Yesterday turned out to be even busier than I'd originally expected--between work being an absolute mess and entertaining our guest, I'm zonked. Oh, and the four measly hours of sleep reeeally helped.

Mom says with the most bitter intonation, "Get used to it."--driving home once again that I'm fully on the path of domestication.

I really don't mind--I like cooking and I like the satisfaction gained from making the house sparkle--but I get so discouraged. She's right, it never ends from here on out, it will only grow exponentially. There will always be more laundry to wash, more bathrooms to clean, more things to take up time that could be spent doing things like sleeping, or sex, or ANYTHING ELSE, EVER.

I think the only solution is to get a helper monkey.

...

It was good to see the Astronaut--talking with him always makes me feel like things can be accomplished and that life is not spinning out of control. He's so calm and good-natured and laughs at my stories, which is gratifying indeed.

He also reminds me of how things were at the beginning--he still calls me the Illicit Girlfriend from time to time (referring to how I was the Other Woman when Boy and I met), and he tells me how glad he is to see Boy so happy with me.

Time is passing so quickly--we'd only been dating for a couple of weeks when Boy introduced me to the Astronaut. He was on his way to Japan for this two-year stint--and it's three-quarters of the way finished! Can you believe that?? Wednesday was exactly 18 months since Boy and I met for the first time.

558 days.

That looks so small, 558 days. A drop in the bucket when you've got the rest of your life to consider.

Well, 560 days by now. give or take a couple of Februarys.

...

And now, the weekend. I'm twice as glad as usual for this one--after last night, I need two days of not talking or reading or thinking. I'm just too damned tired. Of course, that will be difficult, the not-talking or whatever, considering the things that are coming up in the next few weeks. I've got to pick some boxes up from Mom's that I left when I moved out FOUR YEARS AGO (my parents are so wonderfully tolerant. i wonder if my leather-bound copy of The Iliad is in those boxes?) and bring her some extra boxes I've got so she can get some more packing done this weekend. I figured she could probably use them more than I--we're so close to the new house that I could load up some boxes, take them up the hill, unload the boxes, and go back to the old house for another load.

By the way--I am SO not looking forward to this move. My eyes start to burn just thinking about it. I know, it'll be a hundred times better than the last because we're moving into Our Very Own House, and because we're moving from one house instead of a house and an apartment (a month apart, no less)...but it's still an exhausting idea.

Oh! Q, feel free to steal my house.log idea. I've got no problem with that at all.

Speaking of--I'm having weblogger's block with starting the House.Log, but at least I know why--there's really nothing i can do right this second. The renters aren't out yet, so I can't poke around and take Before photos; we don't close for another two weeks, so I can't even go inside the house; all I can do is look at paint chips and tile swatches and dream. I guess that's fuel enough for writing in the house.log, but...ehh.

...

I promise promise PROMISE I'll start being more cheerful soon. Promise.

OH MY GOD.

That's really all I've been saying for the last twenty-four hours (at the very least, it's all I hear in my head), but I think it's starting to wear off. I'm all OH MY GODy because things have been set in motion! I told my boss that I'm leaving! My parents signed the seller's agreement! We bought a house! (there has been little progress on the purchase, so all I can do is reaffirm: WE BOUGHT A HOUSE)

I feel so much better after yesterday--I'm finally doing something about hating my fucking job...and you know how I like some action, heh.

...

Very very busy day--came in early to get stuff done before four hours of line showings, and suddenly it's 230 and I haven't finished this entry and I've got 900 unit orders to finish--AND the Astronaut is in town for one night only, so you know what that means.

Oh yes. Strippers galore! Good thing I just got paid--that last trip almost broke me.

Words I never ever want to hear first thing when I walk in the door to work:

"We're filming today! Put your lipstick on!"

Fucking PR bullshit. I would tell you that I'm glad I won't have to deal with this much longer...but that would be a lie.

I told my boss this morning that I'm applying for anposition in HR, with or without her permission. She wasn't pleased--but I told her the other option I was considering is just flat-out leaving, and she brightened a bit, which makes the paranoiac in me start hyperventilating. What's she planning?! It doesn't matter, I guess. No matter what the outcome things will be better in two weeks. I told Steve: If I get the position in HR, great. If I leave the company and find something new, great. (not.so.great would be something like "leave the company, find nothing new, lose the new house before it's even ours, slowly starve to death in abject and homeless poverty") I'm being severely optimistic--ANYTHING has to be better than a job that makes you cry in the piss-smelling alley.

Probably not being the cum-shoveler at the Lusty Lady, though. Ewww.

...

I went to the boat yesterday after work--it was still early enough to take advantage of the sweaty blue skies since I got to work at quarter after seven. Henpay picked me up and almost killed me on the way to the boat--he drives like he's got nothing to lose, nothing to live for! but I know that's not true. He says, "Relax, and quit screaming--I've been driving for almost three years now!" at which point I soiled myself and jumped from the vehicle in question (a very very small and ancient Toyota Tercel hatchback with a very very large and booming subwoofer taking up most of the trunk).

I got a lot of work done in the few hours I was there--I'd finished oiling the entire mid-berth by the time Mom arrived with Kid Sis in tow. She started working on the nav station (it's recently been rebuilt, and the wood is sucking up oil like you wouldn't believe) while I slapped another coat on the main salon and galley--since the fridge and desk have been rebuilt, they need at least four coats before they'll match the tone of the rest of the wood in the cabin.

I love this work, I love sanding out blemishes and watching the wood gain depth with every coat of gloss I pour on--I've decided to take the Beginning Brightwork course at the local Center for Wooden Boats this fall (provided I can still get in--I know they like small class sizes, but I don't know how quickly they fill up. How many people could possibly be hanging out at the Center for Wooden Boats?). I'm also thinking about finding a local shop or individual who needs weekend help--I'd even do it for free, if they were willing to teach me. My experience has been limited to teak and ironwood, and oak because it's everywhere--I'm going to refinish my two antique bureaus when we get settled in the new house--they're both maple, so that'll be another wood under my belt...

Heh. Wood under my belt.

In any event, I'm realizing that this is something I have talent for, and I like the way that feels.

...

Great troubles in BlogLand--all these journals going kaput! It started when Dooce stepped down as reigning Queen of Jack and Cokes, rapidly followed by Henry getting all grown up; now Coop's shutting down operations. S'a shame--I love what an unapologetic asshole he is. Reminds me of the Old Me.

