Seriously--I'm not back yet. But because it's been a week, and because this is the only conversation that's really made me smile in the last five days, I thought I'd share. Substitute my name for "Chou" and Steve's name for..."Steve". Heh.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
Pretty much all I packed is T-shirts, I'm afraid.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
You can see firsthand how bad I look.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
And this ugly gray shirt I'm wearing now.

Chou says:
Why is it ugly?

Steve Tiszenkel says:
Looks like something you might wear on safari.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
Or in Nicaragua.

...

Chou says:
If I tell you something, will you promise not to get mad at me?

Steve Tiszenkel says:
Sure.

Chou says:
No more denim shirts, Steve. No more.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
I got a big compliment on my denim shirt last week!

Chou says:
No more!

Chou says:
Very 1992!!

Steve Tiszenkel says:
That's what I thought, but then I got copious compliments last week!

Chou says:
You know what I think the problem is with denim shirts?

Steve Tiszenkel says:
What?

Chou says:
If you wear them with jeans, they look silly, like camoflage by Levi's. If you wear them with khakis, you look like a Blockbuster employee from 1996.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
I looooooooooooved the camouflage by Levi's look.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
I liked doing a two-tone thing ...

Steve Tiszenkel says:
Lighter shirt, darker pants.

Chou says:
That is Not Okay.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
Did you know I wore sweatpants every single day of high school?

Chou says:
God no.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
I sure did.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
I didn't want to change for gym class.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
And I could never remember what days I had gym class.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
Hence sweatpants *every day.*

Chou says:
oh GEEZ

Steve Tiszenkel says:
I didn't shave very often, either.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
Also, I don't mean to make you recoil in horror, but it occurred to me years later that sweatpants are not necessarily a wise logistical choice for 16-year-olds given to thinking Impure Thoughts.

Chou says:
oh christ.

Chou says:
I am really in no position to talk--I had a momentary falter in the clothing department. Or maybe more than one.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
Eleventh grade was my black year, I believe. Twelfth was my pastel year.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
But always sweatpants.

Chou says:
I had these purple microfiber keds--god, those were great.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
Oh, Keds! I have never worn anything but sneakers to school.

Chou says:
I also had this green t-shirt in sixth grade that had a big bunny on the front. In flourescent colors.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
Wow.

Chou says:
My dad's second ex-wife always made me get my hair cut in the most unflattering bob with bangs straight across my forehead

Chou says:
and I had this pair of leggings that were capri length...and they had cabbage roses all over them.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
This all sounds very '80s.

Chou says:
Seventh grade I shaped up for a while, I had this HOT betsy johnson dress that every girl in school was jealous of.

Chou says:
This was 1992.

Steve Tiszenkel says:
I was NOT a fan of caring about how you dressed.

Chou says:
And then I did things like wear denim cutoffs with wacky tights underneath them.

Chou says:
I had a pair of wicked-witch-of-the-west tights...you know, the striped ones? Not flattering.

Chou says:
And this pair that made my legs look fucking GREAT--people would think they were painted on, I can't even describe how they looked.

Chou says:
This was after I got my first credit card and learned how to shop. Sort of.

Chou says:
Here is the scariest outfit ever: I had another pair of striped tights, these ones red-and-white like Raggedy Ann

Chou says:
a pair of denim cutoffs

Chou says:
a red-and-white striped babydoll tee

Chou says:
and a giant Cat In The Hat hat.

Chou says:
red-and-white stripes.

Chou says:
I looked like a fucking barber pole.

...

Maybe after Labor Day. Things are Hard right now, on every front. Do you understand what that means? It means every single facet of my life is difficult, to the point where I just want to chuck it all and run away and change my name and never ever talk to another person again. Hermitize. Nothing will be resolved any time soon, so I'm just staying calm, level, unmoving for the next two weeks. Calm.

Network and/or server back. Weblog here.

I'm not.

Because things are slow and the weather is nice and most importantly our bosses are gone, my coworkers and I just spent forty-five minutes detailing our List Of Five--you know, the five famous people we'd have sex with given the opportunity and permission of our spouses and boyfriends? (Or whatever it is. Like I watch Friends.) Except our lists got longer than five, and we started sounding like teenyboppers writing in our hello-kitty diaries. Here are some names that made the list for my coworkers:

Eminem (already, I can hear you groaning. I know. I did it, too.)
Ben Affleck (drunk)
Matt Damon (wannabe)
Josh Hartnett (who? I feel old)
Vin Diesel (real name: Mark Vincent)
Matthew McConaughey (Rad Thibedeaux)

Here are some names that made my list. I am such a freak:

David Bowie in 1977
Judd Nelson in 1983
Young Elvis
Old Elvis
Luke Perry in 1992
Keanu Reeves, at any point in history but specifically in Point Break. Ohhh yeah.

I had this dream two nights ago that I was at work, and a particular coworker was sitting next to me on a park bench in our office--she starts looking at me kind of funny, and then begins insisting that I wash my feet. Wash them! Right now! she is pointing and speaking loud enough that everyone in the office can hear--they start wandering over from their desks, and I'm blushing like crazy. I hate feet, hate having attention drawn to mine, can't even watch pr0n with a foot-fetish edge without getting sick to my stomach, so strong is my dislike of them.

But in this dream, washing my feet and being completely humiliated in front of all these people...I was actually getting very very aroused--and sickened! I hate feet! But the humiliation was delicious, and I can't stop thinking about it.

I don't think that this is something I'd like to recreate in real life--I couldn't actually go through with it, not with all that attention being paid to my feet. It's got me thinking about pushing some more boundaries, though--haven't done much of that lately.

