MARTINIS at ten dollars a drink.

I'm getting on towards four years into my Old, Rich, and Upstanding Citizen lifestyle, and in some ways, I'm cutting back. I'm replacing martinis with beer and drinking fewer beers. I just cut my cable TV. (Need my internet, though.) (Yeah, sure I do.) I finally settled where I was going to live and I've lived there for more than a year, going on two. I carpool to work and take the bus where I can. I haven't gotten a speeding ticket recently and my insurance has gone down. I switched my bank account (FINALLY) so I no longer pay overdraft fees. Little steps.

But it's not really about that, because as soon as I freed up some money I found an amazing lingerie store and went to Japan and redid my apartment, putting me back in the hole. It's about reminding myself that the only thing I HAVE to do every day is shower, put on clean, presentable clothes, and go to work. I don't NEED anything beyond food for myself and Titan. I don't NEED Starbucks or to go out to lunch and I don't NEED to buy a cart full of groceries every time I'm at the store. I don't even need any more work clothes and I certainly don't need any more shoes. I can try to floss all I want to, but at the end of the day, Titan isn't impressed anyway and I'm home by myself bemoaning my credit card debt. Nothing flossy about that.

Movie Reviews

Everyone go see Wall-E immediately, IMMEDIATELY, seriously, drop what you're doing. It is really that good. Warning for sensitive people: BRING KLEENEX. I bawled through at least three quarters of the movie, often while laughing hysterically at the same time.

However, there is absolutely no rush to go see Wanted, and in fact, you could easily go without ever seeing it. You could watch Domino or Gone in 60 Seconds and have the same effect. Better yet, you could make a screensaver with shots of Ferraris, Angelina Jolie, and shiny guns, interspersed with screen-caps from The Matrix, and you would have the entire movie. Oh, and maybe a shot or two from Fight Club. Having said that, I enjoyed it, because I like all those things--Ferraris, The Matrix, etc--and getting them all together in one movie wasn't bad. Still. Not a work of art for the ages.

Overwhelmed by My Obligations

I have barely started on Japan pictures, I went camping last weekend and I have several good pictures from that, I did mostly nothing this weekend because I was down with strep throat, but I did see the fireworks. And so on. Blech.

Wednesday Links

Hey, I may not have anything interesting to say, but the internet probably does.

Some really good things from Slate today:

A Slate author lives for a day on a gas rig.

Can breast motion be harnessed to run, say, an iPod? This would be awesome!

Things To Read If Bored

This lady made a New Year's Resolution to use her crock pot every single day in 2008, and the resulting blog is funny, useful, and delightful. Meet The Crockpot Lady.

And if you grew up by an ocean, were fed raw seafood from an early age, and are slightly obsessed by all things briny, then you'll love this blog as much as I do: The Hama Hama Oyster Blog. Seriously awesome.

Note: do not apply these two blogs at the same time. Oysters are best enjoyed raw, seared, or broiled, or possibly grilled. I'm not sure they would be very good cooked on low for 6-8 hours.

Salsa Lessons Have Started!

The LT and I have started our Salsa Lessons; one down, four to go. We are still speaking to each other! Hooray!

And we learned things about each other--and ourselves--right away. I am apparently a very stiff follow compared to all the other girls, which I knew, but is still embarrassing--and necessary--to hear. And I introduced the LT to a Salsa Friend, who I then asked to dance, who joked that he was worried that the LT was going to beat him up. The LT was surprised, but I wasn't--I don't think he realizes how intimidating he can be, and how much he subconsciously calls out physical insecurities in others, although it's not his fault at all, poor guy. (Really, he's a sweetheart. Most of the time.) Dancing is so physical; it's hard to lie about yourself or others. I realized after a few rotations that I must be intimidating the hell out of my leads, because they kept backing away from me until they were stepping off the edge of the dance floor, and even then none of them tried to push me forward or even suggested that I might want to take a few steps backward. Next time, I'll write it on the insides of my eyelids: SOFTEN UP, you tense disaster. The world will not end if you don't get this move perfectly, but what WILL happen is that leads will start to avoid you, so soften up, already!

Either that or I hadn't worn enough deodorant. Hey, I report, you decide!

Poor Man's Twitter

Sunday Night

Titan is throwing up and I'm annoyed about everything.

No, Titan throwing up isn't anything serious. He drank a lot of lake water today and then got into chocolate, which is MY fault, sadly. I managed to get him outside for some of the ill effects (the ickier ones) but NOT in time to prevent him from throwing up half the pond in my living room. He's asleep in his bed now, a good sign.

Reflection on Monday Morning

LT and I did a smorgasboard for dinner--I just pulled out all the leftovers from all the fancy meals out I've been eating lately, and there have been a lot, between the anniversary dinner and sandwiches on the road--and it would have been yummy, had I had my salad ready and Titan hadn't decided to be sick. It amazed me, since I was already annoyed, how much the LT sitting at my computer while I got dinner ready bothered me. This is a long issue: I like to be entertained while I'm doing things, and the LT likes to leave me alone, hoping whatever task I'm performing will be done quicker with fewer distractions. I yearn to be watched while I put make up on, and chatted to while cooking. I actually don't multitask well, but light background conversation with just the LT isn't much of a drain on the mental resources, although of course I hang on every word of the LT's. (Hi, baby!)