Also gone the way of the dodo is Diary of a Mad Monk (it was always a moderately depressing read, but who isn't fascinated by priests who leave the fold for pleasures of the fleshy sort?), and someone else I'm forgetting...Oh, wait--Blondie's on hiatus for the summer, as is Adam. They're both away at camp (not the same one, but they're gone all the same; and Cate&Conor are on partial hiatus as well.

Summer is a blog-killer. I've got to find some new reads--you'll notice I updated the Links List last weekend, dropping some that I don't read anymore, adding a Creative Impulses section--but I need more material! Know a good one? Are you good enough to keep me entertained? Let me know!

...

Time for a haircut--it's getting so long! I'm tempted to have Kendall just cut it all off this afternoon, but short hair would be NO fun. We're going to make plans for my next color session as well--did I tell you what my evil grandmother said about the current color?

Me: Don't you like this color better? It's more natural than the candy-apple red streaks.
Her: Isn't it a little...rusty?
Me: (grab her by her wattle-y, wrinkly neck and squeeeeeeze.)

RUSTY. I'll admit, it's more...orange-ish than I'd planned, but the reddish-orange is layered with dark dark almost-blackish brown and some lighter strawberry-blondey bits--it's gorgeous! Everyone else on earth loves it, why can't she? Maybe it's because she didn't see me wear it Latin-popstar-style.

The outpouring of goodwill since my poor-pathetic-me-post yesterday has been overwhelming--Thanks to David for the e-card, thanks to Zeke and Eogan for offers of help with moving and/or painting, thanks to Steve for being my best sounding board (he's going to look lurrrrvely in mauve, don't you think?) and to the rest of your for your kind words in email and comments. I am constantly amazed that anyone even cares--I mean, I know you like reading because you keep coming back (or maybe it's just sick fascination. There's more than one weblog on my list for that same reason. Like a trainwreck!) but for most of you, I'm not even real. You've never met me and aren't likely to any time soon, and the majority of you readers haven't even had IM or email interaction with me. Why do you come here? What makes you keep reading? And for a certain number of people--what makes you care?

I keep forgetting to mention: International MeetUp Day is Thursday, July 18th. Have you signed up?

Also, I'm working on the house.log and should be ready to launch soon. Be Patient.

My head is very close to exploding, and let me tell you why (in list form, because making lists makes me feel more organized, and less likely to run screaming from civilisation to live in a dank, dark cave where no one can find me):

1) Our house closes in fifteen days. Have I started packing? No. Can I start packing? No. My parents are having their bon voyage party at our current house--how do you throw a party when all your dishes and chairs are packed?! So no packing. Things that need to be done to the new house (another list):
-paint every single room, and the exterior. That's a lot of paint.
-pressure wash the roof and pray it doesn't leak.
-rebuild the garage. yay.
-every single bush and/or tree needs desperate pruning. or removal. I vote for pruning.
-the kitchen. No, seriously. The kitchen needs help. that can wait, I guess, but it really needs help.

I'm really only concerned about getting the painting done before we move in--why move the furniture more than once? But things have to be dealt with, and the list is only going to grow.

2) My parents are moving out of their house next weekend, and onto the boat. They're getting rid of all their furniture (need a 10' solid glass dining table? I can get you one, real cheap.) and leaving the important stuff with us (art, family photos, books books books--because we've got so much room for it in our 990 sq. foot house) and giving their house a quick fix (more paint, landscape, rebuild the backyard fence) and putting it on the market. Do you think they're going to have time for this stuff while getting the boat perfectly ready to leave? Me neither. Who do you think will have to finish it if they don't. Oh, yes. And who do you think is going to be dealing with realtors and prospective buyers andhouses and--you see where this is going. On top of all this--they're having their mail forwarded to me, so that I can sift and cull through it, decide what gets tossed, what goes to the accountant, which bills I have to pay for them, and what gets forwarded to wherever they are in the world.

Deep breaths.

3) My grandmother doesn't know they're leaving. More accurately, she knows they go on a "boat trip" every summer--but it's usually a month, maybe five weeks. This is five MONTHS, at the very least. Mom is usually up there every day, bringing her meals or cooking something there, cleaning, doing laundry, sending the boys to do her yardwork--we all (mom, her sister, my two cousins and I) share this responsibility...but mom has the biggest chunk because she only works 4 hours a day. Guess who has to take over her responsibilities when she leaves.

More breathing.

4) I spend 40 hours a week being absolutely miserable. Work makes me miserable. Kill-me-now-put-me-out-of-this-misery-miserable.

5) My brother moved in a week ago, and I'm already set to strangle him if I find one more dish or one more dirty sock or one more front door leftwith the teevee on and no one home. Strangle him with my bare freaking hands. He's had at least one friend (usually three or four) over EVERY DAY since he moved in. He eats everything in the house and doesn't buy groceries (do you think I can afford to feed an 18 year old boy and all his friends?) and he hasn't paid a dime of rent.

I don't care when he comes and goes, I don't care if he wants to eat pizza and burgers three meals a day--but this has got to stop. I can't say this to Boy, he hates this, and I feel like it was my fault. I had it all built up in my mind, we'd be a big happy family and I could make sure buddy is fed and has somewhere to live where the water won't get shut off, but it just makes me cry with exhaustion thinking of another week or this--much less another six months to a year.

5) And I'm bleeding from the head. I hit my head on the edge of my desk, and I've got a gash that doesn't seem to want to stop bleeding. Feeling blood trickle down your neck behind your ear and into your collarbone is unnerving. Having the Vice President of Operations point it out is just embarassing.

How do I do this? How do I manage to fix up our house, possibly fix up my parents, sell their house, take care of my grandmother, take care of Boy and Buddy and the cat (my cat, who has lived with my parents--he's coming to live with us next week) and buy groceries and gas and do all the godless, never-ending laundry and yardwork that never goes away and work 40 hours a week so that I can pay bills and my part of the mortgage and not feel like spending the next ten years in the fetal position?

I dreamed about my weblog last night--I don't remember having done so before. I kept worrying that I was saying things I shouldn't, that I was hurting feelings and breaking hearts; I wanted to cry but I couldn't stop writing. I knew in the end that it would destroy everything that was important to me--friends and family and Boy, they'd all stop loving me and I'd be alone forever--and still, I wrote.