Wait, no--last night was pushing some boundaries, all right--Blondie and I headed to Nordstrom, with great intentions of making a dent at the MAC counter. What do you think happened when I crowded up to the counter with the other self-obsessed prigs? I had a minor breakdown! Not like screaming and crying, but I was starting to hyperventilate. Scary! I'm not giving up, though--I'm jumping back in the trenches this afternoon, come hell or high water!

Monday was hard for more than just that, though--work aside, there's always family to deal with. See, since my parents left on The Trip, my mother's sister has been...problematic. We've never been particularly close, the two of us, but we've gotten along just fine until now. She's stopped returning my calls, which was irksome but easily overlooked--but last weekend was my grandmother's 94th birthday party, and she didn't invite me.

It sounds whiny and childish, but what's wrong with her? She was supposed to pick up some sails the 'rents left at my house and take them to the storage unit--she won't. She was supposed to return my mom's car to the dealer when the lease was up this month--she hasn't. Where exactly have I gone wrong? And why am I feeling like this is my fault? It's like we got in an argument and nobody told me.

So Monday (my grandmother's actual birthday, the party was on Sunday) I head up to Gram's to bring her some dinner and flowers and listen to stories--and she doesn't recognize me when I get there. It comes to her soon enough, even though she keeps calling me Mabel, but it was horrifying--she kept asking me when my parents were coming home, when are they coming home when are they coming home until I wanted to scream. But there is no screaming allowed, not when you've got this crushing responsibility to deal with, so I do the only thing I can think of: I call my mom.

"We're driving back to the boat! We just visited the Redwoods!" she says, handing the phone to Kid sis. They're in Crescent City, waiting for a part to be repaired before they head to San Fransisco. She hadn't even called my grandmother yet! On her birthday! I feel like everyone has gone crazy except me.

Only I don't, really.

I realize that not everyone has relationships like this with their families; most people don't live within fifteen minutes of their entire immediate family, don't have to deal with this stuff all the time. I do, and there's no one to tell me how to do it. Don't they make books about this kind of thing? Family Relations For Complete Idiots, something like that.

...

Yesterday was ten-thousand times better than the day before, and do you know why? She's back! After three months apart, shopping and noshes were in order, so off to U Village we went. Here is a scary realization I had in Sephora: I just don't care about shopping for myself anymore. We were in one of my favorite stores of all time, and I couldn't find a single thing to purchase. Not a gloss, a blush, lipstick or brush! Nothing. We walked over to Nine West (I used to fucking LIVE there. No joke. Check out my shoe racks.) and I faced the same disappointment. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

Perhaps I'm overreacting. In my panicked haze, I theorized that maybe I just value my money more now, since there seems to be a great deal less of it to spend on self-indulgent crap.

Perhaps I just need to work harder at shopping.

Here is exactly why I sometimes prefer to quietly observe instead ofy interact with coworkers:

(Scene: I am standing at the elevators in our other building, waiting for the interminably slow carriage to return me to the lobby. A distant coworker walks towards me from the direction of the mens' room.)

Coworker, who is kind of freaky-deaky, always wearing big headphones and signing all his emails with "One Love, (his name here)": 'Sup!

Me: Just heading back to the Tower. You?

Coworker: I just went poop in the bathroom!

Me, horrified: Uh. Congratulations. (here is where i become unable to look him in the eye, and wish I'd never come over here to drop off reports.)

Him: Thanks! I'm pretty proud of myself.

Me: (silence)

/end scene

This is why I like my little desk with my little bamboo screen and my lovely life-saving earphones that keep me from having to interact with people unless absolutely necessary.

You know what was really weird about that? He didn't really seem like he was kidding...and I don't think he's smart enough to play it deadpan...Maybe he has some horrible secret, lifelong constipation or something.

Ew. Enough of this.

...

Yesterday...Where do I start? Yesterday was just hard. Work went by quickly, but only because I was breaking my brain trying to fix problems that should have been fixed by other people who said they were going to fix them and then up and quit! They're not even around to yell at anymore! Bastards. So there went a quick eight and a half hours with nothing to show for it at the end of the day, nothing but a lingering resentment towards our former inventory controller and my boss, too. (that shouldn't be news to you. speaking of news...)

Here is my exciting news regarding work: I have applied for a new position. Exciting, no? I'm cautiously optimistic, as my boss was a complete wet blanket about the whole idea. If they don't at least interview me for it, I'm going to slash her tires, i swear to fucking god. I saw her scrutinizing my application, looking up all sorts of things that should have NO BEARING AT ALL--what does the number of personal orders I've placed (a mere six) have to do with applying for a job? Or the number of sick days, when it's only (another mere) six? Six sick days in nine months...is that a lot? I didn't think so, but maybe it is. I did have pneumonia at one point...shrug.

What it all boils down to is this: I need out, there's no denying it any longer. I'm not nearly as miserable as I was for a while there, but I'm also not going anywhere. I'm going to wait until I hear if they're interviewing me, and if they don't, it's time for a very frank conversation with the boss. And if nothing comes of that, well...then it's time to kick some ass and take a few names.

Another quiet few days, even after thinking I'd conquered whatever it was that was keeping me silent before! Silly me, always getting ahead of myself. It feels different this time, this inability to set anything down on paper or pixels--less feeling-numb and more feeling-boring. Pish! you say. You are never boring! That's why we keep reading! Well, thank you for your kind words, but there are indeed days where I am boring, and it's too much of a stretch to try to make it sound interesting. Wake up, go to work, come home, go to sleep. Those days. I fear not just becoming a bore, but being repetitiously boring--how many trips to IKEA or Home Depot can you stand to hear about?? I would be long gone by now.

