Operation Pink Herring

Deep thoughts and shoe pictures

So, getting back to the last of Joke's questions:

- What are your goals for the upcoming year (as in the next 12 months?)

This is an excellent question.  In fact, Joel asks me about this all the time.  I am bad at making life goals.  I can't stand to set a goal and not achieve it, and I really don't know what I want to do with my life.  I know lots of things that I don't want to do with my life.  I have lots of things that I want someday, in some distant future life for myself.  But the coming year?  I have no idea.

I would like to not be working at my same job in 12 months.  I'm coming up on my 2 year anniversary here, and I think I've sort of maxed out.  I've learned a lot here, about myself and the business world in general.  The little, annoying things are starting to become REALLY annoying things, mostly because they keep coming back, month after month, sort of like those pesky periods we women folk have to deal with.  But they invented a lovely pill called Seasonale, which I market like I'm a drug rep because I'm so in love with it.  If someone can invent a pill to make little workplace annoyances three times less frequent, I would very much like to place an order.  So, I would like to have a job that I enjoy more and can learn more from within the next 12 months.  It would be nice if it paid more, too.

(My whole I-Want-A-Job-I-Enjoy-But-I-Don't-Know-What-That-Would-Be dilemma is probably the most distressing thing in my life, overall.   If I prayed, I would ask for direction in my life.   But honestly, I cannot imagine any job that I would actually look forward to getting up and going to 5 days a week.  Call it laziness, I think it's realism.  I can think of a lot of things I'd rather spend my days doing than working for someone who is ultimately not myself... like, exercising more.  Reading more books.  Working on various house projects.  Traveling.  Sleeping.  But, I need money.  And so I go to work.)

I would also like to have some real plans for moving out of Baltimore within the next 12 months.  Joel and I never planned to stay in Baltimore permanently, and over the past year, the city  has started to get on my nerves.  The crime is bad.  The parking is bad.  The area is OK, but we've been here a long time if you count the 4 years we were in school, as well as the three years since graduation.  In the spring, there were some possibilities of Joel getting a job in a few places that are very far from here.  At the time, if it had panned out, we would have had to move very quickly, and I was nervous about that.  But once I had a few weeks to adjust to the idea, I was excited.  Obviously, none of those opportunities worked out, and now I find myself a little disappointed.   I was kind of excited to move to a new place, find a new job, get to explore a new region.  And then that unicorn would come to whisk me away...

Here's a real one, though.  I want to have My Wall finished within the next 12 months.   I would like to be able to enjoy it in its completed state for a little while before we eventually move and leave it behind.   I would also like to have the painting of the house finished within the next 12 months.  At the rate that's been going, it might be close.  Painting is a lot harder than it looks, as it turns out.

I would like to have read at least 12 more books by the end of the next 12 months.  I am currently in a rut, thanks to the return of fall television and the several new shows that I have already become addicted to.

And, possibly most of all, I would like to master the yoga headstand before another year goes by.   

Moving on to a lighter topic,

- Tell me about your favorite pair of shoes - pictures encouraged.

OK, I have to make a confession.   I am really not a shoe person.  I wear sneakers 90% of the time when I'm not at work, and I keep two very boring pairs of sensible shoes under my desk -- one black, one brown -- that I wear every day at work.  I just like to be comfortable, and on top of that, I have back problems that are a lot worse when I wear heels.  Plus, shoes are so expensive!  And I always feel like I don't get enough wear out of the really cute ones I see.  Mostly  because I really love pink shoes.  In the store windows, at least.

These are one of my all-time favorite pairs of summer shoes.  I got them my junior or senior year of college, back when my love affair with JCrew.com was in the height of its passion.

They were on sale, I think they cost me all of $15.  I wear them pretty much non-stop in the summer, I swear they are not as beat up as they look in the picture (I had to pull them out of summer shoe storage, where they were crammed in with my other 57 pairs of flip flops).  They are really cute and go with everything, and as bonus, they are the only pair of flip-flops JCrew has ever made that do not destroy your feet.   Seriously: as much as I love these, I have to counsel you to never, ever buy flip flops from JCrew.  Sure, the look all cute online, but they will destroy your feet.  Welts, cuts, blisters.  I have scars I can show you.

Next we have another pair of flip flops dragged out of the summer shoe storage box. 

I found these on sale at the Banana Republic Outlet this summer, and decided to give them a chance because they were really cheap (I think I paid $5).  They looked like they were probably going to be really uncomfortable, and they were for the first few wears.  But now they're OK as long as I don't walk miles in them at a time, and they make a great clicking sound when I walk which distracts people at work from the fact that I am wearing flip flops.   

So those are my most favorite shoes, as in the ones I wear the most (after my trusty Asics sneakers).  Now, on to my favorite cute shoes that I really need to start wearing more.

Second Runner Up:

There was a time in my life where I only wore Steve Madden shoes (also known as High School).  I do still have a few pairs of Steve's creations in my closet, and these are by far my favorite.  I love these shoes.  I wish they stayed on my feet better when I walked.  I also wish they didn't give me blisters.  Because I seriously love them.  There is a little cutout hole next to the bow that I managed to cut out of the picture.  It makes them even cuter.  And in general, I am a fan of anything with a pink and black color scheme.

Now that I am older and more mature, pretty much every pair of real shoe-shoes (as in not sneaker-shoes) are Nine West.  I love Nine West.   And I love pink.  I really love pink Nine West shoes.

Runner Up Favorite Shoe:

These are without a doubt, my most fun shoes.  I love the color and everything about them.  Unfortunately, they are not comfortable at all.   So... they only come out for really special occasions.  And even then, they only last an hour before I switch to flip flops.

And, for the grand finale, here are my absolute favorite pair of shoes. 

Before I messed up my back, I used to love me some big heels.   Big heels (and big platforms) made me feel like I was not so very, very short.  Some of my biggest heels got me up to a whole 5'5".  When I was studying abroad in Spain, I bought a moderately expensive pair of black boots, and then later a very similar pair of brown boots, which I wore EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.  I loved them.  I felt so sophisticated in them.  I took them to a consignment shop last week, because I have finally accepted that I can never wear them again, and they deserve a better life than sitting in the back of my closet.  The heels are huge, and wearing them for even a few minutes makes my back scream at me for days.

The loss of the use of those boots was a tragedy for me, because I had a lot of cute skirts that I couldn't wear as soon as it got too cold for flip flops.  I scoured the zappos.com and every mall within 50 miles for -- no exaggeration -- two and a half years, trying to find the perfect pair of replacement boots.  My requirements were: 1. plain enough to go with lots of things (dude, boots are EXPENSIVE) but not so plain that they are boring, 2. No pointy toes.  They look good on other people, they do NOT look good on my size 4 1/2 feet, 3. No weird stitching, logos, fringe, etc, 4. No heel. 

I had accepted that no such boots existed in this sad, sad world, and stopped my search when, after making a quick stop at a very small mall to return some things to the Gap, I decided on a whim to stop in the Nine West store.  These boots were in the back.  There was only pair left, and it was in my size.  And they were on sale for 50% off.  I love these boots dearly. 

I really need to wear them more.

A new solution for all the world's problems

I normally don't take naps, even though I perpetually hover somewhere between tired and exhausted.  If my body had its way, I would sleep for 10 hours a night, and those hours would be from 3am-1pm.  I have always been a "night owl", and as far as I can tell, I always will be.  Being genetically inclined towards being nocturnal would be just fine with me, if the world were not constructed for morning people, by morning people.  And such is the tragedy of my life.  Woe is me.

The reason I don't take naps is because waking up is, quite literally, the worst part of my day.  I can pretty much guarantee that, unless your name is Big Bird and you live in a trashcan with Oscar as your roommate, you have never met a person who is grouchier in the morning than I am.  Once, Joel was gently trying to coax me out of bed so I would not be late for work for the 500th day in a row, and he said something along the lines of "Come now, my beautiful darling love of my life, it's 8 o'clock and you really must get out of bed."  My response?  "No. I hate you."  That is how I feel every single morning when the alarm clock goes off, and I have no desire to go through that two times in one day by taking a nap.  Some people take a nap and feel rejuvenated.  I take a nap and get pissed that I had to wake up from it.

So, I hate naps.  Naps hate me.  Coffee is my friend.  The end.

I also happen to be quite neurotic.  I can worry myself into a frenzy without even realizing that I'm doing it.  I have been trying to get a handle on this lately, because I think I have actually been having panic attacks.  Heart starts pounding, break into a sweat, realize my jaw hurts because my teeth are clenched so hard... is that a panic attack?   And I have nothing in my life worth having attacks of the panic over.  I am not the President of the United States.  No one dies if I make a mistake, no one notices if I get to work 3 minutes late every day.  Get a grip, woman.

But I'm not so good at the whole getting a grip.  I can tell myself to, but the problem is that I don't listen well to orders, even when they are given from within my own head. 

I am going somewhere with this.  I promise.

This morning I had an appointment with my dermatologist.  At 7:30am.  WOE.  DISASTER.  TEARS.

While I was driving to the her office, I started thinking about all the crap I had to do at work.  My job is not supposed to be high stress, but it often is.  Especially when I have a big meeting coming up, which I do.  By the time I got to the doctor's office, I was freaking out about this one problem, imagining various scenarios of horrible phone calls where I explained said problem to my boss.  When I returned home from the appointment at 8:30am, I was a nervous, tired wreck.  But since my company only allows you to take sick time in half-day increments, I had two choices:  Go to work 4 hours early and not be paid for it, or take a nap so that I could possibly be lucid enough to deal with the problem when I got to work.  I opted for the latter.

