The war against cat hair is ongoing. We spent most of yesterday brushing the cats until we built a cat golem out of fur and set it free in the trash bin. Then I attacked the apartment with a lint brush. And today I forward thrust with the vacuum, filling bag after bag with hair.

Now to clean the bathroom.

It's been a domestic day. We went grocery shopping and now I'm cleaning up, but it doesn't look any cleaner. At least no choking on cat hair for a few days.

I'm listening to Ani DiFranco as I clean. Feels a little wrong, like I'm wasting my aural empowerment on domesticity, but it's keeping me going. Fun fact about me: not fond of the cleaning. It's almost worthwhile for once because it means I'll start the New Year with some shit done and I would like this to set the tone for the year. This is the year I get shit done. For realz.

Yay, I'm home! I have my cats around me and my coffee and my laptop and I ordered myself some Le Creuset as a reward. I borrowed a book of chili recipes from my Mom and I can't wait to try some. I'm afraid I'm not adventurous enough to try the one with armadillo as an ingredient (9-banded works best), or the Lake Havasu coot (my research indicates is a type of bird -- no other coot will do) or the vegetarian chili whose first ingredient is ground beef. I am a boring cook.

It was good to see family, but it is really good to be home. It is good to use my shower, surrounded by my things. It is good that it is cold and the sky doesn't burn my eyes, and the smog doesn't burn my lungs. It is good to just sit here in silence and pet my cats and drink my coffee and Baileys and not have to be anywhere or do anything. Very good.

What can I tell you about our trip... We ate a lot. We drank a lot. You could say the theme was gluttony. I took some photos, and when I say some, I mean hundreds, but mostly of people you wouldn't be interested in. The best thing I ate in a restaurant was a chili tamale. A beef tamale drenched in chili and cheese. The best thing my dad cooked was fried chicken, the best thing my mom cooked was probably the carnitas or the eggnog cake, maybe the raspberry cake. Honorable mention goes to the prime rib at my Uncle's house, or the fish he caught in Cabo and smoked for the appetizer.

I got to see my cousins, which was cool, although at 10 and 11 they were flirting with Jer hardcore. They kept calling him Jer-Jer and asking him for his phone number. I thought it was hilarious. I offered to step aside so they could fight over him proper. He could do worse than my little cousins.

Most of the trip we spent indoors, watching television and expanding our waistlines. We also visited Jer's family and played with their dogs. They have a new French bulldog which liked to pose. Mostly though, we played with their cats. They gave their Persian a lion cut, which you just kinda have to see, and Jer was enlisted for computer repairs.

And that's pretty much that.

Well, I'm here in sunny San Diego, already uncomfortably overstuffed and still digesting yesterday's epic meals. Having a good time. Watched a lot of Doctor Who yesterday and that's about it. Our flight in was an hour early. Now I think I'll go eat my Mexican food leftovers, because damn, yum.

Merry Christmas.

The weather continues to be insane. Now it's added windstorm to its repertoire and caused severe power outages in the area. Jer and I escaped the worst, but most of my coworkers have been affected/afflicted with flooding and downed trees and no power. Jer is at work on a Saturday trying to resurrect some servers which didn't fare so well in the weather anarchy. And I am at work because, hey, deadlines.

I have an hour until my bus comes. Public transit is great and all, but damned inconvenient. And it's cold out there. I can't muster anymore energy for clothes shopping even though the best shopping in Seattle is at my fingertips. Poor me.

Since we're flying to California soon to see our families, Jer and I will be celebrating Christmas tonight or tomorrow. Our reasoning is that we want some time to enjoy our gifts before we have to jet off and leave it all behind. I think that's fair.

My knee is better but still hurts on stairs. I can walk in a straight line though, which is excellent news in case of a DUI checkpoint. Which would be sorta random, since I ride the bus. "Everybody off the bus, now! If any of you assholes been drinkin, it's straight to jail wit you."

No, I don't know why my imagination talks like that.

Good news! Jer just called and he's picking me up now. See ya later, sucka fools!

psa

I forgot to mention the weirdest thing about yesterday. Somebody hacked my ebay account and posted a bunch of crap I didn't authorize. Like 50 items. Ebay took fast action, removed the listings, and I changed my password, but damn. For about five minutes, I was thinking worst case scenario, which means paying all seller listing fees (about $150 and rising -- the culprit was still posting up until ebay locked my account) and losing my perfect feedback score that took three years to build. Luckily, ebay is awesome and took care of it immediately. So if you use ebay, you might want to change your password today and make sure it's pretty frelling hard to guess.

The end.

When you're sick you get asked how you're feeling a lot. And frankly, I'm not sure. I was a little worried yesterday about all the coughing, but the main thing I was worried about seems to have gone away on its own. Now I'm relying on Delsym, cough drops, and a lot of water to see me through. The only thing on my schedule today is a lot of rest, television, and trying not to cough. Though that sounds like I actually wrote that in my schedule somewhere, and I didn't. It's the schedule in my mind.

Yesterday was a long day. There was a big meeting and then I got my hair highlighted and then Jer and I went to his company Christmas party, which reminded me of a high school prom -- if my prom were in a very large conference room/banquet hall. On the plus side they had mini corn dogs. On the minus side there were a lot of people. I think there are about 500 at his company -- they didn't all show but still, add the ones that did to their dates and you've got a lot of people. And Jer works in an isolated area so he knew about five of them. Also, we arrived late and missed out on the drink tickets. But, eh. I shouldn't be drinking anyway, at least according to the warnings on the back of the cough syrup.

This was kind of funny: almost everyone we spoke to casually mentioned last year they'd had an open bar. They said this with a wistful expression and a half-smile, often recalling drunken shenanigans, men and women passed out in the halls, inappropriate dancing, the stuff of company legend... Then their face and eyes got hard, "But not this year. This year we have drink tickets." And I felt them die a little inside.

So it's the next morning, as it goes, and since I didn't shower when I got home, my face is still makeup-ed and my hair is full of hairspray. I feel like I should be stumbling back to my apartment on the cold, dark streets in evening wear before my roommates wake up. Not that I ever did that before...

This hasn't been the best week ever, but it hasn't been the worst either. I screwed up my knee at the gym and now I limp a lot. Also, I got the flu. Also, I just cut my thumb trying to open a box. That's three! So I should be safe now.

It's not bleeding so bad, but it is bleeding. Jer noticed the Neosporin is 3 years past its expiration date. We should probably invest in a new tube; I used it anyway.

Tomorrow night is Jer's company's Christmas party. I'm having my hair lightened a little and I'm carrying my dress to work in a garbage bag. w00t.

Have a good weekend!

I am in a battle, and the enemy is cat hair. Any day now I expect someone will find my cold, blue body and fur lined throat, hair clumped and stuck to my tongue, eyes rolled back in my head. Any day...

Send vacuum bags.

Also, I won a bottle of wine. In a sweater. It is a bottle of merlot actually wearing a knitted sweater. Back off ladies; it's all mine.

I spent a couple hours on the balcony scraping moss into a plastic bag. I gathered about two pounds of it. I wish I could think of a use for a bag of moss... maybe if I had a Secret Santa gift exchange this year... or a Christmas stocking... Nope. I give up. I got nothing.

books r sexy

I shouldn't have looked because no good can come from looking. The OED is on sale through the end of January. It's $895 instead of the usual $1500 and I covet all 20 volumes. I even found the perfect stand at Levenger.com.

Sure, I could buy it on CD, but that just isn't the same. It just isn't, okay? I need to see it and touch it and make sweet love to-- excuse me. Not sure where that came from. But maybe, just maybe, it's high time for a cold shower and a chocolate bar.

If I were the weather person for Seattle, here is what I'd say: It's fucking snowing. Snow. Outside. Get back in your house and turn on the heater. Fucking snow. Mother fucking cold.

The child inside says, whee!

The cow says moo.

The duck says quack.

On Tuesday morning my bus never came. I stood outside for 25 minutes. It was probably 20 degrees and windy. I was not happy.

On Sunday night Jer and I drove north an hour for a concert and hit the storm full force. We drove into it, snow flakes smashing against the windshield, like driving into stars or some other trite illusion. Disorienting. We stayed in a hotel to keep from driving back at midnight, and it was worth it. I woke up and snow was everywhere. It was my first real snow experience. White and wet and cold.

And look. It's snowing again. The ground is pretty and white. The heater is on and my workout clothes are on spin. Enjoy it while it lasts since it don't last long.