And thus, I am silent.

It's been a nice weekend, though--Friday night was dinner at the Greenlake Bar & Grill with Dave and Quincy, then a late showing of (oh shut up, you are SO going to laugh at us) Blue Crush. We were officially the oldest people in the audience (now, imagine how that makes me feel, at a mere 22 years of age. D and Q and Boy all have a couple years on me. Heh. I should make jokes about needing walkers and wheelchairs or something.) but man. What a movie. Sooo many bikinis, so little time.

Home to bed after that, then up early yesterday to get some house stuff done--I've been slowly picking away at the Blue Room, since people will be sleeping there come Labor Day. I've finished rearranging the furniture and putting the linens on the bed, now it's just folding the spare linens for the chest of drawers in the closet and putting books in the little blue bookshelf.

Did some laundry, poked at my plants--I almost forgot to tell you! I transplanted all my herbs on Friday night, waiting for Boy to get home. They've been in a beautiful silver planter embossed with dragonflies, but things were getting pretty crowded. The oregano was the worst offender, branching out in every direction--and once it started flowering, things reeeally got tight. The rosemary is turning into a miniature tree, smushing the lavendar; the lemon thyme is looking rather shrub-ish, and the chives were choking between them all. This, of course, is to say nothing of the basil, which had withered into a pathetic lump under the billowing oregano. So, into the ground they go, right in the front garden south of the flowers and ivy I planted a few weeks ago. It seems like a good spot for them--not too sunny, not too shady, nice brick wall behind them to crawl up (I'm talking to YOU, mister oregano. what a troublemaker); I just hope they can all survive the impending attacks by the uberaggressive (and waist-high! good lord.) mint.

Where was I? Oh! Saturday. Picked D&Q up, headed to Carnation of all places--it was the company picnick for Boy and Q, and thusly for Dave and myself as well. Lots of people, lots of kids--at one point I make the witty remark: "I feel like we're missing an important accessory--namely, four squalling brats" and later "I feel like I've forgotten where we parked the stroller", because I am witty and clever and amusing when doused with sunshine. Lots and lots of sunshine, so much so that I left the picnick grouchy and with headache--it went away after a few minutes of air-conditioned car and a Nelly song on the radio. Weird. We had a great time, though--burgers and hotdogs and potato salad and watermelon and ice cream bars and sno cones and sack races and airbrushed tattoos (I got an anchor, do you know why? Arrgh! pirates.) and of course, the ubiquitous broomball. Watching Jeff Bezos play broomball is just silly--it was like Woody Allen got a haircut, ditched the glasses and put on shinguards.

Drove home, sat down, didn't move for two hours.

Then we bought a new gas range. Rock.

Dinner, then home again, then sleep.

See? Repetition.

However, things will quickly heat up--Labor Day fast approaches, Blondie FINALLY comes home tomorrow, possibly some news about work tomorrow as well, fetish party tonight, and...more laundry to do right now.

No more silence.

Nothing has gone as planned today.

Fuck! I deleted the wrong entry! Stupid...me.

I guess I forgot to mention that my parents are finally on their way down the coast to San Diego--it's taken a month of being not-here for them to start the first big leg of the journey. New sails, some more engine mods, a last minute pit-stop at Starpath...it's actually been more torturous having them close-but-not-close enough. At least now that they're really GONE-gone I won't have to torture myself with thoughts like "if I leave work at 2, drive 90mph south on I-5 for eleven hours, stopping once for gas and food and bathrooms, I can make it to Crescent City by nightfall and come back the next morning so I still have some weekend to spend at home with Boy!" because that's just nuts. The whirlwind Victoria trip was enough.

Also, they're a fifty miles offshore--there IS no stopping, not until they hit San Diego. Oh well.

I miss them, though--I'm getting Nick Twisp's patented "don't exist" messages from my family these days. My brother took my car and won't give it back (didn't I tell you? His got stolen, stripped to the bone [or whatever cars have], and abandoned. At least they didn't light it on fire]or call me to tell me when he'll be done using it, my aunt won't return my phone calls, my parents have minimal cell coverage and weren't even going to call before they started heading south! I feel abandoned.

Then the Psd to HTML or PSD to CSS conversion is carried out by hard coding the image to fit into HTML frames or layers

From email with Steve yesterday:
I like trains WAY better than buses.
I had a dream this morning that Boy and I were going to take Greyhound to Florida with one of the girls from work and her husband (their names are Nxxxxx and Dxxxxx Fxxxx. We call her "foo-tay" at work), but I was only allowed my small red duffel bag. I started tossing all sorts of stuff in it, stuff I'd never use, like a whole box of hot rollers and straightening cream and Boy's deodorant (but I remembered to put his toothbrush in the toothbrush container so it didn't get soapy in my bag) and suddenly they were leaving! I told them I'd meet them in Florida, and started walking down 6th Avenue--who should appear in a large black suburban or similar vehicle? None other than John Travolta, dressed as a SWAT team member. He took me to his CPA's office, which was actually a body shop--his accountant doubled as a mechanic, and he was in big big trouble with the SEC or something, he was cooking his books for the body shop. John leaned up against the side of the building and held me against him, unzipped my pants and was doing all manner of dirty things while Boy watched from the driver's seat of Travolta's SUV. The accountant/mechanic pulled up in a dirty white BMW, I zipped my pants with no embarrassment and asked "Are you going to drive me home? My bus is here" and woke up.
This whole dream took place in the six minutes between snooze alarms.