Another problem with my napping is that I have dreams that I imagine are similar to what one would experience after smoking a pound of crack and then jumping out of an airplane.  Seriously crazy shit, someone should probably look into institutionalizing me.  During this nap, I dreamed about The Problem at work, and in a very dreamlike, unrealistic fashion (seriously, a red velvet case containing a working rotary telephone was involved), it was solved.  Needless to say, the dream solution is not at all workable in real life.  But nevertheless, when I woke up I felt completely better about it.  I was no longer tired, and no longer stressed.  I came in to work, told my boss about The Problem in a calm and rational manner, and he said it was no big deal. 

I'm thinking I might need to start taking naps more often.  I wonder if I could fit a cot in my office.  Possibly under the desk? 

PS -- I'll get back to the questions tomorrow.  I'm so excited for some of them.  And I took pictures of the shoes last night :)   

Now then, that's much better

See, I knew you guys could do it.  I'm very proud of you all. 

But seriously, thanks for all of your wonderful questions.  I can tell that some of you enjoyed those random books Urban Outfitters used to sell.  You know, the ones that had "conversation starters" like Which would you rather: pull out all your fingernails, or never be able to speak again?  That question about pulling out fingernails still haunts me, and I think my fear of drying off my teeth might stem from those books and their presence at 8th grade sleepovers as well.

So, to start at the very beginning (a very good place to start) (is it weird that that song pops into my head every time someone says "let's start at the beginning"?) Joke asked:

- What made you start a blog?

An excellent question, with many answers.  I like to overextend myself.  And I also have a job that entails spending hours in front of a computer.  I like words, and writing them.  And I get bored easily.

All these factors combined this winter when I was introduced to the wonderful world of blogs.  (I realize that I am... oh, 5 or 10 years late in getting into the blogging game, but that's the story of my life.  I also have never watched Grey's Anatomy.  If you were to accuse me of living under a rock, I would not be able to argue with you). My mom used to email me every once in awhile and tell me about all the exciting things that this friend of ours was doing in Amsterdam -- *cough cough*.  Finally I asked her how the heck she was getting all this info, since she's not exactly a notorious member of the Boonton Township Rumor Mill.  A link was emailed, and that is how I lost my blog virginity. I soon had a favorites folder bulging at the seams with wonderful blogs and was starting every sentence with "In this one blog I read..." 

It's true that I tend to overdo things when I get excited, and I have now refined my List of Blogs I Am Officially Addicted to down to the really good ones.  But honestly, I have no idea how I got through the day at work before.   

It wasn't really a big leap to start my own.  I've been saying (to myself) for a few years now that I might like to be a writer someday, when I finally liberate myself from the 9-5 world.  This is all strictly theoretical, much like my vision of someday living somewhere cool and hip on the West Coast.  A blog seemed like as good a place as any to start, since the main obstacle to my ever being a Real Life Writer is that I am terrified to let anyone read my writing. 

But really that was just a side thought, the little extra push it took to get me to pony up $50 for a year of Typepad.  The real reason I started a blog was boredom.  I loved reading about the lives of people I'd never met, so I thought it would be fun to start my own story.  My friends would read it, and start their own, and we'd all spend our days blogging and laughing until we cried.  Somehow all our work would get done, and I would transform into Carrie Bradshaw, except I would totally end up with Aiden instead of Mr. Big, because let's be honest: she was nuts to let Aiden go.  Then a unicorn would gallop over and whisk me away to a castle in a cloud, which would be equipped with a very sturdy railing and safety harnesses.  I would never lack for freshly baked frozen pizza and ice cold Diet Coke, and there would be a television in every room and Law and Order would be running on every channel 24 hours a day. 

Well, at least that was the plan.  Things haven't exactly worked out that way.  Most of my real friends think it's weird that I have a blog.  Most of them don't read it, as far as I know.  I was disappointed at first, but I understand how people who don't sit in front of a computer all day can't understand it.   My mother and my brother are my most devoted readers, and that's the way life should be.  This has been a great way to keep them updated on the mundane details of my life.  I've stopped telling real life people about it, because I think I'd rather not have to worry about who's going to read what I say and possibly be hurt by it.   Oh, and also because I'm terrified of being outed at work.   

- Does Joel read your blog?

When I first started this blog, I told Joel he wasn't allowed to read it.  This was partially because I wanted to be able to say whatever I wanted about him without having to censor myself, but mostly it was that whole Fear of People Reading What I Write thing.   You know how they say that the people you love can hurt you the most?  Well, I wasn't too worried that my mom would think I sucked, because it's genetically impossible for moms to think their daughters are anything but perfect.  At least that's what I learned in Honors Biology.  But boyfriends are a different story.  I was afraid he would think the whole thing was stupid, even though he encouraged me to start my own. 

Over the past few months, I have caught him many a time reading it at home when he thinks I'm not looking.  I've stopped making him close the page and promise never to open it again, because secretly I'm sort of happy that he's interested in reading my babble, when he already has to put up with it in person on a daily basis.  I have even caught him laughing a few times.   Then he will go and tell me that I spelled something wrong, to which I reply, SEE?  THIS IS WHY I DON'T WANT YOU TO READ IT. 

So the answer is, sometimes.  He might be reading this right now.  Hi, sweetie!  I'm going to Safeway after work, want anything?

- What are your goals for the upcoming year (as in the next 12 months?)

Um, how much did Joel pay you to ask me that?  I need more time to ponder this one.  I'll get back to you in... 12 months.  Just kidding.  Maybe tomorrow.

- Tell me about your favorite pair of shoes - pictures encouraged.

I'll get back to you on this one too, with pictures.

I am very disappointed in you, internet

Oh come on. I cannot believe that out of all of you brilliant, good-looking people, only ONE person can come up with something.  I was hoping to come back from the weekend with lots of questions to answer, and what do I find?  Joke is the ONLY ONE?

(Joke -- thanks.  If I got nothing, I probably would have had to go home and cry a little bit.)

I am giving you guys one more day (or two, or four, depending on when I actually get around to posting next) to get your act together.  I wasn't looking for deep, what is the meaning of life queries.  In fact, I am really not sure I can answer half of Joke's wonderfully provocative questions.  But seriously... if there is nothing that you would like to know, then I should probably abandon this whole blogging thang and just go back to watching Law and Order in all of my spare time.

I mean, I do have some great cat stories.  Cat stories involving the litterbox, and lack of use thereof.   I also went to the Home Depot AGAIN, for what feels like the fiftieth time this month, and got to play with their new automated propane trade-in system.  If you'd rather hear about those things, by all means, don't think up any questions. 

Just don't say I didn't warn you.

It's like Jeopardy!

Wow.   Reading your own writing is like listening to yourself on an answering machine.   Do I really sound like that?

My friends tell me they love me because I am the most bitter person they know.   In college, my nickname was "Smiles", because allegedly I never smiled.  In my own defense, the kid who gave me that nickname was really, really annoying, and the reason I was "scowling" at him was because he was pissing me off.  ON top of that, it was an ungodly hour of the morning, and we were on an uncomfortable bus on our way to some Cross Country meet, and I just wanted him to shut up so I could sleep and pretend I didn't have to run a race in a few hours.

In general, I deny that I am bitter; I like to think of it as realistic, possibly with a side of being jaded.   But when I hear myself going off about shopping carts that have conspired against me, it's hard to deny:  I can be a bitter person sometimes.   So be it.

Please save me from having to write another tirade, this time about how annoying putting up painter's tape is.  It has the potential to be a long one, because not only is painter's tape a pain in the ass, but so are people who don't want to help with the painting, but just want to tell you which room you should paint first and that you missed a spot with the tape instead. 

So, instead of that, let's copy some of the other lovely and cool people of the internet, who I stalk from afar through their very own blogs.   In the past few weeks, Janet, Isabel and Holly have all done a Question and Answer thing, and I enjoyed their responses greatly, because I am nosy and love learning things about people I don't even know in real life.   And I know I'm not the only one, because there are other people reading the gossip magazines in the grocery store too, so don't even deny that you love all the pictures of Katie -- pardon me, Kate -- Holmes looking undeniably like she's been brainwashed. 

I'm not above stealing someone else's great idea and running with it.  After all, mimicry is the highest form of flattery, right?  And I'm pretty sure that plagiarism is what the internet is all about. So let's do it.  Some of the people who have been reading this site know me, and some of you don't.  That much I can gather from my sitemeter, because I am positive that I don't know anyone in many of the states where the hits come from.  There has to be something you'd like to ask me, and since we have the anonymity of the internet between us, I promise not to get all flushed and start stuttering, like I do in real like when I get nervous.  (And if I do, I'll just take a couple of shots of the leftover party vodka and start blabbing, which is what I often do in real life social situations when I get nervous.  It's sad, but true.  Joel will be happy to tell you stories from his work holiday parties in the past, where I have been known to demand that strangers buy me drinks "because it's my birthday", and also to bump my ass against the CEO of his company repeatedly while "dancing"). 

So, ask away.  Use the comments, or email me.  Ask me a question, ask me multiple questions.  Ask me anything (but I will reserve the right not to answer, or to answer you via email rather than in a forum that my family reads.  Or to change the question to something that I would rather answer.  Just kidding.  Sort of).  In all honesty, I am pretty open and I'm bored, and I need some inspiration.  So help me out.  If no one asks me anything I'm going to get all depressed and I'll have to resort to telling you about how my fluffy cat got tangled in the painter's tape last night.  And that was NOT pretty.

no good deed goes unpunished, right?

Wanna know what I did yesterday?  Ok, I'll tell you.  Since you asked and all.

We had an appointment for the Ant Man, as I like to call him in my own head... and also on my calendar, and sometimes out loud.  The Ant Man was coming to do a follow up, because I am a sucker for a bargain and purchased the quarterly insect killing package, for just a mere $200 more than the one-time ant killing deal.   

