Loot.

My relationship has a fatal flaw. Not to be dramatic or anything, but seriously. Fatal.

Every gift giving holiday I ponder and squirm and wrack my brain as to what to get Geoff. And yes, I'm aware at this juncture I should know what to get the man but honestly it boils down to one thing. I hate him. Just kidding that's not the thing. The thing is, I HATE giving practical gifts. I like superfluous, random, silly gifts that make the person roll their eyes and laugh.

And Geoff could not possibly be more pragmatic and tasteful.

This goes back a long way. For our second anniversary I gave him a toy norwhal (yes its a real animal, look it up) that could use its magical tusk to spear small animals (pre-speared toy koala and seal included). Seeing it on the shelf made me snort involuntarily and embarrass myself in public, so I knew I was on the right track.

Imagine my surprise when my sugar daddy pulls out a jewelry box containing a singularly beautiful and expensive watch that if I were to pick out any watch in the whole world it would be the one in that box. Well shit. We all know who cares more don't we?

Anyway, since then I have gotten pretty neurotic trying to get Geoff gifts that he wont try to pass off as something given to him by a retarded nephew. This Christmas I once again pondered and squirmed and wracked my brains and got him a bunch of HBO series on DVD. Because John Adams is educational and historically accurate and Laura Linney is seriously hot for someone her age. I didn't snort when I saw it, and it didn't make the guy ringing me up laugh and shake his head so I figured I was in the clear.

And this morning I headed to the UPS store to pick up what I soon discovered was a singularly beautiful and expensive leather bag. Dammit Geoff. If I cant win, I'm going to go back and see if they make any other norwhals.

Ho Ho Ho is how fat people laugh.

Internet, today I have consumed no less than 47,000 calories in baked goods that had the misfortune of being in the scope of my vortex. I obliterated a whole village of gingerbread people and without missing a beat moved right on to some rasberry fudge. Around 2 pm my jaw actually unhinged to make room for fistfuls of peanut brittle.

I would like to think that since my office is roughly the temperature of a snowmans balls, I have burned off the calories through shivering alone. But I doubt it.

A Warning

If the cafeteria here on campus has decided to stop selling goldfish crackers on a lark, then they should at least have emailed me, their most LOYAL BUYER.

If they have done so as related to an unwarranted vendetta by a certain salad-dressing scrooge, well then I say this: if you charge me $7 for a shitty salad with nary a drop of dressing, I will continue to steal fistfuls of plastic cutlery.

Take heed.

Not My Gumdrop Buttons!

All day yesterday I was fiending for gingerbread. I mean that literally. I woke up at 5:30 am (I know, I hate my life too) smacking my morning breathed lips and thinking of the spicy, ethereal goodness. I didnt think about it for the next hour and a half on account of the fact that I was trying not to throw up my lungs on a treadmill, but rest assured, the craving returned on the sweaty drive home.

I made it through the day looking at gingerbread recipes on various websites and trying not to touch myself (they frown on that here at work).

When I finally made it out of the office, I sped to the Trader Joes (Mecca) baked goods aisle. And Internet, it is a miracle I didnt tear into that package with my teeth right there in the store. I made it all the way to my car where I tore into it with my keys. Which I think is slightly more dignified.

The Most Dangerous Game

Yesterday I spent a solid hour and a half at the post office.

Entering the building with a pile of gifts under my arm and a bag of save the dates in my sweaty little palm, I was nevertheless the picture of chrismassy-weddingy cheer. I managed to keep this facade through my first round in line, but when I entered into the second go round (on account of being ONE MOTHERFUCKING STAMP short) my grin had melted off my smug little face.

I had left work an hour early and come into the establishment with three goals in mind:

-send out G's Christmas packages so that I can make up for forgetting his birthday with awesome please-dont-hate-me gifts
-send out the 121 (that number would come to haunt me) save-the-date cards that had taken up residence on my coffee table.
-get a new passport because the crap for brains government employees had decided that I was born in Belgium when I renewed last year.

The first two goals were met easily enough, albeit shaving off a decade of my life and half of my heel (dont wear uncomfortable shoes to stand in line). But the third, oh the third. I think maybe the abominable snowman works the passport office. Because he is NEVER there. Also he is the one that decided I was born in Belgium last year, and I hear snowmen are retarded.

I have gone to the post office twice previously, and each time been told that he is not working on the day I have come in (different days respectively). Yesterday I was told that he had left early. When I had the gumption to ask if he would be around at 4ish today, I was told that maybe, but it was really luck of the draw. Because who works til five on a Tuesday?

What the abominable passport man doesnt know is that I am stubborn as hell. And. I . Will. Never. Give. Up. The lady at the ID office learned that earlier this year, when she tested how many times I would assault her voicemail (infinite number). And now passport guy will see my wrath.

Good luck old man. Its Christmas Break and I got aaaall day.

Embracing the Inevitable

It is now December 8th and I am elbow deep in forced yule tide cheer.

In addition to the 47 holiday parties that I have managed to cram into my file-o-fax, my personal to do list screams things like "office Christmas baking!", "silver shoes!", and "stop eating holiday leftovers because your fiance wont love a heifer!".

Its as if I don't have a job I should be doing, or an ass that isn't in sore need of some lunges. I justify each lapse in self control with "its the holidays! Everyone is doing it!" (which I hear is what crack heads say too). Because its all I can do to not log into the food network again to look at what kinds of deliciously buttery morsels that Paula Dean has created for the destruction of dieters everywhere. No wonder there is the post-Christmas depression. There is no more excuses for half assed decision making.

And I don't know what it is about this time of year, but its all mixed up with this sense of urgency isn't it? Like, the presents cant be bought early enough, and what do you mean you haven't sent your cards already? But next week is Halloween already!
I woke up in a cold sweat this morning realizing that I have not bought G's brothers anything yet. Because it isn't like I don't have until freaking Dec 25th. And everyone knows last minute presents bought as impulse buys are the best anyway. Handle of jack? Happy Holidays!


If it weren't for the Christmas remix by Wings, I might just polish off that last powdery cookie I got in my mailbox this morning. Just kidding. I already ate it.

Next Comes the Girdle.

So I really needed black slacks. And Internet, I can assure you, not in the "I need a fourth pair of black slacks, this time with more hem" kind of way, in the "my ass will fall off from cold if I don't start wearing pants and there are only so many ways you can spice up jeans" kind of way.

Now I'm usually a time wasting kind of shopper. I can easily spend the day perusing every store in the mall (and snickering at the kids in Hot Topic, because they don't get nearly enough of that from their peers in high school). But, this usual capitalistic time suck goes on the back burner when the weather drops abruptly from a shvitsy 88 degrees to a foreboding 66 and I feel a bit like the ill fated grass hopper that sang all summer.