Therefore, one of the reasons I was happy, on Sunday afternoon, to happen upon the smorgasboard method of dinner was that I thought my prep time would be nil, so the LT and I could hang out in the kitchen for at least a few minutes, but then I wanted to make salad and the LT immediately escaped to my computer to read about a plane we had seen that day, because he was curious, and then he tried to show me, and I've never cared much about classic planes and I've never cared less about them than I did tonight, with a sick dog and a strong case of annoyance going on already. SIGH.

The Rise of the Geeky Girl and Reactionary Men Who Should Be Sterilized

Or, Gender, Gender Issues, Power, and Powerlessness.

Welcome to Thursday. Let's get right down to it, shall we?

I'm not sure who has seen this article already--I know that my own mother had to bring it to my attention: Geek Girls: Revenge of the Nerdettes. Go ahead and read it, I'll wait.

Done? Good. This article is characteristic of the worst parts of Newsweek's "fluff" reporting, which is too bad because it allows really stupid people to take shots at the badly written article and then use those shots to try to smear the Nerd Girls. Although I should have expected that kind of slant from a site named Men's Activism.com: Reaction to Newsweek Article.

I especially like how the post and subsequent comments react to statements not even in the actual article or video, such as claims that the women in question are blaming popular culture or complaining that 'guys' can't tolerate a strong woman. Huge projection issues, anyone?

I shouldn't get so upset--I have no idea how many readers MensActivism.com has per week, and three comments to a post doesn't signify widespread beliefs, thank BLOG. It just burns me. It burns me like anonymous commenters saying Jennifer Love Hewitt is fat, it burns me like gross, paunchy men twice my age leering at me, it burns me like a recent comment from a homeless man about the supposed "girliness" of the LT's bike. (The LT's sport motorcycle is yellow. Not as manly as, say, a black Harley, perhaps, but no one sane, under any circumstances, would consider his monster of a bike not manly.)

I'm trying to find a common theme here. What, specifically, burns me about these encounters? Is it simply a question of reality? For example, Jennifer Love Hewitt is not fat. Under any circumstances. She may not be perfectly toned--therefore exposing a few lumps and bulges in a swimsuit--but I'd bet she still fits a size 4. So first, these people are factually wrong. Second, it also burns me that people--even a very few selected persons--feel qualified to judge, since according to statistics, it's very likely that the people marking Jennifer Love Hewitt as fat are size 16s themselves. For example, it burns me that the homeless man felt qualified to judge the LT's bike for being girly. I mean, seriously? You think you have room in your life to judge other people's possessions? And the few commenters who bitched about the claims they thought they saw in the Nerd Girl piece--how can you bitch about hypocrisy and dumbing down of standards when you've just proven you can't read what's actually on the page?

Perhaps it's reality. I know that my version of reality is right--especially in the areas of "people who wear a size 4 are not fat" and "homeless people have no room to decry the quality of motorcycles"--and it bothers me that a few don't agree. Or maybe it angers me more that the few who don't agree don't realize how wrong they are, don't realize how dumb they are, don't realize how far they've fallen to the bottom of the social ladder or how out-of-step they are with the rest of society. But what would I be able to achieve by somehow holding up a magic mirror to those I deem unworthy? Is my desire to hurt people that strong? And what if I discovered I was wrong and it was really me who was too far around the bend? My need to punish people who burn me in this way--especially, for example, old men who leer at me--scares me. And yet so far I've managed to stay on the right side of my anger.

Tuesday Morning

Talking with a Friend

Is more valuable than ten cups of coffee. I’m tired and sleep deprived, no one’s fault but my own, and I rolled into work this morning completely incapacitated. My friend L and I got some coffee, and my life was 50% better after coffee and 100% better after chatting with her.

(The Lazy B has three on-site Tully’s stands. Also dry-cleaning services and DVD rental services. There is some value in working at a site as large as most cities in America.)

On Being Tired

Before I left for Japan, when I started going to a hip-hop class about two months ago, I knew I was out of real dancing shape, but I had been running a few times a week and doing a little yoga. I was surprised at how difficult the class was, but also surprised that I could almost keep up. And I was pretty bendy.

Fast forward one month: in Japan, I walked what felt like miles and miles of stairs, but after retuning from Japan, I didn’t feel like running and I barely walked. And I haven’t done any yoga, or really stretched at all, period. Hip hop class last night was NOT my friend. I was creaky, non-bendy, and my muscle memory was shot. (Climbing the 99 stairs at the water tower and riding behind the LT on the motorcycle this morning didn’t help either.) My quads are definitely yelling at me today. Phooey.

On Finding Things That Work

My hip hop class works for me. I’ve been to good classes and I’ve been to bad classes, and the first time I attended this class I knew it was the right one. It’s difficult, it uses real music—hard, fast, slightly dirty—and we do a little toning before we start dancing. It doesn’t involve dated moves, 90’s music—or, god forbid, 80s music—and they really work us hard. I’ve run into enough bad classes to make me very thankful for the good ones I find. I still miss my kickboxing instructor—Tiffany—from Tacoma, and I was the thinnest I’d ever been in my junior year of college because I took a fantastic class at college from an instructor named David.

Complete Lack of Conclusion

Because I am very tired. Thank you.