So Ant Man was supposed to come between 10am and noon.  I even called the day before to make sure they were coming and that I had the times right, because I'm all responsible like that.  And also, I've been burned a time or two when a certain person whom I live with and love very much makes an appointment with a certain electrical company for a Thursday, so I take off work and wait all day, and then finally call this nameless electrical company at 5:15 pm to chew them out, only to find out that they meant NEXT Thursday.  That one day was enough to turn me from a person who says "oh, I'm sure everything is all set!" into one of those "Hello, I'm an anal and must confirm everything 27 times" people.

Anyway, here's a shocker I'm sure you're not expecting, after all that lead up:  the Ant Man did not show up during the designated time.   When it got to be 11:30, I started panicking that I must have missed the knock on the door.  So I went and checked, and yup,  my post-it note saying "I AM HOME, if I don't answer the door please call 410-XXX-XXXX because I cannnot hear you knocking" was still firmly affixed to the front door.  Then I checked the phone, because maybe it wasn't working outside, where I was diligently working on My Wall, since that is a whole 35 feet away from the phone base.  Nope, phone is still working.

Just as I was starting to go into full "they must have meant NEXT tomorrow, not TODAY tomorrow" mode, the phone rang, and Lo and Behold, it was Ant Man.  He said he was running late, but he would be there in 45 min tops.  No problem, I said.  I'm just here being all artistic and shit, take your time.

Bad idea.  Note to self: Never, ever tell someone to take their time ever again. Ever.

One hour and fifteen minutes later, Ant Man arrives and begins spraying his chemicals all over the house to ensure that we will all die of cancer and my children will probably be born with 14 fingers, but THERE WILL BE NO ANTS eating my Honey Bunches of Oats.   Ant Man forces me to engage in meaningless chit chat, which I possibly hate more than ants eating my Honey Bunches of Oats.   But overall he finishes quickly, and is out the door by 2pm. 

Well, it's not exactly what I was hoping for, but the day is still young, and I can still accomplish most of my 200-item list if I move quickly.   I go back out to finish up with the mortar I've mixed for My Wall, dreaming about how if I am really quick at the grocery store, I can still make it to yoga today.

And then the phone rings.   It's Ant Man.  He wants to know if he left his cell phone at my house.  Which, indeed, he seems to have done.  He'll be back to retrieve it, he assures me.  I grumble in my own head, while simultaneously feeling like it's somehow my fault that he forgot his phone on my kitchen table.

One hour later, Ant Man returns.  I give him his cell phone.  More meaningless chit chat is chattered.  It is now after 3pm.

In speed mode, my car gets dropped off at the mechanic (my car is dead to me, is all I have to say about that topic), Joel trades me his car, I go to the chiropractor and the grocery store, and before I can even finish deciding whether I want two frozen pepperoni pizzas, or one pepperoni and one pepperoni and sausage, Joel calls and says he's ready to be picked up from work at the early hour of 5:15pm.  This is the earliest he has gotten off of work in the past two weeks.  So I rush through the checkout, hand over more money than a household of two people should ever spend on groceries, and then.  The shopping cart decides to lock it's wheels.

Apparently, 'round these parts, shopping cart theft is a real problem, and to stop all the hooligans and homeless people from cutting into their profits, Safeway has installed these wheel locks on all their carts, which magically activate if  you try to take the cart out of their parking lot.  Or, when you make a very sharp turn to throw away your Starbuck's cup as you leave the checkout line, as it turns out.  And once those wheels lock, they LOCK.  I had previously been skeptical about the wheel lock threat, and I sort of thought it was just like those people who put of Beware of Attack Dog signs, when you know they dont' even have a dog.  But I was wrong.  Those wheel locks work, and they work GOOD if you are innocently trying to push your load of cat litter and Diet Coke out to the parking  lot.  It's about as easy to move a cart with a wheel lock on as it is to drag Max out from under the bed for a vet appointment.

I gave up after about five minutes, which is actually a very long time to be struggling with a cart in front of a store full of strangers.  Just as the security guards were about to arrest me for assaulting a display of Halloween Candy (already?? It's SEPTEMBER!), I gave up and transferrred them to another cart and just left that piece of crap sitting there.   That's what I get for trying to throw away a Starbucks cup.  Next time I'll just leave it in the cart, like normal people do.

So, that was my day.  And as bad as it all sounds, it was really not that bad at all compared to being back at work.  You'd think a 3-day week would be great, but you'd be wrong.  Look out, interent, it looks like winter depression is setting in early.  Better get out your full body armor and earplugs, because this could get ugly by the time the weather actually starts turning cold.

Gone to Home Depot. If not back in three days, please send help.

So, internet, how are things?  It feels like it's been a long time.  What have you been up to?

Well, since you asked, I'm OK.  Yeah, just OK, really.  I can't say I'm great, but not that bad either, I guess.

This weekend felt very, very short.  Don't they all?  But this one was a good one.  I slept until noon on both Saturday and Sunday, and then felt guilty for sleeping the whole day away.  One day I will look back at these years, I'm sure, and envy the freedom that I have now to sleep until all hours of the afternoon on weekends.  But right now, I can't help thinking that if I just had some kids to wake me up a little bit earlier, I would be able to get a lot more stuff done.

(Crazy, I know.  No need to tell me.)

Laziness aside, I still managed to accomplish quite a lot this weekend.  First and foremost, I dug out all my old supplies and brought The Wall (or "My Wall", as we refer to it in our house.  As in, "When are you going to finish your wall?", which Joel asks me every month or two, and I reply that I'll finish it when I damn well please, or when he finally gets around to making himself a dentist appointment, whichever comes first) project back to life.

I got the idea for this project (which will from here on out be referred to as "My Wall", to avoid confusion later with The Inside Walls, which are a project all their own) when I was wandering aimlessly around Philadelphia with some of my friends a few years ago.   A group of my friends from college and I have been having what we call "Track Reunions" since the first of us graduated way back in 2003.  They are completely disorganized, often planned with very little or no notice (and yet, other times they're planned 4 months in advance), and usually center around getting to a particular place, and then walking around and eating.   Anyway, a few years ago, someone had the idea that we should have a Reunion in Philadelphia, because it is pretty much central to the locations we've all spread out to in the past few years.  Before we knew it, a hotel room had been booked at some cheap Philly suburb hotel, and we found ourselves walking around Philadelphia, eating.

This was right around the time that Joel and I had just finished moving in to our house, and I was bursting with grand plans of all the things we were going to do.  Order a washer and dryer!  Put up crown molding!  Plant a container garden!  I also wanted desperately to find something to do with the "view" out of our kitchen windows, namely something that would make it seem less like our windows faced a cinderblock wall.

So, while we were wandering about Philadelphia and stumbled upon The Magic Garden, I had an epiphany.  It was the perfect solution, and I vowed right then and there that I would do a tile mosaic on my cinderblock wall.   Everyone agreed that it was a great idea.  Since they seem to have no good pictures on that website I linked, I will take the liberty of posting one of my family in front of the Garden of Magicality.  I dragged them there to show them my inspiration, since no one was really getting the idea when I said I was going to break a bunch of plates and stuff and then glue them onto a wall, but don't worry, it's going to be totally awesome.

(Alert!! Ugly douchebag pictures ahead! Avert your eyes!)

 

Unfortunately, I had no idea what such a project would really entail, because the Magic Garden was closed when we happened upon it (the first time), so we just got to marvel at it from the outside.  No problem, because I just looked up some directions for DIY tile projects on the internet, went off to Home Depot and purchased myself some mortar and grout, and I was on my way.

(When I went back with my family about a year and a half later and took that photo, it was open, and the guy who did all the work told us it took him 35 years.  Had I known that, I might not have been so gung-ho, but now that I've started there's no turning back).

I love the way it's coming out so far, but it is WAY more work that I anticipated, mostly because our cinderblock wall is long and there is much area to cover.   Last summer I worked on it quite a bit, but I had not touched it in over a year until this weekend.  School, work, and life had been getting in the way of my artistic endeavors.  But no more!   Behold, I present to you, My Wall.

BEFORE

AFTER

I know it may not look like much progress, but I assure you, that blue blob represents the better part of a day's work.  With two people working.   And before I die (or before we move out of this house), I hereby  proclaim that there will be a seascape on that wall, and not an inch of cinderblock will be visible.  And lo, it will be awesome.

But wait!  There's more: 

True to my word, we also made a trip to Home Depot on Sunday to purchase painting supplies for the inside walls, which I have been meaning to paint for, oh, three years or so.  The problem is, there are so many choices!  Every time I get up the ambition to paint over the lovely coat of Builder's Beige that covers the interior of our house, I get swamped back down in all the choices, for all the rooms.  Would it be so wrong if I painted every room red?  Because I really like red.  No?   Well, fine, then how about a nice shade of reddish brown?  Well, find then, you can just pick out the colors yourself, and why don't you also make a FREAKING DENTIST APPOINTMENT while you're at it?!?

(You see how things devolve so very quickly?)

Plus, Home Depot itself is just so overwhelming.   If there is a person who has made it in and out of a Home Depot store in less than 97 hours, I would like to meet him.  Because every time I go there, even for something simple, I end up spending what feels like three days and hundreds of dollars.  Like the stereotypical male of all those chessy commercials, Joel gets hypnotized by the power tools (Hey!  This drill is on sale!  Only $500!) and I, wanting to be the stereotypical female who doesn't kill all living things by going overboard with the MiracleGro, inevitably get sucked into the Garden section (Look!  This plant is so pretty!  Not at all dead like the ones we have at home!  Go get another cart!).  On really bad days, we accidentally wander into an area like Rugs or Light Fixtures, and then it's all over.  The only place more overwhelming than Home Depot is IKEA.  And please don't laugh, but we were also planning to go to IKEA on Sunday, because I've decided we need a new bedside table, preferably one that is not made of plastic.   Thankfully, I came to my senses and decided to skip IKEA and keep my sanity (and the plastic nightable, for the time being).