November 27, 2006. Snow on a bush outside my apartment. Seattle, WA

November 27, 2006. Snow outside my apartment. Seattle, WA

It was a productive day. I bought groceries, walked to Alki and back, and made dinner twice. Tomorrow we go see Mike Doughty and Barenaked Ladies and my iPod is ready to party.

After all the walking and the stairs and the moving around, I'm tuckered out. Hate to waste my last night of vacation watching Spongebob and sitting on the floor like I am... maybe it's time for coffee.

Speaking of places that sell coffee (pardon my segue), on my walk I stopped at Tully's and bought a hot apple cider. The barista filled the cup to the top, which normally I would applaud, but when I popped off the top, boiling appley liquid spilled all over my knee. Then I had to walk back to my apartment in the bitter cold with a wet apple-flavored knee. I'm guessing that won't get me a whole lot of sympathy.

I wrote five pages yesterday for the play about a shoe. Still digging the vacation life. Mmm, I think it's time for rum. Or coffee. Or coffee with rum.

this the life is

i have been having a nice, laid-back couple of days, where I feel the need to punctuate all willy-nilly and erroneously! It is almost 6pm and I have been wearing pajamas for 48 hours (roughly), with one shower interlude and some sleeping. i watched the television and baked taquitos, worked on a short play, and did a few sit-ups... washed some dishes, wandered aimlessly, acquired some more mike doughty in preparation for sunday's upcoming concert and eschewed capitalization. this is the life. i tell ya, here it is and i am living it.

cats still have not taken to the litter robot. we bribe them with treats but stop short before throwing treat into litter sand and forcing them to fetch. so nice we are

my hands are cold. i need cut off gloves

i am writing a play about a shoe

i am wearing my cthulu slippers

i spilled chili on my sweatshirt five hours ago and i don't care. maybe i will take a nap before bedtime or maybe i will do a load of laundry. look at how wild i am when i have a day off!

happy thanksgiving

If you scorch the bottom of a stockpot, say while making chili, you can clean it by pouring some boiling water and baking soda in the bottom and letting it sit for awhile. After two applications I was able to chisel the nasty black crud off the bottom and save the pot.

Also, oregano is my favorite spice. Unless you count garlic as a spice, which I don't think you do. But if you do, then my heart belongs to garlic first, oregano second.

Lastly, we bought a Litter Robot for the cats. Because changing the litter box every single day is not my idea of fun. It's big and out of place and makes me laugh every time I see it in the bathroom. My new favorite thing to do and say is to pick a cat, look at it sternly and say, "Go poop in the robot."

Hello and welcome, robot overlords. Let me introduce you to my cat's behind.

That is all.

Hello and attention. Today I learned: the number of drinks it takes before Scrubs is funny equals four strong whiskey sours and one weak jack and coke.

After that it's a laugh riot!

I like me better when I'm not sober. Sure, I'm not as quick with the wit and I tend to slobber, but I'm much more easy going and more attentive as a listener. These things count. Instead of drinking, I've been going to the stupid gym and drinking a ton of water. In case you were wondering, NOT suitable replacements. The only good thing about not drinking, I guess, is cutting out the empty calories. Because now that I can concentrate on my reflection for more than ten seconds, I realize I prefer my chins in the singular.

If I were still drinking these body concepts wouldn't bother me in the least, but now that I've got the mental energy to think on it, I'm irritable. How do people do this all the time? Plus, I'm impatient... and mean. Hell, I've been going for almost two weeks. When do I see results?

Stupid body. Stupid gym.

Tonight I think I'll take a break and have a whiskey sour. Or three.

Sobriety sucks ass.

After two days in training, I needed a night on the town. And so I found myself at Dragonfish, enjoying little plates of chicken potstickers, caramel ginger chicken, chinese bbq pork, and beef satay. And maybe a Lemongrass Lime Rickey.

Joining me in my adventure was my friend with the new blog. Then we went to Nordstrom to try on pants (okay, only me) and look at shoes, on our way to see the Decemberists.

The concert was fun, except the Decemberists have really tall fans and maybe, just maybe the floor was sloped up instead of down so that I couldn't see a whole heckuva lot. We made it home at a decent time and I promptly fell asleep. Because I was made for night-time, yo.

I realize I have a problem. The moment I start thinking I should exercise and get healthy, I become obsessed with food. Granted, we had an early Thanksgiving and there were copious leftovers, but damn. Just damn.

I spent all day in training, in a conference room, with the blinds closed, and a half dozen or so warm bodies rising the temperature to unholy levels. Or maybe I exaggerate.

We celebrated Thanksgiving at work with an exciting potluck, which allowed us to leave the sweltering room for a brief respite. I contributed gooey butter pumpkin cake and lite cool whip. (Because if you're going to eat a crapload of butter and cream cheese, you may as well add a dollop of lite cool whip.) Everything was tasty and I ate entirely too much. But I forgive myself. I know not what I do. Unless I'm lying.

And then I went to the stupid gym again.

Ta da. No deep thoughts. Just watching tv. Doing some laundry. Staring at the city lights.

Today was my one year anniversary at my current job. The last time I had a one-year anniversary anywhere, I knew I was about to be laid off and so it was bittersweet. Today was only a little bittersweet because instead of properly celebrating, I went to the stupid gym and jog/walked on the stupid treadmill.

I steamed asparagus tonight. I've never steamed anything before but it turned out pretty well. I minced some garlic and threw it on top and after it was finished, drizzled some olive oil over the whole thing. Not too shabby.

Nothing much else to report. My heartbeat caps out at 185 beats per minute on the treadmill, but if I do that too long I'll die, so I slow it down for science. I've discovered fitday.com, which I'm too lazy to link, for free tracking of my food intake and exercise. And I get paid tomorrow.

time to find some stainless steel to rub my hands with; or i'll smell like garlic forever...

Jer and I ate a tasty meal last night at a friends' Mocksgiving celebration. Good times. I stuffed some cremini mushrooms, roasted garlic, and wrapped a round of brie in puffed pastry.

In related news: I don't think I like washing mushrooms.

The dishwasher is making mewling noises, as if there's a sack of kittens inside on spin.

There's not.

The city is obscured by clouds. No scuba divers out today. My feet are so icy my toes are blue. But the socks are far away. I might be missing a deeper purpose. Or I might not. Maybe once you scratch away the eggshell, it's just a bunch of meaningless goo and ascribing meaning to goo qualifies as insanity. Straitjackets are uncomfortable i bet. Record flooding outside. I am not setting any records myself.

I donated blood today. You could say I gave at the office.

Mostly I handled it like a trooper. I squeezed my blue star every five seconds and looked for patterns in the ceiling tiles. I stole glances at the first-timer by the window who was almost hyperventilating, and I admit, I felt a little smug because I was saving lives and filling my blood bag like nobody's business. Not even a whimper.

And then it was over, and that's when the dizzy kicked in. Got a wee bit light headed, sweat poured down my face as I leaned back in my chair with an ice pack under my neck and sucked down a couple juice boxs. So there you go. Smugness leads to suffering.

Moon over Seattle, November 2006.

For most of the day, it didn't rain. And then it rained. You should know that my jacket is fairly waterproof, so frankly, I wasn't inconvenienced. And I ate cajun tater tots, which are both crunchy and spicy. So, yes, be jealous.

Poor Britney.

hey, look, celebrity jeopardy is on. everyone is smiling awkwardly. and they're wearing a lot of makeup. i would like to punch them all in the throat. because i am misguided.

"my charity is near and dear to my heart..."

PUNCH

jer is somewhere that isn't here. i got home late but he is later. the cats are hungry, so i'm soaking the bowls. the answer to the question is BEAVIS. oh look, he's home.

blargh.

It rained all day long. Pretty pretty rain. In honor of it, I made hard-boiled eggs. And then I set candles by the matches and the flashlight, in case we lose power.

Did you not know hard-boiled eggs are the official food of rain?

Then, bam! Consider yourself educated.

don't push me cuz i'm close to the edge

You know how sometimes you meet somebody who just pisses you right the hell off? And there's not much you can do about it because of the social situation, so you just kind of grin and make the best of it, silently vowing never to put yourself in that situation again?

Well, yes, as a matter fact, just the other day somebody rubbed me the wrong way. So what did I do with all that pent up rage and unused snappy comebacks? What, indeed! I started to write a play about them. And as we speak, bad things are happening to that character, inciting incidents are spinning events into motion that will give that character a very hard time. And as a result, I feel ever so much better.

Mwahahahaha. Victory is mine!

I'm watching the pilot episode of "Heroes." You've probably already seen it; I'm late to the party.

