Last One Home

3 Lonely Months Later...

2010-04-26T11:10:00.005-04:00

When you were a kid did you treat your stuffed animals like they had feelings? Not all the time, of course, but every once in a while did you catch a glimpse of some forgotten doll with its head smashed underneath a box of legos or your favorite oversized white tiger carelessly tangled in a set of dress-up beads with one sad little paw poking up above the rim of the toy box, and you swear you heard a faint "help me..." that made you focus on it just a few seconds longer? No? Oh, ahem. Well, how very mentally developed you were as a child then.

I did.

And I know you did too, don't be a twit.

Ha, twit. That's a funny word.

On those occasions when I saw my toys in a state of neglect or distress, particularly and probably exclusively the ones that had faces...I don't think I was so concerned with the emotional well being of my Lincoln Logs, I would TRY to ignore the impulse to soothe their feelings and put them in a more comfortable position, but I just couldn't. Maybe it was the first inclining of a maternal instinct, maybe it was mere delusion, maybe a childlike insistence to hang on to the last vestige of belief that my toys were not just stuffing and fiber, but something real. But really, I think it had more to do with not wanting to ignore something that I had given a piece of myself to.

So, in a round about way, all this is to say, I miss my blog. And I just got a glimpse of it, crumpled in the corner under the weight of work and facebook and wedding planning (oh yeah, did I mention I got engaged?) and this post is an effort to gently pick it up out of the toy bin, pet its head a few times, maybe even whisper an apology if I think no one is looking, and place it gently on the top of the stack, even though that means something else will now be slightly disfigured at the bottom.

Music to My Ears...and, er, Eyes too I guess.

2010-01-31T22:28:00.004-05:00

I know it's been a while since last I posted, and that huge gap in time growing ever larger has been like a insurmountable hurdle in getting back into the posting groove. I've opened new posts only to ramble on and on trying to catch up on months of unwritten thoughts, only to delete the whole thing because I sound quite like stream-of-consciousness on crack. So there will be no catching up. I will not tell of all the things that have happened lo these long months. You will not get to hear about my trip to Kentucky or Europe, and just forget about a comprehensive Christmas list or rundown of how many servings of stuffing I was wont to imbibe. New Years came and past, but far be it for me to detail the drinky night. I could have written a thousand posts by now, but I haven't, so I'm getting over it. I'm sure I'm the only one affected by my own laze.

And yes, laze is a word. I looked it up.

I've got the Grammy's on now and I could not be more entertained. I'm not much of a music person myself, but big events like this enthral me and I love seeing the odd matchups they force on the presenters. Like Kesha with her arms crossed tightly across her chest and her weight shifted sassily on her left leg rolling her eyes with self important bitchiness while her much younger and completely unknown (to me) co-presenter fumbled a line. I can just imagine she would much have preferred herself hanging off the arm of...anyone else. Then Mos Def and some Latin Classical singer did the most awkward bit of banter imaginable and Stephen Colbert got one laugh. From his daughter. Who I'm sure was in on the act.

For the most part the performances have been captivating- my favorite so far was the beautiful ballad Pink sang called Glitter in the Air, which has much more soul than the title would imply. Lady Gaga opened with Elton John, which was brilliant and I think I'll be catching that again on YouTube. Beyonce sang "If I Were a Boy," which feels sad and haunting at the same time...but maybe that's me...and then mixed it with, of all things, You Oughta Know by Alanis Morissette. I kept waiting for Alanis to walk on stage to riotous applause, but it never happened. Enter, dismay. Disapointingly Mary J Blige, who I usually like, totally squawked all over Andrea Bocelli, and I think their duet of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" would have been much improved had Andrea just sang both parts himself. No trouble, right? I imagine anyone with Bocelli will somewhat pale in comparison. There were a few others too- Jamie Foxx pretending he knows what hes doing with "Blame it on the Alcohol," which just proves that money will buy you just about anything, to include a singing career, Dave Matthews Band singing the same song that they've been singing since 1994, but with different lyrics, and Taylor Swift's and Stevie Nicks' independently beautiful voices clashing over a medley of both artists songs. Bad flow.

Since I've been writing this there was another performance, which I've already forgotten completely and a tribute song to Les Paul where the camera man(s) focused more on the strikingly interesting looking female singer with her funny hair warbling a 1940's sounding tune and less on the magnificent guitar playing by some guy who is probably famous but whom I've not met. Considering Les Paul was a guitar legend of some importance, it seems quite unfortunate the camera couldn't be bothered to pan over a bit to the twisting and contorting musician sweating riffs mere feet to the left of the warbling singer. Putting in a real honest effort, he was. I think they've missed the point somewhere.

Ah, well, it seems Comcast is having trouble keeping the sound up and running during the GRAMMYS. Le sigh.

Don't make me grab your ankles...

2009-10-19T17:27:00.002-04:00

Hello, I'm here, don't go away!

Boyfriend and I are prepping for a dual trip to visit my roots in Kentucky with my family before immediately taking off on our 8 day trip to Europe. The KY/Euro combo commences in t-minus 4 days. Stress much? Blogging hasn't been a top priority.

But please check back! I have so much work to do I can't even start writing the posts I want to now, but I will...soon...I promise...maybe. Not that anyone is waiting with baited breath or anything, but I'm just saying I will be back. Sometime. Hopefully.

My confidence in the matter is staggering.

Ren Festing

2009-10-05T09:31:00.002-04:00

Wow. This past weekend boyfriend and I and two of our friends sojourned to the Maryland Renaissance Festival, and it...was...awesome. If I happened to have been a bigger nerd in high school, the Maryland Ren Fest would have been my yearly safe haven. Teaming with bully-fodder of all kinds, it was like this magical hole in the space/time continuum that allowed for the oft sought paradox of "normal" and nerdy. A mingling of present day and past fantasy. An all encompassing exhibition of the conveniences of sturdy footwear and hand sanitizer against the stark backdrop of wool clothing and hand forged arrows. And a really cute guy that spoke Gaelic and taught me a swear about some guy named Cromwell.

Enough of that. But it really was fun. My friend and I immediately set to the task of acquiring the perfect state of tipsy on the real life mead (which was shockingly tasty, especially mixed with hard cider). Being quite practiced in the matter, we were able to meet our goal and then moved on to trying on metal head ware, watching an archery match, cheering for the jousters, and devouring a turkey leg or two. What more could you want out of your renaissance festival?

As a side note, I'm watching a news segment right now where DC Mayor Adrian Fenty just spent 4 MILLION DOLLARS building the biggest bike station in the United States. Thats right, "What is a bike station" is the correct response. This, amidst near violent protests over hundreds of teachers being laid off in the DC public school system due to lack of funding. Way to budget, team America.

So in conclusion, next year we have already decided that we are going to DRESS UP for the Ren Fest (hopefully I'll have forgotten this by next year), and I'm hoping to be an elf...pointy ears and all. Please, no swirlies.

Crying Over No Milk

2009-09-29T11:12:00.003-04:00

I love soups of all kinds. Even the poo-ish looking lentil/bean soup that films over in the cute deli around the corner, because no one wants to eat the poo soup. But its delicious, just like every other soup in the world.

I'm no foodie really, and I'm not ashamed to admit my love of soup extends happily to my grocers canned goods isle, where I stock up on my favorite Campbells delectables. Sorry Progresso, I can't stand your tinny aftertaste. Today is the first real day of Northern Virginia fall, so I decided to pop a Chicken Corn Chowder in the microwave and enjoy the slightly sweetened goodness.

Except there was no goodness! Only squishy bits of chicken fat and a broth so thin and bitter I spit it out immediately. Whats all this??? Campbells, you've failed me. I checked the expiration date, no problems there. I checked my microwave setting, seems to be in working order. I reread the heating instructions and confirmed they were properly followed. What gives?

Determined to have my cozy meal, I go for soup number two. A delightful variety of Campbells Turkey Pot Pie. But again, no delight was to be had! Only a twisted up bad-food taste face and a slight mess in my microwave from all the popping. Ugh. I need soup!

Now I don't know how to proceed. I have my heart set on something rich and (dare I say the word...oh, forgive me) creamy. I thought about making a variety of my own soup/hearty warm fall dish, but alas, I've no milk, and they all require it. And I'm not wearing pants so I can't just run to the store. Clearly an insurmountably obstacle.

Now you may just say, why are you even concerned about lunch food, its only 11:20 am. You've barely just had breakfast, fatty. But you don't understand! I just came from 4 days of visiting my family in Indiana and all we did was eat and talk, as is custom. My stomach became quite used to hourly feedings and now I'm suffering the first twinges of American-style hunger pangs, which, naturally, are nothing like rest-of-the-world hunger pangs. So dissimilar, in fact, I almost feel guilty making light of it, really. Too much trouble to erase now though! Whats done is done.

So I guess I'll go have some peanut butter on crackers, as I also don't have any bread. My palate, it suffers.

Cleanliness is next to...uh...

2009-09-22T10:25:00.003-04:00

I was always at least mildly interested in school growing up, however one particular subject consistently fascinated and motivated me to continue studying and learning: me. Ah vanity, you are a wiley minx. So, yes, big surprise, the blogger likes to think about herself. I do not believe this will come as a particular shocker to anyone.

My recent academic pursuits on the subject revealed a startling discovery that may change the way I face my mornings. Let it be said that I was never a morning person. Growing up with a twin sister, I was the one most often characterized as lazy, while she was the one my mom would suggest running laps around the outside of the house. While pushing a wheelbarrow of bricks. In knee deep mud. She just had a lot of energy to burn. Naturally then, I always found myself the last to wake up of the pair- a trait I've regrettably inherited from my father who is a class A world champion sleeper. And a great dad, I might add.

The last few days I've been SO TIRED in the morning, much more so than usual, and I've been spending half the morning hours rubbing my eyes, drooling on my shirt and trying in vain to convince my neck muscles to hold my head upright. Yes, its true, I am a newborn.

I realized this morning though that the last few days I have also been showering at night. In my mind this save leagues of time in the morning rush, however, with the new evidence at hand I believe my logic is faulty. I went through the whole age regression song and dance this morning and then at 10 am decided to hop back in the shower to liven up, and wonder of all wonders I am now quite refreshed! And zestfully clean! My day has finally begun!

So now we know, the cure for excessive drooling and lack of motor skills is....water.