So I'm on a mission. And since my small town is catered mostly to college girls exploring the wonders of pairing Ugg Boots with an Abercrombie denim belt/skirt, I decided to skip the inevitable hit to my self esteem and headed straight to the Ralph Lauren outlet.

And the beauty of outlet shopping is such that you feel like an expert deal finder and also a little like a tomb robber too. Because all the lovely clothes, that in another life were put on lovely shelves with potpourri or something, are now flung like fallen civil war soldiers. One is left to pick through them while remaining sensitive to their degradation, which does not lend itself to leisurely shopping. Instead its a smash and grab job, taking everything you think might squeeze over your ass and eyeing the other shoppers suspiciously lest they swoop in and steal your bargain.

So here I am, sharing a dressing room with an orgy of black pants and cursing any calorie I have ever had the good sense to ingest. Nothing is fitting well. And then it hits me. I am no longer in a place where the purpose of pants is to show a flirty scrap of sheer lace to entice the less fair of the sexes. Their primary function now is to keep my legs warm which is tragically less exciting. And I do feel ridiculous lamenting days past in which i would have liked something that sat half a foot below my navel (aka, a mere breath away from my naughty bits), but man, the other kind were way more fun.

And I hate to wax philosophical on a Wednesday afternoon, but is this all just an allegory for myself? I'm trading in the flirty and exciting for the sensible and respectable? And if so, how goddam depressing that I find my life comparable to a pair of discounted pants?

Spreading Joy.

Its not often that I give up the spotlight on this blog to showcase anything (other than myself of couse). But this my friends, is too good to pass up.

I would be no kind of friend at all if I did not brighten your lives (and expand your horizons) with the joy that is the douchbagiest voicemail ever.

Also I would like for you to note that both parties involved are hanging out in the Marina District of San Francisco. If any of you need a mental image of what that means, let me, as a native inform you. Because if I have not met this Dimitri, I have certainly met, and subsequently been hit on by his posse of douche.

Dimitri will be short. And a computer programmer of some sort. He will be deathly pale. Not in an Edward Cullen hot ass vampire kind of way, in the short computer programmer kind of way. He will be wearing a leather jacket that his mother bought him at Nordstrom Rack that he will layer with an Armani Exchange t-shirt that he got on clearance. And he will have the traces of what looks like stubble but you will realize if and when you get too close, that it is in fact the product of two months of painstaking mustache growing that he does at home while lifting 20 pound weights.

I think that makes this message all the more amazing.

http://view.break.com/527579 - Watch more free videos

enjoy dear readers.

And they even still like me.

Last night I got painfully, annoyingly, only person in the room drunk. And let me tell you why...



So yesterday was the anniversary of my birth. Some might call that a "birthday" but really, I like the former phrasing because it makes me sound a little like Jesus. And anything I can do to be more like Jesus, count me in!

And I gotta tell ya, Im not usually a birthday person. Im not the girl that walks around for a month dropping casual hints as to what magical day might be coming up in November or leaving earmarked Tiffany catalogues around the house. Its just not my style. Also I have yet to have the catalogue thing work. Simon must not be a fan of overpriced jewelry. As much as I love being the center of attention (thus the unnatural affection for kareoke), I dont actually like the idea of anyone feeling obligated to make a fuss over me.

I started my birth-anniversary (see, dont you respect me a little more?) in three hours of traffic on my way home from my parents house. And turns out no one on the highway must have known that it was MY day because not one damn person pulled over in reverance.

When I got home, changed out of my driving pants (very similar in quality to eating pants) and rushed to work, I was greeted with a sign and prezzies from a friend, and a flood of facebook greetings, but other than that the day went pretty normally. Unlike everyone else in my department I did not get treats and a card, so I take that to mean that I dont have to invite any of them to my wedding. Which is a relief.

Anyway, later that night my friend H invited me over for a birthday drink before dinner. When I got to the house, (blissfully unaware of the fact that many pictures of me would be taken and that I should really take the time to look less like a discheveled urchin) I was greeted with a gang of good friends, decorations, dinner, party hats...the whole birthday shebang. Also champagne. There was a lot of champagne. After hugs and kisses and laughs all around, H made it her personal responsibility to make sure that my glass was never empty of something that neither smelled nor tasted too much like alcohol. Which, if you know me at all, is really where the trouble starts.

And its credence to how well my friends know me, because 5 drinks in the 80s tunes came on and someone handed me a spatula. My self control or my pride didnt have a chance. Fast forward to me belting out the worst possible rendition of Total Eclipse of the Heart and insisting to everyone intermittently that they were not nearly drunk enough and would they please chug that beer that was in front of them? No? Why? Dont I make debauchery look classy?

I passed out in a bed that I only remembered when the coffee maker started at 6am to be B's. He did not look thrilled to have a bedmate that was both a bed hog, and wreaked of champagne cocktails past. I believe this makes him too picky because I was rocking a pretty serious case of Alice Cooper eyes which I hear men find irresistable.

In passive aggressive retaliation he has posted some pictures that are not kind to my self esteem. Or anyones esteem of me for that matter.

Before I could have a real intervention with myself this morning, I was greeted with texts and phone calls reminding me that despite my inability to carry a tune, and my affinity for shoving my fingers in peoples face holes, I am still loved. Maybe because I only get one birthday a year.

Peevish.

So G and I have this little game. And I think it really says something about who we are as a couple, and why it is that we will someday be the wrinkled old bags waving our canes at trick or treaters and telling them to get off our porch.

We play "the Pet Peeve Game" in which we vocalize what we believe to be wrong with the world and all the assholes in it. Not a lot of guidelines involved (for two such rebels as we), the only rule being really that we don't announce what we hate about each other (that we save for the privacy of the bedroom). It's truly a cleansing process. Nothing appeals more to my passive aggressive nature than cackling to the man I love about the sins of humanity, and how much I hate crocs.

And I must emphasize how good we are at this game. The combination of our mean spirits and competitive natures lends itself to a scathing one-upmanship that has crafted many a mortal blow, if we ever had the guts to proclaim it to the outside world. Which we dont.

Where Im going with this is, since G is off defending our freedom and sticking it to Al Queda, he is not readily available to play with me (in any sense of the word). And it's been a crap-for-brains kind of week and I am bursting at the seams with animosity. So I'm going to use my blog for evil...

