Stream of Consciousness on the KTX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things I’d like to do today:

Drop off my suits

Tour the palace by Insadong

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

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

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

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

*End stream of consciousness post.*

Seoul at 3:30 am

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

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

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

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

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

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

I said, "I love it!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Speaking of, OMG, breakfast opens in 20 minutes!

Diet For Past Thirty Six Hours

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

Monday Lunch: Coffee with coconut creamer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I need to buy smaller jeans.

This Is Me, Today.

Clinging To My Youth

This Conversation AGAIN.

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

"Another lovesick swain?"

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

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

"And how much more?"

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

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

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

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

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

"So, what's the problem?"

"I'm just not that into him."

"You should tell him."

"I'm so bad at that."

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

"Gee, thanks."

"Seriously. Have you ever been dumped?"

"Once or twice, yes."

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

"I'm a slow learner?"

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmmm.

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

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

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

Me: “Okay.”

Her:

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

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

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

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

Me:

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

Her: “Ouch.”

Me:

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

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

Me: “Sorry.”

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

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

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

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

Read Part I and Part II First.

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

"So?"

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

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

"What?"

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

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

"WHAT?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had to admit it.

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

"WHAT?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read Part I first.

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

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

"M, your ex?"

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

"Okay."

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay. Why is M in town?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Whoa!"

CLIFFHANGER!

Japan

Japan

Japan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Part 2 Coming Tomorrow!*

Things I Have Learned About Busines Travel

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

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

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

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

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

*Possibly not actually recommended.

I Have Become My Father

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

Purposely.

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

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

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

I Just Realized What's Wrong With My Writing

I don't have my own voice.

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

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

Bear with me, kids. Thanks.

That's One Small Step for Woman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I bought TWO.

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

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

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

A Song and a Quote

Share Crimson and Clover by Tommy James and the Shondells

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

A key quote:

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

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

Boundaries

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

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

"Now if only you had arrived ON TIME."

"Hey. Pills aren't MAGIC."

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

"Allrighty then."

In Addition, I Return to Aiming For Pretty

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

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

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

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

In Which Mr. Neighbor Makes Himself Useful

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, some other time we can rearrange…”

“Um, why not now?”

“Because we’ve been drinking tequila?”

I just looked at him. He shrugged.

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

We rearranged, and it was good.

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

Moment of Honesty

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

 

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

 

I am not behind at work.

 

I have properly hydrated myself today.

 

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

 

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

 

Oh, yes:

 

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

 

Short on Kombucha for the apartment.

 

Need a radio for the Jeep.

 

Still haven’t bought window boxes for the apartment.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Sitting Here About To Be Late For A Date

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

What Do Atheists Say When They're Grateful?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right After I Re-Caulk The Grout

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

Me: "Possibly not until early May."

OMBSM: "That isn't far off!"

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

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

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

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

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

OMBSM: "HA."

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

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

You Know What's Interesting?

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

Also, you know what's hard?

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

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

Just Finished Eight Antacids and Four Ibuprofen

Monday Morning, 6:30 am.

Wake up exhausted and slightly hungover after being gone all weekend in Port Townsend. Stumble around.

Work: Very important Monday 8:00 AM Meeting with my boss, her boss, and his boss.

(While I am ON THE PHONE FOR MY MEETING): Work also calls on the other line. "Need your urgent attention for these major parts of the next Korean class, starting in a month."

Work, again: "The director and deputy director of the business unit we were hoping to utilize for our Kuwait plan just resigned."

Work, again: "Have you ordered those books for the Korean class starting on Monday?"

Work, again. "You've scheduled that celebratory lunch for the end of one of your Korean projects already? Oh. Can you change the reservation from 6 to 16? And where's the certificate?"

Barely 8:15 AM, still on the phone with my boss, her boss, and his boss.

St Louis Work: "SHIT WE FORGOT SOMETHING FOR THE MAJOR KOREAN TRIP." I am on the phone with St. Louis for the next three hours.

Tuesday morning.

Kitchen: "I'm a mess. Please clean me."

Bathroom sink: "I've been clogged for a week and I'm still clogged."

Closet: “All your pants are too big because you’ve lost ten pounds and haven’t taken the time to go shopping. You look terrible in whatever you’re about to put on."

Face: “You haven’t washed me since Saturday and I’m going to fuss about it.”

Hair: “Seriously, my split ends are about to grow spider babies, and my roots are four inches long.”