Julia Weeps

2009-09-14T19:04:00.004-04:00

I've been steadily repeating to myself over the last week my new favorite guilt induced mantra, "I have not abandoned my blog...I have not abandoned my blog...I have not abandoned my blog.....Ooooohmmmm, Ooooooohmmmmm......I have not abandoned my blog...mother earth...I have not abandoned my blog....soy chips and carbon footprints...nuevo hippie jargon. And so forth and so on. I'm really a novice when it comes to mantra chanting.

I wasn't planning on posting today, but I guess my subconscious is tired of the self-induced and completely unnecessary guilt. You would think I was Catholic or something.

Anyway, religion notwithstanding, I just got back from a 3 mile "run" and am still feeling a bit on the jelly side. I'll have you know that the term "run" in my estimation means any activity greater than or equal to a forward motion performed on a treadmill. Take that as you will regarding my fitness level. I'm no Flo Jo.

After said run I decided some dinner was in order, as is customary in the mid-evening hours. I got all Julia Childlike and whipped up my favorite "healthy" dish of plain microwaved frozen chicken breast with a delicate honey dipping sauce on the side. My palate demands only the best. And I love microwaves. And I'm not much of a cook. Clearly.

The microwaving process has never been much of a challenge for me, as I passed 4th grade many years ago and thankfully grew some very handy opposable thumbs, so it is with a heavy heart that tonight, when the final score was tallied, the results were Me: 0, Microwave: 1. The 1 would stand for 1st degree burns. Note to all: do not, under any circumstances, "fiddle" with the plastic wrap covering your frozen chicken at any point after you've started the food cooking process. There's steam in there. Evil, wretched steam. Burney burney steam.

Now, as the blisters are no doubtedly setting in on my pulsing left hand, I must away to tend to my (completely preventable) wounds. And then I will start the paperwork for the Me v. Frozen Chicken lawsuit. How many innocent knuckles must twinge before something is done!?! Justice will be served! Victory will be mine! All you need is love!

Uh...how'd that last one get in there...

Hey Pepto Bismal

2009-09-09T19:16:00.001-04:00

Should bananas taste spicy?

Hmmmmm....

This just in: I think I ate a bad banana.

Random Bits

2009-09-02T09:41:00.003-04:00

Looks like I kinda fell off the blogging wagon there for a bit. I guess a week sans blog doesn't really qualify as "off the wagon" though. It's more like I was wrapped around the wheel, cartoon style, as the wagon made its way down a gravel path strewn with detritus of all kinds. But I have found my way back (!) and am now sitting comfortably on a haystack enjoying the view...covered in gravel and detritus, naturally. There are no showers on a wagon. Especially a metaphorical blogging wagon.

There really hasn't been much to blog about lately, and I didn't want to just ramble on about nothing in particular. Heh. As though I don't just ramble anyway.

I've taken a few weeks off from posting about More to Love, and I think I've waited a reasonable amount of time to curb any sort of obsession rumors that may be floating around. At this point in the show, there are only 3 (THREE!) ladies left in the man hunt, and I am SHOCKED with the selection. First of all, and trust me, this isn't the shocking part, Luke had decided to keep the four (as of the prior week) thinnest women on the show. One of the women doesn't even appear to have a weight problem. She's just cute. AND she's a fitness trainer! I'm calling a foul on that one. The shocking part in all of this is that the remaining women have not once even considered (or the producers edited out their consideration) that Luke may not be right for THEM. Ugh. I overlooked this in the beginning because you don't really need to life-screen a first date, but things are getting serious gals, and as much as I support Fox's portrayal of the people on this show, I would really hate for the final message to be a resounding, "Take what you can get, fatty!"

Ahem, moving on. I'm prayerfully considering buying a new bed. Does anyone have any thoughts on that? The one I have now is a hot mess. I've had it since senior year of college and it's really seemed to lost its will to live. Most annoyingly, the metal frame is stuck in the temperamental toddler years and can't make up its mind if it wants to stay in an upright and locked position or if it wants to randomly and without warning fall apart. Before you get any ideas, I assure you that there hasn't been any "vigorous use" issues that could account for such unusual bed frame behavior. Even the slightest movement threatens to upset the delicate balance and one time, I kid you not, my bed dropped an inch and a half after a small cough. Additionally, the mattress is lumpy and mounds up in the middle. No me gusta. So, Cheapy McGee over here has to throw down some funds for a new bed. Boooo.

Finally, I tried to hang some art work on my living room wall over the weekend only to find out that my living room wall is made of f-ing concrete. Instead of artwork, I have a really nice hole in the paint about 2/3 of the way in. Very art deco.

Ahem

2009-08-24T09:12:00.003-04:00

I told myself that today I would do all my mindless internetting and the ritual eating of the breakfast before starting work so I can maximize not only my efficiency but also cut out all the fun stuff in one fell swoop so I don't use it as an excuse to take take a 10 minute internet break after making one phone call.

Do I get a prize or something prize-like for my award winning run-on sentence?

I've found a flaw in the plan. I don't know if you all realize this or not, but the internets, they are infinite. And my blog is part of the infiniteness. And blogging takes more time than just about anything else I do on the internet. Ergo, I'm sacrificing time management on the alter of efficiency. Should I have brought a burnt offering for that? Where are my manners...

I was deathly ill (read: scratchy throat) this past weekend, and by Saturday night I had lost my voice completely. However, just prior to Saturday night I sounded exactly like a pubescent bullfrog. Most warm blooded humans with any ounce of soul tethered even perilously to the last vestige of flesh and bone would be able to garner some kind of sympathy for the infirm. The cashier at CVS on Saturday night was no such mortal being.

Non-Human CVS Cashier: Hello!

The Otherwise Sympathy Inducing Human Customer: hII. (Ahem, cough, clear throat)

NHCVSC: Is this all for you? (motioning to my extra strength throat spray stuff)

TOSIHC: yES, (hack, clear throat) THank ooO.

NHCVSC: So, are you sick or what? What do you need this for?

TOSIHC: Na sURE wh--- (ahem) what is WRONG. My vo--- (ahem) vo--- (cough, ahem) vOICE keeps go---ing iiNN and out.

NHCVSC: I'm sorry, what did you say?

TOSIHC: (Ahem, cough, clears throat) I s--d I th--k I'm OOsing my VOice.

NHCVSC: Come again?

TOSIHC: My thROAT huRRts and I'm l--sing my --ice.

NHCVSC: Ha ha. I heard what you said the first time. Ha ha ha.

TOSIHC: J--k (hemm, cough) JERK.

In totally unrelated news, throat spray makes me gag.

Counting Down to Retirement

2009-08-19T22:34:00.005-04:00

Who else feels like their memoirs should be titled, "My Best Just Isn't Good Enough: A Look Into the Ugly Side of Near Constant Failure?" I've worked 13 hours so far today and I'm still going to miss a deadline. Ugh. That's my hand you see there in the horizon with the gnawed fingernails and nervous twitch sinking down into whatever fictional body of water you would like to envision. I'm personally imagining a mid-flush public toilet of grotesque magnitude...that feels about right. That hand movement you see there, it's not quite a wave, more like...oh, lets say...a desperate signal for help. Please don't ignore it. Do, DO send coping mechanisms straight away- I prefer chocolate and What Not To Wear marathons, but am open to exploring other ideas. I'll also be needing a copy of the classifieds. Chop chop.

Cookie Monster

2009-08-11T23:51:00.004-04:00

Up until 95 seconds ago, I honestly believed my parents fed me cookies swimming in a bowl of milk for breakfast throughout my impressionable formative years. I distinctly remember indulging in delicious overflowing bowls of chocolate Teddy Grahams many a morning before bouncing off to elementary school in a blissful sugary rush.

(Sidenote, it's late. My syntax isn't perfect and I definitely realize that I've technically admitted to eating delicious bowls, but what I meant to say was that the Teddy Grahams in the bowls were delicious. The bowls themselves were only so-so. I'm too lazy to fix the sentence, which is absolutely hypocritical based on the amount of time I've spent explaining my mistake.)

Anyway, I just found this site that proves my parents were not intentionally nutritiously neglectful. Teddy Grahams were marketed as actual cereal in the 90's, which I fully support given that I may still primarily consume them with a spoon. Or a shovel. No wonder half the population has the di-a-bee-dus. I should go ahead and put Wilford Brimley on my speed dial. Wonder if he's on facebook...

Where Do I Apply

2009-08-10T22:58:00.006-04:00

A certain Texan friend who knows me well recently suggested I look into professional "adult romance" fiction (aka porn lite) writing to obtain the obscene salary and personal job satisfaction that I so longingly desire and have no prospects of achieving in my current line of work. Being a novice in the field myself, I wonder how to go about exploring this new career opportunity. Naturally, I like to write, so right away I have a head start. I'll check that off the list. I wonder if there are any sort of formal internship programs already set up, and what the application process for such a program would entail. Would field research be required, and if so could this be merely observational or is it best to get hands on experience? Would I have access to cross vocational training? What about opportunities for advancement? I think I would be ok writing novellas or short scripts, but venturing into full length smut creation seems intimidating. I have a hard time committing to an email font, let alone entire themes of ill repute! Perhaps if I can get a foot in the door I'll be able to work my way up the corporate ladder. You know, I'll bet the adult fiction industry has a whole different set of professional jargon that I'm not even aware of, as our culture is so proficient with the double entendre. I wonder what analogous item a professional is expected to climb when dealing with this facet of the entertainment industry? Surely not a ladder. I have much to learn.

Wanted: tall, muscular Eastern European equestrians from medieval times or sooner for field research on an upcoming novella. Long flowing hair preferred, though all types are welcome to apply. Indicate on your application if you have any previous experience rescuing or seducing distressed and/or repressed damsels, or if you have any allergies or sensitivities to sand, hay, grass, musty air, dark alleys, or heavy breathing as prolonged exposure to these items is necessary to fulfill terms of employment. Applicant must be able to gaze longingly and/or with burring desire for at least 30 minutes at a time. EEO employer.

Good thing I rarely follow through with most of my bright ideas, huh mom. She would be so proud.

Natural Born Stalker

2009-08-05T16:02:00.009-04:00

I promise that my future posts won't all be about More to Love. Except for this one.

Cross my heart.

Hope to die.

Er, let's change that to "hope to dye." The former seems unnecessarily severe. It's just a blog.

Last night boyfriend and I settled in for a glorious night of slovenly watching the teevee. Boyfriend left work early and I joined soon thereafter, and not one minute after my foot crossed the threshold of his gadget infested man cave we had our bootleg season 2 of Battlestar Galactica up and running. Bliss.

As a side note, your sinful judgement of my sophisticated entertainment tastes is leaking through my monitor and beginning to corrode my keyboard. Battlestar Galactica and More to Love- think of it as diversity. PC TV.