I want to tell you so many things. I want to tell you about the rain and the wind and the sound of the cars outside, leap-frogging over one another to get to another dull place. I want to tell you how it feels to run my fingers through the cat's fur. I want to take you to the food court and eat cheese on a stick. With mustard. Or maybe chicken vindaloo.

We don't need to talk about anything hard. You can tell me about your apartment and your cat, and what it's like to live somewhere that prides itself on its insomnia. We can dress up and see a show. Or go for a walk. I bet you go for lots of walks. Do you still wear your hair long? Listen to Bob Dylan? Act?

I'm pretty much the same.

Still here.

There's nothing quite so therapeutic as a good cry. Unless it's a drunken good cry.

I should not have gone outside yesterday.

For breakfast I ate potato chips, a trick-or-treat size bag of M&M's, and drank a can of diet Dr. Pepper.

And I only feel a little guilty.

I'm sitting here wishing I could go out for breakfast, but Jer's still asleep. If I went, I'd probably hear about it later. Plus, he's sick. Maybe if I brought him back something eggy?

Or maybe I'll just drink a Bloody Mary and fold laundry.

This whole being a grown-up thing sure is a mixed bag.

On Thursday night, Jer and I went to hear Regina Spektor at the Moore Theatre. It was an awesome show. She was mostly onstage by herself, but about halfway through a band joined her to do songs from "Begin to Hope." The only thing I didn't like was all the flash photography, which was distracting. Other than that, it was a way better show than Chop Suey. I could see her and the bar was outside the womens' restroom, and it was a great crowd.

This afternoon I went to see the Dead Sea Scrolls at the Pacific Science Center. Then I drank pumpkin ale at the Elysian Brewery. Tasty. It was an interesting exhibit, and I got to see scraps of parchment that constitute the scrolls along with banners indicating translation. The crowd was fairly courteous, and I saw a large map of the planet fall off the wall and narrowly miss hitting a patron. That was cool.

In music news, I'm listening to a lot of Brendan Benson and also Steve Burns.

There are other things I'd rather be doing than sitting here, preparing for an evening at home. But yeah. So it goes.

I am full of words I can't use, which makes updating difficult. In other words, I'm navigating the waters of propriety. And I'm a lousy navigator.

I just bought a ticket to hear Stephen King speak on November 1. That cheers me up, by gum!

I saw a couple plays this week, "Tick, Tick... Boom!" and "Company." Tomorrow I'll see "The Underpants." Started going back to the gym, was sore, and took another break. That's pretty much it. Also, I mailed a play to a contest.

I am attempting to break the habit of beginning sentences with the word, "there," but it's hard.

There is a cat in my lap. She purrs.

A cat purrs in my lap.

The petticoat and wig that goes with my costume arrived in the mail. Fits perfect, and now my costume is complete.

I don't have anything to say. Just checking in. Time for a shower.

Jer: Finish your wine.
Me: I'm trying to sip it for once. You want me to be an alcoholic?
Jer: When it's convenient.

slippery slippery slope

One problem with being stubborn is that I'm perfectly happy to sit and stare at the wall instead of doing what needs to be done. Frankly, I already told me that I'm bored with this and I don't care if it gets done evah. But then the other part of me? The part that's even more stubborn? That part is like, you are not allowed to get up until you get your shit done. And then there's some other voices that suggest compromise. "Say, why don't we update the blog again?" Or, "Let's sort some laundry. Surely THAT'S allowed." Or "You just got paid. You should buy that Toothpaste for Dinner shirt you've been wanting. Heck, buy 4. You deserve it."

I even did sit-ups to get out of working. Sit-ups! And I made breakfast. And I sorted all my laundry, even the dry cleaning stuff.

Stupid stupid stupid. If I just did the work and got it over with I could get up. But I don't wanna do it and you can't make me.

That, in a nutshell, is one problem with being stubborn.

costume alert

If you find yourself in need of a pair of white girlie lacey ankle socks, I point you to the girls' section of Target. I can assure you that even though they're marketed to little girls, the socks'll fit most adult sizes fine. And no, there's nothing sketchy about that at all. Not at all.

Also, Payless is having one of their BOGO sales. If, say, you needed some black Mary Janes to go with your Little Red Riding Hood costume, that's the place for you.

And lastly, buycostumes.com is the perfect place for all your petticoat and blonde ringlet wig needs.

Don't forget Flava of Love tonight! Yeah, baby, yeah.

PS Today is anti-substance Sunday. So, you know, bring it. Hard and often.

It's Saturday morning and I'm sitting on the floor, at the coffee table, in front of my laptop. I'm doing work stuff, sort of, when I'm not feeling like a martyr and trying to get the internet to recognize my grand commitment to career and real-time adherence. This hasn't been the best week. I acted like a jackass on more than one occasion. I drank too much. I ate too much. And by Friday I decided I have to wrap up this current Age of Gluttony and move on to healthier things. Or be doomed.

It's slow going so far. But I'm trying.

I reorganized my finances so I can pay off my photography school loan at the end of this year. That's a $17K weight off my shoulders. It's like I bought a car that no one else can see, an imaginary car that talks about f-stops and filters instead of driving anywhere. At least it's fuel efficient, not existing and all, but I sure do wish that money went to something tangible.

Here's my Halloween costume. I bought it cheap on ebay, but who's counting? I also bought a basket that came with a wolf's head and a pair of black Mary Janes. It's going to be totally sweet. (In the interest of full disclosure, I also bought this costume, but it's a little too short for the office. I like it because it gives me an excuse to drink wine all day.)

Lastly, I stayed home sick on Wednesday because everytime I tried to stand I nearly fainted. But now I'm better. The end.

October 9, 2006. Seattle.

Jer and I went to the Everett Sausage Festival yesterday and ate sausage. It was a pretty large festival, lots of carnival games and arts and crafts booths. We had a tasty slice of chocolate cream pie and explored Everett a little. It was good to get out.

I'm having a hard time getting started this morning, er afternoon. I was up early to do work stuff, but then I got bored and made a hot dog. I'm still hungry, which means I have to make myself something else. I know there are eggs, hashbrowns, and pork sausage, but it seems like an awful lot of work.

I need some cheese to go with my whine.

But only if it's brie.

Tuesday, October 3, 2006. Sunset from my balcony.

I have no opportunity to wear Halloween costumes, and yet I covet them. I may have even bought one and am bidding on another. Don't you think I'd make an excellent little red riding hood? And not the PC one, oh no, the original. The real question is: do I have the balls to wear it in public? And on public transit, no less?

I threw my head around a little too much. Also, in my immaturity, I threw my elbows into the sides of a few people who got in my way. But I promise, they started it. That is the short version of my evening.

In the slightly longer version, we overshoot our exit and consult a road atlas. We start drinking rum in the hotel room and head over to dinner about 9. We enjoy an excellent meal, and then head over to the bar, which is over-full and we stand in the hallway for about fifteen minutes until the head waitress looks away and we sneak in. We dance in front of a speaker for many many hours. Then go back to the hotel, have a couple more drinks, and then collapse. This morning we had another excellent meal and then headed back home.

Now I am popping Tylenol and wrapped in a heating pad. Because although I like to think I can party like a rockstar, I can't. Pass me the Icy Hot.

Hello everyone. I just got back from the Seattle Greek Festival and it was fabulous. Rain or shine, it's all covered (heh, I just made that up) I am full of food and drink, mostly food and entirely bottled water. We skipped the gyros to concentrate on everything else, which included kataifi, tyropita, spanokopita, calimari, Greek coffee, souvlaki, and much much more.

Tonight I'm making Jer take me dancing. We will stay in an inexpensive inn and walk there and back when we are done. The poor cats will have the run of the house and should wreak much havoc if they know what's good for them. The end.

This is difficult for me to say, and may be even more difficult for you to hear. I've held back, not wanting to strain our relationship, not wanting you to judge me. But I can't stand the lying any longer, it's tearing me apart.

With every fiber of my being, with every breath, with every cell and pore, I hate Battlestar Galactica. It offends me on a primal level. I can't even watch the commercials without suffering a surge of rage. I want every single character to die gruesome, horrible deaths. And I want the camera work -- if such a thing were possible to pinpoint -- to spontaneously combust and rid the world of its jerkiness.

Everyone loves this show. Everyone but me. And Jer. So we console ourselves in our sad condo, muting the Sci-Fi channel during the vast chasms of advertisements between Eureka and Doctor Who and try not to hear lines like, "This baby may be the shape of things to come..." because if you didn't know, "The Shape of Things" is one of my favorite plays by Neil LaBute and now the mental connection will destroy me. Or at least make my head explode.