Work: “Surprise! Brand new 8:00 am meeting with St. Louis!”

My apartment manager, who has been on vacation for a week, calls. "Remember that two bedroom you were going to move in to? The couple wants to switch ASAP. Can you move this weekend?"

Roommate calls. "Remember I'm going to be out of town all day Saturday for the naming ceremony for the baseball field celebrating my grandfather's memory?"

Me, calling Eric. "PLEASE let us move NEXT weekend?"

Personal: "Hey, want to go away with me to a sunny and warm location next weekend? I leave on Thursday, right in the middle of the major Korean Trip and over the weekend when you’re now supposed to move.”

Me: “Um...”

Him: "Buy a bikini, no excuses."

Work calls again. "That new six-person Korean class starting on Monday--you have everything for that, right?"

Work: "Also, that major Korean three-day meeting that starts next Tuesday--your customers want those hotel reservations changed to downtown Seattle, and have you booked the Boeing Transportation yet?"

Personal: "Hey," an old flame says. "Are we still on for that Tuesday night drink and catch up?"

St Louis Work: "WE STILL HAVEN’T SOLVED THAT MAJOR THING WE FORGOT FOR THE ST. LOUIS TRIP."

*Long St. Louis Work Meeting*

Vet calls: "Hi, why haven't you come to pick up Titan's medicine yet? We close at six."

Work: "Have you ordered those books for the Korean class starting on Monday?"

Work: "Please also address these five emergencies for Co-Worker #1, who has been pulled away to work India."

Gary Manuel: “Hi, just calling to remind you that you have a hair appointment on Wednesday afternoon."

Personal: "Hey, want to come shopping with me Wednesday evening?"

Blondie #1: "Hey, the girls and I are getting drinks on Wednesday night! Come or be yelled at."

St. Louis work: “STILL HAVEN’T FIXED MAJOR THING.”

Work: "Given that our first plan just fell through, please take a little time and put together a comprehensive strategy for our entire technical approach in Kuwait for the next six years. Should total about 1.2 billion dollars."

Personal: "We’re still on for that movie on Thursday, right? See you at 6:30. DO NOT BE LATE."

Work: "Please write up a contract amendment for the three Korean projects we're going to be short on. Have that ready by Tuesday. Thanks."

Wednesday Morning.

Kitchen: "I'm still a mess, only more so. PLEASE clean me."

Bathroom Sink: "Hi, I'm still clogged. I know you just had the plumber out here two weeks ago, but I'm still very clogged."

Face: “Wow, I look terrible.”

Hair: “You saw an old flame WITH ME LIKE THIS?"

Closet: “Remember how you don’t have any pants that fit you? Piling them all on your bed is not going to help.”

Sound Transit: "Hey, we have your bike down at the bus station--come by anytime that is convenient for you."

St. Louis work: “Congratulations on fixing major thing. Here’s the next six problems.”

St. Louis work: "I can’t change hotels to stay with our Korean customer—too much to do in Kent. Since you live in downtown Seattle, if we rent you a van, can you walk to their hotel every day at 7:30, and drive them to Kent by 8:30? Thanks. I don’t want to pay over $140 a night."

Work: “Please attend five hours of meetings today.”

Work: “How’s the $1.2 billion Kuwait strategy coming along?”

Work: “What about all these other things for the Korean class that started in a month?”

Blondie, Personal, and Gary Manuel, in unison: “COME SEE ME TONIGHT!”

Thursday Morning.

Kitchen: "I'm now completely unusable and it takes ten minutes to get a glass of water. Let me remind you that you're supposed to move this weekend."

Bathroom Sink: "I'm now going to add ten minutes to your morning routine due to clogging, because I hate you.”

Closet: “It now takes you an additional ten minutes (after the additional ten minutes for the unusable kitchen and the additional additional ten minutes for the clogged bathroom sink) to find anything to wear because you’ve lost ten pounds and nothing fits and you still haven’t gone shopping.”

Acne: “Hi, just showing up to join the party! You haven’t washed your face in at least four days and I hate you! LOL!”

Work: KUWAIT KUWAIT KUWAIT.

Stomach: “I'M GOING TO CRAMP UP NOW.”

Work: MAJOR KOREAN TWO-HOUR CELEBRATION LUNCH.

Me: *whimpers*

Analogy

We were having breakfast at Cyclops.