Pet Peeves (this week):
-people that say "girl", not in the context of a normal sentence, but like "guuurl".
-when the starbucks guy makes an executive decision and does not give you whipped cream on your hot chocolate. I know it has like 800 calories, give me the whip too. I can handle it.
-when people take/leave things on my desk without asking
-leggings worn as pants. I . Just. Dont. Understand.
-when people dont hold the door when you are right behind them
-when there is an enticing bowl of post halloween candy that you run up to only to discover that its all Three Muskateers and regular M7Ms. Sick.
-crocs (obviously.)

But its no fun only just announcing mine. Tell me yours! And if they are really good, I will like you as much as G.

Brief Update

I know I haven't blogged in about a century, and for that I apologize. But dont blame me, blame the ravenous hoards that crowd my office everyday. Remember all that cocky business this summer about not caring that I get payed like a burger flipper because I get to leave work at 4 and craft things and run around under a rainbow? Well, now that school is in Im here til around 9. Still getting payed like a burger flipper. But one who doesnt come home smelling as delicious.

Either way, nothing interesting was happening in my life as I am old and boring and have an intimate relationship with cable and the left cushion of my couch. But today, an event worthy of a post, if not a police report. Remember that condom bowl in my office? The freaking cute one I used to validate my existence and show the kids how hip I am?

Well Im not hip to thievery! Because today, when I walked into my office, I saw that my coffee table was unusually littered. And that was because someone has swiped my bowl! My bowl! My adorable condom bowl. Stolen. And to give an additional kick to the shins, the bastard dumped all the condoms out. Because not only is this sociopath a bowl-swiper, but they hate safe sex too.

Take a Penny Leave a Penny.

So I keep a decorative basket of condoms and lube in my office. Sometimes it holds candy or treats. But usually condoms.

I'm not positive what that says about me as a student affairs professional, but I think it really sets the tone in the room. Its pretty automatic street cred for the students that come in to talk to me. Because if I have condoms that must mean I want them to get laid, and I cant possibly be all bad. It's very similar to when I let the occasional obscenity slip in a meeting. Holy shit she swears. She is like us but with better shoes.

Added bonus? The basket is really fucking cute. ( See how I slipped that one in? Im just begging you to validate my cool.)

Anyway, I like to keep well stocked because A) nothing is more depressing than a lone condom or pillow of lube laying in a decorative basket, and B) no one ever has the huevos to take the last one. ever. Seriously. It will lay there for weeks untouched by man.

And I know dont if there is an influx of sexual activity (could be the season?) or if all of a sudden my stash has been discovered by the campus at large and the grapevine is humming with "Dude, there is an office here encouraging us to be sexually responsible!", but man! There aren't enough condoms in the world to keep that thing full. I have tried.

It was brimming on Monday morning. Tuesday morning? One left! One! And I thought hey, maybe there was an orgy I didn't know about. Or someone has finally learned to make balloon animals!

So I restocked. And today? Three left! If the trend continues I might contact Trojan directly and tell them Hey! The economy is tanking but seriously you should open a factory in this town. Because we know how to party. But you know, safely.

Three Weeks To Go.

Even more so than the fear of turning this into a wedding blog, was my fear of turning this into a political soap box in which I could alienate friends and piss off my conservative family. I hate soap boxes. I dont even like soap that much.

Few are the political discussions I have ever been in (or anyone has been in for that matter) that have honestly changed the dogma of their opponent. And even fewer have not ended in blows (sometimes if you want someone to agree with you, you have to beat it into them. Thats my dogma, bitches.) Although I feel strongly about my politics, I love my relationships more, and thus do my damndest not to put the former before the latter.

But with three weeks left until the folks in Florida fail to properly punch their ballots again, I have decided to hitch up my skirts and give you an ear full.

Although I have always felt that equality is equality no matter who you love, my passion for the issue has become magnified by the intense rift it has created in my small community. Watching smug, ignorant people parade around with their vague but terrifying "protect parental rights:vote yes on 8" signs lights a fire under my complacent ass. Because I dont know a damn thing about economics, or global warming, or whether or not chickens should lay free range eggs, I tread carefully around those politics. But I do know a thing or two about marriage. I know how much I love G. I know how excited I am to be planning our wedding and how my palms sweat at the idea of walking down the aisle toward him. And I know how I would fight someone tooth and nail if they tried to take that day away from me.

And I refuse to believe that a love between a same sex couple is any less passionate, any less true, and any less deserving than mine.

That being said, here is some very pertinent info from the noonprop8.com website. Check them out.

Fiction: Teaching children about same-sex marriage will happen here unless we pass Prop 8.

Fact: Not one word in Prop 8 mentions education, and no child can be forced, against the will of their parents, to be taught anything about health and family issues at school. California law prohibits it, and the Yes on 8 campaign knows they are lying. Sacramento Superior Court Judge Timothy Frawley has already ruled that this claim by Prop 8 proponents is “false and misleading.”

Fiction: Churches could lose their tax-exemption status.

Fact: Nothing in Prop 8 would force churches to do anything. In fact, the court decision regarding marriage specifically says “no religion will be required to change its religious policies or practices with regard to same-sex couples, and no religious officiant will be required to solemnize a marriage in contravention of his or her religious beliefs.”

Fiction: A Massachusetts case about a parent’s objection to the school curriculum will happen here.

Fact: Unlike Massachusetts, California gives parents an absolute right to remove their kids and opt-out of teaching on health and family instruction they don’t agree with. The opponents know that California law already covers this and Prop 8 won’t affect it, so they bring up an irrelevant case in Massachusetts.

Fiction: Four Activist Judges in San Francisco…

Fact: Prop 8 is not about courts and judges, it’s about eliminating a fundamental right. Judges didn’t grant the right, the constitution guarantees the right. Proponents of Prop 8 use an outdated and stale argument that judges aren’t supposed to protect rights and freedoms. This campaign is about whether Californians, right now, in 2008 are willing to amend the constitution for the sole purpose of eliminating a fundamental right for one group of citizens.

Fiction: People can be sued over personal beliefs.

Fact: California’s laws already prohibit discrimination against anyone based on race, religion, gender, or sexual orientation. This has nothing to do with marriage.

Fiction: Pepperdine University supports the Yes on 8 campaign.

Fact: The university has publicly disassociated itself from Professor Richard Peterson of Pepperdine University, who is featured in the ad, and has asked to not be identified in the Yes on 8 advertisements.

Fiction: Unless Prop 8 passes, CA parents won’t have the right to object to what their children are taught in school.

Fact: California law clearly gives parents and guardians broad authority to remove their children from any health instruction if it conflicts with their religious beliefs or moral convictions.