And then...I wake up, and in my early-morning webcrawling I stop in at Boy's journal. It may surprise you to hear this, but I don't often read it. Of course, he doesn't often update it, but even if he was writing there daily, I don't know if I would. But I stop in today and a little piece of my heart just crumbles to bits:

"While I feel pretty certain I've found the perfect woman for me, I've felt that way before with disastrous consequences. What if my judgment is as poor now as it was then? What if I break another heart because of my selfishness and cowardice? This time would be even harder than the last for so many reasons.

Will I ever be ready to get married? Not unless I find the courage to trust my heart. I have a long way to go before I'm there."

I don't even want to talk about this. I'm going to take a few days off--so if nothing changes here, don't be alarmed. I can't leave this alone, even in my dreams.

I know, not a word from me but a dumb quiz--I've not been at my desk, and I've been incredibly busy. lethal combination.

Also, I'm suffering from the womanly ills, which is NEVER condusive to creativity. Not for me, anyway. You'd think that after ten years I'd have figured it out--but I'm going to be one of those women who just suffers until menopause.

Whoo. Uplifting, no?

Not much going on, anyway--more freaking out about the house closing so soon, picking out paint, more waking up mid-anxiety-attack...It's the waiting that's got me freaking out. I can't start packing, I can't start painting, I just have to sit. and think. about all the things that need to be done.

I'm going to start a house.log so that my regular readers aren't desparately bored with all my talk of pressure-washing techniques and regrouting tile counters and matching paint to the cobalt tiles around the fireplace...An earlier version of myself would have been bored, too, so it's okay if you are. I'll just keep that stuff in a separate place.

It is So. Muggy. I can't believe I wore jeans today.

This should be no surprise to anyone...

You're LUST! Sex, sex, sex! It's all you think about! You're not opposed to having more than one boy/girlfriend, and you're very flirtatious. You're represented by the color blue.

Oof. So busy! It's nice, because then I don't feel like banging my head on the desk in boredom--but it leaves no time for all-important blogging! Must appease the public appetite! I've got lots in my head that needs to be written down, too--it's bad when I don't write it down right away, we all know how distracted I get. One minute I've got a very deep and meaningful conversation going with myself, the next minute I'm distracted by shiny paperclips and if it's gotten to that point, you might as well give up.

Quick! Write!

If I had a gameshow, it would involve giving the three contestants a topic, like on Jeopardy--"S Words" or "Mid-century Revolutionaries" or "Pesky Pests"--and they would have five minutes to write a story. At the end of the five minutes, they would read their story aloud, no editing or commentary, and if I didn't find it entertaining, they would be executed on air. In the most gruesome manner available! I guess I'm not impartial enough to be the judge of entertainment--maybe the audience would have little selectors on the back of their seats. They could plug in an entertainment value, and if the contestant didn't score high enough, then they would be executed.

Anyone employing the word "random" would be slaughtered on the spot, before they've even finished the story.

This is why I don't run the Game Show Network.

...

I wish I did! I'd double the amount of early Let's Make A Deal--weed out those episodes where they were in the Las Vegas Flamingo Hilton, because MAN those people were annoying. Also, I'd just flat out change the name of Press Your Luck to "That show with the whammies", because who remembers "Press Your Luck"?

Family Feud would be completely eliminated. I fucking hate that show.

...

What I really wanted to talk about was last night! Muffin called me yesterday afternoon--we hadn't talked in over a year, and here I go thinking that I've lost touch with everyone I loved; we promptly decided that coffee was in order, so off I go to meet her at the Greenlake Starbucks.

Overheard in line at SBUX:

Sorority Girl 1: Those cherry tarts look really good.
Sorority Girl 2: The ones in the case?
SG1: Yeah, don't they look scrumptious?
SG2: Totally!
SG1: ...but there's a thousand calories I'm not supposed to have. If I don't lose this last half a pound by the time we leave for Cancun, I'll just die
SG2: You know what sounds totally good? PIE CRUST.
Me, internally: barf!

Why am I different from the other girls?

It was such a good time, though--we got our coffee and started walking around the lake...FOUR MILES LATER we're all the way around the lake and my feet are killing me--I was wearing clogs! If you are unfamiliar, let me provide a study guide:

clogs = good for standing, carrying a quaint basket of not-very-heavy produce through the farmer's market on a beautiful sunday morning, being Danish.

clogs = bad for walking four miles in the dark.

My feet are KILLING me today.

But more important than feet are the conversations we had! The last couple times we've seen each other since she went away to school and I stayed here to grow up have felt stilted and uncomfortable--I tend to feel like the gap is too great to bridge, and thus stick to shallow, boring small talk. Last night was different! We talked about our Boys and my Girls and non-monogamous relationships and jealousy and sex and being bi and fidelity versus temptation and GODDAMN it was good.

You have to understand that most of my friends from so long ago...we just don't have conversations like this anymore. I think I've made that pretty clear. And the people who I would consider close friends now--they don't know everything that's happened since I was 5 or 8 or twelve, they weren't there when I handed out bubble gum cigars when Kid Sis was born, they didn't play D&D in Kate's basement in junior high (oh SHUT UP. We were twelve, and didn't know any better.), they didn't carry my books when I had knee surgery junior year, and that's okay! But I place so much importance on shared history that it's hard to reconcile the two parts of my life, two parts that I can only define as Then and Now. Then = anywhere from birth to last week--that's the really great thing about being in a constant state of growth and change.

From an email I sent to Steve this morning:

She asked if I dated women with the intent of forming long-term relationships with them, or if I was just out to get laid--I told her that my dating tactics fall somewhere in between those (usually). I've never dated with the intent of finding The One Person for me, at which point I would stop dating and settle down (despite the fact that that's how it looks, doesn't it? With Boy, I mean. Let me explain further:) When I was dating, I did it solely to Be Dating--and it just happens that I found The One, and thus I've settled down. With the women I date, I don't date them to find my ideal female partner--but if it happens, it happens. it's highly unlikely that I'll find a woman that I'd qualify as my ideal female partner, because I don't have the same sorts of relationships with women that I do with men. I'll never fall in love with a woman, I'll never want to marry one and have children with one--but I do find them attractive, and I do like spending time with them. Just not enough for them to be the primary partner in my life.
...