On Vegetables

I STILL can't make myself buy the right amounts of vegetables and then use them correctly--or in a timely fashion--when I get them home. It's so frustrating. I can't figure out a limit of vegetables I can actually cook or eat in a week, or I tell myself that I'll overcome that limit when I'm actually buying the vegetables so I should get more. When the truth is I've NEVER looked in the fridge, hoping for vegetables, realized that I was out, and sighed and eaten macaroni and cheese instead. I have often put aside fresh vegetables in order to eat mac and cheese, however, and then been surprised when my vegetables turn to sludge in my crisper.

A whole pound of fresh asparagus sat for two weeks, until I roasted it. And it’s now roasted, covered with olive oil and sea salt and smoked salt, and still going bad in a plastic bag in my refrigerator. Maybe I should just admit to myself that I don’t much like asparagus—or maybe that I just don’t like the idea of it. I eat it if served to me, and I enjoy it thoroughly. But in my own refrigerator it loses its appeal. Why? Who knows?

I do like spinach, though, and have I bought that? No. And potatoes, and onions and garlic, and sunchokes, and all manner of dark leafy greens, or lighter salad ones, and peppers of all kinds (especially roasted, yum) and tomatoes—even bad ones—and all sorts of other veggies, yet I’m stopping myself from buying more until I eat the damn roasted asparagus. Phooey.

...For a White Girl

Last night at salsa I was dancing with a guy from Kenya who told me that I had a nice strut...for a white girl. I smiled at him, startled, and he could tell.

"No one's ever told you that before, huh?" he asked me, grinning.

"Actually, you're the second person tonight who's told me that," I was able to say to him, wiping the smile off his face.

That was true--a guy from the Dominican Republic had insisted not half an hour before that I must have some latino blood in me--and the Kenyan guy would have been wrong anyway. I HAVE been told that before--both explicitly, although that's much more rare, and implicitly. Usually it comes from men of color, although there's a few white guys that have braved such a remark. It's an old joke: white people got no rhythm.

Like most stereotypes, this is mostly true, but not always. I've seen plenty of white people with rhythm, and I've met a Mexican girl who just could not dance. And I've met a few black guys who couldn't dance, and the Dominican guy who insisted I had some latino blood in my couldn't dance, either, although he tried damn hard. But in general, taking all things into consideration, yes. This is mostly true.

Dancing is so interesting. It's both a liar and truth-teller. A good dancer can be a bad person, and a good person can be a bad dancer. (Good people can also be bad cooks, and good cooks can be bad people. This especially annoys me.) Dancing (and cooking, but I'll leave off the cooking discussion until another post) is an artifice, after all; it's a set of pre-programmed moves, thought up before you existed, invented by someone else, and you are just following along in their footprints. Dancing, also, is NOT an artifice; dancing is just body language written larger and more expressively, and it takes a really damn good liar to lie with their bodies. Maybe it's more accurate to say that dancing can't tell an onlooker who you are as a person--all it can say is that you have a reasonable sense of rhythm, can follow directions, and might understand social cues. But it CAN tell an onlooker whether you're tired, or nervous, or clumsy, or self-conscious, or drunk. Or happy or excited. Sports aren't as good for this. You'd think they would be--sports and dancing are just ways of moving your body at specified times, and there's even some crossover--but they differ in an important way. Sports is about goals. You throw a ball because you want the ball to move from your hand to somewhere else; you shoot a basket because you want the ball to go in the hoop. In dancing, there is no goal in mind; there will always be another song, there is always another move. The moves themselves are the goals. It would be like if baseball became about the throws, moving your arm in the most aesthetically pleasing way every time, not caring where the ball went. Sports can tell you if a person is good at achieving his or her goals, whether that means getting the basketball in the hoop or practicing enough to get better. Dancing communicates mood.

Over time, though, both dancing and sports will eventually communicate character. Overcoming challenges is an important part of character, after all. I don't know much about sports, but dancing with someone, repeatedly over time, will tell you if your partner likes to dance with a few known partners or likes to get to know new partners, if the challenge of dancing with someone new is more or less attractive than getting better at dancing with a few people, if she's a snob because she turns down ugly partners for cute ones. It will tell you if the person has an overly large amount of confidence in their own rhythm or skills (and therefore a big ego that might not take kindly to being deflated) or if they like being the center of attention or would prefer you to do the twirling.

For myself, I know that my mental state plays a large part in how I dance; if I'm sad or unsure, I'm a bad dancer. Happiness won't necessarily make me a good dancer, though. Serenity, or maybe it's more akin to treating dancing as a form of active meditation, is the best possible state for dancing; to be of the music, not just in the music. Watching my partner helps me catch leads. And I dance terribly with lovers, which I'm sure the LT is excited to hear because I just convinced him to sign up for salsa lessons with me. (Hi, sweetie!) With a partner that I have a relationship with--and not just a friendship, because I dance fine with friends--I want to communicate more, I want to have a say in where the dancing is going. I don't know why only romantic relationships bring this out and me, and not just friendships. I've had only one boyfriend that I danced well with, and it's because he was an unbelievably strong lead, a swing-dancer of the "wrench the follow's elbows" type. Odd, especially since I don't have trouble (or very little) relinquishing dance control to leads who are complete strangers.