Stick A Fork In Me.

Last night I had a dream that my bed was made of crabs. I dont know what kind of Freudian mind fuck this comes from, and if I were to hazard a guess, well let's just say I would rather not hazard any damn guess at all. The point though, and let me know if this is obvious, is that such a dream led to a night of extreme tossing and turning.

I woke up this morning to a bed that could have easily been a crime scene, or a porn set. My sheet was twisted in a tight rope that wrapped itself not once, but fully twice around my leg and two of three pillows had decided to save themselves the abuse and had hurled themselves across the room.

And none of this means much in the grand scheme of things except that it is completely indicative as to the kind of day I have had.

I took the morning off to pay off my debt to karma/the Man, and visited the DMV. Figuring that if I got there right as they opened, I had a snowballs chance of not spending my golden years in a plastic chair designed by sadists. Running in at 9:15 (turns out I dont actually know how to get places right when they open), I am greeted by the saint peter of the DMV that hands me ticket number that reads G41. Seriously. Im not even in the A's. It's 9:15 and I am half way down the effing alphabet. I will cut out the grimy details, but suffice it to say my sad sack didnt get back in my car until 11:40.

Finally, sweating, (it is inexplicably 95 degrees outside. Its like God watched me put my summer clothes in storage and then decided to have a chuckle.) I made it into the office and realized I forgot my wallet to buy me some coffee. Which was the only thing that got me through my morning trek across bureaucracy.

I went to my next three meetings de-caffeinated and am only now getting around to checking email. Which, unlike the coffee in my system, is plentiful.

The moral here is, Im done. Im completely drained of any milk of human kindness, and fresh out of any give-a-damn. And its only Thursday. Which of course, is why the Lord invented wine.

Withdrawals.

The week was everything I needed out of a G visit. We fell flawlessly back into our routine, with our banter and our jokes and a few bitter fights to the death sprinkled in between (to keep the passion alive).

And in that short span of his visit, my apartment became this cocoon of relationship. From flawlessly clean and smelling like fresh linen (at least according to Bath and Body Works), it morphed into a wrinkled nest of half eaten baked goods, opened bottles of wine, twisted sheets, and a hale storm of The Office DVDs. Seriously slacking from any semblance of my usual regimented schedule, I spent seven days in my chonees and G's old dress shirt laughing and talking and kissing and touching and being perfectly. and utterly. happy.

But my stay-cation is up. G flew back to Germany and I am pulling myself together. And Im doing pretty well. I claw my way out of bed and to the gym at 6 a.m.. I get dressed and put on heels and click clack my way to work on time. I do my job and smile and try to be there for others in their time of need. And I hang out with friends. And I continue to tease Simon about being fat. And I try not to think about how fucking tragic it is that my apartment is flawlessly clean and smells like fresh linen.

Because honestly, as hard as I am tugging at those old proverbial boot straps, my breath still catches in my throat at least four million times a day. I miss everything about having him here. I miss living in our little rats nest world. I miss running my fingernails through his beard. I miss the smell of him next to me when I sleep. And most of all, at the end of the day, I miss being able to give myself up and lean on someone who wont let me fall.

That Time I Wasn't Patient.

So G is going to be here in three days. Saturday to be more exact. 4p.m. Pacific Standard Time. 73 Hours. And its not that I haven't seen him in three months. Or that Im really really looking forward to seeing him (and hopefully getting to second base, or you know, much much farther). Its the I'm fucking terrible at waiting for things.

When I get excited about something I get really antsy and fidgety and have a hard time focusing on things. Which, you know, works super good when one works for a living.

Its gotten better with age though. When I was a kid I would run around in figure eights when I was excited. (A.D.D. you say? Don't judge, I say.) Like this one time I remember I was really excited at the pool on account of the ice cream man (to this day I challenge you to find me something more awesome than the Pink Panther Ice Cream bar, and if you do, I'll have its children) and I slipped and fell down a stair and bruised my tail bone. Which I believe to be the most embarrassing bone to injure. Not being one for public displays of pain induced self groping, I hobbled into the womens locker room and, unable to sit, marched around holding my rear. And I didn't even get any ice cream.

Being at least a couple years past running around to express excitement, I am relegated to fidgeting in my office chair and eating what appears to be an endless supply of cookies in the hallway. If G doesn't get here soon I might give the old standby a try. I'll just try to be more careful around stairs.

Happy Monday

Because I love you all, I would like to share my current favorite thing.



The Palin impression is so right on that it makes me giggle. And then realize that Tina Fey would make a better VP pick. Also I would like to see the above stated version of the Bush Doctorine.

The Year Is But A Fetus.

Have I lost all my readers by way of being an angry feminist? No? Both of you are still here? Great. And aren't you glad you stuck around? Because Im posting two days in a row. And I never do that! Mostly because I want to keep you addicted. Supply and demand people, supply and demand (I clearly don't have a good grasp on economics since I may or may not be misusing this term, but it seems to vaguely apply. Also marginal propensity. I think that has to do with supply too.)

Anyway, you are in for a treat because I spent a good chunk of my day elbow deep in freshmen (not literally) here on campus for the Week of Welcome. And really, I feel like Jane Goodall back from a day with the chimps. (Gorillas? Whatever.)

I saw no less than 47 million "dresses" that were actually born shirts but forced to pull double duty to try to hide the vajayjays of the same number of underaged girls.

Also, I don't know if I'm too old to understand this (having already achieved puberty), but are the 80s back? Because I thought I had buried my neon colored sunglasses and leg warmers under a full moon with garlic but they seem to have clawed their way out of the grave and onto the shelves of Abercrombie and Skank, or wherever the little heathens shop these days.

And...

Overheard today:

Girl 1: ...and I bought college underwear.
Girl 2: I need to do that. Everything is just so...
Girl 1: Like, immature. And I dont have enough thongs.

Im really looking forward to this school year.

Grinding My Gears.

I'm not aggressive about my feminism. I'm not the woman who will put you in a headlock in my unshaved armpits and make you read statistics about the pay gap and the glass ceiling and the double standards of a patriarchal society. I wear heels and skirts and I enjoy cooking and knitting and occasionally supplicating myself to my boyfriend...er partner? Whatever the hell I am supposed to be calling him these days. And thats OK. And if you want to have a heated debate on any of the above topics, or really, anything else, well thats fine too.