What does this all mean? I'm getting back in the swing of things.

...

Here is a scary, scary thing: the house closes on July 10. Oh. My. God. And Dave and Quincy found a place! In Russell's building! And they're moving in ten days! Things are changing so quickly.

Happy 20,000th visitor to me--now, I'll shut up until I hit 25k.

Yesterday pretty much wiped me out--I'm at the limp and listless stage of being depressed, and watching Office Space last night didn't help. I thought that I could resort to mindless entertainment--ha! look at him not-quit his job! but no. Just depressed me even more. Also, in case you'd ever considered it: rice pudding for dinner? Bad idea.

It was a very dreary night, all damp-eyed and mopey. Part of the problem is being So. Damned. Broke. I hate that feeling. But the new house had to be inspected, and despite having just given him $300 a week earlier (remember the other house we made an offer on?), the inspector guy has a living to make--and thus we're out another $300.

It's all for the best (in the long run. short run, I'm freaking out), and it needed to be done...but couldn't it have been done next pay period?

Also, is it too terribly awful to borrow money from my dad to float me through next week when I just gave him half my money on Saturday for rent? Probably.

...

This is the last thing you want to hear, I'm sure. It's certainly the last thing i want to talk about.

...

Another question: How do I manage to mask my expressions of utter contempt when talking to my boss?

...

Let's just make this a Q&A session:
-How do I get my golf clubs to stand upright in the closet? They keep falling over, usually when I'm home alone and it gives me a minor heart attack every time.
-Why does my Handspring keep resetting itself?
-Where did I leave my other pair of Tevas?
most importantly
-why do low-fat graham crackers taste so so bad? ew.

Now, you supply the answers.

I know that I said I was done writing here for a while (a while being...you know, the rest of the night or whatever)--but sometimes (and this will sound incredibly pathetic) I just get lonely. Writing here is like talking to a comfortable old friend (I seem to have fewer and fewer of these lately, either we've lost touch because I'm a bastard with correspondence or they've moved on or worse yet they've stayed in the same place and I've moved on), or my mother (if I had a completelyrelationship with her--I honestly hope I can someday, but probably not until she deals with her own issues. That's not fair to say, putting limitations on my relationship with her and then blaming her for it--but I think she needs to make greater strides in dealing with her issues before I can unload on her).

I need things to settle down.

Also, a quick plug: I'm in looove.

This is the week where things will change--it started last night, when my brother brought his first load of stuff to the house.  He's very excited, but I can tell he's having the same problem I am:  Our parents are selling their house, getting rid of their furniture and leaving the country for what is essentially parts-unknown.  They don't have a set schedule or route or date of return--they're just sailing off into the Pacific, only to surface again in ...San Diego. 

Well, that's the first stop.  I am bound and determined to meet them there, since I can't do the first leg with them--I want to go, which surprises me.  I didn't expect to completely change my mind right before they left, but...the heart wants what the heart wants.  And a bigger part of my heart wants to stay here and live my perfect life with my perfect Boy in our perfect little house.

The house!  A shiny nickel to the wendito for getting one guess correct, and an honorable mention to Cate (our Big Big Plan will occur in the next couple years, I guarantee.)--We are not engaged, nor are we pregnant...but we have indeed found a house!  The tiny pessimistic chunk of my brain says Don't get excited!  Sale is pending inspection!  With your luck, it'll be swimming with termites!  But I know better.  Inspection is today at 1, and if things go well, we should be moving in the middle of August!  Again. 

Remember last year?  "The funny thing about moving...oh wait.  There is nothing funny about moving...."  Yes, that was amusing, I can laugh about it now--remember how I had to pack my house, move it to the new house, then start packing Boy's apartment, and move that to the new house?  After the murderous bedroom-painting?  And then there was the unpacking (shh, we never finished.  there is still a closet full of boxes we just neverd.  must not have been important, and it'll save having to pack them again)...But this time will be different. 

Not the methods, but the result.  Our house.  In the middle of our street.  (another lie--it's on the end of the block, a beautiful corner lot.  I heart corner lots.)

...

This was an extremely busy weekend, made extra-stressful by extended family interaction--but that's good!  The family interaction, I mean.  It's getting to the point where (I told Boy this last night) it feels like my head will explode when I think of my parents and sister leaving, so I'm trying to spend as much time with them as possible. 

I met them down at the boat Friday after work--it was beautiful and not too windy, and I got a pretty sizeable section of the inside of the cabin sanded and ready for a coat of finish before Boy arrived.  We fetched dinner for all seven of us (here is a funny joke:  two people go into a tiny teriyaki place in Ballard and ask for seven orders of chicken teriyaki, one order with no salad.  Trust me, it's funny.) and then sat in the cockpit, sharing Snapple and plans for the future while the sun dropped behind the Olympic Mountains.  This, my friends, is what summer is all about.

Also, summer is about that abraided patch on my patella from where I accidentally kneeled on a piece of 140 grade wet-dry.  Ouch.

...

Saturday was blissfully productive--Mom dropped off Kid Sis just in time for me to drag her along on errands--paid rent, ate lunch, got the car washed and headed home for endless mounds of laundry while she learned how to play the Sims. Another generation lost to time-sucking games.

Saturday night was decidedly more intense--Buddy and Henpay's graduation ceremonies made me So. Glad. that I won't have to go to another one of those for nine years (and maybe not even then! maybe in the future, there won't be graduation ceremonies! with bad student speakers! and horrible music played by the concert band! and almost a riot after it was over while people trampled each other in an attempt to find their newlygrads! Lawdy.

I (almost) hate to be a snob, but man, people are trashy.

Dinner followed, 5 Spot with Dave and Quincy. We ate and drank and laughed and hummed that daaah-de-da-de-da-de-daaaah song, which is now permanently lodged in my skull. The four of us are in couple-y househunting thralls, which must disgust everyone else on the planet, but it's SO FUN. I have a feeling there will be double-dates to Crate & Barrel in the near future.

...

And then Sunday (I know, this entry is already a mile long. It's taken me two hours at work, an episode of Six Feet Under and an episode of Oz to get this far. be patient). The Family came for brunch at our house and used every damned dish in the place--it was a jolly experience, full of embarassing stories from our youth (featuring: my head getting stuck in a porthole on the boat while we're under way; getting thrown off my horse when he got stung by a bee; my brother getting a boil on his ass when he was six) and too much watermelon. Boy took a four hour nap after they left, waking just in time to head to Dad's. It wasn't as bad as I thought--but thank HEAVENS Father's Day is only once a year.