And yes, dancing is all about control, which is why it's so often linked to sex, only it's a lot more caveman than sex is in this enlightened day and age. In dancing, there can only be one lead and one follow, and unless you are very, very progressive, the lead is the man and follow is the woman. Which means, as the LT and I take our upcoming lessons, that even though I've been dancing a lot more, I have to follow his lead (not so hard) and his rhythm (HARD). I have to completely relinquish control of the dancing. Which can be hard, for a white girl.

Randomness By the Numbers

1. I saw the Sex and the City move and it was worth the 10.25 I paid for it. I had forgotten how funny the dialog is. Best lines as of right now:

Miranda: "WHY did you DO that?"
Carrie: "I'm an emotional cutter."

2. I'm dehydrated. I never drink enough water at salsa, and I went last night. And then I drank a glass of wine afterwards. With no water. Horrible idea.

3. I have a new acquaintance--a friend of a friend--that I don't really like and it's hard to stop myself from being mean to her. This disappoints me. I hoped I was a better person than this. She's probably a very nice person with excellent qualities. She just rubs me the wrong way and I snipe at her. So far, if she's noticed, she's kept to herself, probably another sign of what a nice person she is and what a horrible person I am.

4. Titan is out of dog food as of this morning and I have to go buy more.

5. I'm breaking out everywhere and I'm annoyed.

6. In a fit of jet lag, I recently saw Immortal Beloved, thanks to On Demand. It was about 3 in the morning and it was an imperfect but beautiful movie. Sadder and more passionate than I expected. If you like classical music, or slow-moving love stories, definitely rent it. Isabella Rosellini is especially enjoyable.

7. I decluttered and rid myself of a medium-sized garbage bag of stuff, plus a stack of magazines almost as tall as Titan.

8. I am very sleepy.

9. YAWN.

While We're NOT on the Subject of Japan...

Several weeks before I went to Japan, I happened to be at Safeway filling a prescription, and I had to wait awhile and this magazine caught my eye:



The copy talked about the most important article I could read this year, so I picked up the magazine and flipped to it. The article was about the losses of the war, written around the trip home for a fallen soldier, and it was interesting enough, but I bought the magazine because of two articles: The 75-year-old Alpha Male Don Wildman (and the related "Change Your Life in One Week" article) and the list of 75 Skills Every Man Must Master. The latter, especially, I wanted to memorize. I read through the magazine several times, and then I went to Japan.

Well. Apparently I wasn't the only one who noticed this article. While I was out of the country, it was apparently blogged about, discussed, shot down, idolized, added to, the add-ons were argued about, etc. People tried to write female versions. You know you've got a really good list when you publish it and immediately people tell you you're wrong. For myself, I liked it, especially the parts about things I don't know much about. For example, I don't know anything about gambling, but I believe the list when it tells me I should know how to place three different bets on a craps table and split aces and eights in blackjack. I'll work on it. It's not NECESSARILY a man's list, because women could certainly stand to know how to do all 75 things. But there's a few more things that women should know, I think.

One restatement of this list that I actually like can be found here (possibly the only right-wing link on this blog so far). An example of stupid comments about this list can be found here, especially annoying because the name of that blog is the same as the title of a really excellent book that doesn't deserve to be associated with stupidity.

(For more, there's more discussion on this than you could ever want on this google search.

And Now, My Two Cents

I've been thinking a lot about this sort of thing recently. I recently realized, while running, that most humans should be able to jog two miles and walk five miles or so, daily, if necessary, and that got me thinking about things that Most Humans Should Be Able To Do. In the case of Armageddon, what would I do if I had no food and water? No way to contact family? How would I travel? What would I do with Titan? Where would I sleep, how would I shower enough to stave off disease? Would I know what plants to eat safely or how to cook a rabbit? Would I know how to find clean water? And then I started making a list, in my head, of things that Most Humans Should Be Able To Do, and more specifically, Things Grown Women Should Be Able To Do.

Most Humans Should Be Able To:

1. Run or walk quickly enough to cover a mile in ten minutes or less. Then keep going for several miles. What if someone is chasing you? What if you have to catch a ferry?

2. Cook for themselves without prepared food. Most humans should be able to cook for themselves and feed themselves properly and healthfully. There's no need to count vegetable servings. Starting the day with complex carbohydrates and fruit and nuts, and then repeating that process two more times, adding a complete protein, is all you need and it's not difficult.

3. Lift most things you own. In a pinch, if you are friendless, alone, and broke, you should be able to move your stuff. Be able to separate what's important and what's not; keep track of the stuff that is important, let the rest go.

4. Know how to inflict pain. Physical pain, that is. Know how to inflict pain on an attacker. I've read that the eyes and nose are especially good, as, of course, are the privates if he is male. Don't punch with your hand--you'll break the bones. Use the heel of your hand. The head is also a good weapon; the skull is a lot harder than almost any other bone in the body. Smash suddenly forwards or backwards with your head, or drive an elbow into the stomach. Smash down on the instep. (The arch of the foot.) Grab of handful of his hair and attempt to rip it out. It will hurt.

5. Fend Off Boredom and Depression. Set yourself goals for the day. Do them. Work out a routine for each week of different things you will do on each day. Stick to it. You should include: working, exercising, eating, household chores, and time spent on a pleasant hobby. There's plenty of way more involved websites about this, but household chores should include: keeping the windows, walls, and floors clean. Keeping the bath, toilet, and shower clean. Keeping the counters and kitchen sink clean. Changing the bedsheets. If you can't remember the last time you did any of these things, you're not doing them often enough. It seems simplistic, but I have trouble with this, full disclosure. Writing it down in this simple fashion can help.