So we've decided to start small with the painting.  We're just working on the living room, the kitchen, and the bathrooms for now.  And yet, there are so many choices.

We've decided on green for the living room.  I'm leaning toward the color on the left ("Caraway"), but I also like the one on the right ("Egyptian Nile").  I think it's a little too dark, but I would just love an excuse to start calling that room "The Sphinx's Lair". The middle color was really purchased for the upstairs bathroom, but we figured since they were all shades of green, we might as well get crazy and throw them all up there, just to see how they'd look.  What do you think?  Is the Caraway a little too pea-green, or just the right amount of pea-ness?

And here's one so you can get a view of how the colors fit in with our "decor". 

Sadly, this is the only room that has any "decor" to speak of.  Don't you just love that throw pillow?  And the little blanket I've carefully draped over the back of the couch, which ties in with the throw pillow?  How about the couch itself?  And the bookshelf?? I will give you three guesses as to where EVERY SINGLE ONE of those items were purchased.  In fact, the only thing in this picture NOT purchased at IKEA is the human knee.  However, if IKEA sold human body parts, I would probably buy those too.  You never know when you're going to need an extra kidney or a pinkie toe!

So!  That was the weekend, which was then topped off with a rousing bout of insomnia.   When I was gathering my things (pillow, blanket, various cats) to make my way onto the couch at about 3am, Joel asked me where I was going.  Now, a jackhammer could be going off outside our window and Joel would not wake up (I know this from experience), but he often talks in his sleep.  Sometimes he says logical things, and then just has no recollection of saying them in the morning.  Other times, he says things that make sense only to him (sometimes they are even in a nonsensical Joel-language), and these things are often quite funny.   I was hoping for something funny why he started talking with his eyes closed, because at 3am every insomniac could use a little humor.  "I'm just going downstairs.  I can't sleep.  I'm taking the cats with me so they won't bother you", I replied.  "Don't forget to paint all the oars purple, and then put a layer of whipped cream on them", is what I was hoping for.  Instead, I got "I'm sorry.   Are you sure some cuddles won't help?"

All together now:  Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Are ya'll done barfing yet?  It's a good thing he does cute things like that, because his touching offer to cure my insomnia with cuddling is what I was thinking about when, later Monday evening, he came home a giant metal drawer-thingy he picked up at work in the back of his truck.  To go in the basement.  Except, it won't fit down the staircase.  So it's now on the back patio, partially disassembled.  I'm sure he'll get to it soon.   Right after he gets around to making that dentist appointment. 

Anyway, the insomnia.  It was worse than usual, and to make it even more horrible, the only thing on TV was Cruel Intentions 2, which was horrid and a little bit disturbing.  Had to call in sick yesterday and lounge on the couch all day with a massive headache as a result of either the lack of sleep or the shock of how bad CI2 was, I'm not sure which. 

Would love to think of a clever way to wrap this all up, but all I can think about is, Is it Friday yet?  And can someone please get me some more iced coffee?  I think about 500 more ounces should do the trick.

The Not-Going-Back-To-School Blues

I was happy and excited to be finished with my Master's, after three years of trying to finish papers when I'm supposed to be working on, you know, the work that I actually get PAID for, fighting for parking spots with bitches in Honda Civics at 10pm on Tuesday nights, and spending way too many Saturdays in the library.  Yea, I was happy to be done with all that.   But I was also sad.   I loved my program, and while I didn't exactly cherish every minute of every class (see: every post in May, where I may have threatened suicide by dropping a large book about Maya astronomy on my  head a time or two), I did love the direction it gave to my life.  When I would meet people at parties, I would gloss over my job as something that pays the bills, because what I was really doing with my life was going to school.  Sure, it was part time.  But I really liked it, and that was more than I could say for the ole' nine-to-five.  It made me feel like less of a failure, especially when I was meeting people who had high-powered careers and actual ideas about where their life was going and what they were doing.

Now I don't have that any more, and to top it off, I have yet another degree that I'm doing absolutely nada with.   I knew from the outset that a Master's in Liberal Arts was not going to get me anywhere in the working world, and that's probably why I liked it so much.  It was for me, not for some theoretical job I would have some day, not to pad my transcript.  Just.  For.  Fun.  Yes, I know how crazy that sounds.  Three years ago, I would have laughed at someone who said something like that and then called them a huge loser behind their backs, because I used to be nice like that.  And also very mature.  But seriously?  School?  For fun?  LOSER. 

I am insanely jealous of people who know what they want to do with their lives.   I  used to think that getting good grades in high school, and getting into a good college was a guarantee that I would get a good job, make a buttload of money, and live happily ever after.  Somewhere along the line I would get married and have The Babies and get a dog or two. 

Or something.

But before this turns into a depressing monologue about how I can't believe there are still HOW MANY years left until retirement -- let me just tell you how productive I have been since summer officially ended.  I was a tad worried (read: TERRIFIED) that when things sank back into routine, and I no longer had school to be my guiding light, I would get depressed.   I tend to get depressed in the winter as is, and the first fall/winter I spent as an out-of-college real-worlder was pretty... horrible.  It was more than just boredom, though.  It was also frustration at my stupid hamstring/back injury, which seemed to be slowly killing me while simultaneously draining my bank account.  It was fear that Joel and I weren't going to make it, and panic that he was never going to stop working 18-hour days, leaving me home alone and bored out of my mind.   It was loneliness, living in the same city with all of my friends gone on to bigger and better jobs and grad schools.

I knew that this fall wasn't going to be like that, because I'm in a lot better shape than I was then.  I am no longer suffering from an all-out quarter life "I miss college" crisis.  Joel and I have stabilized, like, a lot.  We no longer live in a rat hole apartment.  And now I have live-in company, in feline form.  And also, we have cable. 

Nevertheless (I love that word), I was still worried that I'd be bored, and that boredom would slide into misery by the time winter rolled around.   But, never fear:  as it turns out, owning a home is the cure-all for boredom.   

In the two weeks that I've been back at work, with no vacations to plan and weekend trips to go on, I have completed the following projects:

• Clean out closet, donate things we no longer wear to Goodwill
• Sort out clothes I don't wear/don't like, and take them to consignment shop
• Organize under-the-stairs closet, consolidate all our household crap and cleaning products, and re-do the shelving
• Get out all the painting supplies, take inventory, and start painting a base coat over the patched drywall
• Donate old computers to a local school

All that is on top of going to the gym 4 times a week, finishing 2 books, and cooking a real dinner every single night.  Oh, and this weekend I am working on my mosaic wall that has been neglected for a year.  And God help me, by Sunday night we will have picked out actual paint colors for the walls.

Look out world, I'm on a roll.

But I can't be old if I love Kelly Clarkson, right?

I have recently discovered that you can not only listen to music over the internet -- you can watch the music videos!  Who knew. (Not me).

This has been enlightening, because I have not watched an actual MTV video since they started airing Gilmore Girls reruns at 5pm, which is now my fodder for great, cheesy television while I'm at the gym.  Yes, my gym has cable, and every machine has it's own flatscreen.  You can change the channel.  Now you know why I have to go over before 10am to sign up for a machine during the 5-7 timeslot.  It's a cutthroat world when you are competing for the right to exercise AND watch ABCFamily.

For some reason, I have seen the same 5 videos about 984548234 times in the past three days.   I am beginning to realize that "Top 100" really means "Top 5".  That's something I never understood about radio stations, either.  Why is it completely ludicrous to play a song that's been out for more than three months?  Just because it turns 100 days old doesn't mean it's dead.   And on the flip side, just because a song is new, doesn't mean it's necessary to play it once every hour for three months.  I'm speaking to you, Z100.  And Mix 106.5.  Seriously -- if anyone knows of a good radio station in Baltimore, please tell me.  I don't think there are any, but I might be wrong.  There is a first time for everything, after all.

One video that comes on every 5 minutes is Jessica Simpson's new ditty, "A Public Affair".  I really have no opinion on the Jessica/Nick split.  I am sadly behind on the gossip, because Joel never gives me enough time to read the US Weekly in the grocery store.  Anyway, I don't care whose fault their divorce way, and I have no beef with Jessica.  Personally, I sort of thought Nick married up.  I mean, he went from Boy Band to Newlyweds -- everyone loved Newlyweds.  It was funny. 

What is not funny is the video for A Public Affair.  Wow!  Jessica Simpson has famous friends!  Like Eva Longoria!  And Christina Applegate!  Holy cow, I wish I was like her, she is sooooo kewl.

And a roller rink?  Is that supposed to be a joke?  I sort of think not.  In fact, I am shocked that Eva Longoria, who I thought was on a pretty big roll with Desperate Housewives AND a L'Oreal hairdye commercial under 26 inch belt, has subjected herself to being seen on TV waving her hands in the air in a roller disco.  Christina Applegate, that does not surprise me.  Married With Children ended approximately 136 years ago.  But Eva??  Are things that bad?  Is Jessica really your BFF, like 4EVAH? Because I don't think I have any friends that I love enough to do that for.

The best part of the video is the beginning, when they're in the limo getting ready for their girlzz night on tha town.  There is a dialog that goes like this:

Jessica: OMG, could we BE any more famous? 

Eva: Actually, I think we could.

Jessica: I wanna be so famous, everytime I fall in love, Oprah does a special.

Random celeb I can't identify : I wanna be so famous, that even my ex boyfriends become famous.

Christina:  I wanna be so famous, I hafta have my babies in Africa.

Eva: I wanna be so famous, I'm the most downloaded person on the interet.