“I have a hard time letting food go to waste,” I said, as my date eyed me boxing up my one lonely triangle of polenta cake and accompanying tomato romano sauce.

“I’ve noticed that,” he said drily, not needing to mention that I had boxed up most of my chicken dinner the night before at Shelter and insisted that we leave Ballard and take it back to Capitol Hill to put in my fridge, even thought we had to go all the way back to Ballard for the Moisture Festival. It wasn’t a new thing. On our third date I had boxed up most of my carbonara at Café Bendodi and insisted on carrying it around all night, finally getting it safely to his fridge in Belltown but of course forgetting it when I left. (He ate it, of course, and promised to buy me more, a promise I hope to collect on soon.) Hence my recent insistence on getting my leftovers all the way back to Capitol Hill. I had carried boxes of food around on MOST of our dates, except the ones where we ate at Happy Hour or with other people.

“It’s not that I grew up poor,” I said. “There was always PLENTY to eat, and my parents love good food. It’s that food is such a lifeline for me. If I don’t get it, I pass out. I can’t possibly waste it. If I give up this food now, what if I NEED IT LATER?”

He nodded, trying to understand. Being a previously house-trained man, he knew it was important to at least pretend to listen to the woman sitting across the table from you.

“It’s like drugs,” I said, using a metaphor I’ve used before, and one that I knew he’d appreciate. “You just can’t let ANY go to waste.”

The light bulb clicked on, and he laughed. “HA! No kidding. I could have just crumbs of [censored] left in the [censored], but damned if I’m going to throw it out. And that’s probably way less valuable, monetarily, than that amount of food that you just saved. It’s not about saving money.”

“No. It’s about the intrinsic value of the substance to you. The phrase ‘worth its weight in gold’ comes to mind.”

“Yes. It’s worth WAY more than the money itself.”

“Yes.”

“Good analogy, engineer. You broke it down so a sales guy like me could understand.”

“Thanks.”

Blogging The Brainwave: A Passage from Daniel Gilbert's "Stumbling On Happiness".

"What would you do right now if you learned that you were going to die in ten minutes? Would you race upstairs and light that Marlboro you've been hiding in your sock drawer since the Ford administration? Would you waltz into your boss's office and present him with a detailed description of his personal defects? Would you drive out to that steakhouse near the new mall and order a T-bone, medium rare, with an extra side of the really bad cholesterol? Hard to say, of course, but of all the things you might do in your final ten minutes, it's a pretty safe bet that few of them are things you actually did today.

Now, some people will bemoan this fact, wag their fingers in your direction, and tell you sternly that you should live every minute of your life as though it were your last, which only goes to show that some people would spend their final ten minutes giving other people dumb advice."" (End emphasis mine.)

-Daniel Gilbert, Stumbling On Happiness

Note To Self

One of these days, I'll figure out how to make photos from my App Cameras rotate properly BEFORE publishing them through Blogger-Droid.

Fairy tale fountain

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Completed to do list.

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More Thoughts In No Particular Order

Holy crap it's been A MONTH since I blogged.

My car insurance is now $75 a month. Sure is nice to have all those tickets gone from my record. (Also note: I obviously haven't gotten any MORE. Whew.)

I am dating SO FREAKING MUCH. I barely have time to do anything else. I love it, and I'm learning a lot about myself.

And other people, of course.

Things I have learned about love:

You can really like someone as a person, and you can really like them as a lover, but sometimes that's not enough. If you can't--or won't--be vulnerable with each other, that is not a relationship.

Things I have learned about myself:

I need my dates to be articulate motormouths.

And I need them to have something going on in their lives. They need to be ABOUT something.

(Cafe Presse is playing Roy Orbison and it makes me smile on the inside.)

Questions for the universe:

Is there a service that will send cards for you? I need that.

How many cracking noises in a windshield is too many?

Is there an extended-life battery made for the HTC Incredible?

How can I move AGAIN? Roomamte and I JUST moved, feels like. We are still moving IN. We just got things rearranged. And now we have to move again. But for a good cause.

I'll hang on to that happy thought.

Thoughts In No Particular Order

My second cousin is in a music video being played on MTV!

My friend Athena is funny. Her Facebook status: "Life as we know it canceled due to snow."

A Korean that I support for work will just call me over and over again until he reaches me on the phone. This is frustrating. Paradoxically, it makes me less inclined to call him back, which I know is childish and beneath me.