After 3 captivating episodes of the aforementioned BG, we switched over to last nights second episode of MTL. It was the most deliciously engrossing train wreck of a deluded love story I have ever had the honor of bearing witness to. And I don't even care that I ended that sentence in a preposition. I'm willing to let the ghost of my 6th grade teacher, Mrs. Berrong, the same teacher who threatened to cut off a chunk of my sisters emo hair style during her "wall of bangs" phase, haunt my dreams tonight just to describe the twisted splendor of this show.

At this point in our big boned tale of love and loss, the contestants have presumably met Prince Charming ONE TIME. The girls are preparing to go on a split group date for their second opportunity to win over the boy wonder with their feminine wiles and curves of varying degrees, so naturally, here come the testimonials. There is one lucky lady in particular, Christian, who is convinced that the bachelor already loves her, and refers to his unwavering commitment with the same kind of ignorant passion and dewy romantic filth usually reserved for fairy tales and Disney movies. She waxes on about how he is the man her mother would pick for her, how he is so sweet and gentle with her, how he clearly respects and admires her pure heart and all other manner of deluded foolishness. I think she may have even uttered the word soulmate. Meanwhile, this guy is making out with 5 different girls all at once and 3 others are waiting in line behind them. Christian must have some kind of mental disconnect, because Mr. Right can't even muster up the gumption to kiss her on the mouth, and she thinks thats great! She fancies herself quite the alluring and mysterious tease. At one point she pauses in her litany of praise over his every quality, and he actually kinda halfway goes in for a real kiss as she just stares at him in bug eyed, fanatical admiration, but then he diverts mid-strike (you can almost hear him mentally say, "Nah") and plants an awkward cousinly peck juuuuust to the left of her lips, but nooooooot quite on her cheek.

She, of course, takes this as a sign of his gentlemanly charm, and continues to go on about how they were meant for each other, and that they have so much in common, and how she fits just perfectly in the crook of his shoulder, and how they will be so happy together forever once she can get rid of all those other evil bitches and lock him up in the cellar in her parents basement so she can have him all to herself where no one will ever be able to take him away from her. Not even a psychiatrist...or an excorsist...or a swat team. (pant, pant, pant) Just as the camera pans away, you catch the first fleeting glimpse of what ends up being near constant stalkerish adoration sweep across her face, and you just kind of know that underneath her pillow she's hidden a Luke replica doll made out of candy bar wrappers and a pair of dirty boxer briefs she stole out of her last crush's laundry hamper that night she crawled in his bedroom window to watch him sleep.

Anyway....I spent most of the show pacing in front of the tv like I was watching a sporting match, yelling at the girl who couldn't go 45 seconds without crying, cheering on the ballsy vixens going in for the kill, and literally whooping with delight when Bonnie, the edgy tattooed quick witted girl who proclaims to have the soul of a 50's housewife, said something clever. Boyfriend did his best to ignore me while balking at his temperamental computer and throwing out the occasional, "Wow, you must...uh...really be into this show, huh. Why don't you sit down, you're making me nervous."

As promised, that is all for my MTL synopsis. Until next week. Heh.

Disclaimer for the previous post

2009-08-01T18:50:00.000-04:00

Hello blogging world, it is I, your humble servant.

The post following this one discusses a topic sensitive in nature. I really debated publishing it because I fear it may send a message regarding myself, when the intent was more along the lines of social commentary. But publish I did. Obviously.

The issue below is not about me. It's not about my weight or my self image or my insecurities, and I hope that as (or if...or as if) you read it, you will consider the representation of my own feelings as examples to my point, not as the point itself.

Clearly, once (or if), you read the post and then, as we did in middle school, apply what you've read to this post, you will understand that some issues never fully resolve, even if the appearance of the issue does.

Gratis.

Love Loving More to Love

2009-08-01T17:21:00.000-04:00

I'm not what you would call the most...petite...woman to have ever graced the world with her presence. So when I saw the previews for More to Love on Fox, basically another in the long line of Bachelor-type shows but featuring contestants that have what some might consider "bonus material," I was not only skeptical that the show would turn out to be a season long exploitation of fatties throwing their weight around in a manic effort to find the one thing they believe their own bodies will never allow them to have, but I was also wickedly curious.

The show definitely didn't disappoint, and after the first episode I am shocked by the surprisingly kind and honest way that Fox handled the portrayal of these women of no insignificant stature. Did they seem a little pathetic and weepy? Yes, of course. It is "reality" television after all, there has to be some kind of drama, but gosh darn it, they have a right to seem pathetic! Their tears were so meaningful and produced from years of an inner dialogue that repeats over and over that they aren't good enough, they are too fat, no one will love them this way, they are disgusting and they must change. Even the most strong willed, self confident, physically perfect woman on occasion questions her looks, wonders if life would be different if she was a little taller, her eyes a little brighter, her nose a little straighter or her boobs less lopsided...

Ok, lets be real here. That last one shouldn't really count. Don't we all wish our boobs were a little less lopsided?

Anyway, my point was, before I got distracted by boobs (hmmm...is this what it's like to be a guy?), that the women in the show, and countless others like them, have an ongoing, daily reminder of their defect. It's in the way they walk, the type of clothes they wear, the activities they continue to make excuses to avoid, the wondering who will be thinking nasty thoughts about them if they buy an ice cream cone, or a salad, or nothing at all. Average framed people can't possibly understand just how deep the fat goes. It gets in every part of your life. You begin to truly believe that no one can look past it, not because it is true, but because you yourself can't look past it. It's all you see. You can't forget it. You can't have a relationship or a conversation or even a passing glance with a stranger on the street without knowing deep down that they see a fat person, first and foremost. You tell yourself this, again, not because it is the reality, but because it is your reality.

The vulnerability of this show was staggering. Women, myself included, have gone to such great lengths to deny to the world that they see themselves as fat, or more realistically, that all they see in themselves is fat. We typically don't address it. I remember I used to not even like to say the word fat in any type of context, because I was sure if I did, whoever I was talking to would immediately apply the adjective to me. I read a comment from some TV critic after the first episode aired that mentioned that one of the contestants, I can't remember her name, confessed that she had never been on a date because she was always afraid she was being asked out only as a joke. Like someone was having a laugh at the fat girl's expense, to see if she would really believe that someone would actually want her. The critic seemed aghast, like this line of thinking was borderline delusional. But it was so real. I know I've always thought like that. It made me wonder how many men I have accidentally turned away in an attempt to save myself from a phantom humiliation. Before I met boyfriend, and alas, sadly even after I met him, I would pawn off every guy who showed me even the slightest bit of interest onto my girlfriends. I didn't want them to think that I was so stupid as to believe they might be into me. In bars if a guy came up to talk to me, I assume it was just to get to my friends, so I automatically get into matchmaker mode. It even took me months to fully convince myself that boyfriend actually liked me, and wasn't just using me for a while until he could find a better model. I literally asked him, point blank and completely unprompted, if he actually liked me or if he wanted me to set him up with someone else. On our third date. Right after he kissed me for the first time. After he had called me every day since we met. After he took off work early two days after our first date to surprise me at work because he couldn't wait to see me again. After we had been emailing every 15 minutes for the last two weeks because we had so much to say to each other. After all that, I still couldn't and didn't really believe that an average sized guy could ever really want me. But he did! And he does! Yay!

I say all of this not to garner any sympathy or fish for compliments or get slapped on the face with a floppy dead herring (I couldn't think of a third reason why I would be not saying this, but it just sounds better to have three options), but rather to just commend these brave women who are giving a voice to the fears and insecurities and realities that so many other people face. Being fat is still so taboo, and most fat people are still so scared to really talk about it. Not just make jokes or excuses or vows to lose weight, but to really talk about how the present reality of weight winds its way though every aspect of their lives. I think that watching this show made it so clear that these women will most assuredly find love because they are good, beautiful people with sparkling personalities, and I think the longer the show airs, the more evident that truth will become to the women themselves, no matter who ends up with the well-built bachelor, and to the rest of the world.

I think we should all take a minute to thank Fox for not letting this show become the big joke that those beautiful women are so afraid they may fall into, should they let themselves believe that they are worth the real thing.

2009-07-24T18:07:00.000-04:00

The last few weeks have swept through my life with all the force and fury of something quite forceful and furious. Ugh. I waste too much time trying to be all prose-y. I should treat this blog more like a free writing session. Remember those from elementary school where the teacher would write in gigantic perfectly formed hand writing a couple of inane topics on the board and you were supposed to write without ceasing for some ungodly amount of time- like 10 minutes or so? How did we ever survive basic primary education? The horror. I actually always liked free write time because I fancied myself something of a wordsmith in my youth. A skill that, as so many things in the life are akin to being, requires nearly constant practice and refining to maintain. How unfortunate. Early on, though, the trick is just to pick unique things to write about and no matter how terrible it is, the teacher will still likely find it more stimulating than the same text that they have read every year since the dawn of time. I love teachers. I wish I had become one. I always wanted to be a teacher until I realized that I didn't really like children much.

Anyway, so I've had a busy bit of life here. I'm gonna get real real and complain about my ongoing urinary tract infection. The one that will not quit. A very devoted and persistent strain of bacteria, really. Damn overachiever I've got. I'm almost done with my second round of antibiotics and it is still going strong. Apparently, it laughs in the face of danger. This is no mortal UTI. My next proposed treatment will be to either find and swallow handfuls of kryptonite or replace the whole urinary track with drinking straws and plastic baggies. Can anyone recommend a good surgeon for that who would be familiar with the process?

I would love to blog more, but I have to go take my antibiotic. Or, as I like to call it, the placebo.

2009-07-03T11:44:00.000-04:00

What is this strange situation I am in? I'm so confused. I'm at my apartment, and it's Friday...usually a work day....I know I have work to do, but there is this force, stronger perhaps even that the pulse of life that beats through every moment....that is pulling me toward....nothing. Doing nothing. Doing nothing. It's beat fills my core. Doing nothing. Doing nothing. Doing nothing. What is this?

Something is coming to me...a hazy vision, mere shifting forms stretching out from the debts of my memory. A vague familiarity washes over me. I've been here before, in this situation. I know this place. The foggy vision comes closer, in sharper relief by the moment. Now it's clear. I have total understanding. I HAVE been here before. This is free time! I'm having free time! No pressure, no working, no drone of the everyday. Free time!

You would have thought I could figure this out, knowing that the holiday has been approaching for the last YEAR, and it came around last year too, and the year before that. I should have been prepared for the shock. Ah, free time.