...

Okay. Enough. it's been a loooong day, waking up at 4am in the throes of an anxiety attack--I can't wait for the house business to be over. (hold your "joys of homeownership" jokes, please.)

Dear Lord,

I am not a religious woman, and I pray to You that I never will be (o, the irony)--but I must ask Your forgiveness for something...

I ate Ben & Jerry's Dave Matthews Band ice cream, and it was so very gross.

Caramel and coffee ice cream swirled with streaks of caramel and marshmallow fluff with coffee-flavored fudge chunks--my teeth ache just remembering.

oof. I can't even begin to make fun of the fact that it was Dave Matthews band ice cream. Five bites and my stomach is roiling.

Note to self:

-golf clubs
-watermelon
-primroses
-bacon
-Kool-aid
-Graduation
-Saturday's dinner
-Boat stuff
-Dad

...

Brunch went well, now it's off to dinner at the other father's house. I do not expect this to be a pleasant evening.

Because I'm busy and I haven't done these in a while:

i am



what sexual performer are you?

(I have a secret confession--reading the description for that result...mmmph. Sexy.)

...

i am



what
microsoft OS are you?

Quelle surprise.

...

Big big news. Shiny nickel to whomever can guess...Dave, Quincy and Steve--no fair, you've already heard. You can win nickels some other way.

Brunch! Everyone is coming here. Must vacuum.

Weirdness:

I don't usually keep more than 200 messages in my Hotmail Inbox (which may seem like a lot but please do keep in mind that I don't move messages into other folders, I just delete things that aren't important anymore, old love notes and "hey, want to see 10 Things I Hate About You tonight? notes--delete delete delete. Also, I toss anything that was written by an ex, even the messages they send you a year after you break up to tell you how wrong they were to ever break up with you in the first place. Too late, suckas) but today I go to check and--suddenly there were an extra 200 messages, bringing my total up to a whopping 400 messages!

But these were not new emails (although I get close to that many spam bombs a day, but those all go directly to Junk Mail. Also, if I don't have you on my messenger list [and sometimes even if I do] your mail is going to my Junk folder. Sorry.) These were emails that I had specifically deleted, and ages ago! Emails that were three years old (not that you can tell because there are no years specified in Hotmail dates)! Stupid stupid hotmail!

Pretty bizarre.

I amy blogging at work. w00t! Okay, maybe not as exciting for you people whose bosses don't mind--but it's a nice feeling for me!

Entry number 1222, and my last comment (a follow-up to Dave's remark about my "working for his father") pushed that number up to 222 comments...I like nice, round numbers.

If I were feeling especially dull, I'd tell you that favorite number in the world is 88. That's as round as can be, and awfully swirly. Sometimes I'll engineer things that should be random so that they involve the number 8. I have 8 toes and 8 fingers (that's the worst lie I've ever told, almost) and want 8 nights in the south Pacific right about now (that is the most desparate plea for a vacation. pleeease.)--I like 8.

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Many blushing thanks to SuburbanLimbo for the tasty package--he sent me his CD! I do highly recommend the purchase. Go on. Do it.

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I hesitate to say this because I'm sure every other blogger in Seattle has already mentioned it, but good christ is it hot. 102, they said on NPR, and they wouldn't lie to me! KISS 106.1, now they are the liars. Forecasts predicted upper 80s to low 90s (which would be positively volcanic any other year--we're a temperate zone! One year it rained every day for eight months straight! or some other highly improbable thing) but if NPR said 102, then that's it.

Although...Hmm. The other day one of the news correspondents used the word "bazillion", which instantly makes me wrinkle my nose and cock an eyebrow.

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sweat sweat sweat. I could barely stand to put clothes on this afternoon to go meet Boy and the substitute realtor at the best prospect we've seen in a while--in fact, that's where he is right now. MAKING AN OFFER. A pretty damned good one, too! Cross those fingers...

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And now to bed with me. It's been an exhausting day, despite having spent eight blissful hours in an air-conditioned office...and it was an office two floors away from my boss and coworkers! Excellent. I think it was the bus ride home that killed me, not a breeze in sight. Then to the car, where I blistered my fingers touching my steering wheel. I started sweating through my khakis, too--gee, dad, thanks for buying me a car with black leather seats and no air conditioning. Oof.

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And thanks to YOU, dear readers--your link-pimping pushed me well over my daily quota--I still don't think I'll make it to a thousand individual visits this week, though. But thanks! You guys are the best. Most of you.

I just wish I could stop the google-searches that reek of pedophilia. Incestuous pedophilia, no less! Euch.

Come on, people! I'm nowhere near hitting the 1000 people a week mark, and it's Thursday. Pimp my link!

I'm feeling slightly better now--it only took lunch and a good sob in the alley behind my building. Honestly, you don't know being humbled until you've spent your lunch crying in a stinky alley. One of the girls from customer service caught me--she'd come down for a smoke and a sliver of sunshine and found me red-eyed and snotty-nosed (mmm, sexy!). She's friendly enough--more importantly, she's unfriendly with the right people--so I explained the last five months and my increasing hatred for my job, etc.

And she's been feeling the same way.

We've decided to quit and form a chick-punk band. I suggested Bitch Vixen and the Pussy Twats, but she's from Minnesota and that didn't go over as well as the general "quitting our jobs" idea.

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If you're a hottie and a chick and want to join my chick-punk band, let me know. Also, it would be good if you could, say...play at least three different instruments, because I can't play any. I've got some killer fucking lyrics, though. We can all wear black t-shirts that say "Fuck You, Mr. Establishment-Man" and hotpants.

Rawk.

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I've been having crazy fantasies about what I'll do when I quit this job--I could move on to another boring, pointless office job...but why? I have other talents--and today my big fantasy has been setting up shop with my brother and starting a brightwork restoration business. This is a very watery town! Lots of boats! Lots of wood! Lots of people who don't like doing it themselves! We both have a good deal of experience, we're both sort of at loose ends...and we won't even have to invest that much to get started! Illustrious Stepfather is leaving his tools with us when they leave, so we'll have belt sanders and heat guns galore.