Still.

I have three weddings to attend this year. That is more than than I have attended in the last three years combined. I'm

When I got in my car this morning to drive to work, the windshield was making horrible crackling sounds. Being that it was out in the 21 degree weather last night, and it's very old, I re-parked it immediately and am working from home. I'm a little scared.

Possibly way too late, I now possess a garage parking spot for my apartment. Well, maybe it will come in useful for my motorcycle.

Which I haven't ridden in MONTHS.

This is partially because I didn't fit in my leathers for awhile. I'm working on fixing that.

Also, it's now too bloody cold.

Also, I kind of want to sell it, but of course it's the wrong season.

And, due to my complete spazziness with the title, it's hard to sell.

SIGH.

New topic: I am officially, but OFFICIALLY, out of debt.

Which I want to change, obviously, by buying a new motorcycle. Perhaps I will attempt to save up for that, first.

Especially since Roommate and I just got the BEST NEWS EVER: WE GOT MOVED UP TO A TWO BEDROOM!

But we'll pay slightly more rent. And we'll need to buy a COUCH. And MORE FURNITURE, YAY! So. Perhaps I should really get to selling that motorcycle.

But then what will I put in my parking spot?

Brief Fascination

...with songs that involve morning sequences.



"Get Up In The Morning", by Chiddy Bang (which majorly samples...)



"Israelites", by Desmond Dekker



"That's Why I", by Dirty (Warning: video is really bad.)



"Goin Back To Cali", by Notorious BIG (That recorded conversation between Diddy and Big at the start of the song is a conversation that the Roommate and I have just about every morning.)

It makes mornings look fun. Which they are, when they're happening to OTHER people.

The Last Nine Days

...have passed quickly.

A lot of dates. A lot of music. A lot of roommate bonding. Some birthday parties. Did I mention some dates? And some music? Also, Roommate and I are trying to keep the place clean and bonding over it? I can't even TELL most of those stories.

Also I go to Kuwait in a week and a half, and I finally got our boot rack organized, thanks to City Hardware. Yeah, we have a lot of boots.

Half of the Blonde Squad is moving to Chicago. Molly is already gone, and C --the girl I went to Thailand with--is leaving in a week. That's right, she's leaving me, and the Lazy B, and her boyfriend, and moving to CHICAGO WITH MOLLY.

This post is random. My LIFE is random. I meet a lot of really great people and I spend time with them. People are fascinating, my job is great, and I'm late for another date.

Nightmare, or Stephen King's Next Book

I was staying in a beautiful resort in the middle of the woods, and then vampirism arrived to completely kill the mood. We thought we would be safe, but we weren't. I remember the first vampires staggering out of the closets, lurching and screaming for blood, and then I saw my fellow vacationers become blood-sucking monsters. I ran and hid for days, trying to avoid the spread of the disease and the monsters themselves, seeing people I knew and respected being turned and preying on each other. Every corner became a temporary hook up spot for public seduction and feeding, in all gender combinations, and then I wished I had just given in and been turned instead, because now I was being drafted as food and it was too late to be turned.

Was it a race thing? I looked around and realized, as I was pulled into the dark conference room and trapped on the big dark wood meeting table, that every vampire around me was black, men and women. Was I letting black women down by dating outside my race? Was I not allowed to live because I was white and weak? Was it because I was less beautiful?

And then I realized that, no, I'd been here before, this same conference room, in the middle of the day that time, and the previous vampires were white. That was different, though--that time I was the chosen sacrificial victim so that my friends could go free, and this time I was just unlucky and unwanted, the last kid picked for the softball team and I had made the wrong choices and I wasn't going to survive this. At any minute I might feel the fangs on my neck and I was terrified and I woke myself up.

From "Dream Moods":

"To dream about a vampire alludes to unbridled passions which are taking over you or another person. Ask yourself, if someone or something is depleting your energy and strength. Or maybe you are the vampire? In this case, change your cold-hearted behaviour and stop letting your instincts and primitive urges to take control over you."

"Dreams of being chased are among the most common dreams. They often are triggered by persistent problems. In the same way one might describe a nagging issue as 'dogging my heels,' the subconscious mind might present a literal image of being 'chased' by the problem."

After that I found myself safe as a worker on a big cruise ship with my two dogs, which barely helped because we were docked in Seattle and appeared to be going hiking in the woods a lot...