Even as I typed "ah, free time" I breathed a little easier. Things have been biz-ee. I got all caught up with work and was doing really really well up until 2 weeks ago when I went back to home-sweet-home to see my friend's darling gassy baby and hang out with the most wonderful 4 Women of Independent Means that the world will ever know. Then last week boyfriend and I took an impromptu trip to New York over the weekend, which was delightful, but did nothing to help the work situation. So now I'm "celebrating" the extended July 4th weekend by doing NOTHING...at least for a few hours. And at some point I promise (myself) that I will catch up on all the work. Maybe.

There is nothing else of consequence to blog about at the moment, besides my inexpressible excitement over Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince movie coming out in a week and a half, to which I already have a ticket for the midnight show with boyfriend and two other great friends that share our obsession with the Boy Who Lived. Heh. I'm not ashamed!

Family Sitcom

2009-05-29T10:33:00.000-04:00

Wow. It's been so long since my last post that the internets didn't even remember the website. I had to type the whole thing in the address bar. Ah, I shall be faint with fatigue if I have to keep up such difficulties.

My parents came to visit last weekend and we had a great time. I'll post more on that later (at a time when there is no reasonable expectation that I am doing actual work instead of blogging...heh) and it took nary but 30 minutes time to realize that I should be chronicling all the weird things my dad said during his brief stay. I think I whipped out the paper and pen while we were still just driving back from the airport. The highlights are as follows. Pay close attention, you TOO may be old and weird one day, and you'll want to reuse some of these.

ME (on the phone making a work appointment): Thank you (name), I'll see you at (time, place).
-just barely hangs up phone in time-
DAD: Are you sure you're not a prostitute?

SCENE: Sitting at an outdoor restaurant with mom, dad, me, facing a fancy entrance to a very well marked building.
DAD (motioning to the building with very clear signage): Have you ever eaten at that restaurant?
ME: That's a food court, dad.
- to be clear, the sign on the building said "FOOD COURT"-
DAD: Oh.

SCENE: At the bar of a nice upscale restaurant, having a drink while we wait on an open table.
BARTENDER (to dad): And what can I get for you, sir?
DAD, loudly: Do you have any blackberry wine?
-Dad is referring to cheap flavored wine, along the lines of Boons Farm or Arbor Mist.
BARTENDER, clearly confused: Uh, no sir. I believe all of our wine is made from grapes. Do you like...grape...flavored wine?
DAD: No, huh-uh.

Scene.

Comes Back Around

2009-05-03T12:46:00.000-04:00

A year ago I wrote a post about how I had unfortunately procrastinated in packing to move into my first solo apartment. Welp, hello again! I move to my SECOND solo apartment in a mere 3 days and I have nary even a single item boxed. Granted, I don't have a lot of stuff, but you would think that I would be more on top of things. Or, if you actually know me, you would not. At all. In fact you would be impressed that I even remembered the move date. Sadly, this go-round is a little different because on top of moving I also have a solid bit of work to do (from home) so I can have time to move. And if there's one thing I'm good at, its putting everything off to the last minute in favor of more stimulating activities like watching Dirty Jobs and Girls Next Door.

I typed out a whole paragraph detailing my disappointment in the Sunday 1:00 pm TV lineup, but when I reread it I sounded way more pathetic than I will allow, even on a quasi anonymous blog. So I guess writing this post is my last stand, the final frontier between me and my work. And I'm afraid I've lost. Damn.

I'm Melting

2009-04-28T10:57:00.000-04:00

Good news! I "calmly alerted" my apartment management that I was experiencing a "moderate pest issue" and they sent in exterminators to spray my place the following Friday. Naturally, I made a mental note to have everything neat and tidy for my Friday saviours, and planned as such so that the exterminators, whose esteem I clearly desire, would know that I was just the unfortunate victim in this insect tragedy, not the cause of such. Unfortunately, while they told me the exterminators would be in on Friday, they actually came on Wednesday, and I was quite unprepared for guests. Luckily, I was not at home typing in my underwear...ahem...not that I do that anyway, I'm always properly dressed when working...but unluckily I was about 12 hours away from doing dishes. Which means that the kitchen could best have been described as unseemly. When I got home on Wednesday evening I saw a note from said exterminators cautioning me not to leave out dirty dishes, as they attract bugs. But...but...but...I'm a clean person!....they weren't supposed to come until Friday!....I would have had everything nice and tidy on Friday!...I've been framed! I definitely wasn't prepared for the Wednesday visit, and I have half a mind to invite those exterminators back over to show them that I am clean and keep a tidy apartment, and the roaches aren't my fault. I can feel their judging eyes on me even to this day. It haunts me.

The note from the exterminators also cautioned not to spray any insecticide in my apartment as it may interfere with the effectiveness of their spray....uh....considering I practically set up a Raid bomb in my apartment nary but 2 weeks ago, that may be a problem.

I think bugs are just attracted to me no matter how much Raid I spray. Yesterday when I finally got home after a long day I noticed an itch at my scalp. When I went to scratch, a freaking ladybug flew out of my hair. Ok, fine, it wasn't a ladybug...it was one of those stink bugs that look like brown ladybugs...but definitely not as bad as a roach in my bathtub. I let the "ladybug" live and it is now just hanging out on my wall. No reason to smash a stinkb...er...ladybug in my apartment.

Summer has brought all of its sweaty, uncomfortable friends to my neighborhood for a block party way too early this year. The last couple days have been in the low 90's and today its supposed to be 89. Which means my apartment is hot. Sauna hot. I should charge myself to sit here. My bananas are ripening at a ridiculous rate and I no longer have to bother with boiling water to make tea. Also, my skin is melting off. Yet I REFUSE to turn on the air conditioner. In April. Even though, according to my mom, this qualifies me for early entry into the old lady club. I'm ok with that. Even though I realize that it would probably only increase my electric bill by about $20, I abstain on principle alone, even if that means sweating to death buck naked in my insect infested apartment with the dirty dishes.

Psych. I have no scruples. I turned the air on halfway through the post.

Unholy War Against Nature

2009-04-09T20:37:00.000-04:00

Fueled by a bottle of lambic peach, I decide to post yet again.

Nature has it out for me. And it knows exactly which irrational fear buttons to push to send me over the edge. Last Sunday, on the day of our Lord, a sacred and holy day, a day for relaxation and reflection on the blessings we've all been given, the spawn of Satan himself made a visit to my home. For four terrifying hours I struggled with this unholy spawn, until I was so mentally and emotionally exhausted I thought I would surely give up. But I didn't. And with one last push of all the strength I had, I finally overcame.

There was a roach in my bathtub.

A ROACH in my BATHTUB. The place I go naked. The place that cleanses me. The place I go to relax after a hard day or a workout or a stress knot in my back. And I found a live roach. In there. It was 3 pennies long. Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to pull back your shower curtain and find a live 3-penny long roach flipped up on its back with its hairy spikey legs floundering in the air and 4 inch antenna flopping against the floor?

Luckily, or so I thought, it appeared the offending creature has already partially succumbed to my protective spray of preventative Raid that I faithfully hose through my apartment every 3 months. However, to be on the safe side I immediately, after a brief minute of wigging out and pacing frantically through my living room, sprayed it down with at least a half can of additional Raid. Then I "calmly" shut the bathroom door so that the roach could finish its death sentence in peace, as I would wish it do the same for me if it or any of its 8 billion relatives were ever to show up in my apartment in the future, and then vowed never to enter my bathroom again. No more than seconds later I called boyfriend to come remove the beast from my presence.

Except he didn't answer. I left a "calm" yet non-descript message requesting his immediate assistance, as he doesn't quite understand my irrational yet pervasive fear of bugs whose only true potential for harm to humans is producing the heebie jeebies. And waited. And waited. And then I sent a text. And waited. It soon became obvious that this distressed damsel needed to grow a pair and double as her own charming prince. And I can be very charming. I went into the bathroom again, peered into the bathtub and wouldn't you know that f-ing bug was still f-ing alive! FOUR HOURS LATER after literally wading in a pool of poison, this mutant of a roach is still kicking around its hairy spikey legs and the damn antenna again flop against the floor. Literally, the bug was drenched in roach spray for four hours. No effect. Still alive.

I called in the only infallible action I know- I took my moms advice. Mom is wise. She told me to smash it with something heavy. So I did. And it died. Finally. And then I had roach guts all over my bathtub. And then I took a nap. Exhausting work, extermination and hyperventilation.

After a long and well deserved nap, I knew I had to dispose of the creature somehow. Flushing seemed the most fitting and least creepy method. So I taped together three pieces of junk mail end to end to create the longest "shovel" with the most stability to scoop up the roach-that-would-not-quit, and as quickly and with the least amount of shaking possible, I flung it into the toilet. And flushed. Oh no! In my fog of panic I completely forgot about the weak swirl! Very limited flushing power! The flush was unsuccessful! THIS ROACH WILL HAUNT MY DREAMS! I will never be rid of it! But I had come so far, I would not give up now. Three more flushes and I was finally free of the roaches snare. And now, the next Thursday, I was able to take a shower for more than 30 seconds in my bathroom without fear. Baby steps.

Grassroots Effort

2009-03-17T10:25:00.000-04:00

Right now if you were to walk into my apartment, your first impression would likely be that I've been robbed. It's a mess. But it's MY mess.... ..... ..... Ugh, yeah, that logic isn't working. Why is it SO HARD to keep my place clean and orderly? I need a manservant. A tidy muscular manservant.

I was horrified last night when I read an article about the earmarks in the economic stimulus plan. As you know, I am SO politically minded. So you can understand my outrage when I read about the millions of dollars being spent to eradicate the Mormon cricket in the Northwest. Outraged because I think this issue actually deserve billions, if not trillions, and should be immediately elevated to national security levels. Can you imagine how terrifying it would be to have swarms and hordes of "roaches with grasshopper legs" tear through your town?!? One lady even said she would wake up to these 3-inch long MONSTERS in her BED! AUGH! Just reading that made me sleep with the light on. Lets all rally congress to supply more funding so that we can get this problem cleared up before the abominations make their way to the East Coast.

Please, write to your congressman today.

Welcome Back, Sanity

2009-03-02T12:55:00.000-05:00

The last few weeks here at homestead Chatfield Lite have been kind of rough. I started getting behind at work- and if I haven't mentioned before, I work from home, so there is nary a time when a distraction is not but a few inches away. See also: 460 square foot apartment. Nothing is ever more than a few inches away. Unless it is in someone elses place.