Six minutes! I've never had such an easy time telling how long a dream lasted. I always assume that they're hours and hours long, since I rarely feel rested after a particularly dream-filled night--but apparently they only average six minutes. Great.

...

Things I Like:
toast
flowers
mambo

Things That I Don't Like So Much:
waking up to the cat standing on me with one foot in my ear. I thought it was tough just having him on the bed at first, he gets hair everywhere! And then I relaxed a little and learned that he's quite cozy for a long, skinny, ill-natured, chain-smoking, rat-packing cat. But then I freaked out again! He started sleeping on the back of the dark green twill sofa, where he can see birds and bugs and leave a thick coat of white fur! And then I relaxed again, because that's what lint-rollers are for. But this standing-in-my-ear business has got to stop.

Another bad idea: Taco Bell before bed. whoooo such a bad idea. Goodbye, Mr. Ability To Concentrate On Simple Tasks; Hello, Hellatious Heartburn.

(to say nothing of the lingering taco bell odeur. whoof!)

Another bad idea^2: walking naked through the living room to the kitchen, dark outside, blinds lights on. Goodbye, Assumed Status As Upstanding Neighbors; Hello, Mister Late-Night Jogger.

Shrug. Best that they all know from the start that we're That Neighbor Who Walks Around Naked.

Upon a late afternoon viewing of The Patriot, we have this exchange:

Ferra says:
   I can't believe I had sex in a masscre scene.

Steve says:
   And nobody can ever take that away from you.

It is hotter'n pig sweat outside. I walked over to the bank at lunch--a whole ten blocks--and was dripping by the time I got back. One of the guys in the office has been looking up temperatures by our zipcodes--when he got to a zipcode in Kent, we were astonished! 98F! Much speculation ensued as to why on earth Kent would be a whole seven degrees hotter than Seattle (it's only about fifteen minutes from downtown--that's where our IKEA is located, in case you're not from around here). I finally replied "It's because Kent is just a few feet closer to Hell!", and the office erupted. I think that was the biggest laugh I've ever gotten at work (which makes me sound pathetically unfunny, because if you've ever been to Kent you know that it's true, Kent really is closer to Hell, but honestly, it must be the heat turning their brains to mush. Really.)

That should be the new slogan for the city council. "Kent: Just That Much Closer To Hell".

I should also mention for the benefit of my readers from around the globe that Kent is also much farther inland than downtown Seattle, which has the undisputed benefit of being right on Elliott Bay. Poor, misfortunate Kent, stuck in a dry valley full of industrial parks and dodecaplex theatres, car dealerships and freeway interchanges--no wonder it's pig-sweat hot there, too. Boiling pig-sweat hot.

Gross.

Here is my question:

If you have a coworker who does not speak to you unless absolutely necessary, and when doing so uses the most snide and unfriendly tone accompanied by a sneer or disgusted look (see how pleasant my days are? I fucking hate this. I can stand the tedium, the lack of challenge--but putting up with this makes me furious), am I obliged to give a shit? She's been sitting there sobbing at her desk for twenty minutes, and just went to the restroom with a cadre of sympathizers. Forty minutes later, they emerge--only for my boss to take her into a conference room for more fucking hand-holding.

What I find most irksome is the fact that, were our places reversed, and I was bleeding my eyes out at my desk, my boss would give me a brusque pep talk about leaving personal problems at home and expect me to get my ass in gear. Another point of interest: This particular coworker called in "sick" a couple weeks ago--instead of saying "hey, I didn't finish this, can you take care of it while I'm home sick", she left a pile of pressing and already-late work unfinished...and hidden under her desk. When our boss found it, she was livid--but did she even say anything? Of course not. I'd have been sacked for it. I hate that!

Okay. Enough. I know. Life Isn't Fair. This stuff is still pretty infuriating.

...

We had a great evening--chicago-style deepdish from Delfino's for dinner, played Pirates with Dave and Quincy at their new S/H pad--their sofas are both so cozy though, and I was close to snoozing after my turn with the Pirates was up. I wasn't the only one! Q fell asleep sitting straight up while Boy and Davo played the Sea Battle portion of the game.

I fucking love Pirates. A shiny nickel to the first person who can find every reference to pirates or peglegs or eye patches in all bazillion journal entries here.

The archives are getting pretty big, aren't they? I can't believe it's been...*counts on fingers*...sixteen months. That's a whole lot of self-obsession.

...

You can tell what kind of day it is when you find out that i'm listening to Styx.

2% milk, you are not my friend.

Had Dave and Quincy over for our inaugural Simpsons-watching in the new Media Room and per usual, I fell asleep on the floor around 1030, wrapped in the duvet from the blue bedroom. I slept through the Cartoon Network's Adult Swim and through their leaving at 1130ish, only waking when Boy set off the alarm system (so very loud), and stumbled towards bed...but I was starving, I tell you--I had brlinner at 330 in the afternoon, a bowl of boring pasta, and needed food before sleeping! or so I thought. Frosted miniwheats looked like they'd do the trick, but four bites into the bowl...*grrrebinbluojs=da;lisndgou* said my tummy. Milk on an empty stomach makes for a lactose intolerant girl.

I am still feeling barfy, and glaring at all things dairy. Those yogurts I bought at the store last night? No way. Cherry Chip Ba Da Bing ice cream? Not happening. I could barely stand to put a sliver of cream cheese on my bagel this morning.

Just how you wanted to start your day, hmm? Hearing about my Adventures with Immodium A/D.