Jessica: I wanna be famous than the internet.

I think it was supposed to be, like, a joke or something?  Insert Valley Girl giggle here.  Jess, honey, you should have left it at "chicken or tuna".  No one is buying the dumb blonde act anymore.  PS -- as for actual catchiness of the song, Paris Hilton has you beat. 

The number 2 most played video, so far, has been Nelly Furtado's "Maneater".  Now, I'm having a little trouble understanding Nelly.  I remember her as the nice young lady who sang about things like being like a bird and flying away.   But now, she's made it quite clear, she's not nice at all.  She's PROMISCUOUS.   And also LOOSE.  Um, could you be a little more subtle, Nelly?  We get it.  You're sick of being the good girl, now you want everyone to think you're a ho.  Good job, you have succeeded.  Britney Spears applauds your transformation, I'm sure. 

That being said, will you hate me if I tell you I couldn't get the song out of my head last night while I was trying to fall asleep?  She's a maneater, MANEATER,  wish you never ever met her at all.... It's a great tune.  The dancing in a dark club and making all the men look at you?  Then taking off your tank top on a roof?  Seen it before.  Circa, Madonna, 1982.  But still, I give Nelly props for breaking it down.  Almost as many props as Mariah Carey -- or as those of us who are close friends call her, Mimi -- for breaking out of the good-girl sugary songs, and doing it WELL.  (Note Mimi:  I totally loved your sugary love songs too, girlfriend.  Want to come over and watch Glitter tonight?). 

Yea, I said "props".  Twice.  Got a problem with that, bitches?  I'll cut you.

The number one video?  Kelly Clarkson, "Since U Been Gone".  And all I can say is, I love it.  I basically love everything about Kelly Clarkson, except for the fact that she got her start on American Idol.   I've never watched an entire episode of The Idol, and in general I consider myself to be soo above that and also way too important for reality TV. People like Bo Biess and Ruben Stoddard and Clay Aiken make me want to vomit.  Even Fantasia sucks, in my opinion.  I may have had to watch her Lifetime Movie to know that for sure, but now I know.   But Kelly... oh, Kelly.  I love her.  I think she's cute.  Her songs are far less reminiscent of poetry written by an Abercrombie-clad seventh grade girl with a crush on an eighth grade guy who is totally on the lacrosse team and so very popular that he will never glance her way.  She doesn't have lyrics about flying away on a gentle breeze or being someone's baby mama.  Oh, and also there was this one time, I saw her on this prank show that I can't remember the name of, where the parents set up their kid to see what he would do, and a fake washing machine repairman came over while he was home alone, and Kelly Clarkson was assisting him because she was supposedly researching a potential movie role, and she totally breaks the washer and then the kid has to try to convince his parents that Kelly Clarkson broke the washing machine.  Man, it was great.  And if you don't like Kelly... then I'll cut you too.

The only issue I have with Kelly is the word choice -- or lack of it -- in the title.  Do record companies charge by the letter?  Is it so hard to squeeze that little "Y" and "O" in?  I think this must be a sign that I am really, truly getting old.  In my day, we used all the letters to spell a word.  We weren't lazy like these hooligans nowawadays.

Some people lose their car keys. I lose the car.

I love where we live.  Sometimes I have to remind myself of that.   With the complete lack of neighborhood research that Joel and I exhibited while we were househunting, it is really kind of amazing that we ended up in such a great location.

When I decided that I was sick of crapass landlords charging us $400 cleaning fees FOR STUFF THAT THE NEW RENTERS HAD ASKED US TO LEAVE IN THE APARTMENT FOR THEM, and convinced Joel that buying a house was really a good idea, we tricked this poor Long and Foster agent into taking our case and began househunting.  This lasted, oh... a month or two or five.  It was frustrating, to say the least.  We had very little money to work with, because at the time Joel was unemployed, and I was making less than any college-educated person should ever make in their life.  Ever.  We also didn't really care where we lived.  I mean, we wanted to live in a nice neighborhood and not have crack dealers as our neighbors, and that did narrow the search down a bit, but East, West, South, North... we didn't really care.  And so, we looked at everything.  Everywhere.  And every day, when we were driving to meet the agent, I would give us a little pep talk. "Today is the day we're going to find  a house.  We are going to find the perfect house today, I just know it.  I can't wait!"  And day after day, we would see more houses that were "Meh" at best.  Or, houses that were pretty good, but on a street that I would be afraid to drive on at night.  Or literally one block from the football stadium.  Oh sure, I bet there are some people who think that would be awesome, right?  Not me.  I freaking hate football.  I did not want to have to listen to the games and have the drunken fans driving by my house every given Sunday.   This much I knew.

A few times we thought that we might have found an acceptable house.  We went home and thought about it, and called the agent in the morning to put down a contract.  Lo and behold, the house had been purchased by someone else overnight.  You know the saying "having the carpet pulled out from under you"?  I learned what that really meant from trying to buy a house in Baltimore.

One day, we looked at this one house.  It was the last one on our tour for the day.  Joel really wanted to buy it, and I have to admit that it was a really nice house.  It had these great details, like original crown molding and this gorgeous original stain glass window outside of the bathroom.  It was a good price.  But it needed a lot of work.  Among other things, it needed a new roof and a lot of rehab work before it would be truly livable, although we'd be living in it before then, because we could not get out of our cockroach-infested, wood-paneled, dirty, grimy apartment fast enough.  I talked Joel out of it, because he had just gotten a job, and it was taking a ton of his time.  He was also just starting to coach his rowing team, which was also taking up a ton of time.  I knew I couldn't do all that work myself, and on top of that, with the new roof, it was really out of our price range.  I stand by my decision, because: the walls.  The holes in them.  We just painted it with a basecoat yesterday.  IT TOOK US 8 MONTHS TO PATCH HOLES IN THE DRYWALL.  A new roof?  A complete rehab?  Too much for us.  Period. The end. I knew it, and I told him so.

As we were leaving, the agent, who really seemed to like us for some reason, even though we had been dragging him all over the city for the entire summer and were looking at houses that were probably going to make him $50 in commission, asked if we wanted to see this other house a block away.  It wasn't really in our price range, but he was showing it to another couple, and since we were right here, he wouldn't mind letting us look around.

That house is the house we live in now.  I loved it at first sight.  Compared to what we'd been looking at, it was beautiful.  It was completely rehabbed.  It had a cute patio, exposed brick walls, the original hardwood floors from 1901, and a rooftop deck.  The 100-year-old floors sold Joel.  The new kitchen and working bathrooms sold me.  The fact that the other couple had shown up, and also seemed to like the house brought out my competitive instinct.  No way in hell I was letting these people steal my house.  We begged the realtor to let us go out and sign a contract on the hood of his car. It was more than we'd been hoping to pay.  A lot more.  But Joel's job was looking good, and we figured we could manage it.  Mostly, we were afraid that we'd never find a house this good, in this great of a location, ever again.

I love our house.  I really do.  Even though, sometimes I want to find the person who rehabbed it, and ask them why they didn't put in any closets.  And why they couldn't hook up the garbage disposal properly.  And why they couldn't have installed the washer and dryer.  You want a story?  Now THAT was a story.  But the many, many reasons why Sears Roebuck and Company is the devil is another story for another day, my friends.

Possibly the best part about our house is the location.  I walk to work.  It takes me 15 minutes.  Joel rides his bike to work.  It takes him 7 minutes.  I can walk to my beloved yoga studio, to the vet, the dry cleaner's, and the grocery store.  Is there really anything else that a girl needs? 

The problem with living in such a great location is that other people tend to realize how great it is, and they want to live there too. And this has resulted in a not-so-small parking problem in our area.  It borders on the ridiculous at times.  I've had people steal spots from me.  Like, I'm driving by, and I see a spot and throw on my hazard lights and start to reverse, and someone will speed up at 50 mph and steal it from me.  One time, I was lucky enough to happen upon a Ford Explorer leaving a spot, and went to back into it, when to my surprise, it had disappeared.   The girl in the spot behind him had moved up, so she was now occupying both spots with her Honda Civic.  What the hell?  I sat and waited for a minute, and then gave her a very polite toot of the horn to see if she could please move back so as to only occupy space for 2 full cars, and let me park in the remainder.  She gave me the finger.  After my head exploded (and I found another spot, 5 blocks away) I saw that she was saving the spot for her friend in the Explorer, who had since returned and re-parked in the same spot.  But by far, the worst is when you're stopped at a light and you see a spot right ahead.  A spot you can fit in.  A spot that isn't No Parking 8-11am.  A spot with no hidden fire hydrant.  And while you're anxiously waiting for the light to change, someone comes along from the opposite direction, and slows down.  They start to do a U-turn in the street, they're hurrying to get turned around before the light changes and oncoming traffic T-bones them.  Right before your eyes, they steal your spot.  And there's nothing that you can do about it, except for bash your head into the steering wheel a few times and then quietly move along.

It's so bad, that Joel and I weigh every possible venture that requires the car against how hard it will be to park when we get back.  Going to the movies on a Saturday night?  Probably not worth it.  In fact, going almost anywhere after the hour of 7pm? Not worth it.   As a result, I sometimes go weeks without using my car.  Over the summer, I went 6.5 weeks on half a tank of gas, which was a personal record, thank you very much.  I like to think that this whole oil mess?  Totally not my fault.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that I don't personally contribute to global warming, the garbage in the Bay, or the hole in the ozone either. 

When I do take the car out,  I usually manage to park on a select few streets, because I am smart enough after three years in this neighborhood to plan my trips to the grocery store for times when I will be able to get a spot on our block.  But when I don't get one of my usual spots, things get interesting, because my short term memory is not always reliable.