Anyway, so I got behind on a bit of work, and then I started working frantically to get caught up. All that work then led to gross neglect of domestic responsibilities. And then mail started piling up. And then I kept forgetting to call about renewing my lease. And then my dishes didn't wash themselves and I ran out of underwear and I got a letter from the DMV about insuring my car that I don't drive that I didn't realize needed to be insured while it wasn't being used. But now I know. So last night I got to an ugly place where I realized I was running low on non-guilt related issues in my personal and professional life. So I went over to boyfriends house and watched Harry Potter.

Ok, so that last part wasn't quite the solution I was looking for, but today I have my resolve back and my dignity is also not so far away. I'm staying in today not only because of the overwhelming responsibilities that I've neglected, but also because Mother Nature or Father Time or Aunt Flo or some other obscure relative/mythical force of nature decided to dump 5 inches of snow on the ground. Just the excuse I need to get caught up on work and life! I'm doing things in phases. Work for an hour, TV for 15 (er...or was it 30?) minutes, clean the kitchen for an hour (yes, it took an hour), put some clothes away, and back to work. Oh, and blog. Always blog.

Today is officially Get Your Shit Together Day in honor of that person whom I sometimes wish I were if only becoming her didn't cut into my reruns of NCIS. Happy GYST-D everyone!

Overage Drinking

2009-02-23T19:49:00.000-05:00

There was a guy at the grocery store today who was clearly intoxicated, and when our paths intersected in the bread isle, he looked me straight in the eyes, grabbed the end of my cart, shook it a little and screamed "BOO!" Uh....

Yeah. I just laughed manically and walked by quickly. That was the right thing to do, right?

Captain McGumsbleed

2009-02-19T20:28:00.001-05:00

I noticed today that my gums are SO SORE. Let me take this time to point out that one does not typically pay much attention to their gum comfort on a day to day basis. In fact, most of the day I could tell something was bothering me, and it took a few hours to realize that the pain was radiating from my mouth which I didn't even think to consider because my mouth is one of my favorite and most reliably pleasureable part of my face. Eating, talking, eating, kissing, drinking and talking and eating. All good things that come along with the mouth. Gum pain...not what I expected. Or at least not what I expected in the next 105 years or so until there was literally nothing else to complain about.

But there I was, old-lady gum pain and all, trying to figure out what was going on. At first I thought I must be pregnant- mainly because that is always my first and worst fear and it has so many damn symptoms that are not only exceedingly common (uh...hunger and food cravings- see: uses of mouth) but also can be explained in a million different ways (like...for example...oh...freaking gum pain).

So, the good news is that unless I'm carrying some kind of tasty pirate baby spawn made of carbs and high fructose corn syrup, I think I may know the reason for my problem. Last week boyfriend and I went to Wal Mart and I succumbed to their low low prices on everyday goods and indulged in a giant box of Captain Crunch with Crunchberries. Which I have been eating in healthy portions daily since. I got thrown off because the roof of my mouth is fine- no shredding or bleeding as is common with the Captian. But I just had another bowl (glutton for punishment?) and noticed that while the pulsating pain in my gums was not unbearable enough to leave even one crunchberry uncrunched, it is clearly irritating my mouth. Mystery solved. When do I get my own Discovery Health show?

Love is in the Air

2009-02-14T22:28:00.001-05:00

I'm sitting here staring at the Blogger page willing myself to write something witty and clever that my sister will say is funnier than Dooce. That method always works, right? The psych-yourself-out method? The writers-block method? The pressures-on method? Some of the greatest unread authors of our time relied heavily on all of these methods, with varying levels of success.

Valentines Day was lovely. I made bf a delightful hand made card highlighting his finer points and believe it or not the man actually cried. Tears. Tears of Crying. Well, tear. One tear that he casually wiped off from under his eye RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY FACE. Not even a cough and turn or declaration of allergies or a panicked and unexplained splash of water in the face. And he wasn't even ashamed to admit it. Do I need to repeat that? He said it was the most thoughtful thing anyone has given him. Which, well, besides being kind of sad for him, was so wonderful and the best gift for me, ever. I couldn't ask for a better man. This is no joke.

We actually did Valentines Day yesterday, on the oft overlooked holiday of Feburary 13th. Don't bother re-checking your calender, that would be Friday the 13th. We are nothing if not romantic. After a ceremonious blood leading and chainsaw massacre to mark the occasion we tucked into a game of Fable II on the Xbox. The romance was palpable. Hearts all a flutter. Well, flutter is understated. I guess forcefully removed by what I believe is supposed to be magic electrocution would be more accurate. But I'm no expert. Learning something new is romantic, right? Then we fell asleep watching a TiVo'd episode of American Idol. Life of the party, we are. I'd rather be geeky and sleepy with no one else.

Overall, a great Valentines Day.

Le Sigh

2008-07-12T17:48:00.000-04:00

I watch TV. Not a lot of TV, but the tube is on every once in a while. Right now I am watching the Seasonique birth control commercial where the "logical side" of the brain wears a sweater vest and the "emotional side" of the brain (because as we know, women can't possibly use emotion and logic at the same time. We just aren't smart enough, and it will make our uterus explode...) wears long dangly necklaces. The "logical side" of the brain nods pensively as she researches the benefits of Seasonique on her computer while the "emotional side" slumps in a chair waiting for the logical one to finish the research so she can hurry up and take the damn pill and then go sleep with the quarterback of the football team. Once the "logical side" gives her approval, the "emotional side" of the brain commences dancing spastically to the music in her head. Thanks, Seasonique, for understanding me.

There is a gum commercial out now that I can not hardly even bring myself to access the memory of in order to write about, but I will do my best. A presumably thirsty lady walks up to a male coworker who is chewing the advertised gum. The man is sitting by a water cooler, and instead of consuming some of the refreshingly clean bottled water to quench her thirst, she instead somehow breaks the guys nose and thus activates a saliva-drinking system inside his mouth. So the lady leans over and appears to start to kiss the guy, but due to the repulsively accurate gurgling sounds, you learn that the lady is actually DRINKING the contents of the mans mouth.
I can not even properly express my revulsion at the thought of drinking hot bubbly gum spit. Especially if you are not even the sole proprietor of such bile. Yar.

AT&T needs to get their marketing act together and stop acting like their own patented "Rollover Minutes" are the equivalent of sporting a mullet. The commercials show a family sitting around the breakfast table, and the bitchy wife finds that the punky son "threw away" his rollover minutes, and then a later commercial shows the husband throwing the minutes away too (because he sloppily spills milk on them). In both commercials the bitchy wife has to nag the men to use the rollover minutes because they are exactly the same as the current months minutes, while the men argue that the rollover minutes are not cool and they shouldn't have to use them. Were none of the marketing execs at AT&T ever teenagers? Do they not realize that having your mom yell at you to use something outdated might not really put you first in line to follow those orders? Why are they trying to inspire animosity toward their product?

There are others, many others. Like the Bounty commercials that shows a grown man "cleaning" the spaghetti sauce pot with a single sheet of paper towel while his wife smiles and playfully rolls her eyes in the background and the commentator says that she should have known she would have to go back and clean up after him. People, seriously. Why should society (or Bounty, I guess) perpetuate the myth that a man becomes a really tall monkey when presented with house work? THERE IS NO REASON WHY A MAN CAN'T PROPERLY CLEAN A DISH ON HIS OWN! Why does the wife have to go back and clean up after the man?!? Where was the man educated and why does he think that a single paper towel can clean a whole pot?!? Why can't she send the man back to clean the dish!?! Pant, pant, pant...

Where dat skill?

2008-06-19T22:23:00.001-04:00

Oh good, it is less than a month in between posts. Phew. I was afraid I was getting lazy here. Obviously that is not the case. Obviously.

Tomorrow is my last day at my job. I will have officially worked there exactly 3 years- I didn't plan it that way, it just happened. That, along with the fact that my boss couldn't have been more ambivalent about my leaving, just drove home the idea that I am likely making the right decision by taking my new job. My new rock-star job. My new rock-star job that pays for all my gas. Ah, now you see! You are jealous, aren't you? Go ahead and admit it, I won't gloat.

I really want to get into more reality TV, because there really isn't enough TV in my life right now, and so I watched the mess that is called America's Got Talent a few nights ago. As it turns out, this statement is false. My favorite "act" was the 15 year old boy who twirled batons. After his twirling and twisting and delicate toe-pointing (all of which I will readily admit, I would not be able to do even if I were hooked to strings and pulleys) the judges talk to the boy about how he is teased at school and his peers accuse him of alternative sexual orientation and lack confidence in his general manhood. As if an endorsement by David Hasslehoff isn't enough, to stick it to the bullies, the hosts then bring up the boys MOTHER to defend her son's honor, and then play Mariah Carey's "Hero" as he walks off the stage in his 100% slim-fit sequenced shirt. Thank YOU America's Got Talent for securing a firm beating when the twirler gets back to school.

Ah, America.

Nothing special

2008-05-21T09:50:00.000-04:00

I haven't really had that much to blog about lately. Everything is proceeding nicely, work is happening at the same rate it usually does, life is a well oiled machine. I hope I don't believe in jinxes.

I'm just at the apartment right now, counting down the minutes until I need to leave for work. There are clothes all over the floor and dishes in the sink, which I am ignoring quite successfully in order to blog. Priorities.

It's Champion Time

2008-05-06T09:04:00.000-04:00

Whip out the old "things to do before I die" list and hand me a red pen...time to cross one off. On Sunday, I "ran" 13.1 miles to complete my first half-marathon. Ok, so I didn't run the whole thing, but I started off running and finished up running, and there was some running in between too. I'm really proud of myself, and am so glad I stuck with the training and dreading and cursing myself for agreeing to do such an unnatural thing even despite the searing pain I still have in my left foot. Cheetahs run 13.1 miles at a time, cars run 13.1 miles at a time, and now I run 13.1 miles at a time. Oh yeah, and boyfriend runs 13.1 miles at a time too, and he runs it much faster than I do.

The family came and went a few weeks ago and it was really fun. Most of the fun centered around the fact that I suspended my half-marathon training while they were here (and, ahem, the week or so before), and the fun was not at all squelched by the meager amount of sleep we all managed to get. Or the alleged shooting my mom SWEARS happened right outside my window. My mom and sister, who were blessed with the foreign concepts of style and taste helped me decorate and arrange my apartment to their liking, which tends to also be my liking in retrospect. They talked me down off the ledge of bright, bold colors in favor of decor that does not mirror a college dorm room, and for that I will be forever grateful. They also managed to convince me that my most wonderful and blessed oversized couch is not green, as I have (apparently incorrectly) believed it to be for the last year or so. Apparently, it is taupe, which is not green. Even though it looks green to the naked eye. But it is not. Green.