6. Get enough sleep. This is one of the most important things humans can do. It helps maintain body weight, hunger cravings, and mood. Not sleeping enough drops your IQ as much as smoking marijuana. You have no excuse to get less than eight hours. Kick in your TV and give away your computer if you find yourself pressed for time.

7. Spend Less Than You Make. A lot less. You can't buy everything, just get over the idea right now. Someone will always have more toys than you. And if you can't be first place in the toy race, why are you fighting for 52nd place? No one cares. Buy the stuff you need, buy a few things you want, spend the rest of the time developing a hobby.

More Specifically, For Women

8. Know how to take pain. Women, not having the benefit of tough sports, often don't know how to protect themselves, and so will simply stand and take physical punishment, or will run, or scream. Know which parts of your body you have to protect and let the other parts take the punishment. Hold up your arms in front of your face, or if you're on the ground, curl up into a ball to protect your inner organs. Your arms and legs will heal, your face won't. The kicks or punches or knife cuts will hurt terribly, but it's all superficial. Really. Let your limbs take the pain. If he has a gun, though, definitely do run and scream, in that order. It's very difficult to hit a moving target.

9. Know Your Limit and Stay Below It. Do not become noticeably drunk in a public place. Know your limit with food and without food; with sleep and without sleep. My personal rule: If I've eaten recently and am well-rested or pumped up on adrenaline I can drink a maximum of two drinks per hour. If I haven't eaten in as few as two or three hours that drops to one drink per hour. Other rules I try to follow: Avoid being the most drunk one, no matter what. Hot weather or working up a sweat dancing increases feelings of intoxication, so watch out for that, as does smoking. Try to avoid sugary drinks, or mixing alcohols. After midnight, stop drinking. Do Not Succumb to Peer Pressure to have six shots of tequila in an hour.

10. Nothing Wrong With Getting Drunk Sometimes. Do it at home with people you know. Some women I know only get drunk with other women, pretty specific but valid.

11. Know how to tell when a man is not right for you. It could be for something tiny. That's fine.

12. Know how you feel about marriage and kids. Not how your mother feels or how your friends feel, even your best friends. You'll find other methods of fulfillment if you truly don't want kids or a husband. You just have to admit it to yourself first.

13. Get Over the Idea of Romance. I can't believe how many grown women--way older than I am--that I've known of who left their husbands because of someone they met online or in a pottery class. Who claimed true love. Who find the idea of star-crossed love attractive and want it to happen to them. There are very few real great love stories that have happened or will happen in the history of the world. Your love for your new internet friend is not among these.

14. Know your personal style. I look good in higher-waisted jeans and crisp button downs, wrap dress, and fitted tanks or tees. I look better in higher waists, but not empire waists unless they're fitted just right. I look good in medium-to-deep colors. I look terrible in cardigans, vests, suspenders, low-rise anything, most empire-waist things, any pullover that sits right at my hips, and any pastels or warm tones. Know this about yourself.

15. Don't obsess about your personal style so much that you refuse to wear your friend's bridesmaid dress.

16. Decide who your important friends are in your life. Cherish them. Make sacrifices for them. Loan them money, offer to babysit. Make sure these things are returned. Give them honest advice when they ask for it. When they don't, keep your mouth shut. Unless your friend is being abused, her relationship is not your relationship.

17. If a friend complains for more than a year about her relationship but doesn't do anything constructive, you're allowed to tell her to shut up occasionally.

17. Stay in contact with your family. Even if you don't get along.

18. Refuse to obsess about things. Meditate enough so that you know the tangled paths your brain goes down. When it goes down a bad one, stop it. Especially do not obsess about germs, work, or relationships. Basic personal hygiene is plenty of guard against getting sick. Work on your career, and work on work; when you leave work, forget about it. Some of your relationships will work out and some won't. Maybe you'll end up divorced at 55. Worrying about that now won't change the outcome one bit.

19. Put your feelings aside. While in the sports game, or in the argument, or in the raise discussion, disregard all emotion. You'll have plenty of time afterwards.

20. Know how to carry on a conversation with a famous person. Regardless of my success or lack thereof with the other items on this list, I have absolutely no idea how to do this. Thoughts?

21. Know how to talk to a very good looking man. SMILE, for God's sake. He's just human. Ask him where he's from, ask him what he does for a living, ask him what he does in his spare time. Everyone wants to be found fascinating.

22. Know how to budget your time. You really do not have to do everything. This seems like a little thing, but if you constantly seek to be Superwoman, you'll never be happy, and you'll obsess and become overly emotional. Be very good at some things. Pay someone else to do the other things for you.

23. Keep a stock of guest foods. Nuts, cheese, chocolate. A few beers, a few bottles of wine, some basic liquors. There's nothing that makes me feel more like a failure than when people show up at my house and I have nothing to offer them. Cream for coffee, toilet paper in the bathroom, soap on the sink.

24. Make peace with your relationship with feminism. How do YOU feel about make up, about gender roles, about sexual assault, about blow jobs? Don't worry if the feminist party line is different. You think for you.

Among the Things I Bought

It's inevitable: you will buy things, especially things that you would like to take with you on trips, and you will take them on trips--many, many trips--and if you are not LT, they will eventually break.