Like, this morning, for example.  I was running late (I overslept!  shocking!) and, since it was raining AND I needed to bring something heavy home from the office, I decided I would just drive in and pay to park in the garage.   Actually, decided I would drive in and use my illegally obtained parking passes to park in the garage for free.  It was perfect, since I was really, really late.  "Leave my house 5 min before I am supposed to be at work" late.  "Then realize I forgot to put out the recycling and feed the cats" late.  But it's OK, I won't actually be late, because I'm driving to work today!

Except when I got to where I thought my car should be, my chariot was not awaiting me.  I walked up the block a little farther (by now I am supposed to be at work 5 min ago), still no car.  I rack my brain.  Joel parked it here yesterday when he picked me up from the train station.  Did I take it anywhere later that day by myself?  No....   Is my car stolen?? No, I put the club on, I remember that.  Did Joel maybe drive my car to work and not tell me?  He did leave at 5am, that's reasonable.  Let's call him.

Joel didn't answer the phone, and by then I had decided he MUST have taken it, because who would steal a car that looks like mine (131,000 miles on it, hasn't been washed since mile 50,000, several cats have peed in it...)?  I start walking to work at a very brisk pace, because my boss just got back from vacation this morning, and she is now going to think that I was late every day she was away.

When I'm about halfway there, I remember.  We did take the car out.  Joel had to pick that stuff up on campus for practice.  We took my car because his was having problems earlier in the day.  And then I parked the car approximately twenty feet from my front door, and just didn't see it when I WALKED RIGHT PAST IT.  Because, you know.  I was in a hurry.  To get to my car. 

I wish I could say this was the first time this has happened.  I wish I could say this is the last time this will happen.  But I think we both know that neither of those statements are true.

The post that I've been putting off writing

At a lunch to welcome some new employees on Tuesday, one of my coworkers decided that it would be a fabulous idea if we started an Exercise Club.  The five of us would keep track of how much we exercise, and how much weight we lose, and email each other every Monday.  The idea would be to keep each other on track, and encourage each other.  It's not a bad idea.  I just have no interest in doing it.  The problem is, I had just been talking with my friend (and across-the-hall officemate) about how that day marked the beginning of my fall commitment to being healthy.  No more school and general summer craziness getting in the way.  I was going to the gym, and getting back in shape.  No more excuses.  So I couldn't exactly say "no thanks, I'm not into that sort of thing".  Plus, this is way better than getting sucked into the Holiday Gift Exchange madness, where you have to get your secret buddy candles and stationary and candy and sneak it into their mailbox every single day during December.  And then bring them a big gift on the last day of work before the holidays, and "reveal" your identity.  At least this is just emails.  Not a whole month of pretending I care about making up poems that give hints at my identity, but just enough, not so much that they could actually guess who I am.   Unless, of course, someone saw me putting their daily gift into their office or mailbox.  Then you're busted.   So you usually have to get someone to deliver it for you, to throw people off track.  And also to write your notes for you, so they can't identify your handwriting.

Do you think I'm exaggerating?  For once, I'm not.  At all.  So you can see why a simple weekly email chain is much, much better.

But still, I don't want to do it.  I'm sure they're wondering why I'm being resistant, but I really hope the whole idea just gets forgotten.  It's true, I am planning to go to the gym regularly.  I would like to lose 10 pounds.   But what I don't want is anyone "motivating" me, or trying to guilt me into working out more.  And the reason is, on days where I've planned to go to the gym, but then decide to screw it and go home and watch TV at 5 o'clock instead, I give myself a pat on the back.  I am so happy that I can do that now, without obsessing over all the calories that I didn't burn and having a bottle of water for dinner.

I used to have an eating disorder.  It's not a secret, but it's not something I tell people either.  "Hi! My name is Jennifer, and I used to make myself throw up.  It's nice to meet you," is not really a great way to greet people, I'm afraid.  And that part of my life is behind me now.  I no longer think about it on a daily, or even monthly basis.  Except when people try to get me to join Exercise Clubs, or to go on diets with them.  Then I think about it a lot. 

I've never told a lot of my close friends that I actually had an eating disorder, and was hospitalized, went to therapy, and all that jazz.  I'm pretty sure that everyone knew that I was too thin, and was worried about me, but at the time I was so ashamed.   Well, at first I was actually delusional, and thought that no one had noticed.  And then, when I started recovering, I was so, so embarrassed.  I didn't want anyone to know what I had done to myself.  I didn't want anyone to know that I had no idea why I couldn't bring myself to eat enough.   I didn't want everyone to know I was crazy.

Of course, I had to tell some people.  I had to tell my coach that I wasn't coming back for preseason because I was enrolled in a hospital program.  I had to tell my adviser at school that I needed her to find me a therapist in Baltimore.  I had to tell my friends at school that I'd lost 30 more pounds over the summer.  And of course, my family knew, and was scared out of their minds.  But I didn't tell anyone else.

Thinking about that time makes me sick to my stomach.  I went back to school at the end of the summer.  I had to drop a class, take a light courseload, go to a support group every week, and work harder than I'd ever worked at anything to stop myself from slipping back into the comfort of starving myself.  I had to take force myself to eat, to listen to my own horrible thoughts about what a fat, stupid, worthless person I was, and to stop myself from throwing up everything I ate.  I had to try to go back to my team and run every day without calculating how many calories I was burning.  I had to eat the foods I'd always eaten without keeping the mental tally of how many calories I'd eaten that day.  I had to make up excuses for why I wasn't racing that season when I didn't feel like baring my soul to every person that asked.  I lied to my roommate about where I'd been when I went to see my therapist.  I vacillated between keeping my had a dirty little secret and letting people I barely knew in on my deepest personal problems.  As awful as all that sounds, I was so, so lucky.  I didn't have to drop out of school.  I didn't have to be hospitalized full time.  I didn't die.  None of those things were a given, and I went to bed every night terrified that tomorrow would be the day that I would break and everything would come crashing back down.

Those weren't irrational fears.  At the support group that I went to at a local hospital once a week, I saw plenty of people who'd been hospitalized once, twice, ten times.  People who has suffered for decades.  It wasn't just their stories that were so scary.  It was seeing them, as they'd talk about their problems, and come back week after week looking a little bit better, their clothes a little less saggy and their faces less hollow.  Then, they'd start to decline again.  For 98% of those people, it was a cycle, and either they couldn't break free from it, or they just didn't want to. 

At that time, I couldn't imagine a day where I would be able to live without counting calories.  Even when I was eating enough and gaining weight, my thoughts were dominated every second of every day by how much I'd eaten and how much I'd exercised (or not exercised).  I told my therapist once that I understood why they called it Anorexia Nervosa, because I'd never experienced such all-consuming worry before I'd started to starve myself.   She thought I was trying to make some sort of joke, but I was dead serious.  She'd tell me that it was possible to recover from this, but it was hard.  And in reality, not too many people did, so I shouldn't feel discouraged every time that I felt like I just couldn't do it.

One thing I had working in my favor: I was born about the most willful person in the world.  If you tell me I can't do something, I will do it just to prove you wrong.   While this can be really damn annoying, and is probably the reason I was able to succeed at having an eating disorder in the first place (if that makes any sense at all), it's also been quite helpful for some things.  Like, buying a house when I was 22.  Or taking eight graduate credits while working full time.  And most importantly, beating a mental illness that I'd built from the ground up for myself.

The thing that really scared me into the "I'm going to beat this, and I don't care if there's a 2% chance that I will actually succeed" mindset was the permanent damage I was doing to my body.  Somehow, weight always seems like a temporary thing, and that's what's so frustrating about it.  No matter how healthy you eat and how much you work out today, you can undo it all tomorrow if you go out and eat a Dairy Queen Blizzard.  It was that kind of frustration that led me down the eating disorder path in the first place, and I always figured it worked the same way in reverse.   Even if I was frighteningly thin now, I could always just gain the weight back later, and everything would be just fine.

And then I woke up.  And learned that I was probably going to have osteoporosis when I was 35 if I kept this up.  Maybe a heart attack too, if I was really lucky, because did you know that your heart needs energy to keep beating?  And that this energy comes from food?  And to get it, you have to put the food in your mouth and swallow?  These are things that don't register when you have an eating disorder.  On top of that, I'd probably ruined the perfect set of teeth I'd been born with from the period where I vomited every single day.  Oh, and I might never be able to have children because I'd fucked up my metabolism so much that I hadn't had my period in two years.

That last thing is what really did it.  I knew I was nowhere near ready to have kids.  But the thought that one day, when I was all grown up and married, I would not be able to have a child, made me want to slap myself in the face.  I knew that my mother had had a hard time conceiving me, and that genetics were probably already conspiring to give me a hard time.  I would never be able to forgive myself if I couldn't have kids because I was stupid, self-absorbed, and too weak to stand up to my own crazy brain when I was 19 years old.

When I started this post, I never intended it to be How I Stopped Starving Myself: A Brief History.  My life from 19 on was spent working on it.  It's too much to go into in a forum like this, and I don't even want to remember that whole saga.  It was so hard, and it took so long. And yet, it took a lot less time for me to get to a point where I could honestly say "I'm recovered" than it does for most people.  I was so lucky.   My point is, 6 years later I can say that I cannot remember the last time I made myself throw up.  For years after I was "recovered", I'd still have a brief moment or day of weakness, usually when I was really nervous about something.  I'd binge, feel guilty, and throwing up made me feel better.  Every time I'd do it, I'd remember the first time, when I was over a toilet in my freshman dorm, telling myself that this might not be a good idea.  Then I'd brush my teeth, drink some water, and feel a lot better about whatever it was that was bothering me.   Eventually I realized that was what I was doing, and I started to be able to predict when it was going to happen.  When I was getting ready to move.  Right before graduation from college.  After I'd had a big fight with a friend.  And eventually, I was able to see it coming, and stop it from happening.  I tried not to let those little relapses bother me too much, because I had come to accept my eating disorder as part of me, and more importantly, as part of my past.  They were reminders of what I went through, and how hard it had been to climb out of that hell, and how easy it would be to slip back.   As awful as it all was, it's not something I want to forget.  Ever. 