I've been having a blast playing kickball with my friend Maggie on the National Mall lately. We signed up for a kickball league called Nakid (No Adult Kickball Isn't Dumb) and are proud members of team "We'll Kick Yo Balls." The Nakid league, unlike the two other kickball leagues in this area, is really about 30 percent kickball and 175 percent Coors Light. While our kickball skills have remained fairly underdeveloped, we are noticeably much improved at flip cup and dancing on the bar.

And work. I still go there pretty much every day. That's about it with work.

All Mine and Bigger than a Breadbox

2008-04-23T18:16:00.000-04:00

Sound the alarm, alert the troops, fire the missiles...I have officially moved all the way into my new apartment! All the boxes have been unpacked, the clothes are in the closet (er...or on my floor, which makes it really seem like home), the kitchen is organized, and amazingly enough, it all fits just right into 460 square feet of living space.

No, that was not a mistake- my apartment is only slightly larger than the cubic feet on the smallest Uhaul truck.

I love my new place. It is so cozy but still has enough room to stretch out the teeny tiniest bit. Like one leg at a time. My family (sans little sister) is coming to visit tomorrow and I have finally put down all the finishing touches I could muster, though my decorating skills can best be summed up at "remedial." That reminds me- I forgot to get a scented candle at the store to cover up the smell of claustrophobia.

I'm really excited for my family to visit, though I'm not sure where we are all going to sleep. I have enough sleeping surface for everyone, just not enough room to lay those surfaces down at the same time. Maybe we will sleep in shifts? Perhaps someone gets to sleep on the balcony? I could invest in a hammock.

Well, we'll see how it goes. It's time to stop ignoring the $125 worth of groceries (read: junk food) I just bought for the fam that are splayed about my kitchen.

Happy Birthday to Me!

2008-04-09T20:43:00.001-04:00

We did it! And it only took two more days. We hit our "modified goal" at work today, which in my mind means "we hit our goal" but in the company's mind means "yeah, but you took the short bus to get there." Fine, whatever. I'm ok with that. The short bus is my preferred mode of transportation nowadays anyway. All my friends are there.

I've got American Idol "Idol Gives Back" on, and boyfriend was right- it an hour Idol trying to make you feel bad. But its so INTRIGUING. Yes, Idol, tell me what a lazy scumbag I am that I'm not reaching for my phone now to donate DOUBLE my original amount if only Ryan Secrest would blow a kiss to me in the camera. Although, if I did call and Ryan Secrest blew a kiss to me into the camera, I would likely get nervous and hang up.

I should be packing right now. Obviously I am not. I move in two days, and can't wait to have my own apartment, but there is just something so surreal (read: labor intensive) about packing everything up that I am so mentally hesitant (read: lazy and unmotivated) to start. Most of the packing is done, and now I'm left with the stuff that I should throw away, but can't bring myself to do. Or the odd bits of stuff that have no obvious place. Or big things that don't fit in a box. And EVERYTHING. MUST. BE. IN. A. BOX.

My birthday was yesterday and went really well. Boyfriend has been great and once again went above and beyond. He got me a new (used) tv that will work with a remote (how novel!) and accessories for my mp3 player, treated me to a fantastic weekend watching fireworks and going to Cherry Blossom events, we had some great sushi and watched I Am Legend, and I got sick. Boo. I'm still not feeling great, but I'll survive.

I've saved the best gift for a paragraph all it's own because it was just that awesome. Rock-star BF made a bouquet of origami roses complete with pipe cleaner stems- thorns and all!- and little pictures of us in the center of each rose. He even topped it off with a very liberal dousing of his cologne, so they smelled fantastic. Really amazing. He had them sitting on my desk when I got in to work and I was FLOORED. Absolutely in love with this man!

Oh yeah, and I got my license renewed. I could have done that online, but I wanted a new picture that didn't look like I was the star football player on the high school team. My new pic is cute, but my face is bright red. Almost glowing. Literally as though I had dipped my face in a vat of blush and motorboated it around a bit. But at least I don't look like I might eat you.

She's Alive!

2008-04-07T21:37:00.000-04:00

There is so much going on right now that I don't even know where to start. I've been contemplating starting a new blog called "Don't be Jealous" or "Glad I don't work there" or "My job is the kind that gets written about in fun op-ed pieces that are designed to make you feel better about your job," but I decided that since I've been lagging 4 months in between posts, I better not bite off more than I can mindlessly chew while watching Biggest Looser.

Anyway, if I were to write this new blog, it would be full of stories about how I work for a pack of retarded feral vermin and how most of my "customers" look to Flava Flav as a personal and professional role model. But thats another blog. I'll get to it eventually.

I move out of my apartment in a mere 5 days to become a single apartment renter for the first time. That, friends, is one step closer to home ownership! So close I can almost taste it.

We are closing in on another quarter at work, and are about 50 students away from goal- with 5 days to go. We can do it, I think. Hopefully. Maybe. We'll see.

Long Overdue Update

2008-01-14T12:12:00.001-05:00

The short story is as follows: Boyfriend came home mid-November, spent almost every waking hour with him since. Couldn't be happier. Home for the holidays and helped my parents move. Lovely time. Had some major dental work done. Wasn't so great. Planning a trip to the Yucatan Peninsula in 4 days. Yay!

And now I am watching the clock tick down the hours untl the end of our goal cycle at close-of-business today. Barring any unforseen changes (which could very well sneak up on me in the next 7 hours, given that they are unforseen), my office has reached our goal and there will soon be merriment of all kinds. I will continue, as is custom, to twist open oreos, scrape the icing out, and eat the delicious chocolatey cookies until that time comes. For those keeping score, this would be classified under "nervous eating."

Checkout, revisited

2007-11-18T19:15:00.000-05:00

I wasn't kidding about the seriousness of using the self checkout lane at the grocery store in one of my previous posts. After lugging in my $80 worth of groceries I found out that the cashier put my tomato in the same bag as my gallon of milk. The TOMATO in with the MILK. Who does that??? I can not even properly express my frustration on this matter. I may even call the Safeway store to complain. I understand that sometimes bagging mistakes happen, and that is fine. But putting a tomato in with the milk???? That's not a mistake, thats just idiotic and lazy. Honestly.

Any for the record, the tomato is completely obliterated.

Rock Out Tinkerbell

2007-11-11T17:26:00.000-05:00

I'm watching some kind of professional figure skating show on TV because it is Sunday, the day where networks just kind of give up, and there was just a routine set to a classic rock type song. After viewing this...debacle...I can safely say that putting a skinny blonde figure skater in a tight leather jacket and those snuggly little skating pants will make him look more like a soft core gay porn star than a rough and tumble badass biker rocking out the jazz hands. I'm just saying it doesn't work.

Non-Discriminatory Shopaholicing

2007-09-09T21:00:00.000-04:00

I love grocery shopping. While the domestic freak club is understandably low on the membership scale, I am proud to be part of its ranks. My mom doesn't understand this abnormality, and maybe in 10 years when I have additional mouths to feed besides my own (and trust me, any mouth that shares even a fraction of of my genetic makeup will require plenty of...ahem...food for nutritional purposes only) this fun weekend activity will morph into a parasitic necessity that drains the life from my very bones and turns me into one of those ladies you see on TV with frizzy hair and orange lipstick and 12 children hanging precariously from any latching on point of my body, and I will want to run myself over with the little motorized terror-cart that the geriatrics use mainly to piss us walkers off.

But since the closest I can conceive of actually having more than one mouth to feed is maybe a really super hardy houseplant that does not require any special grocery items or sunlight or frequent watering, then I will hopefully maintain my love of the grocery store for years to come.

After I have perused each isle filled with foods that have too many calories to purchase, but just enough calories to justify wistfully and lovingly caressing the packaging thereof, and after I have loaded my cart with enough cans of tuna to feed all of the late Bob Barkers spayed and neutered cats (R.I.P), and after I have scrutinized every last loaf of honey wheat bread to find the one with the latest sell-by date despite the unpleasant reality that it will somehow manage to mold in exactly three days anyway, I head to the one place in the grocery store I only simply tolerate, and not explicitly love. That is, the check out line of Sunday-rush hell.

I don't think raw egg makes a very good marinade for things like cans of ravioli or chocolate-cookie-crack-crunch-a-doodle-do ice cream, so I prefer to ring up my own groceries and bag them in a manner that does not indicate I've just preformed my own lobotomy. The self-checkout is the one place I can relive the glory days of my youth working as a cashier at the best darn little market in central Indiana, and I take my ringing and bagging speed very seriously.

Now, I know the self-checkout, just like social welfare programs, are available to anyone in the store who plans on paying for their goods. However, just like social welfare programs, there are a select few who consistently and blatantly violate their right to a better check-out experience, and they are the grocery shopping equivalent to the crack whore who keeps having babies just to get more food stamps that she will sell for her next fix. Or whatever. I'm no expert.

I had not one but two such self-checkout crack whores in front of me today, laboring slowly over their bulging carts as my frozen onions melted and started growing sprouts out of the cereal box below. The first was a large loud lady who, despite having her tween son there to dutifully help her through the check out experience, still insisted on swatting his hand out of the way as she stalled before every single freaking item to inspect the packaging. Her cart was full to the top, ladies and gentleman, and four or five people made it through the opposite line, not to mention the full service lines, before she even got half her cart unloaded. I would like to think she was checking for trans fatty acids in order to replace those items with healthier fare, but after the sixth box of Friday's appetizers passed her inspection and carefully made its way into the gaping mouth of the plastic bag, I gave up on determining her motive.

The second guy was no better. He had ransacked the produce section and was meticulously pulling out one of every type of unrecognizable vegetation that the store had in stock. He would pick up two very inedible looking clumps of something that was perhaps dug out of a hole next to a chemical plant, and place them both on the scale. Then, realizing that they were different items, he would remove one. Then, woops!, he doesn't remember what this particular bit of fiber was called so he would have to ponder it for a minute, (no joke) with his head resting pensively in his hand. On and on it went.

Eventually the produce monger and the nit picker were out of the way and I was onto mine. I still enjoyed my shopping experience, but I sure as hell whipped through my check out line fast enough to make Superman jealous.