In this case, Japan ate my camera and my iPod earbuds, although it might be more appropriate to say that two very clumsy and cow-like ladies climbing over seats on my Northwest flight ate my earbuds. (One of them, with her tree-trunk legs, broke off my earbuds in the jack. Making it impossible for me to fix the problem with a new set of headphones. Two hours into the nine hour flight. I'm still miffed.)

Regardless, Japan actually did eat my camera, although I'm sure all the trips to the mountain didn't help either, and I have to (darn!) buy a new one. And then while I was at it I bought some earbuds, and three books, and I do also desperately need an immersion blender. (Shut UP. I do.)

And then I read this post, and then I read the follow-up, and I thought, yes! That's what I need to do!

And then I saw this list of cute shoes.

In conclusion, I must stop reading blogs. Thank you.

P.S. I realize I just went ahead and bought a camera and some earbuds without asking you guys for opinions, and yes, I realize that I'm not tapping my blog audience here. I'm an impulse buyer, what can I say? Just ask my American Express card.

Postponed

I KNOW. I know. Japan. But I went camping this weekend. You'll have to excuse me.

Moving on, I bought a bunch of things to replace the things that got broken on my vacation and three books. I'm cooking all the vegetables in my house before they go bad and I'm off to tutoring. One of these days I swear I'm going to scale back to one job.

Sustainability Vs. Yuppiedom

A good example of a morning that's sustainable for my waistline, wallet, and the planet:

6:15 am: Wake up. Shower, dress. Pack breakfast and lunch: Homemade bread sandwich with local cheese and farmers' market pear. Homemade vegetable soup made from farmers' market vegetables, quinoa, a farmers' market apple, and a SIGG bottle with water. Extra credit: salad of dandelion greens from front yard. Fill personal mug with tea or coffee.

7:00 am: Take Titan for nice 20 minute walk. Taking backpack, lunch sack, and mug filled with hot beverage of choice, catch bus into downtown. Catch bus to Bellevue.

12:00 pm: Take walk at lunchtime.

5:00 pm and beyond: Ride bus back. Take long walk with Titan and do the Eastlake Hill Climb, or alternatively, go for thirty minute jog. Relax with glass of organic, local, red wine. For extra credit: Ferment homemade wine.

A good example of a morning that is not sustainable in any way, shape, or form:

10:00 am: Wake up, cursing with jet lag, at alarm that has been going off for four hours. Work very fast from home to make up for missing hours.

11:00 am: Far too late to take bus. No time to pack lunch. Get in car, drive to Bellevue. Stop to buy hugely fancy coffee from Starbucks in paper cup. Buy peppered bacon and cheese breakfast sandwich, packaged in paper bag.

2:00 pm: Sit on duff for hours.

6:00 pm: Drive to Happy Hour.

8:00 pm: Drive to grocery shopping.

9:00 pm: Drive home. Let engine run for several extra hours just for kicks. Leave refrigerator open and turn up heat extra high. Turn on all lights in the house to go to sleep.

Okay, I was just exaggerating at the end. But STILL.

New Goal: More days like the former, a lot fewer like the latter. Hey, I carpooled today...

Home! Socks, Driving, Ceremony.

Yes, it's true, I'm back in the USSR. I mean, Seattle. (Anyone get the Beatles reference? By the way, did you know that the LT can't stand the Beatles? I'm dating a man who doesn't like the Beatles and prefers peanut butter cookies over chocolate chip, not that he's the devil or anything.)

ANYWAY.

So far I have paid all my bills and returned my way-overdue library books, shockingly enough, and Titan and I are getting reacquainted. A few thoughts on returning:

1. Being able to understand overheard conversations is actually not that interesting. Most people don't have casually interesting conversations, except of course T-Town and myself, and we are FASCINATING. I sort of miss being able to tune out the chatter because I can't understand it anyway.

2. If T-Town and I never open up our bikini coffee stand in Whistler, we are opening a sock company in Japan. I've never seen so many socks in my life. Japanese girls do not, under any circumstances, go barefoot. Or bare-legged. If they wear shorts or skirts, they wear pantyhose or thigh highs. (I saw a ton of thigh-highs. With very spiky sandals. At first, the girls I saw looked very tarted-up, and then I realized that to them, bare legs would have looked way more inappropriate than I found their thigh-highs to be.) Because not only are bare legs inappropriate in Japan, but because no one wears shoes indoors, you have to have socks on or else you'll be going around in bare feet, so the style was to have special lacy socks that were meant to peek out from your stiletto heels. Some socks even had straps on them to add visual dimension to your spiky heels. Weird.

3. Umbrellas. Coming from Seattle, where no one uses umbrellas, it was a shock to see rainy streets COVERED in umbrellas. EVERYONE has one, and they don't fold up--they're the old-fashioned kind that look like a cane when furled, no actual collapsing. You can buy clear furled ones, with white trim, at any gas station for three bucks. There's umbrella stands at all doors, at all shops, everywhere, and no one takes your umbrella when you leave it there, and in fancier stores there's an attendant waiting at the doorway with a special plastic bag for your umbrella, with which he or she politely encases your umbrella and then hands it back to you with a bow. Even a three dollar umbrella.