I'm fine now.  I eat pizza and burgers, french fries, peanut butter, and ice cream.   Some people may not think that's very healthy, but for me, it is.   I could use to lose a few pounds.  Every once in awhile, I'll feel all motivated, and promise that I'm going to go to the gym more often, stop eating so much candy, and get more fruits and veggies.  It will last for awhile, like last summer when I got my new gym membership and lost 8 pounds.   And then, slowly, I'll stop going to the gym.  Joel and I will go out to dinner and order appetizers and dessert.  And I'll forget that I was supposed to be "eating healthy".   And while it may sound crazy to every normal person in the world, I am so grateful for that.  I'm so happy that I can skip the gym and revel in the extra free time, wasting it watching Seventh Heaven reruns or washing the kitchen floor.  It's not a failure of will for me.  It's exactly the opposite.   

And that, dear coworkers, is why I do not want to participate in your exercise club.  I like falling off the bandwagon, so to speak.  I am happy that I went through the hell that I did, because it saved me from spending my life as a slave to our culture of I-just-want-to-lose-five-more-pounds.  And I don't need --or want -- you to make me feel guilty about it.  There is no possible way that you can lay more guilt on me than I am capable of inflicting on myself.   I think I'll keep my few extra pounds and my size six jeans, thank you very much.

It's my party, and Shadow will wear a lei if she wants to

Burgers, hot dogs, sausages, veggie burgers, chicken, and various other assorted food for Hawaiian-themed graduation party: One Hundred and Eighty Dollars.

A keg of Yuengling, a handle each of rum and vodka, and several cases of girlie drinks for Hawaiian- themed graduation party: Two Hundred and Forty Dollars.

Seeing your 19-year-old cat happily wearing a lei for duration of Hawaiian-themed graduation party: Priceless.

No, seriously: she wore it all day and night.  See, here she is a good 8 hours later, "observing" an intense beerpong match.

I say "observing" in quotes, because Shadow doesn't observe much these days.  She is mostly blind, stone deaf, and partially crippled.  And yet, she parties on. 

We humans had a pretty good time, too.  Joel and I drove up to New Jersey in the lovely inclement weather on Saturday morning, and it only took us 5 hours.  Which is less than I had feared, what with the deadly combination of holiday Turnpike traffic and rain, which was blinding and sheet-like at times.  But, we made it up, and after a quick stop, we headed out to BJ's to shop for the food for the party.  I think it is safe to say that we went a little overboard, but you can never have too much food, can you?  On the other hand, it is certainly possible to have too little food.  It's always better to err on the side of caution, that's my motto.

After we loaded all of our purchases into the car and drove back to my mom's house (still in the pouring rain), we tackled the task of marinating chicken, defrosting burgers, et cetera.  It's a lot of work having a party, you know?  Luckily my mother had already gone wild at Party City during the week, procuring more than enough Hawaiian-themed merchandise to guarantee that a good time would be had by all. 

And after all that, we still managed to have time to go out to dinner with my dad and both brothers on Saturday night.  We went to Charlie Brown's.  I had chicken.  It was delicious.  And yes, it is a steak place.  I just don't like steak that much, OK?  Get over it.  If I was the only one who felt that way, they wouldn't have chicken on the menu, now would they?

Sunday morning was spent running around, picking up tables and chairs from various family friends, and, of course, making a stop at the Liquor Outlet.  Again, it is safe to say I overdid things.  In addition to the half-keg of Yuengling I'd pre-ordered, I also picked up a few large bottles of rum and vodka (to go with all the cranberry juice and soda we'd bought at BJ's!  You can't have one with out the other!), a case of Smirnoff Ices (for myself) and a case of Twisted Teas (for my brother).  What can I say, the love of girlie drinks runs in the family.

Food was grilled.   Drinks were consumed.  Friends and family were present.  It was a good time.

And the sun reappeared for the first time in days, to give us a lovely late summer day.

In a word, perfect.

Reason #1 for having the party in New Jersey (rather than Baltimore): Y.A.R.D.

These are a few pre-party pictures (OMG! Pictures!  Who would want to see pictures of an ugly douchebag like me!!) before people started to arrive.

(My "littlest" brother, Michael, my "little" brother, Kristopher, my dad, myself... and my brother's sense of humor, which no family picture would be complete without.)

Reason #2 for having the party in NJ: Family.  It is hard to get my whole family down to Baltimore at the same time.  And let's face it:  no one else throws the finger into a picture with such finesse.

And then the people started to arrive.  These are some of my friends from college.  They were the first to get there, and therefore got dibs on the best chicken.   

We ate, drank, and were merry.

Two of my best friends from high school.

I love these girls more than words can describe.  That kid on the right is alright, too.

Cheesy, I know.  But true.  I feel incredibly lucky to have the family and friends that I do. And there you have it.  We will now return you to your regularly scheduled program of bitterness and complaining.

Joel and I helped clean up on Monday morning, packed up the car, and then drove back to Baltimore.  The drive back was slightly better than the drive up, and it only took us 4 hours to get back.  It would have been 3, if it were not for Delaware, and the constant reality of traffic in the Small Wonder State.  Who closes two lanes of traffic on I-95 on Labor Day weekend ("for construction") (there was no construction going on)?  Who does that?  Delaware does, baby.

The summer is now officially over.  No more weekends filled with classes, road trips to visit friends, and parties.  No more vacations.  No more casual Friday.  It's back to the grind.

I'm not as disappointed as I would have expected.  I'm looking forward to going back to the gym regularly, and hopefully getting back into some semblance of physical fitness.  I'm excited to spend the weekends working on painting the house and doing various other home improvement projects that have fallen by the wayside (HELLO!  Holes in the walls!  They are not technically holes anymore, but I can't say that fresh-drywalled look is the decor we're going for, either).  I can't wait to go back to yoga on Saturday mornings.   I'm even looking forward to cooking real meals again, which will doubtlessly lead to more cooking disasters... but they're great learning experiences, right?  I must also admit that I'm looking forward to the fall TV lineup.  24, Lost, Nip/Tuck... how I've missed you, my old friends.  I am especially looking forward to enjoying television without the built-in "I should be studying/reading/writing a paper" guilt.

Don't worry, I'm sure I'll be able to find something else to feel guilty about.  Soon enough. 

My very first hate mail

Aw, after just over six months of having this website, I have finally received my very first hate mail, via a comment on this post.

"Who cares", (a very witty anonymous name, I will give him that) wrote:

Do you not have a life? Why would anyone want to look at such an ugly douchbag?

Look, guys!  I'm a real blogger now.  Some anonymous person on the internet hates me!

But, really, I should apologize to Mr. Who Cares.  I really do need to work on my habit of going to people's houses and holding a gun to their head while forcing them to get on the internet and look at my website.  It's a nasty habit, and one I just can't seem to break.  Mr. Who Cares has obviously endured all he can take of being forced -- under serious duress, I assure you -- to sit down, type in my web address, and look at picture, after picture, after picture.  I do apologize, Mr. Cares.  I am in therapy, and soon I hope to no longer be going around, forcing random people to look at websites that they despise. 

PS -- My mom loved my pictures.  So there.

On a more serious note, I know that hatemail is a reality of blogging.  I read Dooce.   I read this entry.  I know that there are a lot of people out there who feel the need to send of mean emails about another person's decisions, lifestyle, and/or personal photographs merely because that person has put these things on the good ole' world wide web.

I have no problem with people that I don't know looking at this site.  It's a free internet.   That's why it's there. I enjoy reading lots of people's blogs, most of whom I've never met in real life.  Oh, but that's probably because I have no life.  Right, I forgot.

But there is one thing I don't understand.  Why would a person who felt compelled to send a hatemail -- a person who is obviously quite clever, as evidenced by the "Who Cares" pseudonym -- do so using their real email address?  Their real WORK EMAIL ADDRESS?  Because if they did that, then I would be able to google their email domain, and find out the name of the "French Brasserie" restaurant they work at.  And if the restaurant had a website, and coincidentally their email address was FirstNameLastInitial@restaurant.com, I would also be able to find out their full name, along with the address of where they work.  I would also be able to see a touching photo of this person wearing a mock turtleneck, to read a short biography and learn that they have a "deep love of wine", and to come to the conclusion that they really have no right to be calling someone else ugly.  In fact, I think that if you are described as having a deep love of wine, you might not have a right to call anyone a douchebag, either.

Excuse me, I have to go now, so I can make some dinner reservations.  I hear the place has a "cellar filled with interesting and well-priced vintages".

The first post in a long time with no mention of Cats, Kittens, Pictures, or Vacation

Yesterday the house phone rang around 6pm, and I made the mistake of picking it up.  Because Joel's been out of town all week, and my cell phone is dead because I never charge the battery, I guess I was momentarily delusional, and thought it might be Joel -- forgetting that we get at least 4 hangups from telemarketers and a fellow in the state penitentiary on our machine every day.  Yes, we are on the Do Not Call List.  No, we do not know anyone in jail.  But that doesn't stop the telemarketers from calling, nor the jailbird from placing collect calls to our house, which DON'T WORRY MOM -- we have never accepted.  In fact it's a funny story, the first time it happened, I just declined the charges and hung up, but then Joel got me all worried, saying "what if it's someone we know?  Maybe they got pulled over for speeding or something and talked back to the cop and now they're in jail using their one phone call to call us, and you just hung up on them?"  This prompted me to make a mental list of all the people I know in Maryland who would possibly call me if they were in jail, which totaled to one person, and was followed by a series of text messages that went something like this:

Jennifer: R U in jail?