...

So I guess I'm back. Feeling a little shaky, a little fragile, but I think I'm ready to give it another go--not that most of you noticed I was gone. I shouldn't complain--my sitemeter stats actually went up during my break, and I crossed the 25,000 visits mark with ease. I should go away more often! You'd love me more if I did.

I think part of the shaky fragility comes from feeling so not-me for the last week or so. I was adamant about being okay, not depressed, just...numb. I'd be in a pretty good mood, but unfocused, easily distracted. I got plenty of sleep, the weather was great, my parents came into town for a bit--what was wrong with me? At one point, I didn't feel like myself at all, I couldn't remember why I was here, or what I was doing--Why was I stopping at a red light? I want to keep going! but it went away, and here we are.

This is not to say that I was suffering from some sort of dementia or amnesia--I knew my name and where I lived and my purpose on earth--but I was turned inwards, nothing outside of me was registering.

You know, the more I explain, the more crazy I sound. I'm reminded of that story (again) where the woman is recovering from TB or something and starts crawling the walls, seeing things moving in the wallpaper. My mother loves that story--she says it always made her feel much more normal when she read it. I loved it, too--but now I'm starting to identify with the crazy lady instead of being thankful we've got little in common.

If I start peeling the paper back from the walls to let the demons out, do be so kind as to water the plants while I'm in the loony bin.

Speaking of, my plants are doing excellently. The petunias haven't flourished as I'd expected (I've had great luck with them in the past, this batch is rather small and uninspired), but the heliotrope and the salvia are huge! The salvia especially--the leaves have gotten bright green and fluffy, while the poor heliotrope has battled valiantly against bugs or something. Still looking pretty good. The sunscape daisies are holding their own--they're so delicate, though! You look at them wrong, and they'll wilt. I need to start transplanting my herbs from the silver planter into the ground--the oregano is a foot tall and aggressive as hell, and the rosemary is turning into a miniature tree, choking the lavendar. Also, I killed ANOTHER basil starter--I can't seem to keep those damned things alive, unfortunately. I should stop buying them and just keep getting bits from the Evil-Stepmother-To-Be. She's always had great luck with basil, and I'm pretty sure she's got more than one variety to choose from. What are those ones with the dark purple leaves? I definitely want some of those, they'll coordinate with all my purple flowers and japanese plum.

Also on the Garden Agenda (that's a great movie title for when Ed Hume turns into a secret agent) is dealing with the gee-dee mint plants--they're waist-high! Another invasive plant that's spreading like there's no tomorrow (I should move it to the backyard, have it make friends with the evil bamboo). I finally started looking into ways to control it, and like bamboo, mint should be planted with barriers (though 40 inches would be excessive in this circumstance, we're not talking 50 foot bamboo stalks), or in "buried lengths of pipe", whatever that means.

Wait, does that mean sawing pipes in half lengthwise? Or does that mean planting the pipe vertically so the roots have more room to grow than they would in a a pipe halved lengthwise? I'm betting the latter.

Anyway, the mint is rapidly growing out of control, and I don't know what to do with it. I can't make mojitos fast enough to use it up, and our plans for mint juleps fizzled (ha!) last night when we realized that our lovely state-run liquor stores are closed on Sunday (even the one by the university! I could have sworn we made booze-runs on sundays, but I guess I'm wrong) and thus there was no bourbon to be had. I tried a recipe for "mint water", but upon drinking a glass of my concoction, Q made a face and said "it tastes like I just licked your lawn", so I'm guessing that was a bad plan. Other recipes I found were for similarly disgusting things like mint jelly or mentholated Vick's Vap-o-rub imitations--though there were a couple of suggestions that didn't sound completely repulsive. I guess adding a few finely chopped sprigs to salads is nice, and new carrots or potatoes can benefit from the same.

Listen to Little Miss Suzy Fucking Homemaker. Who'd have guessed!

Not Muffin, that's for sure. We had a really nice afternoon last week, meeting for early-afternoon libations down on the waterfront before heading up to Golden Gardens for some beach-walking and kite-watching and chatting all the while. Like most of my pals from the old days, she's a little freaked out over the amount of responsibility I've accepted in the last two years--and how it's their turn now to put away childish things. The house has really been the catalyst--I don't think Blondie's still flipping out over it!

I can't wait for her to come home, by the way. She's been gone since June, and I don't remember the last time we've been apart this long. I have to admit, though--separation can be good for us...but this is too much separation! Come home NOW, says I.

What's *Your* Sex Sign?

or is it...

What's *Your* Sex Sign?

I don't know...could it be:

What's *Your* Sex Sign?

I hate quizzes.

Still not feeling ready to blog again. I can't do much but apologize for the silence, I know i've let you down. There's plenty going on, lots to talk about, really bad movies to make fun of (xXx, i highly recommend going drunk and wearing earplugs, so loud was it) but when I sit down to write an entry...nothing comes out.

However, if you have started keeping a weblog or journal since reading mine, please do be so kind as to list me as your parent. It's highly entertaining.

I miss you.

For me, the naked and the nude
(By lexicographers construed
As synonyms that should express
The same deficiency of dress
Or shelter) stand as wide apart
As love from lies, or truth from art.

The naked, therefore, who compete
Against the nude may know defeat;
Yet when they both together tread
The briary pastures of the dead,
By Gorgons with long whips pursued,
How naked go the sometime nude!

...

I've still got nothing. Sorry, folks. I'm tapped out.

I...I've got nothing to say.