4. Speaking of attendants, for a country so obsessed with automation, Japan employs thousands and thousands of people. Every subway has two conductors, every ticket window is staffed, every store has six people working each small floor, there's a guy who encases your umbrella and a guy who hands you a shopping cart. Their labor charges must be enormous. At ten at night, in a huge camera store, there might be fifteen workers for every customer. No one goes home, no one acts bored. The minute you come in the store they treat you like royalty and don't stop until you leave. I had reason to go in a bank, and the Js and I were bowed at by ten people and ushered around by fifteen more. On the way to the rest room alone.

5. Ceremony. In a country known for mass-production, the Japanese still treat every purchase, every object, like it is uniquely valuable. A four dollar comb is picked up carefully with both hands, shown to you, held while the price tags are gently scraped off, carefully wrapped, and presented to you with both hands. And a bow. I bought a ten-yen stamp--less than ten cents--and the hotel clerk brought out a special book that is only meant to hold stamps, arranged in neat little rows of plastic holders. I picked one out, and the hotel clerk handed it to me...with both hands. And he barely had space for both sets of fingers on that tiny piece of paper.

6. Disorientation. I flew in from Tokyo on Monday morning, and I met T-Town for lunch that same day, and I was surprised about how helpless I felt, driving to meet her and then driving somewhere else, in a town that I had grown up in, for 16 years. I was in a slightly unfamiliar area, but that's not a big enough reason as to why I felt it necessary to write down her directions to the freeway and obsess about how to get to the restaurant. More importantly, I was jet-lagged and disoriented, and most importantly, I was unused to driving. When you're on foot, you can change direction at a moment's notice, you can just stop on the sidewalk or in the subway, you can call people or decide to pop into a computer store or spend half an hour reading a map while foot traffic flows around you. Taking the car, I felt that I had to have a specific plan and it couldn't change. If I wanted to go somewhere else, where would I park? How would I get there? What if I got lost? On foot I felt more secure, and even safer; I don't know why.

Eleven Days Down, One to Go

I have gawked at real live geisha, I have cheered at sumo bouts, I have seen the largest Buddha in the world, I have seen sculptures from the 7th century, I have been in palaces and experienced nightengale floors and gotten to know a country, a history, and a people. I have squirmed to enlightenment by a shortcut. I am in Tokyo on my last night before I leave this amazing country, and I am filled with a desire to see ALL the countries of this world, right now, I never want to go back to my "real" life.

Lots of photos--more photos than any human should want to see, ever--coming up. Highlights from the trip. Notes on gear, what I brought, what I forgot. Tips on getting cash in a foreign country with no PIN number, drinking with Norwegian boys, communicating by sign language with Japanese girls, and playing, "Guess What's In My Bento Box" on a hungover stomach. The three stages of Templeosity. Deer-feeding. Being fascinated by Engrish. I fly home tomorrow. I'll miss vending machine iced coffee and convenience store food, I won't miss language barriers. I'll cover everything in detail. Stay tuned.

Trains, Cable Cars, Ropeways, and Boats

Very short post to say:

1. The JJs and myself are now in Kyoto.
2. We did not see Mt. Fuji although we tried twice.
3. We have learned that although Tokyo's train system is larger, trying to navigate Kyoto's train system based on spotty tourist guide information and no English is way more difficult.
4. We got some GORGEOUS photos.
5. Writing an email to my boyfriend is more important than finishing this post.

From Kyoto,
Aarwenn

Japan, First Day

5/09/08, 4:15 am

I've been awake since 3:20--a coughing fit and the impossible-to-shake-off-sense that it's really 11:20 in the morning combine to make me sleepless. I know what time it is because I brought my watch, which was the single most important decision I made preparing for this trip--I didn't know that my phone wouldn't tell time if it couldn't find a network, and had I not had my watch I would have continually been asking people who don't speak my language for the time. That sounds like a one-way ticket to insanity to me.

5/9/08, Later in the Morning

I have mainly strolled through parks today so far, after the fish market and my sushi breakfast. (If I can get my camera to work, I can retrieve the pictures--the tuna were about as big as Mrs. J and myself put together, with no exaggeration.) The duck park--that's Hama Rihkyu Garden, for those playing along at home--was really incredible. Very peaceful, I got some great photos, and I had tea and a sweet at a tea house, with my best attempt at performing a tea ceremony. Hama Rihkyu Garden was built as a duck hunting ground for a Shogun, which is why I call it the duck park, although they might as well call it the crow park now--I've never seen louder or larger crows. You can actually hear them walking on gravel, that's how larger they are--as big as hawks.

This park is connected to Tokyo Bay, so the ponds are saltwater--and the wildlife is incredible. All kinds of birds, shellfish like oysters and clams seemed to be everywhere, growing all over the rocks, and walking along Tokyo Bay, I happened to look down and see a STING RAY swimming past, the first once I've ever seen in the wild.

The next park I saw, Kyushiba Rikyu Garden, was fresh water, with well-groomed lakes, islands, and bridges. If you stand at the water's edge for more than a minute, the huge carp see you and rush over, fighting with each other and turning their noses up and opening their mouths, begging for treats just like puppies. Feed them and they fight like crazy. A comorant flew in and groomed himself on a big rock, and all over on all the rocks the turtles were out, sunning themselves, standing so still that I almost thought they were statues. Great wildlife here.