Why do I hate this show so strongly? Have I even watched it, you might ask? Yes, yes I have. It made me want to squirm out my skin. Mostly I hated the dialogue, plot, characters, and the camera work. The rest was okay.

I know there are things I love that you do not love, and that's all right. But I'm puzzled that I can hate anything this strongly, actually resent its existence, when so many people I admire and respect anticipate its return like a holiday.

Now you know the secret of my terrible burden. I hope it will not affect the shape of things to come.

On the street, walking, a woman stops me. She says, "You want a trim?"

I shake my head, no.

On the street, standing, corner of 2nd and Pike. A bird shits on my back. Later I will take off my fake sweater and wash it in the restroom sink. It's damp for the next two hours.

Right off the street, sitting in the city park that overlooks West Seattle and the 99. I wear Polarized sunglasses that make everything orange and eat my sausage sandwich with sauerkraut. The onions fall out. I watch a parasailer suspended by a colorful sail, getting dragged across the sky by a motorboat.

I took the water taxi home across the bay and watched the sun set. Pink sky, purple hills, and an iPod full of music.

I've been reading "Naked Lunch" for weeks. I can only get through about 5 consecutive pages before it becomes too overwhelming. When it's done, I'll watch the movie, and cross another thing off my list. It's very interesting but there's only so much ectoplasm and man ass I can handle in my morning commute.

Speaking of overwhelming, work. Going to have to do a lot of it in the next month. Sort of feel guilty right now for not being at work or doing work. Here I am, goofing off at home. Sleep, work, or eat? That should be the only question I'm asking myself these days.

I haven't been working out or eating well either, which doesn't help. All I want to do is rebel. Disappear for awhile. Go somewhere new. Somewhere that doesn't have Framemaker. But unfortunately I'm addicted to salary, a dish best served with peanut butter.

Ba-dum dum.

My breath reeks of garlic. My pores probably do too. But by now I've consumed so much of the stuff that I can't tell how offensive I am to anyone else. I just know I can vaguely taste it, and if I can taste it, it is bad for the rest of you. So stay back.

Today Jer and I went to the Italian Festival at the Seattle Center, which was on the smallish side. We ate a sausage sandwich each, meatballs, lots of garlic knots, a Salumi sampler, a cannoli, and then spent some time in the beer and wine garden. Also, we bought roasted garlic bread and a brownie to take home. Then we ate garlic pizza at Zeek's and now we breathe fire and garlic. So stay back.

Also, we went to the Science Fiction Museum, which was totally awesome. I am all over that. We totally saw Gort and Captain Kirk's chair and lots of books I want to read and THE Alien and omg, best. museum. ever! And there was a mystery machine and they invited you to guess as to what it could possibly be for and I totally guessed it was an air freshener, which is much funnier if you read the whole paragraph I wrote about the danger of sulphur emissions and olfactory enhancers available in the western boundary of Known Space, and although no one else may crack a smile, I crack myself right up.

But oh the garlic burning all the way down all day long. Now I am pretty sure that I will exude garlic from my person for days, so in case you forgot or thought I was joking, I implore you to stay back. I have established a perimeter of funk and you cross it at your own risk.

Hey! Got another rejection letter today! Whoo hoo! Let's party!

Too late. Beat you to it. Hello, vodka. Hello grapefruit juice. Welcome to me.

I'm planning a party. For work. I'm having two kinds of cake delivered from a fancy bakery. I made marinated carrots, which as we sit here communing, are marinating in the fridge. There will also be meatballs -- which are actually a cheat brought to you by Costco and the crockpot -- turkey wraps (Costco), vegetables (also Costco), and Velcro darts, a game. And prizes. I even made flyers. I am a social butterfly for hire.

The neighbors sound like they're on dueling pogo sticks. I used to love my pogo stick. Nothing like a giant spring between your legs to make you feel alive.

Hi Mom!

Not only is fall in the air, nipping at summer's six-inch stilettos, but it's also concert season! We bought tickets to see Regina Spektor at the Moore Theatre 10/26, The Decemberists at the Paramount Theatre 11/17, and (my personal favorite) Mike Doughty opening for Barenaked Ladies at the Everett Events Center 11/26. Finally. Something to be thankful for on Thanksgiving weekend that doesn't involve corn! Unless it does. Then I take it all back.

Since our last installment Jer and I went to fabulous Idaho to visit the lovely and talented Lily. It was an excellent visit -- if we ignore the drive, which on Friday night involved a zillion hours in the dark, a variety of nasty farmland smells (strong herbs, likely rotting), staring at a narrow triangle of freeway, a windshield smeared with bug juice, a praying mantis, a huge red moon hanging over the horizon like an evil penny, and a gas station that was probably haunted. The best parts were seeing Lily's beautiful home, trying on costumes in a comic store bathroom (black vinyl?), driving around town, eating and drinking (Sangria, Monte Cristo, burrito, international!)... Then on the drive back we stopped in Roslyn, briefly, and geeked out a little. That means I hung out the window with my camera and snapped several shots of the mural and the Brick, then we sped off into the setting sun. You might even say we absconded.

Peer Pressured!

Here are five songs that make me cry. For George. I am not as good as George about explaining why the songs make me cry so you'll just have to take my word for it.

Frou Frou, Let Go

Two lines get me:

"Don't you know that all that stuff's a sideshow..."
"...'cause there's beauty in the breakdown..."

This one was on repeat for weeks until I became properly desensitized. Something about the swelling of the music and those two lines combine to make me weepy.

Rebekah del Rio, Crying (Llorando)

First heard it in "Mulholland Drive." I can't sing along because I don't know Spanish. Plus I can't sing. So I sit there, listen, and I am sad.

Barenaked Ladies, Break Your Heart

The live version on the Rock Spectacle album, in particular. He howls. Howls in the middle of the song.

"I couldn't tell you I was happy when you were gone
So I lied and said that I missed you when we were apart.
I couldn't tell you, so I had to lead you on
But I didn't mean to break your heart.
"

Ani DiFranco, Untouchable Face

Reminds me of things I'd rather not think about. Namely, me on a bad day.

"so fuck you
and your untouchable face
and fuck you
for existing in the first place
and who am i
that i should be vying for your touch
and who am i
i bet you can't even tell me that much"

Garth Brooks, Standing Outside the Fire

I am defensive about this one, but I have to include it since I just cried when the music video came on about a week ago. (I told Jeremy it was allergies.) I blame the video. The video is very dramatic. Your heart would be cold and dead if you did not cheer on that tireless young man who the coach tried to force into the Special Olympics, but oh no, he insisted on running in the "real" race and then he tripped and fell and the stadium caught fire while Garth Brooks was singing in his cowboy hat and then the boy's father, who was only worried about what was best for his son and didn't want to see him ridiculed, helped him rise and then the boy crossed the finish line and everybody hugged. The end.

Damn you, Garth Brooks. Damn you for making me feel.

My ten-minute play is finished. I'll let it sit a day and reread it, see if anything stands out, but I could call it quits and not be sorry.

I want to follow that up with something defensive, like: so there. But I'm way too mature for that.

It was a good day. I worked hard and mostly spoke to no one. The few people I did speak to wanted something from me, something outside of my regular duties, and I managed to only give a little of myself. So I guess it was a good day.

Sometimes I think there's no such thing as being too selfish.

So there.

cheap books i bought

It was another warm, lazy day. I'm almost done with the ten-minute play I'm working on; I think I've figured out the last twist. Achieved closure with Yu-Gi-Oh vs the Pharoah, the best duel ever (says the promo) and chased the cats around with a brush. Jer thinks we might take to the road tomorrow and just approached me with printouts of possible activities. (He doesn't respect the laptop, but that's okay.)

Half-Price Books is having a Labor Day sale, 20% off everything, and we spent our time and money there this evening. I bought a couple Haruki Murakami books (Dance Dance Dance and South of the Border, West of the Sun), several tech writing texts, a book of 27 short plays by Christopher Durang, a few CDs including Sugarland and the Avenue Q soundtrack, a Lovecraft anthology featuring "The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath" and "Eats, Shoots, & Leaves," which I've been eyeing since it was released.

Last night Jer and I walked around the University of Washington campus. The experience left us feeling cheated because our alma mater pales in comparison. Words wouldn't do it justice; it's the most beautiful campus I've ever seen. We walked around with jaws hanging open, shaking our heads, "Is that another library?" "Look at all that ivy." "Wow, nice freakin' fountain." "Damn."