Of course, this would mean a completely lack of stability income-wise, and nine months of the year we'd be out of work...

But I'd have a great tan by the end of the summer!

I've tried very very hard lately to stop complaining about work, at least in this journal and with Boy. It's boring and accomplishes little--but today is shaping up to be one of those days where I run screaming from the building at the end of the day. Before even saying hello, my boss tells me "For being so smart, you sure do some stupid things"--referring to yesterday when I accidentally sent a stupid fax to a stupid long-distance number without dialing a stupid one.

Why am I here? Why don't I just get up, walk out, and never look back? Same quandry Q is having, I guess. Quitting my job without having a new one is a bad idea in general, and an even worse idea when we're looking at houses. I promised Boy that I wouldn't quit without having something else lined up--but good christ, it's killing me. I felt better about waiting yesterday because we had a lot of work to do and my boss pretty much left us alone--I don't have much hope for today.

Also, I accidentally sent mail to the entire Boingboing list-serv, so if you got that stupid thank you note that was supposed to just go to Cory--Sorry. I sent it from work, too! fuck.

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Stupid is the word of the day. Every time you hear it, make some noise!

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And so I sit with my Social D blasting through the headphones I wear to block out the horrible awful incessant noise that people keep making. All these...phone calls and conversations. Headphones and loud grouchy music are not enough! I need something that blanks out all sound.

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Listening to the Angry playlist wasn't helping--along with Social D, I was listening to all sorts of loud stuff that was doing nothing but worsening the sinus headache I've had for a week. Bleargh.

I had a calvin&hobbes moment last weekend, a dream inside a dream--dreamed I took a bath with Ev and...some other guy, i don't remember who, and in this dream I woke up! and told Boy about the weird bathtub dream! We sat in the tub like a toboggan! And then Boy told me to hurry up and pick my tattoo, he'd already gotten his and there were a hundred people in line behind me! He'd gotten a pair of those Easter Island heads on his bicep, and I was about to get inked but couldn't remember my morse code so I leapt out of the chair and ran down the street to this house my parents (don't really) own where vines grew out of the walls and stairs and the spare bedroom smelled stale and cold--

And I woke up.

I've intentionally kept my dreams away from this journal in the last few months because there are few things more boring than listening to other peoples' dreams--I couldn't figure it out at first, because my dreams are always so interesting, even though you can't be there and see and feel and smell what's going on.

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I wish I had more photographs--and this is not to say that I don't have many, I've got boxes full that I can hardly bear to look at any longer. What I want photographs of are the moments where dawn is blooming, where hearts are breaking and memories are being etched in my mind.

Memories are not enough. I want a photograph of that frozen January night in Courcheval, walking down some tiny alley lit by strings of glittering bulbs. I want that gorgeous morning last summer where the sun was rising over a flat, glassy lake and I lay naked in the crisp white sheets--I want photos of me when I'm not aware they're being taken.

All of your devoted finger-crossing was for naught--we were outbid. Fuckers! On with the hunt.

Morning began for me at 4 a.m.--blasted allergies have taken hostage my entire body, a full night's sleep bedamned! Mostly it's just morning congestion and itchy eyes, but today I'm just itchy all over which makes sitting still at work a challenge. Must have been that moonlit roll in poison oak.

Also (please hide your eyes if you are easily grossed out), my horrible horrible morning breath was enough to curl my hair. I am grossed out by the mere memory. Stupid allergies making me a mouth-breather.

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Also making a little squeamish: I received anonymous email this morning from someone claiming to be affiliated with my old summer camp--they've found my website! And they want me to link to them! Scary. I didn't realize that I'd ever mentioned the camp by name--but it's there in the archives somewhere. It's unnerving at best, especially since the person who contacted me is insisting on anonymity.

I'm still trying to figure out whose side I'm on. On one hand, my life was changed for the better because of that place, those experiences--but part of me thinks that the changes made there were necessary. I don't agree with the methods, and I don't like the direction things are going now--but Change Can Be Good. Weird to hear me say that, isn't it? I've clung to familiarity with an iron grip for so long, but I'm learning to let go.

I sort of have to, don't I? What with house-buying and moving and taking things in an entirely new direction.

Interesting coincidence: I get this mail from a camp person on the same day that I decide to start my patented Camp Diet (See, one summer the food was so bad that I ended up eating watermelon and breakfast cereal for almost every meal. I lost almost 30 pounds in two months! I guess I should mention I was also chasing kids 15 hours a day! But still! Please do disregard the three times I collapsed from exhaustion and malnutrition. It won't be a problem this time because I'm supplementing the watermelon with some honeydew and canteloupe! And I'm supplementing the breakfast cereal with milkshakes!)

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Oh! Two things I've been forgetting to mention:

1) Happy 19,000th visitor to me! Now, if only we could break the 1000 visitors a week mark.

2) Thanks to Janey at CootieHog for the link and the compliments! I heart fanmail.

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I am ready to just flat-out explode from my skin. I'm so itchy and twitchy. I bummed an allergy pill (don't ask what it was, I certainly didn't. You'd think I'd know better than to accept unlabeled pills but GOD i am going nuts) from a coworker and it has yet to kick in. Or maybe it kicked in and increased itchyness and irritability is a side effect of the medication.

I hate that, when the side effects are worse than the ill you were trying to cure.

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Still no word on the offer, which was presented at 830 this morning. I know, it's only been three hours, but come ON. We are DYING here. Heh.

A few virtually blogless days and still I'm not quite ready to get back into the groove. Suffice to say, househunting has rendered me limp and useless, almost entirely unable to produce web content. Yesterday's two sentences sent me straight to the fainting couch (it's a metaphorical couch, you know. Our house is not big enough for such a useless piece of furniture. but I still want one. maybe in the new house?)

Providing, of course, our offer is accepted. We're up against two others, but god, how could they NOT accept ours? We're terribly adorable.

I can't wait for the waiting to be over. Then it's just years and years of blissful (ha!) homeownership.

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Here's how the weekend went: Friday...well, Friday was a blur. I was...at work? For the day? Other than that, I'm drawing a blank. I'd bet we looked at houses or had dinner or some combination--oh! I had dinner and did some shopping with Blondie since she's leaving for Pennsylvania in three days (fool! why must you leave with the summer just beginning?), then headed home to play with my new crimping iron.