Random notes: I wore the wrong shoes for 12 hours of walking--not used to starting my day at 5--and my feet hurt so badly I could barely walk Friday night. Tokyo is beating me up, but I don't care, I love it. There's Starbucks everywhere, although I have (as yet) only gone into one, mainly to get my picture taken. I am very lucky that my ryokan has a refrigerator--although no microwave--because Thursday night when I ate, I pointed something on the menu, then changed my mind and shook my head, and pointed to something else. I guess I should have just gone with my first choice--the waiter thought I wanted both things, and both things were large enough to split with another person! Suddenly I had four times as much food as I needed! I had some leftover soup for breakfast on Saturday morning before taking a side trip out of Tokyo for a day--worked great.

Summary from Yesterday

So, I have figured out the subway system, learned how to use sign language and the occasional American word said in a Japanese accent to be understood, bought a phone card and a chapstick and a plug adapter. As long as you don't ask me to do anything complicated like pee, I'll be all set.

(My Ryokan--traditional Japanese Inn--has Western-style toilets, THANK BLOG.)

And a quote: My friends, the JJs, got here today. I was supposed to meet them at their hotel and got there before they did, so I took a walk. Just a few minutes later, they showed up, and the front desk lady said, before they even said who they were, "Oh! Your friend was here!" She told them I had gone to look for a cup of coffee, and they laughed. When they found me on the street, J said, "We heard you were here and we thought, "We just have to find the blonde in the coffee shop, and that'll be her. She's probably the only blonde for dozens of miles."

The blonde in the coffee shop, that's me!

From Tourist to Local in 24 Hours

From my journal on Wednesday morning, after having been locked out of the house without my luggage:

Actually on my way to Japan by myself. I can't believe this is happening. This, so far, is the best decision I have ever made.

5/8/08, On the Plane

Same day on my personal clock, but tomorrow! I've crossed the international date line! Never done that before. According to the Northwest Info screen, Tokyo is 16 hours ahead of Seattle. Huh.

Note to self: Flying sick is the worst thing ever. I seriously thought my head was going to explode.

5/8/08, Just an Hour Later

I have visited two Japanese bathrooms (looking for tissue, and also looking for a really high tech toilet, found the former but not the latter). Have successfully bought a cold green tea from a vending machine and a pack of gum from a kiosk. Have leanred that the right way to say "thank you" is to say it all at once, with emphasis on the Do: DOmoarigato. I think I can do that.

I find the Japanese signage, packaging, and everything endlessly fascinating, despite not being able to hear out of one ear. (Leftover from plane ride.) A lady next to me on the train is playing Sodoku, probably a Japanese game in the first place. Numbers are the same in every language, always a comfort--at least buying things is easy! (A little too easy. Suddenly I wish I were bad at math.)

I felt so miserable on the plane that I briefly considered flying home again and crawling into bed. Never have I felt that pessimistic on the start of a trip, even business trips. I felt--and still feel--truly awful, although the excitement of being somewhere new--and interaction with other humans, even more critical, even something as little as learning to say hello--has helped a great deal.

5/8/08, Still Later

I have learned many important things.

1. Make sure the signature you use on your traverler:s checks is consistent. Don't use the long version to buy them and the short version to turn them in for cash, and especially, on the only one you bought using the short version, don't decide to cash it in using the long version. You will cause yourself and some older Japanese men several minutes of anxiety. In the end I think they just gave me my money to be rid of the crazy foreign lady.

2. Using the toilet is apparently not foolproof. In many public bathrooms, they have bidets--female urinals, a great idea--and I cannot use them. I tried once, and am sure I got it all wrong. Now after 24 hours in Japan I will still walk a long way to find a western-style toilet.

3. Shoes that you thought were comfortable won't be after 12 hours on your feet.

4. Even after being up for 36 hours, jet lag will still hit you hard at 3:30 am. Be productive and just get up.

More to come, on how I felt pretty hip and local-like until I ordered four meals worth of food and it was all brought to my table.

Miss everyone, enjoying myself hugely.

Leaving for JAPAN!

So far I have:

1. Washed all my dishes.
2. Returned all library books.
3. Run an important bank errand. (Fighting some overdraft fees.)
4. Emptied my refrigerator of all perishables.
5. Held my mail.
6. Packed.

So far I need to:

1. Return some things at REI.
2. Buy traveler's checks.
3. Buy a small, collapsible, second bag for more stuff. (optional.)
4. Do some work. (In the morning.)
5. Leave for airport at 11 am.
6. Get over this damn cold!

Good bye, everybody! I've got to go! Gotta leave it all behind and face the...oh, wait, that's a different song.

About Those Vietnamese Sandwiches...

Aarwenn's a tease, or more likely a ditz. I mentioned Vietnamese sandwiches, and then I didn't talk about them, as the LT pointed out. Whoops.

Picture from Herbivoracious.

Doesn't that look yummy? The author made it himself, an effort which I applaud but see no need to repeat. Instead, I'm following his post on where to buy Vietnamese Sandwiches. Because buying them premade is, in most cases, under two freakin' bucks, so why wouldn't you?

(For those who keep wondering why I'm so excited about the idea of a sandwich being Vietnamese, and isn't that a little racist?--they're a product of the French Imperial Occupation of Vietnam, aka A Specific Food Item.) I've never had one but plan to buy one or several at my earliest opportunity.