But occasionally, something will bring out the pissed off anti-establishment part of me. And today, that something was istockphoto.com. I usually use them as a source for imaging when I am creating event posters etc. for work, and they have yet to steer me wrong. I am creating signage for "Love Your Body Day" to promote positive self image for freshmen on campus. Before you get on your moral high horse, yes. We are talking about both genders. But we are focusing on women because there is a higher prevalence of negative body image in women ages 18-24 than their male counterparts. I have recent research to back this up. Argue with me. I will kick your ass.

Anyway, I initially envisioned a poster with a series of silhouettes of women, with information on the day's events. People. I am a patient woman (thats a lie, but today I actually was). I filed through almost 7500 images, typed in everything from "strong woman" to "female body" to "not anorexic stripper" to try to find ONE workable piece. And...

Not one. Not one image that wasn't a freakishly skinny computer image with huge breasts. The outfits changed. Some were bent over in sassy shoes. Some were brides. When I typed in "powerful woman" I got a series of hookers in cop outfits. Seriously. In fact, the only women that had any realistic proportions were the pregnant ones, calmly petting their swollen bellies, no doubt wondering how they were ever going to fit into their lingerie when they finally popped the damn thing out.

It made me sad. It made me angry. It made me wonder how its possible that at this juncture in our nations history, women are still only either sex or fertility. And if you want to be a "powerful woman" then you better have your cutoff vinyl cop outfit ready.

The Time I Met Tom Cruise.

Last night I was in the office until about eight. Which is a time of day I have not seen at work since school let out an eternity ago. But you know, the students are coming back and damned if Im not going to be prepared to jam some feminist rhetoric down their ungrateful throats.

Anyway, in an effort to make the long day up to myself, I decided to putter down to my local grocery to pick up some drumsticks. ( In case you people haven't been paying attention, I like drumsticks better than shoes and shirtless firefighters combined.) So. I put on my very favorite new fall sweater which has quickly bumped Simon off my list of "things I would save in a fire", and started down the street.

I got about three blocks from my house before I saw him. Scruffy looking homeless guy in his late thirties maybe? He was sitting on the outer garden wall of a bank strumming what I can only hazard to guess was an imaginary harp. Now growing up in San Francisco, there is not a lot about the homeless that surprises me. I have seen everything to the absolutely heartbreaking, to the downright hilarious (Joke Man on Haight Street, you sir, are a staple of my psychological development). But this chimeric maestro had a sign that said "Im the REAL Tom Cruise. And Im HUNGRY!!". True story. I didnt even add any exclamation points, although Im hazy as to whether there were in fact two or three, I decided to play it safe in the telling.

Anyway, on my way home I handed him two of my four drumsticks. I really wanted to stop and ask him how he felt about the media attention on Katy Holmes, and whether or not it was true that he wears lifts in his movies, and also what is up with scientology, do they really paint your hands purple? But. The E TrueHollywood story of Hugh Hefner was on at 9, and damned if I don't love the old geezer enough to jog all the way up my hill in order to catch it.

Chase Me With Pitchforks

I do not do well with physical ailments. A whiner by nature, I am only borderline able to deal with papercuts without the people around me wanting to slice out my tongue (which I am sure they would if they didnt think that it might just make me bitch even louder). Along with an unnaturally loud aversion to pain, I also hate physical abnormalities, particularly on my own pretty face. So when Dr. Death yanked out the wiser parts of my molars and left me looking like the cheek equivalent of the elephant man, I had no choice...

I officially became a recluse. I skulked around my apartment, sucking down Go!gurts and Trader Joe's applesauce like its going out of style. I watched Fried Green Tomatoes 3 times in the last three days. I also stared at myself in the mirror for the more solid part of 24 hours. Not because Im vain (ok, I am) but more so to get a better idea of what I would look like if only my face gained 80 pounds.

I realized the true extent of both my vanity and similarity in plot line to Frankenstein when I peered out into the sunlight to check my mail in between doses of vicodin. Shielding my eyes from the brightness, ( I resisted the urge to hobble for a more dramatic effect) I got half way before I saw my cute new neighbor and made a mad dash (also devoid of hobbling) back into my cave...er apartment.

Because this is what happens when you trap a narcissistic english major alone in her apartment.

Skype-othetically Speaking

For those of you not around for the daily business of the Scrap, you should know I have fallen deeply, passionately, uncontrollably in love. Not necessarily with the man I am about to marry (I kind of like him too), but with a pretty little piece of technological genius (No, its not a vibrator).

Skype. Skype makes my heart flutter. And for those of you who know me, this is a really big deal. Technology and I have never gotten along. Like feuding roommates we have a mutual disdain that leads us to passive aggressive behavior in which we fill each others shampoo with water and gossip behind one another's backs. My computer will delete things without telling me, and I in turn let Simon sit on its face and click control-alt-delete like seven times in a row.

But Skype, Skype is different.

Skype makes funny celebrating noises when I get an e-phone call, and just like that, a loved ones face appears on my screen. and I can talk, and dance and show them things. And have a chugging contest with Kerri. And show G my new chonees. I am like Harry Potter and Serius Black talking through the green fire. Only with no fear of getting walked in on by Professor Snape. And its easier than crouching in a fireplace. (Is the Harry Potter analogy going too far? Because I seem to be really attached to it.)

Also, Skype lets me take a picture of the screen, so I can save a hilarious moment of an e-call for posterity. Right now I am looking at one of Kerri doing the crazy christina dance. It makes my day better.

So, for those of you with a web cam, do yourself a favor. Go to Skype.com and download the program. And talk to me. You know you want to.

A Fan Letter

Dear Sir

Remember me? Im the girl on the treadmill next to yours. No not the blonde one in spandex. The other one. The sweaty one. The one that only has an hour at the gym in the morning and uses it to the fullest. The pizza calories dont burn themselves you know.

Remember how you wore sunglasses indoors at 6:30 a.m.? You really had me wondering for a while. "Could you be blind?" I wondered as a sweated to the oldies. No. But you probably should be. Because after a while I caught on to the game. And not because I'm a detective (I'm not), or a genius (I am) but because you cat called. At the gym. At 6:30. In the morning. On a treadmill.

I don't know if you realize, but just because you are walking on a treadmill, doesn't actually mean you are walking away from anything. I feel it is necessary to inform you that you are in fact walking in place. And I am pretty sure it is part of good catcalling etiquette to drive (or at the very least walk) away after you whistle. But you are, again, on a treadmill. In sunglasses. Harassing unassuming people that have better things to do.

But you weren't done, were you sir? You just kept marching along, craning your chubby neck at anything female that had the misfortune to walk by. And when I was done with my run you decided to turn your considerable charms my way. Whats that? You really were impressed by my run? (liar, I know I look like a wounded gazelle). Thanky! And yes, I am that flexible. No, Im not a dancer, and no. I am absolutely not interested.