On the way to the campus we stopped at a used bookstore and I bought Paul Auster's "Moon Palace," Angela Carter's "Shaking a Leg: Collected Journalism and Writings," and Christopher Moore's "Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal," which was on my list for about three years.

I love used bookstores. Love love love. Love.

I don't want to examine it too closely, but so far on my assigned day of introspection, I've done several loads of laundry, written a couple pages of a play, flipped the mattress, and watched TV. Also, I ate a can of Beanie Weenies. As for introspection, there has been little to none of it. But maybe that will change when I finally put clean sheets back on the bed. Maybe I will achieve inner harmony then.

Here we are. On this, my day off. I have these grand vague plans about how I'll spend the day, but so far it's turning out like all my other days off. Three hours after facing the harsh light of morning, I'm still unshowered, and sipping Bailey's and coffee. I'm running the dishwasher and doing laundry. I'm thinking about going for a walk along the water. I can see that it's a temperate seventy degrees out there with a nice breeze, clear blue skies, and not too many people in my way. I can't stand people in my way. But mostly I'm enjoying these quiet moments, watching the cats sleep on different levels of their cat condo,(Tony Danza's talk show on the tv behind me so it's not entirely quiet) and drinking down my second cup of coffee.

Sometimes I need to isolate myself from the whir of everything. I get so caught up in my job and my stupid problems and people that I reach a saturation point and from then on I let it all wash over me without reacting. So one of my grand vague plans for this weekend is to spend time trying to mentally detox. Relax. Sort and shuffle the craziness into their individual piles for processing. Defrag my mind. That sort of thing.

Alone with my music and thoughts, occasionally assaulting my liver with drink, and crawling out clean. That's the plan.

I read in the newspaper that they're selling 300 square foot condos for $196,000 in Belltown (a hip downtown area of Seattle). I almost typed 106,000. Isn't it interesting how a typo at that level makes all the difference?

How can you even live in that? What's the point? Sure. People will buy it. And live there. But 300 square feet? You might as well be in a cage.

I should qualify this entry with the fact that I drank a lot of beer tonight. And the waitress was mean to me. And she asked me if I was planning on drinking the last beer I ordered, which I was. By the way, you shouldn't have to explain to the waitress that when you order a beer it's for you... bitch. So there you go. My life. Not a role model. And down with prohibition. Thank you and good night.

Tonight was the last night of my editing class. Good times. I *may* have gone overboard on the final project. I was the only one who used dividers and a binder and printed a cover with a border. Sometimes I think I am wasted outside of a classroom. (Not just booze-wise) And although the class was pass/fail, I like to think I *passed* just a little more than everybody else. And yes, my moral superiority keeps me warm at night, thank you for asking.

The back of my hand itches. Does that mean anything? I know if my palm itches that means money, and the nose itching, well, I'm about to kiss a fool. But the back of the hand? Is a bitch begging to be smacked up somewhere?

One of the people who was laid off last week left behind an old company mug. Since I had to clean out her office, I claimed it as my own and now I drink tea from it. It makes me happy to pretend that the mug is a metaphor for cannibalism. And now I acquire wisdom via osmosis by drinking bitter green tea from her vulture-picked skull. I am an office warrior. Watch me punch my chests with fists of fire!

On Friday I am taking a personal day to destress (when i start comparing office politics to cannibalism, it's time for a personal day). I plan to do nothing and everything. It is my first day off to spend all by myself I've taken in years. Do not disturb.

This entry is dedicated to George. Because he left a comment. Whoo hoo!

A college friend visited from out of town this weekend. We went to the Penny Arcade Expo (PAX) and it looked like this. We were in all those crowds at different times. I don't think I can express how many people were there or how, when I separated from Jer and his friend, I was literally crushed by people over by some booth that may or may not have been giving out empty bags. But o-o-o they were stylish empty bags, bright green and crisp. Later I got yelled at by a wee lad wearing cat ears on a headband because I didn't drop my purse fast enough. Apparently I fit the profile of a woman who steals game controllers and enjoys being called ma'm.

Then we stood on the street in line for an hour so we could see Tycho and Gabe give a talk, which ended up being completely worth the wait -- also worth the wait was the line and the banter about rogues/paladins/clerics I had to endure with my fellow line mates to prove my nerd cred. There was a girl in particular who was determined to out-geek me, but just because I'm not wearing a shirt with a semi-humorous in-joke on a black background doesn't mean I can't hold my own in a conversation about rogues disarming and avoiding traps by virtue of their dexterity.

I guess I shouldn't brag about that.

Later we drank beer. Does that redeem me?

The night before we watched "Snakes on a Plane." That also involved a lot of beer. I don't actually remember the movie; I remember laughing a lot.

Um. Did I tell you about the layoffs? No? Well, my company had a few layoffs, but I made it through. Last week was kind of tense though. Now I'm on the laptop in front of the television, watching "Eureka."

We don't have hot water. No reason, nothing. All the lights are on, the bills are paid, the water flows, but it never heats up. Our complex has a boiler. It's a big boiler. I've seen it. Is it possible we've been disconnected from this magnificent boiler? That we are now living off the grid?

I know in the grand scheme of things, a hot shower is just another luxury. But it's a luxury I've grown accustomed to. And depend on. To keep me sane. Without hot water, the terrorists win.

Jer and I saw "Nacho Libre" on Friday night and I thought it was hilarious. So there you go.

I feel like it's been ages, just ages. Let's see. I took up the guitar again. I can play a super-minimal version of "Skip to my Lou," and I can almost play a couple chords without my fingers falling off.

My personal trainer told me she's leaving the gym, which makes me sad. I've been seeing her for six months now, and her presence has become a huge part of my exercise routine. I just paid for another block of 10 sessions so I guess I'll have to try out another trainer. But I'm not happy about it. Sure, yeah, I'm happy she's getting out since she's miserable, but it's hard to reverse a lifetime of selfishness and not worry how this move will affect me and my motivation. Also, she never gave me a hard time about my diet. I will miss that about her.

I wrote a little today. First time in awhile. I'm sort of crawling out of a very dark space, hoping the light won't burn my eyes. So we'll see if the groundhog sees its shadow and take it from there.

I'm listening to a lot of "Panic at the Disco!"

I folded a series of 50 origami boxes and strung them on lights for my office. It is festive.

I'm trying to stay up late enough to watch the William Shatner roast on Comedy Central.

And yes, Jer and I are visiting our dear friend Lily in far off fantastic Idaho next month. So, you know, road trip.

That about sums it up.

This is just to say that these weeks have been hard and fraught with emotion but now we are on an upswing.

I saw Soul Asylum play a free concert at Pike Place Market at lunch today. It was fantastic. Then I ate pho. I can almost balance the noodles on my spoon like a proper gentleman.

Also, I am staring at the cover of Marie Claire, where Maggie Gyllenhaal is about to bite into a green apple. You should see it. She is stunning.

Just saw the latest X-Men movie, ate some Mexican food, and drank a few beers at the local brew pub. Stuck in the birthday loop of reflection and mental flogging, listening to "Railroad Man" by the Eels, trying not to beat myself up too much. At least not so much that there are visible bruises. Hard to explain, those.

I sort of feel like I've lost my tether. And I'm being self-destructive just for the fun of it. On the other hand, I've lost 13 pounds since I've started working out, so yay for not dieting, drinking like a fish, and working out when I feel like it. My diet is better than your diet. Only with my diet you're bound to let a few brain cells take one for the team. Survival of the fittest, only the strongest brain cells survive my rigorous training program.

Last night I danced at a small town festival, by myself, and I had a good time. People may have stared and questioned my sobriety, which was one of the few times they needn't bother, but I decided not to care that a small town was judging me shaking my hips. I wanted to shake my hips and so I did. Life's too short to sit on the bleachers and bounce in my seat. When I tried to get some of the zombies to dance with me, they either laughed or tried, so uncomfortably, and then sat down in disgust. It was a matter of principle after that. I was going to dance, badly and proud, and they all were going to watch. They were going to see someone who wasn't afraid to shake their moneymaker and then they could go back to their meth labs and alley fights and fuck you small town USA. I danced.

I choose to rebel against the oddest things.

all about me

Happy Birthday to me!