"To dream that you are in a ship cabin, indicates that are seeking some refuge from your emotions."

More on dreaming about vampires:

"Something is sucking the blood (passion, anger, energy) from you. Could be a particular person, event or emotion. A creature of the unconscious (dark) that is frightening, some repressed emotion."

"To see a vampire in your dream, symbolizes seduction and sensuality, as well as fear and death. The vampire represents contrasting images of civilized nobility and aggression/ferocity. It may depict someone in your waking life whose charm may ultimately prove harmful. Deep down inside you know that this person is bad for you, yet you are still drawn to it. Alternatively, to see a vampire suggests that you are feeling physically or emotionally drained. The vampire may also be symbolic for someone who is addicted to drugs or someone in an obsessive relationship."

OR it's very possible that maybe I shouldn't eat a weird concoction of whole wheat pasta, salmon, salsa verde, and Parmesan cheese right before bed.

Snow Day 2.0

This snow day was way less intense than the last one.

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Normal Conversation

I have just finished a successful work phone call at 10 pm. In which I cajoled, begged, verbally genuflected, and eventually got my way. I hang up. I pause.

"YES!"

Roommate, who had been trying to sleep, rolls over. "Hmmm."

"You're a little scared of my cutthroat business tactics, aren't you?"

"Honestly, I'm always a little scared of that."

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QotD: Responsible Engineers

"He didn't say 'That's weird.' He wouldn't have said 'That's weird' if a flock of sheep had cycled past playing violins. It wasn't the sort of thing a responsible engineer said."--Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, Good Omens.

It's been stuck in my head all day, so sue me.

Last Day of Vacation

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We have had a week of this stunning weather, from the 30th on. The urge to go condo shopping is almost irresistible.

Post Shopping Snack.

The juiciness of this pluot cannot be accurately described. It's an explosion in your mouth. Thanks, Fremont Farmers Market. Paired with some Port Salut from TJ's.

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Infamy

I'm in the car with the Ex on the way to Jazz Alley and "Ridin' Solo" comes on. I laugh.

"Is this your theme song right now?"

He laughs too. "It's been played a few times. Maybe more than a few times. And it's made the karaoke rotation maybe a few times."

"Wow, I'm famous!"

"Sort of. There's another word with 'famous' in it, have you heard of that word?"

"Nope. No idea what word you're talking about. Never been applied to me before, either."

Important Distinction

Roommate and I are locals, and have lived in Seattle proper for years, on and off, and currently live eleven blocks from Pike Place Market, which we have pretty much memorized, and yet here we are at Information, trying to find a tobacco store.

The Information Ladies don't know one off the top of their heads, so they are looking at a map to help us. I study the map outside. Roommate has been up since 2 am (not a typo) and is getting a little punchy and I'm worried she's going to cause the Information Ladies serious psychological damage. There are several maps of Pike Place Market, all drawn poorly, none with any relation to each other.

"This map is color coded according to building," I say to Roommate, around the corner talking to the ladies. "Apparently there's one in the Stewart Building."

"That's what they just said," she said, frustrated, "but who knew the buildings had NAMES? I just need them to tell me what it's by." (Pop quiz: can you name ANY of the Pike Place Market buildings?)

We finally agree that the tobacco store is probably by the Original Starbucks. We set off.

We walk in frustrated silence for several minutes, pushing our way through the hordes of tourists and Christmas dawdlers. Both of us agree that making maps that only reference building names is probably not the best way to go.

"Just proof that in the Information Age, simply having a lot of information is NOT the same thing as knowing anything useful," I said, rather dryly.

We found the tobacco store.

Winter afternoon sunshine.

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Activate Plan Get Me The Fuck Out Of Here

Okay, I have spent some time in Asian countries and third world countries and I rarely get overwhelmed, by ANYTHING, but I am in Seoul, and I just flat out escaped into a Starbucks. Let me tell you how rare that is for me. This may actually be a first.

Do not go into Namnaimun Market without valium.

There are things I actually want to buy, and every time I reach for my wallet I become paralysed by indecision and then I have to sit down, and there's no place to sit and I'm surrounded by 50,000 Koreans and everyone's pushing and shoving and no one loves me and I'm freezing and I have cramps and my roommate is cleaning the apartment and going on ACTUAL DATES and I am weirded out, man, and I need out NEED OUT I'M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND OMG A STARBUCKS.