But thanks. Oh, and sweet shades.

Love,
The Girl on the Treadmill Next to You

Simple Pleasures

I am in no way undermining the joys in life that are weddings, and children, and lifelong friendships, and cherished family moments.

But sometimes, happiness is having the really cute teenage employee at Bed Bath and Beyond flirt with you while you pick out hangers in your sweatpants.

Simple pleasures man. Im just saying.

On Visible Brush Strokes.

Adhering to a friend's demands, I am now revealing to the world what a hot mess I really am.

Growing up, I was always told that "I am painting a masterpiece, so hide the brush strokes." I was never to leave the house without brushed hair, mouthwash-ed teeth, and "natural" makeup (because green eyeshadow is for whores). The justification for taking all of this trouble was that "I was never sure who I would meet". And, true story, this advice still rings in my ears.

That is to say, it echoes somewhere deep in the recesses of my foggy brain as I haphazardly tie my dirt hair into a ponytail. and chew a piece of gum to hide the bagel breath. Because what I have learned in my adult life is that I am in fact painting a masterpiece. But it is much more like a Monet. Because from a polite distance I look perfectly groomed. It's only when you peer closer (or stare long enough) you see that I am in fact riddled with brush strokes. and bruises. and scrapped knees. and the occasional coffee stain (because although they have outlawed talking on the phone while driving, they have yet to tear my coffee out of my caffeine-greedy fingers.)

Because here is the crux of the matter: who has time for perfection? And isn't it a little comforting to know that I have better things to do than straighten my hair every morning? like sleep? As it stands, today I am less of a Monet, and more of say, a Jackson Pollock, where the only thing you see is the brush strokes. I am at work with skinless knees and shins (owing to my inability to stay vertical, and a story for another day), a weird bug bite on my arm, and serious under eye circles (they look a lot like those "before" pictures in infomercials that you are sure are doctored). All of which are a testament to a fantastic weekend. And I'm totally ok with that. I always liked modern art better anyway.

So on the off chance that I meet the president today, he should also know I forgot to put on deodorant.

Liquer? I Dont Even Know Her!

A side effect of being a single twenty-something in a town bursting at the seams with married thirty-somethings is the fierce automatic kinship you feel with anyone who vaguely even matches your place in life. According to my calculations (Im actually kind of a scientist at this) there are about 6.5 people in this town that are in my statistical variation. And last night I drank with all of them.

Despite half hearted efforts by the town of SLO to create mingling opportunities (Chamber Mixer anyone?), we mostly forage for ourselves, and frankly, it leads to some hilarity.

So, with that interlude, the pertinent story at hand.

Last night, as according to what is now a fairly stringent Wednesday tradition, I pranced home early, made something delicious to contribute, and got ready for a night of debauchery and board games. But this time, this time was different. Firstly, I got to drink on campus. Which I havent done for oooh, 5 years now. Really, I wish I could describe the nostalgia of walking up the stairs to the Sierra Madre Basketball courts. Secondly, I got locked in a bathroom. I could not be more serious about this. There are pictures to prove it.

But what made the evening interesting for me was the fervor we all had for sharing. It felt (maybe because of the location) a bit like freshman year of college. Where everyone feels displaced and ready to turn themselves inside out to make some new friends. It didnt have that twinge of adolescent desperation or anything (the good thing about getting old is that you are more relaxed, particularly about drinking), but I think the intentions were similar.

We talked for hours, covering topics like monogamy, past indiscretions, and every possible proponent of sex. Topics that I am usually fairly private about, all of a sudden felt like fair game. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe simply the fact that my close friends (like those of my companions last night) dont live in town, and Im a little starved for that intimacy.

Either way, Im looking forward to next week.

Attention Bad Guys

One of the very best things about living alone is really, the fact that I live alone. I come home, and everything is where I left it (unless its a hair tie, because I still can't figure out where Simon socks those things away to). My closet is undisturbed, my DVDs still in alphabetical order. I am free to dance around in my chonees, unabashedly bleach the kitchen for the second day in a row, and eat my strange Russian food unjudged.
Most of the time, I revel in it.

Living alone however, is not however without its drawbacks.
Because, I could not possibly be clearer, I am terrified of bad guys.
Seriously. I'm not sure what makes me think I'm such an appealing target, but even as a kid, I used to imagine that the world was out to kidnap me. Which made walking the half mile home from elementary school a test of fortitude, let me tell you.

Nowadays, when I get home I do what can only be described as an impotent sweep of the house (because really what would I ever do if I actually found someone?). With brave Simon always at my heels, I check around the corner of the kitchen, then flip on all the lights and make my way upstairs. I check in my closet , and in a burst of bravery tear back the shower curtain. I look to Simon for reassurance with questions like "you made that noise didnt you?". Only after this self placating behavior can I get down to the business of relaxing.

Except times like last night when my dad calls.
"Hey, did you lock your downstairs window?"
"Yeah dad, why?"
"No reason, I just had a terrible feeling."
Jesus. Really? YOU had a terrible feeling? Because now I bet mine is terrible-r.
I spent the rest of the night watching Law and Order and wishing I was married to Detective Elliot Stabler, or at the very least cohabitating with my own gun happy green beret.

My comfort is in the fact that although my paper thin walls are a disadvantage when I am trying to drown out my promiscuous neighbors drunk-self esteem sex, they will come in handy if I am ever say, screaming bloody murder.

That being said, if you are reading this and are in fact a bad guy, be assured that I am very popular and may at any moment have a number of brawny gentlemen callers with fierce right hooks and deadly aim. Also I teach self defense.

Of Russian Jewish Bazaars

So you know how I promised never to write wedding planning stories on here unless they were funny? Well Im pushing the limits. Because although this situation might have been funny to a fly on the wall (really it depends on the fly's sense of humor) it sure wasn't as funny to Tina at Edna Valley Winery.

My parents came down this weekend to sign all of the paperwork for the winery that we had picked out a while ago, but as luck would have it, my number one choice, Edna Valley Vineyard got a cancellation for my date, and Angel of Patience Tina (APT, as she might now be called) shot me a line. Little did she know that she was signing up for the most trying two hours of her life (unless she has given birth, in which case, its a toss up).

We pull into the winery this morning a solid 40 minutes after we said we would be there. Because we are Lightmans, and that is how we roll (we roll late). Tina might have caught on to who she was dealing with when my dad made her walk the dimensions of the tent out on the lawn. Three times. But you know what? Tina persevered. She assured both of my parents that although yes, she was sure that Russians party harder than anyone, ever (this being a fact my dad really tried to drive deep) the winery was more than equipped to handle our soviet extra-hard-party needs.