Why yes, I am slightly nuts. You'd think that I'd know better, what with all the processing Kendall has performed on my hair in the last two months--foiled bleach to lighten the dark dark brown to where the candy-apple-red would take, a high-powered dose of veggie dye, six weeks of daily shampoo, then back to the salon for another bleach-foil session, a chemical dye, more heat styling...

But the iron made my hair crazy and voluminous! I'm desparately in love with that stupid crimping iron, despite the extra hour it might add to my (almost non-existent) morning beauty regimen.

We headed to Loree's birthday party Saturday night, dressed to the nines (what exactly are "the nines"?)--upon arrival, there was much admiration heaped upon my glorious hair, including the best comment I've ever heard JeffMill's girlfriend Saffron utter: "You've got latin popstar hair!!" and thus began the running joke of the weekend. I had latin popstar hair.

Trust me, it was highly entertaining.

Also highly entertaining and of relative note: This party was exceptionally friendly, so friendly that I ended being cloven-fruited by both the host and hostess!

(here is some back-story: someone somewhere started this tradition of the Cloven Fruit--a fruit [originally an orange, but I've since seen a zucchini and a quince] with many many whole cloves poked into it--you give the fruit to a person you'd like to kiss, the person takes a clove, and you do the deed. Thus, I made out with Boy's coworker and his life-partner. Good lord.)

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Work is busy busy busy, I'm half-frantic waiting to hear from Boy about how the assessment went at the (potential) new house. I think I'll wait until I'm more calm and collected before continuing.

Good Christ. We are finally making an offer on a house.

I feel like my head is about to explode. Can you guess what my weekend has consisted of, and how it's progressed?

Oof. Sun-tea is only making it worse! Must nap.

Another reason I positively adore that Suburban Limbo (I mean, aside from the fact that he gets to live in Orlando and play golf and go to Disneyworld--what, didn't I mention my secret love affair with Central Florida? Another story for another time.): His CD.

With songs like "Why Aren't We Having Sex?" and "Don't Sleep With The Singer", who couldn't love it? Apparently someone, because they're selling the used CD for $7.99. But still!

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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

Had a dream this morning that my dad took me to a Canadian firefighter bar, where I met Lenny Kravitz. He wore a cream-colored turtleneck, and I wore red, and we walked away with a promise to meet my dad on the green bench. Lenny and I headed down to the docks, where we meet my stepfather smoking a cuban. He offers me a puff, and we discuss how Lenny's songs aren't self-penned--a computer writes them for him! That's how a song like "Black Velveteen" gets written! I stood on a cleat, which I've always been told not to do because I am such a clumsy girl--remind me to tell you the story of dangling off the side of the boat in the Sidney Harbor because it was my turn to jump with the lines but I got scared and chickened out in the middle of the jump and turned back but almost too late! and I glommed on to the side and I guess I don't need to be reminded because I just told you--but I stood there on the cleat, with illustrious stepfather up top and Lenny chuckling while we watched phosphorescent jelly fish swarm in the water below.

The computer-generated-lyrics came from that episode of Clarissa Explains It All that I watched last night. Good christ, how I loved that show. When I was 12. Loses something in aging.

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Sorry for not posting yesterday--had a busy busy day at work, first day back after two days gone--just couldn't muster up the wherewithall to pump out an entry. Today won't likely be much better--I'm working with the IS guys again and the work is interesting enough to keep me at it all day with few breaks. Here, something from yesterday:

"We stayed up late last night to watch Traffic--and now everything I've said today feels like drug lingo.

Speaking of dolls--I've mentioned before that there are three pregnant women in my office alone, to say nothing of our New York office and our distribution center--Two of them are on my floor. Someone says to the 6-months-gone one, "Your baby must be the size of a barbie doll by now!"--and all I can think of is this moody fat chick giving birth to NASCAR Barbie."

See? that was all I could squeeze out yesterday. So much to do.

I've always felt pretty firmly that John Lennon was right--All you need is Love, and things will be fine. Troubles? Love more. Problems? Kiss and make up.

I know now that I'm wrong.

Love isn't enough to make everything work--I've been shown that over and over again in the last two months. (and if you're thinking I refer solely to my own relationship, take another look around. It's everywhere.) You can't just smooth things over and say, "Everything will be fine, we love each other", I know this. I know this because I have tried, and while I wouldn't necessarily say that I've failed...I certainly haven't succeeded. I've tried making everything bright and shiny by being upbeat and endlessly optimistic, reaffirming how much love and support I have for Boy--and it's true! I love him, and if I could pick my most perfect job, it would be to do nothing but love him all day long.

But there I go again, trying to fix everything with boundless love.

I want it to be that easy, I want us all to not worry and be settled and content, and it's such a departure for me! What happened to leaving things on edge, throwing things when I'm angry? I sulk now, and suck it up--fold endless laundry or just sit and fume in silence. I have a hard time remembering the last time I've spent so much time trying not to rock the boat. Probably never, at least not this much trying. I mean, every child of divorced parents ends up doing it here and there--can't mention dad's new girlfriend around mom, can't mention mom's new car around dad. For a while, right after the divorce? It was can't mention to dad where we lived with mom. He found out, and in an apparent fit of rage broke into our condo with one of his bastard friends and trashed everything, smashed photo frames and a bathroom mirror; we came home and found the head ripped off of one of my teddy bears.

(sidenote: where do these memories come from, and why do I let them pour out like this? I start with a simple topic: Love. and end up reinforcing just how much I cannot trust my father, never will trust him. I hate saying that out loud, even though I think it all the time--I like pretending that someday he'll realize how he's done so much wrong and just change, he'll come on bended knee with abject apology and I'll have him as a real dad. But this isn't what I meant to do.)

What about me? When do I get to say, I am having a hard time listening to this problem or that issue, hearing mom complain and say if it weren't for us kids she'd be dead, hearing my brother talk about how much he hates, hates our father, knowing how unhappy Boy is stuck where we are--when do I get to say enough? And what will make any of this better?

I'm not hopeless; I know that things will get better, I know that things will work out, because they just can't do anything else. I've never been religious, that much is so patently apparent if you've ever read a single paragraph I've written or heard a word come out of my oft-foul mouth--and I've said many times: I don't have enough faith for organized (and even not-so-organized) religion. I don't believe enough, I can't suspend my disbelief long enough to see the presence of some supreme being, or heavenly presence in extraordinary occurances.