I'm Back (no vengence)

2007-09-08T22:00:00.000-04:00

I have obviously been somewhat lazy with the blog lately, and this time I have no clever excuse like "my power cord to my computer isn't working." Turns out that excuse was never very valid to begin with considering the problem with the power cord would fall most fittingly into the "user error" category rather than the "stupid ass technology never works anymore" category. Ahem, thats all that needs to be said about the issue sans a word to those of you who may experience power failure in the future: try pushing the cord all the way in to your computer before sending it back to the manufacturer.

I think that while I may be the "blogging type" (not to be confused with the "sad and lonely blogging type that writes her thoughts on cat food/lost love/weather patters in central Ohio), I spend so much mental energy typing up daily emails to the boyfriend and the BH/C crowd that by the time I get around to the blog I've already said it all. But when has not having anything to say ever stopped me from jabbering on, really? They didn't give me a Communications degree and then tell me to shut the hell up for nothing! No, I must honor my academic success in the only way possible for the ill-advised Comm major- I must blather on incessantly and pretend that four years of study has done something to make me a reasonable writer, even if all the evidence points to the contrary. And then I must use all my well-honed B.S. skills in my pursuit of an MBA where I still put off writing papers until the day after they are due. Thank YOU Taylor University!

While I have quite a few updates about my work situation, I am leery of posting them here for fear of the Dooce curse. Suffice it to say that thing are...different...now since the change in management and I may be looking for a...different...job soon, depending on how the old "beg for a yearly raise" song and dance pans out in a few months. But I still like my job, and I don't dread waking up on Monday mornings, and my coworkers are lovely. I really can't complain. Oh wait, strike that.

Boyfriend is on his last leg of perma-travel and I expect him home at least by the end of October. I have seen him more than expected lately, and I think we can safely give the relationship a few more months to see where things are going. :) All the travel has been hard on us, but who doesn't just love a few character-building opportunities every now and again? What's a relationship if it isn't riddled with at least one or two spots of contention, right? I mean, trouble free- psh!- who wants that!?! You would have to be delirious to request it. I'm sounding quite mad right now, aren't I? Oh lookie there, now I'm using British slang. I really must stop reading Brit blogs. They fill me with repressed angst that comes off as bad attempts at wit. I should leave that kind of thinking to those slightly-surly experts across the pond.

Moving on...hmmm. Um. Suck a duck, I knew writing that would be a thought killer.

Not for the Faint of Gut

2007-08-10T16:13:00.000-04:00

Yesterday there was a rather irritating "know-it-all" type of person in my office who I was trying to help. She was young, probably early 20's, a bit overweight, sloppily dressed, and had an air of unwarranted arrogance about her that gave off the impression she was trying to seem older and more experienced than she actually was. I was really trying hard to get her out of my office as quickly as possible, right up until the point where I completely lost control and literally almost vomited all over her face.

What would warrant such a visceral reaction, you ask? The lady hoisted one of her chubby legs across the other one, looked down at a fresh scar amidst the prickles of unshaven hair on her calf, picked the scar off with her stubby fingernails, and ATE IT right in front of me as though it were a piece of gum. Honestly. Almost vomited.

Just Keep Paying Me

2007-08-05T21:33:00.000-04:00

There have been some big changes at work this week and I'm not sure how I feel about them yet. My job is not in danger, but my love of my job may be at stake, and I'm not willing to give that up without a fight. I have a feeling that this quarter will be a real time of trial not only for me, but for my coworkers as well, and I'm less than enthused about the upcoming months. That being said, I will still do my job diligently and hopefully with at least a tiny shred of skill and hopefully things will at the least maintain their current level of acceptability. Come January 1st, we'll see what my paycheck looks like and if I am not pleased it may be time to test the waters outside my large-windowed, great-view office.

Please Sir...

2007-07-28T21:41:00.000-04:00

I went to happy hour with some coworkers the other day and as I was standing there talking to my boss, some rather attractive man comes up behind me and whispers in my ear, "I think you are gorgeous," and walked away. Who knows why he did it- maybe he was being honest, maybe he was drunk, maybe he lost a bet- but whatever the reason, it was damn good to hear! That was the very first time anything like that has ever happened to me. Please sir, can I have another? :)

Row Row Row Your Ass, Scraping on the Ground...

2007-07-28T19:26:00.000-04:00

I just got back from an interesting day of tubing. It took me a while to pick an adjective to insert in to describe my tubular time, but I think my final decision is a good one, or at least encompasses the trip to it's fullest extent. It was fun most of the time, irritating at times, burn-y at times, but most overall it was interesting. Let me set up the scene: there were 8 of us on the trip- a married couple, a dating couple, and four non-coupled. Usually this would make for a nice mix where hopefully no one feels pressure to pair off and no one feels like the third (or 9th, as it may be) wheel. However, the dating couple sure did do everything in their power to make things as awkward as possible, including, but not limited to the girl getting quite drunk, randomly passionately making out while the rest of the group was in conversation, dry humping on a single tube, and other such affections that best be left for a more...intimate setting. I am no prude, and am myself quite liberal with the PDAs when boyfriend is around, but come on, this was ridiculous.

Perhaps what was more interesting (read: annoying) than the over the top affection was the general attitude of the girl in the couple. I've known her for a couple months, but we really aren't quite friends yet, just good acquaintances. I heard from one of her roommates that she was feeling kind of down and ignored by the people around her, so I wanted to make an effort to be more friendly. This was the main reason I went tubing, as she was the one that planned the event. Ah, and what a nice place to start on my little rant about this particular person. I have never been tubing before, so when the opportunity presented itself, I jumped at the chance as I've heard it's a fine activity for generally lounging around and goofing off while consuming tasty libations. The information about our trip was a bit slapdash at best, but that's pretty common with this group, so I did the best I could to research our location and the weather conditions and then just showed up at the appointed time.

Problem number one: this girl, the organizer and the PDAer, had no clue what in the world was going on. She was sure to have LOADS of alcohol purchased , but beyond that she was utterly inept. She didn't realize that the weather called for thunderstorms all day, or that the river was very low due to no rain this month (which is not fun when it comes to tubing), or that she had quoted everyone the wrong price by about $15. Oh well, she is a little ditsy, so I'm glad I did my research beforehand and was prepared. No big deal.

Problem number two: Homegirl is VAIN and OBNOXIOUS in all caps. Forget lowercase, she doesn't even know what that is. Let me be the first to say she is absolutely gorgeous and I would kill puppies for a living to get to look like her, but she must have insecurity issues to the max because she fished for compliments for the entire three-hour "relaxing" ride down the river in which I wanted to drown myself. There is nothing worse than a beautiful woman who makes every man within ten feet of her tell her how beautiful she is every thirty seconds, lest someone forgets. She even wore a full face of makeup, curled her hair, had on earrings and bracelets, and carried around lip gloss for a trip down a freaking river. Honestly. She insisted on bringing the lip gloss with her on the actual tubes (can't leave it in the car or else the fishies might miss seeing her glossy shiny lips) and then was upset when she got drunk and forgot to get it out of a bag of empty beer bottles and someone threw it away. Of course, she couldn't admit this was her fault. Instead, she blamed the guy that drives the van with the canoes of stealing it. That's right, a 50 year old shirtless hillbilly stole her fancy lip gloss. Sure.

And then there was the clothing discussion. Oh Lord, the clothing discussion! One of the other people on the trip is a teeny tiny girl who openly said (because someone asked) that she was 4'11 and 98 lbs. Obviously teeny tiny, but she doesn't make a big deal of it, so why should anyone else? Anyway, the tiny girl was on a time crunch and had to shower and change clothes to go to a concert after tubing. The obnoxious one says that Teeny Tiny should just shower at her place (where we all met) and borrow some of her clothes. At this point it needs to be said that while Ms. Obnoxious is beautiful, she is still a healthy size 8 at least, probably a 10. And she is pretty tall as well. Teeny Tiny made the mistake of politely refusing the offer, and then, after being prodded by Ms. Obnoxious on why she refused, she carefully and casually admitted because it is doubtful any of her clothes would fit her properly. Holy cow, you would have though she just threw pig blood on her and lit her on fire because for the next 45 minutes all we talked about was how Ms. Ob is not fat and no one thinks she is fat, and that's not what Teeny Tiny meant, and yes of course you are pretty, and no you should not loose weight, and yes, we already told you that you are pretty so stop asking.

Other examples of problem number two: She was obviously disappointed when the bus driver didn't recognize her from the last time she was there, over two months ago. Someone jokingly said something like, "Oh yes, because you and (boyfriend) are so fantastically attractive that the mental image should have been burned in his memory for all time," and she AGREED that the statement was more or less exactly what she meant. When she realized that everyone was stunned silent, she lamely tried to pretend she was joking. In addition, every time she would switch positions on the tube, she would announce in a tone of voice a bullhorn would envy that she's sooooo sorry her perfect butt was in someones (males only here!) face. And then turn to look at the guy to see if he was looking back.

Problem number three: Drunkenness. There is a reason this is a sin and that reason has never been so clear. It's not because you may inadvertently kill yourself in some kind of intoxicated stupor, it is because everyone else may want to kill you because of your intoxicated stupor. We literally had to fish her out of the water at least three times, not because she was drowning, but because she was swimming up to other groups of tubers and threatening to steal their hats. Apparently she thought this made her seem cute. It did not. It made her seem desperate for attention and annoying and it embarrassed everyone with her, especially when she loitered around the tubes of a group of 40-50 year olds flirting with the married men and trying to swim in between their circle of tubes.

And then she wouldn't stop yelling "fuck" at anyone who tried to talk to her. And then she wouldn't stop drinking to the point where we had to literally pry the bottle from her hands and empty out the beer. And the she wouldn't get out of the water when it was time to go like a 6 year old. And then she made out with her boyfriend and practically flashed the whole bus of people riding back to the main site, and there were young children on board. It was just a mess.

So I know I seem pretty bitter about this who thing, and maybe I am more personally offended than I would care to admit. I think some of it stems from the fact that I felt trapped out on the water with her and I was increasingly annoyed with each turn of the river. I realized today that I really don't like to be in social situations that I can not extract myself from if I need to, and this was one of them. And also, I am probably more than a little jealous of her. Like I said, she is beautiful, and to make matters worse, she is exactly the kind of beautiful that boyfriend likes. The kind of beautiful that I am not. This is not to say that I am not beautiful. I think that I am, but I can't even hold a candle to her. I just hate it that just because she is beautiful (oh, and did I mention that she is also a fantastic singer, which she had no problem proving) she gets to be so damn high maintenance and men will put up with it just to get to be with her. I try to be as low maintenance as womanly possible and I still have a hard time. I would never hear a compliment (actual compliment from her boyfriend: You are beautiful. Her response: What? Are you saying I'm not gorgeous?) and then twist it around a million times sideways just to get another one. She already has it all, why does she have to be so foolish?