My editing class is going well. I'm getting weighed and measured at the gym tomorrow to check my progress. It's been a busy week, and I haven't made concrete plans for the evening festivities. I'm thinking today I will eat Mexican food. I will seek it out and I will consume it. I will join a friend for a brief drink and then I will ride the boat home and maybe eat more Mexican food. I am drinking a zip fizz, which is an energy drink in the form of powder you add to water, and waiting for the high to kick in. I am feeling spent from my workout this morning, so you know, citrus flavored water, is the way to go.

Have an excellent Thursday, all.

I admit, I've been drinking. And I repeat, not a role model. And I quote: I am the hero of my own shit. Another person left today, work, and I attended the wake and I drank my share and I quit out to run on the treadmill and then I returned. Sad. People. Forced into change that isn't necessary because no one thinks things through. We only look at the numbers for today and not the numbers for a quarter from now. I am tired. I am broken. And I keep going and attempting to be innovative and fun but there are only so many white Russians in the world. Only so many I can drink before I make myself sick.

Didn't sleep well again. I assume it was an accident but I got bopped hard on the shoulder in the night, which woke me up to FULL ALERT, and so I spent the rest of the night on the couch. Sometimes the cats visited, but mostly I just drifted in and out of light sleep, never fully turning off my thoughts. I'm drinking green tea now in the hopes it has a favorable effect. I can't keep up like this. I need to sleep again.

A friend visited over the weekend and we did lots of touristy things. And also ate too much. I've been doing the gym thing to make up for it; I have an appointment with my trainer tonight. Started an editing class at the community college. It'll run five weeks. Good group.

Guess I'm going through a slump right now. I don't feel much like doing anything and even less like talking about it.

seriously dude, it's a wrong number

10pm, Thursday, my cell phone rings. I jump out of bed, having just settled in, and tear my purse apart searching for it.

Me: Hello?
Woman: Hello.
(pause)
Woman: Who is this?
Me: What?
Woman: Who is this.
Me: You called me. Who is *this*?
Woman: My phone rang and I couldn't get to it in time so I called back.
Me: I didn't call you.
Woman: Someone from this number did.
Me: Seeing as how I was ASLEEP, I find that hard to believe.
Woman: Well I don't see how that's possible.
Me: I don't know what to say.
Woman: I wonder who called me.
Me: (sarcastically) Good luck figuring it out.
(I hang up)

End scene.

I like how the highlights turned out. They're a warm gold.

I have an urge to get back to writing the southern play, which is a good sign. I'm listening to the Eels again. And thinking about persistence. And Sisyphus. I like photography because you can freeze a moment and absorb it entirely, unlike life which never stops never gives you a chance to breathe. I remember lying in the grass and watching the clouds pass by, convincing myself I could feel the world tremble and turn beneath me. My grandfather told me I was silly. It's just the wind that makes the clouds go and swirl and reform, not the planet spinning. You can't feel that, he said. So I'd press my back firm into the earth and maybe I felt the worms grinding their bodies into the soil and it wasn't the planet spinning at all. But I swear it moved.

Today I moved into a window office. I can see a parking lot, a hotel, and the convention center, which as you may suspect, is pretty sweet. I also listened to Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers sing "American Girl" about thirty times in a row.

This sums up my Monday.

Here are pictures of the band my friend and I saw Saturday.

Did you notice? The year is half over. It's almost August. It's almost time to blow out candles and eat a bunch of cake. Yes. Time to grow another ring 'round the trunk. My head is too full of words that aren't my own. Like bees bouncing wings vibrating keeping the nonsense buoyed. I felt one crawl out my ear but I stuck my finger in and pushed it back. You can't afford to lose a bee. Not a single one. Or the other bees get ideas and formulate complex escape methodologies involving yellow rafts and ropes made out of pillow cases Rapunzel's braid Samson told me that my hair was...

Wednesday I'm paying to have my hair colored or highlighted or changed, something. I'll let the stylist figure it out.

the aftermath

I overdid it. To excess. And I feel rotten. Like literally I feel as though I'm rotting in the heat, half a carcass and decomposing.

It doesn't help that I spent a significant portion of the evening on the dance floor whipping my head back and forth. Heads aren't supposed to move like that. Apparently.

On our "girls' night out" we went to see a band play. I spent the first hour with my ass stuck in a chair bouncing until the alcohol kicked in and then I was throwing myself around with a bunch of other drunk and sweaty people.

I'm not very good at it, but dancing sure is fun. And it's an excellent cardio workout to boot -- especially the way I do it, with all the jumping and the arm waving.

I'm about to set out on the road for a "girls' night out" which is only barely plural since there are two of us. It's hot. It's muggy. It's not ideal road trip conditions in a car without AC, but we'll manage. I secured a hotel room, I've got rum in the trunk and we're going to have fun or die trying.

I haven't given my friend that ultimatum yet.

Whenever I sit down to write, the first words out of my fingers are: I have nothing left for you. I don't know what to say.

But there are always things to say. I think: if I were in jail, never to have another new experience, can I draw on what I've seen, felt, touched, smelled? Haven't I lived enough for an entire world of blog entries? After all, it's just a fucking blog. The word isn't even pretty. The word is a joke.

Nobody reads anymore anyway. Nobody cares.

Don't argue.

Words are everything to me. I absorb them and I digest them. I swirl them around my mouth. I spit them in the sink. I cock my head and I chew on each syllable. But I can't explain it. I wish it weren't that way. I wish my addiction was easier to explain.

I know I sound like an ass. They're words after all. The only meanings they have are the ones I assign to them.

So I won't assign meaning to them.

From now on words are noise.

the great outdoors

Now I drag my oozing bulk from the swamp of apathy -- where the flies suck juice directly from your sclera -- to perch on the edge of my desk. Now I jab at the keyboard with my sausage fingers slamming multi-keys giving life to golem words like gorf and padlkldffff. Now I scratch my ear with an index finger covered in cookies-n-cream fitness bar that leaves a trail of dirt frosting along the inner ridges. I am a recovering mess.

I went camping over the weekend. With co-workers. I didn't shower for two full days and when I got back I took a long hot shower and scrubbed my hair twice. Then I fell asleep for many hours. Monday was a blur of dehydration and sleepiness, with some photo editing thrown in for good measure. Oh and work.

It was a good trip that involved a lot of drinking and sitting around staring at fire and watching the silhouettes of bats flitting against the sky, slapping mosquitoes off my knees, and refilling my red plastic cup with Jack or Knob Creek or Crown Royal and swiftly melting ice.

Part of me must still think I live in southern California because I kept looking around thinking I was camping in bizarro land. At first it seemed the same but then all the trees were different and the wild life was different and if I thought too much it made my head fuzzy. There were alders and great blue herons and bears just down the way that wouldn't come after your potluck leftovers or break into your cars, and there were big fat frogs dragging themselves across the grass.

Good news: there are still stars in the sky even if you haven't looked in awhile.

I relied on string cheese, blueberry muffins, and hummus for sustenance, but the heat made me not so hungry. It was nice in the shade. Mostly I put my feet up and listened to other people talk, and snapped photographs of other people smiling and when it got dark I listened to other people play guitar and sing as shadows flickered from the firelight.

The gym plus residual effects of insomnia kicked my ass last night. I could barely muster enthusiasm for my shiny new laptop -- which is neither shiny or new but very functional. I did manage to unpack it and install the wireless internet card and Final Draft. I don't plan to wipe the OS; it's clean the way it is.

When I close my eyes I see Spider Solitaire. My brain moves cards from one stack to another in dark perpetuity, red nine on black ten back to red ten, over and over until I drift away. Sometimes, like Monday morning, I don't drift. Sometimes I just lie on the couch and watch the sun come up hoping that the next leap will be the leap home. Or that my brain will let me win this one last game.

This is what happens when I don't drink before bed. My brain is like a sharp stick poking me awake.

Luckily I have Tully's coffee to lift me from the zombie muck and mire. $1.75 for a grande cup, no room for cream, better than Starbucks or Seattle's Best. Snatches of AWAKE in a paper cup, cardboard sleeve, white plastic lid, staining each tooth caramel and I don't care.

if this entry were a dog it'd be a mutt

My laptop inches ever closer. Tomorrow is the day I lose my tether.

After a month long break I started going back to the gym. Three months on, 1 month off. I didn't lose everything I'd built up, but I am sore today. Okay yes, maybe there's been whimpering and some fetal curling and a little bit of booze to dull the ache. Other than that I'm handling it very well.

This week I'm addicted to Spider Solitaire. Best score so far, easy level, 99 moves. I'm not too shabby at the medium level either, but I can't remember my score. I've yet to crack difficult. It's a tough nut.