Our little parade of disfunction traipsed after Tina through the kitchen where we distracted and nearly tripped no less than three caterers , and on through the grand dining room where I, strictly out of curiosity, tried to test the structural integrity of a folding wall.

I like to think that it was when Tina ushered us into the meeting room to hammer out logistics that she understood the full gravity of the wedding she was about to entangle herself in. Oh, we asked to see table cloth samples, then argued about each individual one amongst ourselves, we asked to see wedding videos, then didn't watch them as we argued about them amongst ourselves. And although Tina kept telling us it was too early to really delve into seating arrangements, flower choices, or cake designs, we did not listen as we were too busy arguing amongst ourselves.

We ended with a bang, tasting everything on the wine list, and scarfing down tasting wafers like they were crack rocks, and we their hapless addicts. Oh, and we stole snacks from the event going on that day. But by this point Tina had slipped away to her office.

And really, I wouldn't have it any other way. My family is loud, strong willed, and we all possess the irrepressible urge to talk only when at least one other person is talking (if two people are already talking, well thats even better). But we are also hands down, the funniest, most entertaining people. Seriously, my wedding is going to be amazing. I just hope Tina can hang.

In Mid-State Fairness.

Last night I had the distinct pleasure of going to my first Mid State Fair to see Toby Keith in concert. And I know, I know, I have lived in the county for going on 7 years, but I had as yet never visited the parallel universe that is the Paso Fair Grounds. My love for country crooning lured me right out of my comfort zone. And I tell you, it was like walking (while drinking booze out of a plastic boot that lit up) on a whole other planet. A planet of Wranglers, stretch pants, and frankly, the most respectable mullet I have ever had the good fortune to drunkenly point at.

Let's start with the food. What? Deep fried twinky on a stick you say? Yes. And the biggest corndog ever intended by Jesus? Yes yes! To be fair, and to admit my weakness for all things on a stick, it was all fantastically delicious. And to prove that Paso is in fact moving with the times, both booths purported to be deep frying my eats in oil that contained no partially hydrogenated oils. So, the wedding diet is still on track.

In my quest for a "big-fuck-off" belt buckle, I dragged my poor friend C through a myriad of commercial booths that sold everything from entire cowhide wardrobes to entire rhinestone encrusted accessory lines. And although I did not find MY belt buckle ( I maintain that I will know it when I see it) I did test out the limits of reclining comfort with the most amazing hanging chair. The learning is in the quest after all.

So, the evening was a wild success. I got to dance around (and show off my seasoned moves to a gaggle of particularly naked high school girls who should really move away from dropping it like its hot) to the vocal stylings of Mr. Toby Keith, got to sip on the worlds grossest lemon drop (what was I even thinking getting a mixed drink?) from the worlds coolest mug, and discuss a mutual aversion to tight jeans on fat men with a good friend. What more can one do with a Thursday night?

You were stationed where?

Today's post is, in fact a dedication.

Why? Because I happen to be very blessed with fantastic friends, and equally important a forum in which to sing (type?) their praises.

Today's focus? A certain bipolar forest creature. In honor of the fact that he started his very own blog yesterday (squeel!), and that he spent the better part of his day watching me interrogate winery wedding planners like a poor man's Stabler grilling child pornographers, this is his shout out.

So, my top 5 favorite things about Bear:
-his laugh is infectious
-his ability to out-over-analyze me
-he makes up elaborate life situations (best man anyone?) to make things more interesting
-his staunch loyalty to those he loves
-his mother

I think it is definitively rare that one genuinely gets along with their partner's friends. It is an even rarer thing for said friends to want to hang out with you even when said partner isn't around. But it is, I believe, a reflection on all parties involved that this rag tag posse adopt you as one of it's very own. I am lucky enough to not only be absorbed in this way, but also to be loved with a fierceness and loyalty reserved for siblings (or cell mates). So cheers boys, life would not be the same without you.

Musings and Appreciation

A friend of mine recently came back to San Luis Obispo for his mid-tour leave from Iraq. I was very happy to see him safe and largely unscathed. After having eaten our weight in sushi and froyo (damn you Yogurt Creations, you saucy devil) we drove out to the Avila Beach swings to give him a much needed whiff of the ocean and some perspective.

I know it's cliche, but there is nothing like looking at the ocean at night to make you feel utterly human. Something about the combination of endless night sky and the vast ocean expanse that make you feel small but somehow completely significant, somehow kindred in history and humanity.

We talked for a long time on the swings, about his experiences in the last few months, about being home, about the human condition in general. Although my heart broke for some of the stories he told me, I couldnt help but think about what they meant for us as a human race. The truth is, I am constantly surprised by our capacity as people for both incredible kindness and inexplicable cruelty, sometime wrapped in the same body. It isn't like Aasop taught me, that someone is utterly villanous or perfectly saintly. In the end, I think most people remind me of zoo animals, content to be a part of our individual habitats, hardly ever looking outside the scope of our immediate lives. My friend talked about being back in the states and hearing people gripe about the littlest things, and how angry he initially felt hearing these complaints while he feared for his life everyday. But in the end, thats what we have. If we were to always extend ourselves outside our cages, life would be too hard.

Sometimes, there is just too much to think about.

Cheater Cheater...Sleep Disorder

So, I keep having dreams where I cheat on G. Inexplicably, my sub-conscience has plotted an overhaul of previously dreamless nights with some pretty odd me-centered renditions of "Unfaithful".

I am insulted by this for two reasons. The first of which is that the dream is really vivid, the kind where you wake up not entirely positive that it didn't happen. Which makes for some uncomfortable morning musings. The other is that these dreams can in NO WAY be mistaken for sex dreams. No, in a move that is so typically Jewish Guilt, I dream strictly about the cheating aftermath. I dream about the anxiety of having to tell G, or worry that he will find out. It feels akin to gaining the weight without eating the cake.

And I know, I know, what I should be worried about is the recurring dream where I cheat on the man I'm supposed to be marrying. Shut up Freud. But I truly don't understand the symbolism of the sexy parts of a dream like that being left out. Other than self flagellation for original sin. Which I didn't think I was into.

Of Bruschetta, Drumsticks, and Bikes

I think one of the most fantastic elements of living and working in a college town during the summer is that essentially, its a throw back to younger days. Seriously. My work load is about a quarter of what it is during the school year, things are laid back, people wear tank tops to the office.