Ok, that is all for now. I really needed to vent about that for a bit, but now that it is off my chest I am going to take a shower and wash off all this river shit before I start growing algae.

Lame Excuses, You Wanker

2007-07-17T22:26:00.000-04:00

Just a quick update. I haven't thought much about the blog for a couple reasons. The first, and probably the instigator for the second, is that the power/charging cord for my computer decided to crap out on me in a flourish of flickering lights and sputtering attempts to hold on to its position as the most favored of all electronic power adapters. After Dell sent me the wrong cord, and Ebay sent me a non-working cord, I decided to re-investigate my power supply options while intermittently borrowing a coworkers cord that works for my old-ass computer as well. It's really a relic, and it's a wonder that he even had a compatible cord. My computer exists solely for my facebooking and photo-storage needs, so it really hasn't been that hard to keep the old girl turned off. But while I'm borrowing the cord, I might as well catch up on some things.

The other time-sucking activity I have recently devoted my slightly obsessive personality to is the reading and viewing and hanging-on-to-of-every-wording of all things Harry Potter. Boyfriend recently started listening to the books on mp3, and suggested we read/listen to them together. This, it turns out, was a really really great idea.

I read the first three books years ago when they first came out, but my Harry Potter attention span tapered off due to the lag time between releases. Boyfriend was on book 4- Goblet of Fire- but since I had already seen that movie I figured it would be sufficient to jump ahead (one of my many tragic misjudgments). I picked up the nearly 900-page Order of the Phoenix, and literally did not put it down for two days straight. I read it all in under 48 hours (which means that I did nothing but read and flip over on the couch every couple hours to prevent bed sores) and for the next week had dreams of Voldemordt, Harry, and Doby. I love Doby. It's a shame they cut him and Winky out of the movies. Lets be clear, when I say I had "dreams" I mean every possible scope of dream imaginable. Daydreams, night dreams, nightmares, thoughts, ponderings and relentless stewing over every detail of the story. I was so ridiculously obsessed by the time that I went back to book 4 that my thoughts were playing through my head with a bloody British accent. If ever there was mind control, this was it.

After a week of nothing but Harry Potter I decided to give it a rest- literally. It was taking hours to fall asleep at night because I couldn't get my anxious Harry Potter thoughts out of my head. I haven't read any more HP since I finished Goblet of Fire, but Half-Blooded Prince is sitting on my nightstand and I swear it calls out to me at night. But no! I will persevere. Boyfriend is only on chapter 11 of Order of the Phoenix, and I promised I would wait for him to catch up. Could this be the end of my personal integrity? I think its a worthy enough cause...

Harry Potter aside (as though that is even possible for me), I am increasingly excited about life in this city. Things with boyfriend are going really well despite him being gone so much- and there is end in sight for his travel. We've been dating a year and a half and one day exactly and the relationship is still exciting and fun and I find more things I love about him every day. Sappy much? I'll stop. The point is I'm much happier than I was a month ago, and it seems things are on the upswing, which, everyone knows, is the best part of the swinging process. Not that swinging process. Come on, get your mind outta the gutter. Geeze.

Rough Riders, the broadway musical

2007-07-05T15:49:00.000-04:00

As usual, things have turned up not as bad as they seemed. I'm happy to announce I've made a full recovery from being a moody, sullen, PMS-y loner, and now I am restored to full health and bright thinking. The reasons for this transformation are not purely hormonal, but I suspect that has a lot to do with it. Ah, the joys of being female.

A few short days after my last post, boyfriend came home from his perma-traveling and we spent 4 days conjoined in one ugly mass of entangled limbs. As sexual as I intended this to sound (ahem...subtlety is not my forte), I should add that the entanglement was the result of me hanging desperately onto him as we hurtled down the highway perched upon his motorcycle. Nothing more relaxing that a three-day motorcycle trip, I always say, with the sooty smudges of kicked up dirt on your face, bug guts pocking your sunglasses, and the noxious perfume of the inside of an oil can circa 1985 permeating every possible permeable surface. Yes, it was lovely.

The trip was actually very fun and it was great to have a mini-adventure with boyfriend after not really seeing him for about a month. Shorty after my embarrassingly dramatic meltdown I realized that my life is good, my friends are real, and my teeny tiny check is still paying the rent. What more could I ask for?

So...Why Don't I Just Move?

2007-06-27T22:16:00.000-04:00

Let me take a minute to describe this awful city that I live in. Upon first glance, it is charming and full of history. School children wait all year for their big trip to my front door--almost literally as I live within a few blocks of a large mall where tour buses park to let their riders terrorize my neighborhood and eat at the food court. Families plan vacations here. Foreigners make this their first stop.

However, despite being a gaudy lure for vacationers, the city I live in has very little to offer her inhabitants beyond high prices and traffic jams. The people here are very transient. This is a town full of ambitious yuppies looking to get in a few good working years and then move back to their real homes to make piles of money. The demographic is decidedly young, which being young myself, should be a good thing, but it is not. There are very few families. Even fewer children. When I go back to my cornfield I am shocked, amazed, and ridiculously annoyed by teenagers and their bad driving and rude behavior, and completely turned off by bratty 10 years olds pushing around their younger siblings in the popular chain restaurants. We don't get that here. This is mainly a city of adults. Snooty adults.

The people here are on a mission, and can't be bothered. Working a 12 hour day is the norm, and most lives consist of very little other than work, eat and sleep. Thus, people are exceedingly unfriendly. No one is interested in making friends, and even if they were, there wouldn't be time to do so. Or at least no one would admit to having time to do so, as free time is a sign of weakness, as ridiculous as that sounds. People here take a sick pride in how stressed out and haggard they are. The fewer hours of sleep they get, the more important they think they are. Everyone is looking out for themselves and their interests only. People don't smile when they pass you. They don't say hello in the hallway. No one asks about your personal life because no one really has one to speak of. This is a very lonely and isolated city.

I have noticed a distinct change in me since moving out here. I used to be funny and outgoing, willing to bring up small talk in line at the grocery store, or hold the door open for a line of strangers. Now I am withdrawn and introverted. I have lost my sense of humor even to the point where my boss has to tell me to lighten up. I don't smile much and I laugh even less. I can count on one finger how many friends I have. I would need several extra hands to count the number of people I know who are in the exact same miserable position, but have forgotten how to fix it. My passion for life has been sucked away and replaced by a drive to....well, I want to say "survive" but that's just a little to rhymey for my tastes.

I'll close this up with an example from today of the sheer unfriendliness and unwillingness to engage another person that is so common in this city. For the record, I have seen this happen more than is natural, and I myself have done it as well.

The scene: two people are on a narrow sidewalk lined on either side by bushes. It's a beautiful day and neither person appears to be rushed. The two approach each other. Both have their heads up, backs straight and noses held firmly in the air. They can see that there won't be room for both to pass at the same time. Instead of one person politely smiling and stepping aside with (heaven forbid!) a smile and a hello, both people speed up and literally run themselves into the bushes, scattering pine needles and mulch instead of being courteous. The whole time neither party makes eye contact, as that would be like admitting you have seen the other person and are willing to acknowledge their existence. Neither can be bothered to be friendly.

And that is what it is like here. We would rather rub elbows with the landscaping than try to be real human beings.

A Pathetic Introduction

2007-06-26T22:33:00.000-04:00

I am bored. I live in a city far away from my family. I left home over two years ago after college. I thought I didn't want to stay in a cornfield. I thought I wanted to see the world. I thought I wanted to make it on my own. And I was right. For a minute.

I've lived in this town for going on three years. The first year was fun. I had a handful of friends, a job that barely paid the rent, and I learned to be a grown up. I did all the things that I previously wondered how my parents managed to do. I paid my taxes. I found a doctor. I set up my utilities and bought furniture. Ok, fine, I didn't actually buy furniture. I'm still using the stuff I had in college. But everything else really did happen. Any day now I'll have real furniture.

Last night I had what some might consider an anxiety attack coupled with PMS and a plague of sadness. This is the first time (ok, second time, but whose counting...) that this has happened, and I'm worried it may lead to depression, despite my attempts to tell myself that it is a healthy expression of bottled up emotions. The scene looked something like this: me, rocking back and forth on my couch, hair a mess, mascara running, choking out to God that I want to go home. And then there was the crying. I happen to catch my reflection for a second while the cry was occurring and it temporarily cracked me up. It was hideous. I had the bulbous red nose, pale face, shiny streaks of black running down my cheeks to meet up with the streams of snot moistening my upper lip. I'm an ugly crier. Which was, in the midst of my temporarily insane laughter, the thought that brought me back to tears. No one loves the ugly crier. I am, obviously, despite all the evidence to the contrary, at this particular moment, irrevocably unlovable.

Keep in mind here, I was suffering from PMS. Drama akin to that of an angst-filled confused goth teen is to be expected. Don't judge.

A few hours later, after several long and passionate, gut churning talks with absolutely no one, I calmed down and fell asleep. Today I feel fine, if still a little lonely.

I don't know what came over me last night. Raise your hand if you know this is a lie. When I moved from the cornfields to the new big city, I left behind my family. At the time, I thought this was a GREAT idea. Granted, I loved my family, but I was the child that was destined for something else. I remember my mom even casually mentioning one day at dinner that I would be the child that would skip town as soon as I had my degree in my hands and never look back. At the time I couldn't fathom believing her, but her prophesy was right. I moved away exactly one week after graduation.

It turns out that the people I left are the people I need. I have never loved my family so much as I love them now, at this very minute. Each day I spend being on my own makes me wish I had them here to smother me and drive me crazy and annoy the hell out of me. I'm jealous that my sister has to go on double dates with my parents. I'm raked with sadness when I call my mom and she is out with "the family." I don't remind her that I'm part of the family too. My dad lays out at the pool with my little sister and her boyfriend. I want that to be me, and honestly, what sane 20-something wants to have a pool party with their dad?

My family members are the best people ever. My sisters and I can laugh for hours. And not just a polite chuckle. When we get together we laugh from the gut. We laugh so hard that sounds don't come out. People outside my family don't understand it. Most think we are weird. This would be true.

So in conclusion, I'm sad because I am still living in this expensive, lonely, cold and anonymous city and I LONG for home. I long for the cornfields and the laughter and the built-in-friends that still live there and for native English speaking fast food employees. I have nine months left on my awful lease here in this city. In nine months and one day I will be back where I belong.