I finished Angela Carter's "The Bloody Chamber." Now I'm reading Kathe Koja's "Skin."

the one where i get sentimental about going crazy

I just unpacked a box and found my old college writing in a fat, white binder. Made the mistake of reading it.

So, uh, did everybody else know how crazy I was? How sleep deprived, nutritionally imbalanced, and perpetually stressed? Or was I exceptionally good at hiding it? I can't believe anyone spoke to me ever.

Reread my first "blog" entries from October 1996. Back then I called it a journal. The front page featured the very best in animated *.gif technology -- a spinning skull and a horizontal rule made out of dripping blood -- white text against a black background and a fancy banner. Also a user poll asking readers to submit their 10 favorite books and music. Lots of people submitted. Truly though, my page was only popular because of the word "domination" in its title. You can still find references to it on some search engines.

Once a dominatrix wrote to see if I'd be good enough to connect with one of her charges. I remember I asked her some questions of my own, it was all very informative. I wonder if I still have those e-mails...

Hey, does anyone remember the Sunny Delight hidden bottle challenge? Around '96, SunnyD posted clues to websites and you had to find SunnyD bottles embedded in different web pages. There were far fewer pages then, but I was addicted. I was lucky to be one of the few in our dorm/res hall with an ethernet card, borrowed as part of an experiment to see if there was any future in this wacky internet phenomenon, and I'd stay awake into the wee hours, monitor aglow with 16 colors, scouring the internet. I didn't find very many bottles. But it established an enduring and unhealthy pattern/passion of surfing for random tidbits of nothing at the expense of eating, sleeping, or going outside.

Of course prior to the SunnyD challenge, I had lynx to keep me warm at night. But that's another story for another sentimental day.

7/4/06, Seacrest Park, West Seattle.

7/4/06, Seacrest Park, Elliott Bay Water Taxi, West Seattle. This is how I commute to work.

7/4/06, Shot from Seacrest Park, West Seattle.

7/4/06, Seacrest Park, West Seattle.

Holy crap! I lied when I said I didn't give a rat's tooth about fireworks, they are my new favorite thing to shoot! I took loads of awesome shots, two are below. Somehow I even managed to capture lightning! No retouching (except unsharp mask) was done on that photo. And let me just say, lightning storm during fireworks? So so awesome.

Okay, it's two hours past my bedtime. Time to collapse.

7/4/06 Space Needle, fireworks, and lightning.

7/4/06 Space needle

July 4, 2006. All the people waiting for fireworks. Some of them have been there at least 10 hours already.

July 4, 2006, Vash sits in his cat condo, unimpressed by all the people outside waiting for fireworks.

October 2005, a foggy evening off the balcony.

As opposed to the bees knees

After weeks of consecutive sun, I woke up to rain. Good thing I don't give a rat's tooth about fireworks.

In honor of USA Independence, I bought a laptop on ebay. What better way to say I love my country than indulging in the electronic shopping cart shuffle? Boosting the economy is the absolute least I can do.

It's an IBM Thinkpad T23: 1.13ghz Intel Pentium III, 512mb ram, 20gb, dvd-cdrw, includes wireless network card and AC Adapter. It isn't the newest or the shiniest model, but it's got everything I need for a satellite writing station. And the best part? It was 1/5 the cost of my first laptop that I bought new in 1996 with 16mb ram, a 1.4gb hard drive, 333mhz... Practically the dark ages.

It'll be here next Monday. Until then I'll just have to make do with my trusty pen and paper. Just like *they* want me to do.

The greeting card submissions didn't pan out. I came home to a handwritten rejection Post-It on Friday, so I think I'll take a break from pithy punchlines and start something new. I'm thinking speed reading.

We don't have any plans for the 4th. I might go outside with my tripod and try to take pictures of fireworks. Or maybe I'll do some speed reading drills. You never know with me; I'm the ultimate loose cannon.

July 3, 2006, Chiana in front of the balcony.

Sometimes I wonder about people I used to know. I think about how I've frozen their appearance in time, like mental cryogenics, and snippets of conversation or things we did together will float up out of nowhere and still affect me. It can be a small thing, like shopping for shoes at Nordstrom, or sharing a cheese appetizer, such small things.

Life is full of moments I throw away or take for granted.

I let these people come in and out of my life and I don't make an effort to stay in touch. We have our implicit agreement that it was a circumstantial friendship and once we've moved away or no longer work together or aren't in the same classes, it's too much trouble to continue. And all I'm left with are these fragmented memories that still have power and reverberate in the decisions I make daily.

None of this is new or surprising. I'm terrible at maintaining contact. But what's left me to muse on this beautiful Sunday morning, with the air full of bird songs and the sky a brilliant blue is this: am I the star of someone else's fragment?

covering my tracks

I finally decided to be efficient about this whole blog thing; I set up a Bloglines account. Now I can subscribe to RSS feeds and read all new posts from one centrally located location, whereas before I was some crazy stalker person who relied on reload refresh for all her voyeur needs.

I'm probably the last person who hadn't done this yet and you all already know about it and you're thinking why were you so stubborn, Christy? What the hell is wrong with you, anyway?

I just didn't feel like it, okay? I fear change.

This blog has had a feed set up since its inception, so I've always supported the none other people who wanted to view my updates efficiently. It just wasn't for me. Until yesterday. And now it's a whole new world; my faith is restored in the internets. I no longer have to show up a dozen times in a stranger's referrer logs because I couldn't remember if I'd already visited a site six times that day. Obsessive and forgetful are two traits that don't go great together. And Bloglines is just the tool to cover my tracks.

From my balcony, Seattle, June 1, 2006. This is from the series that broke my polarizer.

the one where i talk about stuff i want

My finger's itching to push the Buy button on this lens. But instead I bought a new 77mm circular polarizer for my 18-35mm Nikkor lens. The old polarizer snapped in two when I took my latest sunrise photo off the balcony. It's just not photography if I can't crank the blue to eleven when I shoot the sky.

I finished reading "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles" and now I'm on Angela Carter's "The Bloody Chamber." Found a copy at a used bookstore on Sunday -- after a cheese steak sandwich and a pint at our friendly, neighborhood brewpub. (Feast upon my gluttony!) I like her style very much. I've been spoiled; almost every book I've picked up lately has been excellent. Maybe this is my reward for reading "Angels and Demons."

Today I ate ice cream for lunch instead of real lunch. Because sometimes only ice cream will do. Especially if it is from Cold Stone and it is a mix of cherries, brownies, and chocolate ice cream, and then maybe you cut up a fresh banana and sit in the break room overlooking the city and watch the ferries drive in and out of the bay for an hour. You know, as people do.

Why music? And why if I have to be addicted, why couldn't the gods have granted me actual musical talent? It's not the best super power to wake every morning with the same riff pounding my dreams into submission, and unable to concentrate without dulling my senses and plugging in. Why. It hurts my moods. And while we're at it. How come I don't dance?

I've got my little bucket of skills and I carry them around and I hold them up to strangers and I say, here, this is what I can do. Do you want any? And they either say yay or nay and then I go my merry way.

You either know which songs will make me crumble or you don't. It shifts. Sometimes it's just a chorus, or three words hidden in the middle. Like the Third Eye Blind song, "and the four right chords can make me cry..." Only no. Not at all. More like, sit dazed and wandering in some nether fog of all the bright and shiny. Waiting for a snippet, waiting for the singer to lift me high then smash me into her rock face, and my pieces tumble end on end below to sand in a virtual explosion. Like that. Rock face. Cliff. Norm!

I walked through that Cheers bar once. It wasn't all that great. But across the street you know, they used to hang people.

I shifted strategies by submitting my first pieces of writing for publication. Not contests, but actual publication. As I work my way up to bigger chunks of fiction, I'm giving myself little challenges. This week I practised tightening my sentences by focusing on word selection. (What's the heart of what I want to say, and can I say it more efficiently?) To do that I wrote greeting card sentiments and rhyming poetry for kids.

I was surprised at what came out of me since I never wrote in these forms seriously before. It was exciting how much I liked it.

It's hot and beautiful here but we have our California fans running and there's a nice breeze. I'm on break from the gym and the sloth is slowly creeping out to take over my life again. It hates the heat and wants nothing to do with the outside. Jer said he might go for a walk this afternoon, so maybe he'll help me beat the sloth into submission for an hour or two. And then we can go get ice cream.

all about regina

I'm listening to the new Regina Spektor CD, "Begin To Hope," and it's fantastic.

For a taste, here's the video for "On the Radio," in Quicktime or Windows Media Player format.