Yeah. That's kind of how it was.

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Single AGAIN.

And I'm really pretty okay with it.

In honor of the demise of that relationship, I have an excellent text that I once typed, very drunk, to the most recent ex:

"Wowm jm. Uh noy sure how phrase the fact that I'm too dino to khalsa a penitent."

No, I didn't send it.

Portland Thoughts, At the Breakfast Table

(Author's Note: I recently had the opportunity to attend my great-aunt and great-uncle's 60th wedding anniversary with a lot of other family in Denver. It was a real blast, and one of the awesome moments was having my aunt-and-uncle's best friends come in for a surprise, who had been the matron of honor and best man at their wedding. Sunday morning, we were sitting around the breakfast table at the hotel and they started reminiscing about Portland, back in the fifties. It was a wonderful moment that I had to recreate from memory, an hour later--I didn't want to record it and break the moment. The following is the best I can remember.)

Our apartment back then had bunk beds.

That’s right! Bunk beds. Because there was no space for two beds side by side. But it was classy--hey, it had a separate bedroom! That was CLASS.

That’s right, and in the living room we had that double bed, with wheels on the top.

That’s right. If we had overnight guests, we’d lay it flat, you know, but in the daytime we’d push it up against the wall, and it became a couch, you know, because one side of the double bed had wheels on it and it ran up against the wall.

Like a futon, these days.

That’s right.

We shared a bathroom with the couple next to us, and SHE kept the bathroom clean.

That’s right. That was a miracle, such a boon for two bachelors living alone, you know.

Yes. And the walls were so thin that she could easily hear our alarm through the walls, so when our alarm went off, she used to jump up and run into the bathroom first.

That’s right, and one day we got wise to this, so Dave set his alarm for three o’clock in the morning.

(Laughter)

(Dave: I cannot confirm my actions at that time.)

They were such a nice couple, though, that the husband--what was his name?

Hap.

That’s right, Hap. Hap found me (Jimmy) the next day and said, “Hey, you know my wife gets up when she hears your alarm, and I think yesterday you might have set it wrong! I hope you didn’t get up late or miss an important meeting.”

(More laughter)

And he meant it, too--he was concerned about us.

That’s right. And then he was so nice about the girls.

That’s RIGHT! The landlady, would only rent to couples, normally, but she made an exception for Dave and I, but she said: “NO GIRLS.” We weren’t allowed to have any lady guests at all in the apartment.

That’s right. So Hap says to me, (Dave), “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “If you want to have lady friends over, you just tell me, and we’ll run ‘em through my apartment.”

(Laughter)

And when it rained, we had to put a PLANK down to walk over to the university.

That’s right. Thirty bucks a month, we paid for that place, fifteen a piece.

(Joan speaking.) And then there was that big house on Stevens street that we lived in right after we were married. And we threw a New Year’s Eve party.

(Dave speaking) And that was the LAST New Year’s eve party we EVER threw. All my fraternity brothers came, and their wives and girlfriends, and it got pretty wild.

[Name forgotten] got so mad that we ran out of fixings for Tom and Jerry’s, and so he went into the kitchen and scooped that stuff out of the sink!

(Joan) That’s right. We threw a dinner party there and we [she and Matron of Honor] were making spaghetti, because that was all we could afford in those days, and we didn’t have a colander so we were draining it over the sink and the lid came off and there went all the spaghetti, right into the sink.

[Matron of Honor] We looked around, and we didn’t see anyone, so we just scooped it out of the sink and put it back in the pan.

(Laughter)

Well, there wasn’t any more! To serve, I mean, or eat. That was all we had.

That was a wonderful old house, though. On that New Year’s eve party, Margaret’s husband Whitney was supposed to leave for Korea the next day, and in the middle of the festivities, he quietly left the party and went out to his car. No one saw him go.

All of a sudden we hear a gunshot.

All of us, thinking the worst, run out to the car, and there is Whitney with the gun in his hand, very calm. He had just fired it in celebration of the New Year. It was a tradition with him.

That’s right! He fired it into the ground, though, not into the air, because he was smart and careful.

Yes, he was very savvy with guns. Always was.

That was a wonderful old house. It was old and large and falling apart, but I loved it. They knocked it down, you know, because they put the street through there.

Oh, I didn’t know!

Yes, it’s gone.

Well, it wouldn’t have lasted long anyway. It was falling apart. Needed a lot of work.