Liz: No... r u in jail?

Jennifer: No... but someone from the jail is calling me and I thought it might be U

Liz: Why?

Jennifer: I don't know. Nevermind.

Except I would never, ever use "r" and "u" in place of real words, even in a text message, because I just can't bring myself to do it.  But I thought it really gave you the text message feel, if you will, so I just went with it.  Call it creative license.   

Anyway, what I was saying, yesterday the phone rang, and for some reason I picked it up, even though I NEVER pick it up unless my dad has told me he is going to call on the house line, because my dad is the only person who ever calls me on the house line. 

It was a survey person.  Usually, when I get duped into talking to a survey person, I will either say "No, I'm sorry, Jennifer isn't home right now" -- a trick I learned freshman year of college when I accidentally sort of gave my phone number to a person my friends affectionately called "Fat Bastard", who called me 97 times a day to ask me to give me the details about his frat formal, which I also accidentally agreed to go to with him.  It may not have been the most mature way to deal with my own stupid actions back in the days of yesteryear, but it is a damn effective way to get out of talking to a telemarketer, if you're unlucky enough to be the one answering the phone when they call.  Really, you should try it.  Then when they ask when you (but not you!  remember!) will be back so they can call again, say something like a quarter to never.  (I've never gotten up the nerve to say that myself, but it would be awesome if someone really did.)  The other thing that works really well is to say that you're not 18.  Most of the time they will know you are lying because their magical spy information mining programs tell them your age, DOB, SSN, address, and color of your underwear.  But if you say you're not 18, they can't talk to you, end of story.

Anyway, this survey person wanted me to do a survey (shocking, I know) about politics in Maryland.  Actually, she said "about the upcoming elections in November."  For a moment I racked my brain, because I was fairly sure that this country is stuck with Bush for a few more years, is it really possible he's out in November?  No, I decided she must be talking about some local election.  The fact that I was not even sure what election she was talking about made me think I should decline the survey, since clearly I have no idea what I am talking about.  But, then I was hit by a feeling of patriotic duty.  Much like when I was picked for jury duty back in January, I was overcome with a notion that since I am an educated, reasonably intelligent citizen, I should do my part and contribute to our social systems.  And, much like the jury duty experience, this line of thinking won me the chance to see just how stupid our country can be sometimes.  Thankfully, the phone survey only lasted half an hour, instead of the mind-numbing two and a half days of jury duty, and the phone survey only resulted in a newfound scorn for Robert Ehrlich, rather than two convicted felons being released back onto the streets because 11 of my peers were even stupider than I could have ever imagined.

It started out something like this:

Phone Survey Lady: Hello, we are conducting a political survey for the upcoming November elections.  Your participation is very important to us. 

Self: I know nothing about local politics.  Is that OK?

PSL: Oh, yes, that's fine.

First she started out by listing the names of local politicians, and I had to say whether or not I'd ever heard of them before.  I was not optimistic, but as it turned out I'd heard of almost all of them, which is not so amazing, since our television has been bombarded with ads about how this person supports education and this person supports lowering crime whenever I am trying to peacefully watch my beloved fictional legal shows.

PSL: Martin O'Malley.

Self: Yes! I know him!  He's the mayor!

PSL: Robert Ehrlich.

Self: Yes!  He's the governor!!

PSL: Michael Steele.

Self: OHHH! YES!  He's the Lieutenant governor!

PSL: It's not necessary for you to identify them.  I just need to know if you've heard of them before.

Self: Oh.  Sorry.

Apparently, she was not impressed by my stellar knowledge of local politicians.  Good thing I didn't tell her that I also knew the name of Marin O'Malley's Irish rock band (O'Malley's March) and that I had possibly heard them play one time and they were not half bad.  Or that I also remembered that someone in Michael Steele's office was proven to have started those rumors about O'Malley having an affair, and although that person was summarily fired, did anyone believe that Steele really didn't know about it?  Or Ehrlich, for that matter?

(Baltimore:  It's better than Days of Our Lives!)

Then we moved to some questions about my voting habits, which were easy to answer, since I have only voted one time in my  life and it was not in a local election.  Since this was an anonymous survey, I didn't hold back when she asked me questions like whether I thought George Bush was doing a good job as president ("Um, hell no?") and whether Robert Ehrlich was doing a similarly good job as governor ("Um, I have no idea?") And this was the point where I started to get annoyed.  After every well-thought out response, the woman would say "I understand".  I suppose she was probably trained to say this, instead of making the typical grunt or "uh-huh" that telemarketers usually use to signify that they've understood and recorded your response.  However, I got the distinct impression that this woman did not agree with my responses, and "I understand" took on a distinctly condescending tone.

PSL: Would you describe yourself as very conservative, conservative, neutral, liberal, or very liberal?

Self: Very liberal.

PSL: Hmmmm... I understand.

Soon we came to a section of the survey where she would read me a statement, and I would tell her whether this statement described Martin O'Malley (who is a Democrat, by the way) or Ehrlich (Republican).  Perhaps I should also mention that O'Malley is planning to run against Ehrlich for governor this year, for those who haven't been forced to watch 3,412,354 political messages during every commercial break. 

PSL: Reduced the budget deficit and created a budget surplus.

Self: Um... O'Malley?

PSL: Raised state test scores by 57%

Self: Um... O'Malley?

PSL: Stands up to private interest groups in Annapolis.

Self: Um... O'Malley?

Now that I'm writing this, I realize that some of those were certainly supposed to describe Ehrlich.  Hello, O'Malley is the MAYOR.  Ehrlich is the GOVERNOR.  Anything related to STATE = EHRLICH, dumbass.  But at the time, I honestly couldn't tell.  I was waiting for there to be a statement like "Slots at Pimlico will be good for Maryland," to which I would respond. "I know that one!! Ehrlich wants the slots!", because that is the only really position I am sure about for either of them, and that is only because no one around here will shut up about it.  Slots!  They're the devil!  Slots!  They will save Maryland!  It's easy to tell those two positions apart.  Education, unemployment, corruption, and crime: those things are harder to differentiate, since everyone claims they are going to clean up the schools and the streets and create more jobs. 

Speaking of schools, the next line of questioning in the survey went like this.  Phone Survey Lady would read me a statement, and I would tell her if knowing that statement, I would be more likely to vote for Ehrlich or not.

PSL: Governor Ehrlich has increased school funding, and test scores have gone up XX% statewide

Self: More likely.

PSL: Somewhat more likely, or much more likely?

Self: Um... somewhat?

And then there were about 10 more questions about how Gov. Ehrlich likes to save baby egrets in the bay, supports kids knowing how to read by the end of 8th grade, is firmly against police brutality, and enjoys long walks on the beach and coffee oreo ice cream.

Then she switched things up.  Now she was going to read statements about O'Malley, and I would tell her whether knowing the statement made me less likely to vote for O'Malley or not. 

Um, what?  That's not the same thing.  I realized that she never said this was a bipartisan survey.  But still, I felt like I was being swindled into something.  And if there's one thing I hate, it's being swindled. 

PSL: Under Mayor O'Malley, the police department has changed the way it counts homicides, in order to manipulate the city's murder rate.  Now when the police arrive at a scene with multiple victims, that is recorded as one homicide, regardless of how many people were killed.

Self: No change.

PSL: Hmm.  I understand.   

For the last section, I got to hear even more statements, and then say whether I would vote for Ehrlich or O'Malley based on that statement only. 

PSL: Governor Ehrlich has raised school funding statewide by over $175 Million, while Mayor O'Malley has increased school funding in Baltimore by less than one half of one percent.

Self: What?  That makes no sense.  You can't compare the state to the city.  And how much money is one half of one percent of Baltimore's city school budget?  How does that compare with the size of the state budget?

PSL: I'm not sure ma'am.  I can only read the statement.  Would you like to hear it again?

Self: No!  I can't answer that question.  It doesn't even make sense.

PSL: Well, I understand. Thank you for participating.

END OF SURVEY.  THANK GOD.

What this half hour out of my life taught me, other than to never pick up our house phone again, is that I am SO GLAD I got out of that Government grad program when I did.  God, I hated that thing.  I hated every second of the one class I took, I hated every person in my class, with their "oh I work for such-and-such's secretary's personal assistant and so I think I'm important" attitudes and their messenger bags embroidered with political messages. I hated my pompous, condescending, Ben-Stiller look-alike professor.  But most of all, I just hated the politics.  The bullshit, the outright lying, the manipulation, the greed.  I try not to go off on political rants, because I don't know enough about the issues to really have an educated opinion.  And the reason I don't know enough to have an educated opinion, is that every time I do start to read the New York Times, or learn about the local political issues, I just get so MAD. And so sad.  Why does it have to be such a dirty, corrupt, soulless business?  Why do we have to suffer with one president who does a reasonably good job in office, but can't keep his pants on, and then another president who can at least manage not to have sex with any interns (or at least not get caught), but who instead has poured trillions of dollars into a war that will never end, and thinks that the public should all make a contribution to help New Orleans, because the federal government needs that money for the war?

See, this is why I try not to talk about it.  Because I just get angry, disillusioned, and more bitter than I already am.  Don't ever mention the words "gay" and "marriage" around me, because sometimes my head starts to spin, and I start spouting off phrases like "illegal" and "constitution" and "separation of church and state", and then it just gets ugly.

The one thing I do know: Leaving that Government Master's program was probably the best decision I ever made.   Liberal Arts may not be practical, but it allowed me to preserve my sanity, and some illusion that the world is not a completely terrible, morally bankrupt place.  I'll take that over practicality any day.