I think that entry from last night kind of blogged me out--I'm having a hard time getting going this morning. I was tempted to just leave it until tomorrow morning, but my conscience got the better of me. I feel better when I write something every day, feel like I'm getting somewhere with my technique--go read through the archives a day at a time, you'll see where things start to pick up.

Starting a weblog was weird--do you introduce yourself? explain your motives? I just started, and when I read it now it's like stepping into the middle of a conversation on an elevator; brief and explaining nothing. Things eventually smoothed out, I stopped begging for email from strangers (although if you're just starting out, you might as well pimp your email address--my inbox is always full of hate/fanmail.) (also, on the topic of hate-mail: if you are writing me to tell me what a slut I am, or how I'm going to burn in hell for my sinful existence, I know. I've heard it before. You are wasting your breath. Yeesh.)

Another tip for webloggers (not that I'm the authority, but this was a lesson learned too late): if you are trying to remain somewhat anonymous because of the sometimes-incendiary topics of your weblog (oh, you know, the usual--abortion, sex-positive/alternative lifestyle choices, breakin' the lawww), perhaps it would be a good idea to NOT include the name of (and link to) your old summer camp. Heh.

Here is more advice not asked-for, but freely given: If you are planning on shopping at Home Depot, and the store is very busy because it is National Homeowner's Day (i.e. every Sunday), perhaps don't wear bright orange and nod knowingly when I ask you questions about plumbing and drywall and replacing recessed flourescent lighting with can lights--I thought you were an employee! And I spent all that time explaining my issues! and then you had no answers, you were just another customer! Asshole.

The thing that sometimes gives me the willies about The Depot is the plethora of birds residing in the rafters. I do not want to have to worry about bird shit in my hair first thing on Sunday morning. Or any other morning, for that matter. The hardware store is for things like tools and lumber and boys on ladders--not for birds.

...

(now I can't get the image of a hardware store for birds out of my head. it was kind of cute at first, the mental picture of little birds picking up new shingles for their bird houses, replumbing bird baths, that sort of thing...and then I remembered that birds don't have hands, or even very useful feet, and I got a little freaked.)

(I am WAY overdoing it with parentheses today.)

...

Have you heard? Steve and I are writing a book! You'll never guess what about (well, some of you might because you know what Steve and I talk about all the time--but here I go with the parentheses again).

Oh, I can't keep it a secret--we're writing a book on internet dating! Apparently most of the books you'll find on the topic are written for mid-40's divorcées with pagan leanings (close enough). We want other options! We want to write the definitive guide to online dating for the young hipster, for the S/H generation! We're already running into a few problems: 1) Anyone know a good agent who'll get us published? I'm going to do my best with my meager connections to the literary world (hey, politics and the legal world, no problem. publishing? almost beyond my reach), but a woman who used to work for the AP and is now writing children's books doesn't count for much, I fear. Also--2) I am gravely concerned about losing sales to the D/H-U market. I feel bad about telling them they're losers for buying Britney albums without a hint of irony, or for picking up other losers in sportsbars.

Perhaps I'm just overly paranoid after the experience I had last week...I made the mistake of trying to explain the S/H/D/U quadrants to my lesser coworkers--they just didn't understand! And then, when they wanted to know where they fit in the spectrum, I had to lie! I told them they were "a unique blend" when they were clearly leaning towards the less-desirable D/H and D/U. What, should I have told them the truth? It's obvious enough that i have a hard time disguising my revulsion at the idea of living in Burien or Edmonds or some other godless hellhole.

But worrying about losing sales on a book that is not only unpublished, but unrepresented and unwritten...that's just absurd. I think I'll stop, and let the muse run its course.

Oh! I almost forgot--do you have a tale from Internet Dating Hell? Did you meet your mate online? Send me your story, and I'll make you a star!

Miss me? I'll bet you didn't even know I was gone. I hadn't really planned on it, but there I was on Friday afternoon doing 90 towards the border.

No, I wasn't running away. Not really. But when mom and illustrious stepfather call and say they're in Victoria and miss me and could I please pick up the new anchor and bring it up to them? who am I to say no. Off into the sunset with my entire cd collection and some bottled water, no maps no schedule to keep but that of the BC Ferry system--it felt like I was running away from home, that's for sure.

It was a spectacularly ill-planned jaunt; I hadn't put gas in the car or remembered the photos of the house that I wanted to bring--Illustrious Stepfather still hasn't seen the house! I remember doing things like this, not all that long ago--two years maybe? I would just go, maps and plans be damned. Things are different now--I felt like I should be a little more settled, more prepared--and more importantly, I shouldn't have been alone. Boy stayed home, thanks again to fucking work, and before you roll your eyes and give me that look let me just reassure you: I know that separation had to come at some point. I know that normal couples spend time apart without freaking out. I know it was only one night--but I missed him!

(and secretly, shh don't tell: it felt gloriously liberating. i felt like i was 19 again, running off to canada to rendezvous with my secret lover. only this time i'm 22 and was rendezvousing with my parents. less sexy, but still fun.)

Here's a story that Steve will enjoy: When I was 19, I managed to have my first purely disengaged encounter with another human being. We met at a press-conference-turned-cocktail-party, where the topic of discussion was supposed to the the "commercial viability of space", but what it boiled down to was "can Hilton be the first to build a hotel on Mars?" and I was bored. He was a journalist (not a very good one, I'd learn after reading his work) with a rakish grin and gifted hands; I'd seen smoother operators but he had what it took. After one-two-three glasses of wine, we poured ourselves into my black Audi sedan--I forgot to mention the puddle that always formed on the floor of the passenger side and the cuffs of his pantlegs got damp. Coffee, some sort of unnecessary dessert--why are we here? i asked him. He had the misguided notion that I'd need some romancing--I said fuck romancing...and fuck me.