What I have faith in is Love. It's not enough to fix everything--but I believe that it's a start.

Big big life-altering plans are being made. I'm not yet at liberty to talk about any of them, but they're a Big Damn Deal. Both plans. There's also a third, more insane plan in the works, but that would hinge on finding a real-life Dr. Nick...but with a better reputation. Do you know a rather unscrupulous doctor with a good reputation with his peers? I need one.

Just wanted to let you know I'm alive.

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Things I learned gardening on Monday:
-A good way to keep dirt off your hands is to garden in rubber kitchen gloves. A good way to keep dirt off your clothes is to not garden at all.
-watering delicate petunias with a full-on blast from the hose = bad idea.
-potting annuals and herbs? Don't do it on your glass-top patio table. Oof.
-going to fill a very large pot with very heavy dirty and plants? Move it to a final resting place first, because fuck, those are heavy.

Things I have learned looking at houses for a month:
-Keep looking.
-Don't use an agent who spends more time on his cell phone with other clients than he spends talking to you.
-Don't use an agent who dated your dad, even if she is very nice and sort of mormon-ish (but not all churchy!) and feels like she's less likely to screw you. Your perpetually-philandering dad might use this as an opportunity to hit on her again, even if he was the one to break up with her in the first place.
-Do keep looking at your realtor's website to find new listings, she might get busy and won't be able to catch every last one.
-Don't keep looking at LuxuryRealEstate.com for $30,000,000 estates in the San Juans. I might be a masochist, but this is taking things too far.

This site is the very first result for Unbelievable Camel Toe searches. Gross.

This weekend just would not end.

Bet you didn't think I'd be the one to say that, hmm? It's true--this weekend dragged and dragged and was so damned busy that I (warning, cliché) need a weekend to recover from my weekend. I think it was chasing after my family (and 9 third graders) on saturday, plus running all over the city yesterday, plus having my family for dinner last night, plus reading Playboy until midnight...I guess I'd be satisfied with a nap since another weekend is out of the question for the next five days.

Here's Saturday: Wake up. Nudge Boy out of bed and into shower. Foolishly dress in white linen. Drive to mom's. Mom's not home. Wait. Wait wait wait. Mom shows up. Needs Money For Movie Tickets! Drive down to where the boat is dry-docked and get money from Illustrious Stepfather. Cackle with glee when handed $1500 cash. Pout when told none of it is for me. Drive back to mom's. Pack cars tightly with squealing girls. Catch glimpse of glittery headband through fence boards--who is that in the backyard? Pack last almost-left-behind child into car. Drive to theatre. Set Boy Free, who gets his car washed by the ugliest high school basketball team this side of Appalachia. Buy tickets for movie, which went something like this:

Me: I'd like eleven tickets for Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron.
Ticket Girl: If you want eleven seats together, you're going to be sitting in the front row.
Me: You have got to be kidding me.
TG: Nope.
Me: Have you seen this movie?
TG: Nope. I'll tell you this much--all the music is done by Bryan Adams.
Me: [faint dead away on the sidewalk, not to be revived until after the movie is over] (oh, I wish. Here's what really happened)
Me: Dear God in heaven.
TG: Fifty-five dollars, please
Me: [heart-attack]

Enter the theatre. Hustle children to neck-craning seats in front of world's smallest movie screen. Buy FIVE buckets of popcr0n, four giant sodas. Wads of napkins in white linen pockets. Movie starts. Longest hour and a half of my life, made bearable only by my snarky whispers that were funny enough to almost make Mom wet her pants.

That's comedy, folks. It's all about incontinence.

Here is my favorite whispered exchange (why yes, I did write it down.)--

Voiceover: (this is supposed to be the voice of the horse, talking about his journey with his Lakota friend, Little Creek) I'll never forget that boy, or how we won our freedom forever.
Me: And by freedom, he means the complete and utter oppression of his people for centuries to come.
Mom: stop! I'm going to wet myself!
Me: But at least the horses found love.

My god, what a horrible movie.

It might have been bearable if they had followed form and made the animals entirely anthropomorphic--wearing funny hats and speaking in colloquial british accents--but they didn't. Five minutes of voiceover and an hour and twenty-five minutes of galloping ponies wearing stern frowns or coquettish winks and giving not-quite-horsey-enough whickers and whinnies. Accompanied by soaring Bryan Adams rock ballads. Rock ballads with pan-pipes.

Movie ends, head to the park. Frisbees, jumpropes, playground follies. Cake. Presents. Pinata-bashing (oh my good gracious, I am SO having a pinata at my next birthday party. That was hilarious! I almost fell down, I was so dizzy after being spun. Being on a hill didn't help.) feeding squirrels, petting neighborhood tomcats, getting scratched by the aforementioned bastard tomcat, and heading home.

Stopped at neighbor's garage sale. Bought exercise machine for $5. Bought golf clubs for $5. Bought rickety wooden ladder for a dollar. Had big not-speaking argument over exercise machine, which apparently takes up too much space in the completely-empty third bedroom. Started speaking again, had sex. Fell asleep, woke up at 9 pm. Ordered pizza, watched TLC's Super Structures--it was the Kansai Airport episode again, so we made jokes about Alluvial and Diluvial Clay, Sisters From The 'Hood. Long, cold shower at 2am, then to bed.

And that was Saturday. Sunday was slightly less frenetic--lazy morning, spent an hour at Crate & Barrel in Bellevue, went flower-shopping with mom in the afternoon, followed by having the family over for steaks and birthday cake.

See? I'm getting old. Sundays used to be reserved for hangovers, dirty sex, and washing cigarette smoke out of my see-through clothing from the night before.

I think this is better--even if it means getting my hands dirty with those plants.

Happy 18,000th visitor to me! Ah, how time flies from...last week! when we were celebrating 17,000. Feel free to buy me something in celebration.

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My dreams last night (four? maybe five individual dreams. no rest for the wicked.) had a cast of thousands--so many people, so much *ahem* activity. My head is spinning.

Or maybe that's the evil boozy milkshake I had at dinner last night. They taste like nothing, so you KNOW they're trouble.

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For posterity's sake: Happy Birthday, Kid Sis. You'll never see this, but I wanted you to know--you're the best little sister in the world.

Now, to get dressed and assist with the pinata-stuffing.