I behave like what is, for all intents and purposes, a ten year old kid most of the time. A ten year old kid with a credit card and the ability to buy alcohol. I see movies during the week. I walk to the store to buy drumsticks and eat them on the way home. i throw one person tail gate parties in my parking lot with a bottle of wine (I don't have a porch goddamit). And I t.p. my boss's house. Just kidding I don't do that. Yes I do. Anyway, I am essentially the Walt Whitman of San Luis Obispo. (I'm not entirely positive he had access to drumsticks, but he sure was a fan of the lollygagging).

There isn't really a purpose to this post other than to give you a rare glimpse into the life of the Scrap. And to make you people working corporate jobs in LA something to shake your fist at. You may get paid 100k, but admit it you are still sippin' on hatorade. Because its 4:00 and Im going home to make bruschetta for a potluck with friends. Suck on that.

So you are getting married! Now what?!

In case you don't already know (in which case what are you doing reading this blog? stalker.) G asked me to marry him last Monday. In the Cinderella Castle at Disneyland. Along with a beautiful diamond ring he also bought me mickey shaped ice cream to sweeten the deal. Proving once again that he is the perfect mate.

All of that being said, I think it is slowly hitting me what it is exactly I have gotten myself into. That isn't to say that I don't relish the idea of spending my life with the man who understands the importance of Disneyland to a girls perfect day. Its more so that MY particular prince charming rode in, gave me a rock, and then hightailed it out of the country. And I'm a little frightened of planning the hilarious shit show that will be my wedding, by myself.

The title of this post is the exact title (punctuation included) of a book that was passed down to me from a friend who was married last year. It is actually a terrifying little publication that not only talks about the nuances of whether or not you should actually marry (like marriage counseling, but with drawings) but all the things that weddings entail. For instance, did you know you have to host an engagement party? What about a bridal shower? and you are expected to give people prezzies for coming to your wedding? You didn't know all that? Well, neither did this girl.

So, its shaping up that I'm going to be the meanest bride in the world, and will eliminate like 5 of the 9 parties I'm supposed to throw for you bastards. And you aren't getting prezzies either. So there. But true to form, there will be booze.

Also I'm going to make all kinds of attempts to assure that this blog does not turn into a wedding blog. And if it does, at least the stories will be funnier. Drunken wedding dress shopping? Stay tuned to find out!

the sappy is blinding.

I was talking with my friend D today about relationships, the lack thereof, and the struggle with each. The gist of it was that its easier to be a friend to someone than be in a relationship. There is less pressure for perfection, reduced expectations, and you don't have to buy them prezzies in the hopes that you will get some.

While we were discussing all of this (careful...this is where the sap comes in) I realized how lucky I am to be in the relationship I am in. With each challenge that D and I brought up, I realized that G and I have found our way around it. Maybe we were bitching at each other the whole time, maybe we came close to punching each other ( or in my case, doing cup checks), but we hobbled through. I think back to our disfunctional roots as friends that pretended not to flirt with each other, and wonder how I got here. Unsuspectingly, three years later (holy crap, i know) I find myself in a relationship with a man who both loves me for who I really am, and makes me laugh so hard I pee a little.

So, cheers to that.

Guilty Pleasures

So, does anyone remember that episode of Sex and the City where they talk about their "secret single behavior"? For those who don't, basically the girls all talked about the weird little habits they have when the opposite sex isn't around. Then Samantha got laid. It was a pretty good episode.

Anyway, since Ive had a quiet little Sunday here chock full of "secret single behavior" (I'll try to come up with a less stupid name later) I thought I would bear them to the interweb. I do this mostly because blogging brings out the sharer in me, but also because I'm hoping that my faithful readers (all 2 of you) will return the favor and tell me their weird little habits. Seriously, it will bring us closer, I know it.

So, when you are not around I...

-pluck my eyebrows in one of those intense mirrors that makes you feel bad about your pores
-eat tuna fish straight out of the can with a cocktail fork
-braid my hair and pretend I have corn rows
-eat whatever has the misfortune to be in my fridge...like pepperoni in a tortilla
-pretend I know how to dance hip hop
-tease Simon about how fat he is
-model my shoes
-give myself the preggers belly in the mirror
-watch the Girls Next Door and Denise Richards: Its Complicated
-flip through recipe books and tag things I want to make (then go promptly to the fridge for pepperoni and a tortilla)
-vacuum in my underwear
-look at wedding websites (i know I know, I'm ashamed of me too)


Thats all I can think of right now, and although I haven't done all of those things today...I very well might before the day is out. With that being said, dont let my sharing be for naught. Tell me yours, maybe we can trade ideas.

So, for about the last half hour (okok, 2 hours) I have been trying to post the New Kids on the Block "Summertime" video for your viewing pleasure. Because seriously, it doesn't actually get any better than the NKOTB. I will fight you on this. But, as it turns out, I am computer (or youtube) illiterate and couldn't get the damn thing to post. So here is the link.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_TLv1tm9kws

That is my contribution to your daily happiness. Don't say I never did anything for you.

Ps. Donnie, if you are reading this, I love you...let's make out.

the dizziness of freedom

So today I came to the somewhat gripping realization that all of my friends who are already in relationships seem to be engaged. Which is great! (she says without even a hint of jealousy.) Seriously I love you all and am looking forward to being "that drunk girl" at your weddings.

But with all the joyful news comes a real feeling of being adrift. Lets see if you can follow my musings here. Although a solid half of my friends are walking down the aisle pretty soon , a whole other half is pursuing less domestic paths. No one is going in the same direction anymore. Without the confines of the college schedule, we all scattered to the proverbial wind, and I cant possibly be the only one who thinks it's a little terrifying.

Maybe its the natural side effect of being in one's mid twenties. Maybe it's the realization that you are long done with puberty and you aren't getting any taller and your boobs aren't getting any bigger, at least not naturally. Or the onset of all those mental illnesses that are just showing up (it's true. I took a psych class). But suffice it to say I think we are all in a bit of a quarter life crisis. Engaged or not (mostly not in my case), employed or not, the consensus among my cohort seems to be leaning toward a feeling of stress and malaise. Which is fun.

I feel like, for the first time in my life, there are no expectations. No one is pushing me or lecturing me or relying on me. This leaves me with only myself to rebel against (which isn't nearly as satisfying as it sounds), and an existential crisis.

I remain positive though. After all, I have all those weddings to look forward to.

the beginning of the end.

Today is the day folks. Dont get too excited now. Due to the school year ending, and me having seriously very little to do at work, I have gotten over my misgivings that blogs are totally self involved and a little like verbal masturbation, and have joined the masses.

Stay tuned.