Ever the practical lad, and forgetful--we stopped at the grocery store for toothbrushes and oranges before giggling in the rain back to my house. He wasn't the most spectacular lover I've ever had, but enthusiastic and with more than a touch of the kink--and despite these encouraging traits, I never managed to be more than passingly interested in him.

I mean, really. Boyish charm and dimples from here to tuesday, begged to go down on a girl and--shrug. I could take it or leave it. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed myself more than I probably should have--he'd come down from Vancouver once in a while, I'd drive up there on the weekends, but either way it was just nonstop fucking. Conversation wasn't bad, but given the choice, I'd rather just have his cock in my mouth. Was that too bad of me? I'm discovering that I don't know any better now than I did then.

Fast forward a couple of months--New Years Eve, and Blondie and I crash that fateful party, setting in motion the events that would shape the next year of my life--no room left for a canadian journalist. We parted ways on amicable terms, which is never my favorite ending. I like them brutal, jagged, no-going-back; I've found that anything less just invites trouble in the future.

Where did this come from? Shrug again. Something about crossing the border into Canada always reminds me of him; the last time I drove up there for one of our weekends in a posh hotel downtown, I was stopped at customs--they searched my car, dragging out enough of my personal bits (the usual: toys and lube and lingerie, oh my! What, don't you travel with those?) to make me blush like a schoolgirl.

So--how was your weekend?

...

I got home last night after spending a whopping sixteen hours in the car--eight going up, eight going up, thanks to ferries and traffic and running out of gas once (almost twice, but thank god for that truck stop--ruinously filthy, but I was in no place to complain. I bought a map to allay my fear of getting lost in the Canadian wilderness, but when asking for more specific directions I was answered with "Little lady, I ain't never been 'cross the border, not since 1983!"). Still, it was a good trip. I wore that tight white shirt with flames across the tits; cocksucker red lips and dark sunglasses to boot! I kept catching my own eye in the rear-view mirror. Come on, sailor-boy, come have a little fun.

The family! That was the point, seeing my family. I didn't get to Victoria until almost 1am, so there was little fanfare for my arrival. Mom greeted me at the docks and I have never been so bloody glad to see her smiling weary face before. Brief chat and lots of hugs before falling into bed with Kid Sis in the v-berth--dear heavens, that girl is hell to sleep next to. She kicks and snores and steals covers like it's going out of style...but again, I've never been so glad.

Saturday was for bike rides around the city after a mediocre brunch; I've never been fond of hotel restaurants and it shows. I allowed them the luxury of my car while it was around, driving them to the bosun's locker and a climbing shop and a grocery store. When you're on a boat, you learn to love walking everywhere--you also learn that whatever you buy, you're carrying back--so this was a nice break for them. I bought some books at the used book shop on Yates, a rubber duckie for kid sis and a matching one for me, some Coffee Crisp for Boy because he'd be sad if I forgot to bring them home.

And then I left. Brought them back to the boat, unloaded groceries and got a parking ticket, and left them there.

It's almost worse, having seen them for such a short amount of time, not enough time to catch up, to get my fill of hugs and loves and public spectacle (you do not want to know how we got our breakfast for free. do not.) and certainly not enough time to make me stop missing them.

But I came home.

Crossing the border back into the states wasn't bad considering the fact that they were checking the trunks of every car passing through--I had to uncover my spare tire and explain why I had an espresso machine in my backseat and how, exactly, one maneuvers a 50' boat through the Panama Canal. The guard took my passport and driver's license, says to me "take off those sunglasses so I can see your pretty brown eyes"--exchanges a knowing grin with the driver of a maroon volvo in the next line over. Volvo-man looks at my forced smile, says nothing, but plays car-tag with me all the way through Bellingham. I guess this is the sort of thing you invite when you have stickers on your car that say things like "SPANK ME" and "Fill Your Niche" (thanks to babeland [don't click that if you're at work].), but that sort of mentality reminds me of people who say "Well, she was dressed like such a slut, she was inviting that man to rape her", only less extreme. Whatever.

Long day. Woke up late, made the pilgrimage to the Depot for nothing fun (a weed-whacker and some hose. heh. wait a minute...heh.), Honeyhole for a sandwich I didn't really want, Goodwill for a table to go on the back porch (exactly what I wanted, but still exhausting--the tired, hungry masses, everywhere! if I were a better person, they wouldn't make me so uncomfortable, but I'm not and they do, so we left at almost a run). Home for more of the ENDLESS FUCKING UNPACKING, which is just about making me break down and sob--I am Getting Things Done, little by little--but it feels like nothing is going anywhere! I am moving things from place to place, and throwing things away, but the piles never get smaller. At least we have a real goal now--gotta be done by Labor Day or things will be Uncomfortable.

...

I don't know why I'm so moody and morose tonight--it's not just the trip to see my parents. I was fine yesterday, and Friday, too, for the most part--but especially yesterday. All this time alone to think and read and (shh! really shh--masturbate on the ferry. oh my god, i can't believe i told you. I'm rather mortified that I did it in the first place, what with all the children and families and island hippies around--but I was in the backseat of my car-with-tinted-windows, and everyone else was above-decks and...yeah. blush!) I had this blazingly clear afternoon. I Knew Where I Was Going, and How To Solve Problems; I knew What Needed To Be Done.