(Dave) Like that cabin that my father’s friend, Jay Gould, (Author's note: ?) had. It was out by the lake. We used to go out there, and fish during the day and play cards at night, and he (Jay) had to have the biggest and best of everything, so one year he buys this gigantic, high-powered, portable radio. This thing was HUGE, I remember, although of course most of the size was due to the batteries. And it was my job, back when Portland had a ball team, to listen to the radio and call out the score. And I could barely hear it, because the reception was so bad, but still it was my job to sit with my ear pressed against that goddamned thing.

What was that announcer’s name?

Randy Truitt. (Author's note: I got this wrong.)

(Wow, there’s a name I haven’t heard in fifty years.)

Yes, Randy Truitt. And when they hit the ball, he’d announce it, and he had a matchbox in the press box and he’d flick the matchbox--thwock--so that it sounded like you could really hear it.

That’s right.

Right before we got married, Joan’s mother knew that she was going to move out, so we moved her into a much smaller apartment downtown, so she could get to work easily.

That’s right--right around the corner from the big Unitarian church. I slept on a cot in the living room, because we knew it wouldn’t be for long.

Right.

(Author's Note: It sounds so...simple. I'm not one to be nostalgic, but...awww.)

Beautiful Fall Day Conversation

Me: (begins to steer our walking back to work)

Kentucky: "Oh, yeah, guess we should turn."

Me: "Well, if we want to go back to work, we should."

Kentucky: "Let's just keep walking!"

Me: "And arrive in beautiful downtown Kent!"

Kentucky: "Hey, if we kept walking, we'd eventually get to California."

Me: "After a week."

Kentucky: "More like three weeks. How far do you think it is?"

Me: "From here to California? At least five hundred...I'd say, eight hundred miles."

Kentucky: "No! It is not THAT far. Well...where in California?"

Me: "Just to the border would be shorter."

Kentucky: "No, I want to go deep in California. San Francisco or L.A."

Me: "At least 800 miles. Maybe 1000."

Kentucky: "No!"

Me: "Yes! There's a LOT of California to cross!"

Kentucky: "I'm going to look that up."

(Much later.)

Me: "It's 808 miles from Seattle to San Fran."

Kentucky: "Hahaha."

Me: "And it's 1,135 miles to LA. AM I GOOD OR WHAT?"

Kentucky: "Yes. Quite!"

Me: "Thanks."

Kentucky: "If we walked at a 15 min mile pace, it would take us 20 days at 10 hours a day to get to San Fran." (Author's Note: She was right on when she estimated three weeks, earlier.)

Me: "4 miles an hour for 10 hours? We'd have to train."

Kentucky: "Yeah, I'm not saying it's going to happen anytime soon."

Me: "But what great training for Nepal!"

The Best Scene Of The Movie

Foy: ...He certainly did give himself a billing, this George M. Cohan.

George: You don't have to memorize that one, kid. There's plenty more all over town.

Foy: I'd like to forget it. Say, mister, you connected with this turkey?

George: What makes you think it's a turkey? I hear it's pretty good.

Foy: It's a malicious rumor to gyp the public. Who is this guy Cohan? Where's he from? What is he, an upstart?

George: Oh, he's been through the mill. Played everything. Small time, big time, vaudeville, rep shows. Even followed dog acts.

Foy: Must've looked like an encore. Say, uh, is he as good as Foy?

George: Who?

Foy: Foy, Foy. (Foy sprays George's face) Eddie Foy. Oh, pardon me.

George: Pardon me. I didn't quite catch the name. Would you mind spraying it again?

Foy: Eddie Foy! The star that's got the big show down the street with a chorus of seventy.

George: Why, I thought they looked a little younger than that. I hear now that Cohan's in town, Foy is gonna retire.

Foy: Foy won't retire till he's ninety!

George: Is it gonna take him that long to discover he has no talent? Why, they tell me when he tries to sing, the orchestra puts up umbrellas.

Foy: Tries to sing! Foy is a genius! He keeps his audience glued to the seats.

George: That's one way o' keeping them in the theater. Cohan does it with talent. Look (he points out the poster) - produces his own plays, writes his own books, lyrics and music, plays the leads, and he's a great dancer.

Foy: He dances, eh? When does he get time to practice?

George: When you write your own plays you don't have to practice. Cohan's done all right. He's given the world 'Yankee Doodle Dandy.' What's Foy done for his country?