I guess it's just reality setting in, or a chemical low--let's hope it's gone in the morning.

Not a single question yet! What, have I really shared everything? There's nothing left for you to wonder, no stone unturned in my journey? I'm impressed--with myself, that is. I've officially told you everything there is to know about me. Forget writing a new bio, I'm taking the old one down, too--from now on, if anyone wants to know anything, they just have to read through every scrap of archived posting.

All 1,338 posts.

I'm in the mood for some change--having thoughts about new layouts, new photos (maybe finally finish the photos page?) and just for Steve, a new Bio page.

So. Got questions? I've got answers. Leave your most pressing questions for me in the comments section, and I'll do my best to incorporate them into my new bio. Lucky ducks.

Because I am the most delightful sort of pervert (and most of my readers are, too!): My neck started aching on the bus ride home this afternoon--I figured it was from reading so furiously. The current book, while somewhat lacking in intellectual pursuit but chock full of roaring twenties goodness, has kept my attention for three days now--barely able to put it down.

But that was not what was doing it! I could not replicate the movements necessary to produce the pain in my neck, no matter which way I turned or slouched or twisted...until now.

Why is my neck hurting? Because I keep looking down the deep v-neck of my swirly blue tank top at my rack, sitting pretty in my rhinestone-studded bra.

I gave myself whiplash looking at my tits.

sigh.

Oh My God. It's August.

...

Another day in which I've nothing to do at work, and thus I return to my fabric-swatch-project. Steve says:

"I think it's funny that you're not even doing cutting and pasting of the computerized variety. You're actually cutting and pasting in its most literal sense."

Yes, funny. Funny funny funny. (technically, I'm cutting and double-sided-taping. the paste was making the fabric ruche up in the most unattractive fashion. I guess there's a reason you don't use paste on herringbone silk!)
I guess it's okay. People have stopped asking questions, and my boss is fairly resigned to it--she knows there is nothing else to do. I took time out of my busy taping-fabric-on-linesheets schedule to spend half an hour taping leftover scraps onto my tape dispenser--everything looks better covered in quilted scraps.

Am I sounding a wee bit more cuckoo than usual today? Everything feels a bit off-kilter anyway, has since last night. Boy came home in the foulest mood I've seen in ages (thanks a lot, Target.com) and thus we were off to snuggle him into a better one...and then I woke up and it was almost 11pm and the phone was ringing. No, not another call from the ex--but I had a sudden and irrational rush of fear that it was. What is there left to say anymore? Not a thing.

Instead, it was Chris talking about...I don't know what. My feet felt like they'd fallen off and none of my limbs wanted to cooperate--I guess that's what happens when you fall asleep face first into the pillow, arms and legs splayed in a manner approximating death. I needed it, though, after the night before--I love being woken up by his stiff cock nudging my nether-bits as much as the next girl (what next girl!), but I was feeling the burn yesterday.

"The burn" being that scubby, gritty feeling in your eyes. Not the other one.

...

Of great import is the happenings of my yesterday afternoon--I had my first session with a life coach! Steve had put me in contact with his friend NanCola who offered a free consultation--who could say no? and thus, I have three new goals for the next three months! It was great--I highly recommend the experience. It's like speed therapy, except at the end of the session you're given the option of solving your problems with the coach, or doing it on your own. (as i am currently lacking $1200, i have opted for the latter). My goals? 1) Secure a more challenging job with a more inspiring manager (I'd settle for a manager who doesn't suck balls) (figuratively, not literally. i don't think ball-sucking is allowed in the catholic church, is it?) 2) fit into my leather pants again (oh shut up); and 3) To be able to better define my spirituality.

That third one surprised even me! It is apparent to even the biggest numbskull that I'm not cut out for a deeply spiritual existence--not raised in any church, nor have I ever given the topic of religious faith much contemplation--organized religion has always seemed like something for the weak of mind or will, the easily misled, the less-intelligent. I know it isn't true, I'm generalizing to a dangerous degree--case in point: illustrious stepfather. Before taking the path of greater resistance and thus greater reward (law school), he had been slated for entering a seminary. There but for the grace of some greater force went he--a decision made years before my birth, but had he gone the other way...

(and let's get this out of the way: He'd chosen to follow the teachings of Christ, to make that his life and living--but when that seminary folded due to dubious accounting and mounting debt, he...well, switched teams. Make your remarks here about the relationship between lawyers and Satan; you'll only get this chance once.)

He is a brilliant man--if not by birth than by sheer force of will. Given the opportunity, he would have devoted his life to academia, theology, the higher realms of the human mind...but those are not always particularly lucrative practices, and thus we are here in this place, this circumstance.

And so I know that religious faith is not for the stupid or the soft of heart or head--but it has never been for Me. I do not like the concept of a singular being who has created all; I don't fancy the idea of letting ancient (and ill-translated) writings dictate what is Good and what is Bad.

However. The time has come where it is no longer acceptable for me to define what I believe in as "Well, I'm just really not into God". I don't get to like the theory of reincarnation because it's convenient--c'mon, give me the chance to come back to this place again, I've got more shoes to buy and sex to have and HBO specials featuring Britney Spears--but I need to believe in something.

...

Okay, enough of that. Don't worry, I'm not going to get all into Jesus or whatever; I won't start spending my Sunday mornings in church services; Sunday mornings are for lazy sex and breakfast at the Varsity. Particularly the sex. (french toast and sausage in maple syrup is a really really really close second, though. man, I could eat that three meals a day.)
(for about two days, and then I'd never want to see it again.)

...

That's enough for now, isn't it? Still so pensive.