Foy: He gave 'em seven kids.

George: Does he dance?

Foy: One o' the best.

George: When does he get time to practice?

Foy: Say, listen, young fella. My name's Eddie Foy.

George: I know it. I'm George M. Cohan.

Foy: Oh, so you're Cohan? (They shake hands) Well, if I said anything accidental to make you mad, I want you to know I'm darn glad I did.

George: I don't blame ya. I'd feel the same way if I were up against Cohan. What do you like to drink?

Foy: Oh, moxie-

George: I can supply it! The attraction inside is a whole lot bigger than I am. Come and see it when your show closes.

--From Yankee Doodle Dandy, 1942

Sittin' In Some Place Weird

The boy was sitting outside the restaurant, on the ground, I mean fully on the ground, his butt on the dirty concrete and his back pressed hard up against the railing that separated the restaurant's territory from the territory of the sidewalk, with all its casual passers-by, of which Bobby and I were two.

At first I thought the boy was a homeless kid high out of his gourd, with his legs hanging out slackly in front of him, cuffs and shoes resting fully in the filthy alley, his arms hanging limply by his sides, but his shirt and jeans were pristine and not cheap. His face was clean, he was young, and he wasn't mumbling or grinning, but his eyes stared blankly at nothing.

Bobby put a finger on it first: "THAT'S a breakup."

I turned to him. "You're right! I was trying to figure out what the hell was going on."

Bobby nodded. "We're all been there. You have to leave the restaurant, and your feet won't carry you any farther than you to absolutely have to go. So you end up sittin' in some place weird, and you know you're being awkward, and you know you're attracting attention and you're just like, "Fuck ALL of you. I'm gonna sit here and be weird, and fuck you and the horse you rode in on."

Taxi Driver Interviews: Part I In An Occassional Series

(After the taxi driver caught my eye a few times, as I was hesitating between grabbing a cab and taking the bus.)

"Ah, I THOUGHT you wanted a taxi! I thought to myself, 'She needs a taxi, she just doesn't know it yet.'"

Yes, I was thinking about taking the bus, but if I did, I would have been late, and I can't be late. It's important.

"Oh? You have an important meeting? Is it with a VIP? Is it work, are you on your way to a work meeting?"

Actually, it's with my boyfriend, so...yes, he's a VIP.

"OH!" (Laughing) "He IS a VIP! He's a super VIP!"

Yes, I think so.

"That is good, you're a good girl. But you know, men, we are used to waiting for women. Women are ALWAYS late."

Yes, we take a long time. We have to get pretty.

"Yes, but they are always worth it!"

Oh really?

"Yes! Women are always worth it. We men, we always wait, but if she is a good girl, she is worth it. If she is nice and sweet, and doesn't cheat around, and a pretty girl...she's worth it."

I see.

"You can tell your boyfriend I said so."

I will do that.

"Now, my older daughter, she is not a good girl. Not worth it."

...I'm sorry, what? Your daughter is not a good girl?

"No! She is not a good girl. She's not in school, she doesn't work around the house, all she does is sleep all day and go out all night, she's loud, always playing the loud music, keeping her door closed. Lazy. Worthless girl."

Oh?

"Yes! I kicked her out. I told her, 'You have to go, get out.' Because you have to be firm, you know. I asked her to do just a little bit of work around the house--help your sister, clean your room, help clean the kitchen, you know, just...HELP! It wasn't a lot--just help out the family, everyone has to pitch in!"

Yes, that doesn't seem like a lot.

"But she wouldn't, so I kicked her out. After two months she came back, she said that she was sorry and she didn't like living without the family, that she would change and it would all be different. And after three weeks...she was back to her old ways. Going out all night, never helping. I kicked her out again. Three weeks, she lasted, but without the family, she is still crying."

That's sad.

"Yes! She is loco en cabesa, as the Spanish say."

(Laughing) Crazy in the head! Yes. Are you Spanish?

"No, I am Egyptian. But I love languages. And you speak Spanish?"

Un poquito.

"Un poquito, well, that is still good. I speak Spanish and some Italian, and I am trying to learn Japanese."

Wow!

"I love languages. I love people!"

Me too.

"Oh, here we are! Tell your boyfriend that you are worth waiting for. You are a good girl."

Words of Love

Boyfriend: "I remembered that tonight is the start of the NFL season but am going to the symphony to be with you anyway."