And here's the video for "Samson," in Quicktime or Windows Media Player format.

In the interest of full disclosure, I'm on a promotional e-mail list where I'm sent these links, and encouraged to share however I want. (Not only do I think Regina Spektor rocks but I'm all for this sort of viral marketing. I think it's inspired.) So, you know, enjoy!

video worth watching

Spin DJ is a god

i don't know what i saw

Here is what I saw: A Hispanic man on his hands and knees, breathing hard, head down, face down, blood around his nostrils down his chin, dripping on the sidewalk forming perfect little circles, bright red and tight on black gum crud and dark grey stains. A tall empty can of Natural Ice on its side. A black woman in light blue scrubs clapping her hands for attention and shouting, "Call the police. Call the police now. You're standing there? You let this happen? Can't you see his face? Call them now." And all the people at the bus stop shuffling awkwardly, peering from the sides of their eyes. Adjusting their iPods and feigning invisibility. A white man from the building staff, white shirt, tie, black jacket, stepping outside then wheeling back inside. Sirens in the distance. And then I saw my bus.

It was over when I walked by. Except for the blood.

Now I'm trying to write poems for ages 9-14 but I'm having a hard time. For some reason my heart isn't in it.

thththptt

I dreamed a clear snake, alive and with the consistency of a gummy bear, wriggled its way out of my forehead, tail first. I could only stand horrified as it burst from my skin and slithered across the carpet, to seek sanctuary in the closet. I wanted it dead and I knew just how to kill it: bolt cutters across the middle. I'd snap the snake in half through its jellied flesh.

Of course the snake hid from me. And I pursued it. When I stared it in the face, I saw it was a cobra. The dream ended with us staring at each other.

It might interest you to note that in the Chinese zodiac, I am a snake. A fire snake. But then snakes in dreams can mean transition. Cobras are associated with the god Shiva, while white snakes in Japanese mythology are the embodiment of the gods. That is, unless the white snake in question refers to the preeminent 80's hard rock band Whitesnake, which is then a horse of a different color, namely tawny.

But all it means to me is the retinal burn of six inches of snake tail flitting back and forth slapping against the skin of my forehead as the rest of it oozed through a widening split of my flesh.

I am of course ignoring the most obvious interpretation.

Only two more months 'til "Snakes on a Plane" is released!

To paraphrase our greatest living actor, Mr. Samuel L. Jackson: "Get these muthafuckin' snakes off this muthafuckin' plane!"

Or at the very least, out of my muthafuckin' forehead.

water water everywhere

I'm a little rundown. I was thinking since so many cruise ships depart from Seattle, maybe I could get a good deal somewhere. I found a discount site and sure enough, lots of deals.

I know there are people who can't stomach boats, but that's never been me. I can't imagine life without water. I love the waves, I love the wind and the spray. I love hanging over the rail, staring into the sea as waves whip past, the trail we've cut fading into wakes that drift outwards into decreasing ripples until the distance between each crest and trough is absolute zero. This morning I watched the water swirl down the drain in its clockwise pattern, each small wave clashing all around the edges a circle in chaos wavering and jetting out at angles until it all every bit was sucked down the metal drain. And the shower stream beat against my skull and the drops ran down my legs my arms my nose to the tips of my hair and into that swirl of crazy clear and twisted water.

my weakness is 30 frames per second

I wonder sometimes what life would be like without television. Then I think I should go cold turkey and see, but I never get around to pulling the plug. The world passes by while I stare stone-faced at inane sit-com antics and ads for crap I'll never buy, and I lap it up because there's nothing better to do. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

Is it because I can't stand the sound of my own thoughts? The effort of entertaining myself for five minutes? What's wrong with me that I'm so hopelessly addicted?

That's it. It's over. From here on out, we go our separate ways. It'll be hard, but it's for the best... Law & Order: Criminal Intent, Gilmore Girls, MythBusters, you have to watch yourselves now. Fly far from the nest, spread your wings and don't look back.

...

Now that's it's quiet, wow, the view from the balcony is even less interesting than the tv. Do birds always make those stupid noises? What is that smell? What do I do with my eyes while I sit in front of the dark TV, drinking my delicious and tasty Diet Dr. Pepper?

I wonder if that show's on now, you know, the one with that guy doing that crazy thing he always does. What do they call it, his trademark?

Maybe I'll just nudge the remote and if it turns on, it'd be no big deal. I'll just do a quick scan, make sure I'm not missing anything. Five more minutes couldn't hurt.

---

Yesterday I parked my ass on the couch and read half of Haruki Murakami's "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle." It's exactly the right book for the moment.

Speaking of comments, read this Pearls Before Swine.

My eyes are weeping. The rest of me is fine.

Hello, allergies! O, how I've missed our special time together!

I am an eye drop dropping freak. My makeup is tear streaked. I look like I'm having a helluva morning, but no. No, my head is hosting a sinus convention and pollen has the floor.

Mike Doughty's "I Hear the Bells." Listen to it.

Work gave me two tickets to see a Mariners game at Safeco Field, so Jer and I will be doing that tonight. I must be psychic because I see beer in my future. And eyedrops. Beer flavored eyedrops.

Never said I was a good psychic.

Also, I turned on comments. Knock yourselves out.

I slept 12 hours last night. What do I win?

On the way in to work from the thyroid ultrasound, I stopped to buy a breakfast sandwich. It was a place I'd never been before, cute little hole in the wall, cheap sandwiches and a lot of business types flowing in and out. I ordered, I paid, I noticed jars of guava jam I wanted to buy, I looked at my change, and realized it was $10 short. So I said to the nice man, "I paid with a $20 bill." And he said, "No, you paid with a ten." This went back and forth for a minute until I said, "Listen I just went to the ATM. They don't give $10 bills at the ATM. What do we do now?" He wrote down my name and number on a blue post-it note and said when he reconciled the books in the evening, he'd determine who was correct. In the mean time I should plan to stop back the following morning.

The next morning I got my ten dollars back.

As he handed me the money he said, "It's funny. The woman behind you in line swore she saw you pay with a ten." I'm not sure how to respond to that because obviously I did not, and obviously the woman was lying. So I let it go. And ordered another breakfast sandwich.

What do you want from me? I'm not made of stone.

My visit to the doctor was uneventful and expensive. I go back tomorrow for a thyroid ultrasound, which is always good fun. Drafty smock, check. Goop on my throat, check. Technician poking me in the neck looking for cysts, whoot, hallelujah and hot damn.

I just reread some journal entries from 1998 -- back when I was young, impressionable, and on geocities -- because I'm a glutton for punishment. This entry wasn't so bad:

October 28, 1999
today i forced a computer to yield to my will. i made it recognize its cdrom, i forced it to see its own mouse, and then i rammed its network card down its throat. systems administration should be a full contact sport.

But then I read this -- from 8 years ago -- and I wonder what's changed.

February 13, 1998
I want to do something fun. Warcraft is losing its appeal. I want to drive. Maybe tomorrow I'll go on a field trip.

Of course this is in reference to an earlier version of Warcraft, not THE World of Warcraft, but it may as well be. I'm a broken record.

Okay, a lot of things *have* changed in 8 years. I'm not pissing and moaning about my lack of love life, I'm sleeping through the night instead of studying through it, and, oh right, no more college. Leaving college was a definite sanity gain. Plus it did wonders for my disposable income.

It's sprinkling. Pitter patter. Everything is richer looking, deeper. I smell a neighbor's dinner. Something hearty. Potato based. The chair arm rubs against my elbows. A closet door slides in its tracks downstairs. I let myself be present in a way I don't do anymore. I used to lie in bed, watch the light through my green and white curtains, and play a game. How many different sounds could I hear? A lawnmower? A toilet flush? Car door slam? Rubber trash can lid knocked to the ground? An airplane? A siren? I'd shut my eyes so the lids formed slits and see what I could recognize. It's different when it's blurry. I'd stare at my hand and watch the veins move. I'd lie on my back, in the grass, and let it itch all up and down my legs. I'd crawl under my bed and touch the pointy metal springs. I'd look at my chest in the mirror and wonder how big my boobs'd get. I'd color in the lines and think that once I finished a thing it would somehow live on its own. Like Frankenstein.

But I don't do that anymore.

I have a fantasy in which I own the printed twenty-volume set of the Oxford English Dictionary, plus the three-volume Additions Series. This desire was triggered after reading Simon Winchester's book, "The Professor and the Madman." Unfortunately, available shelf space is already at a premium, so my dream of owning a twenty-volume dictionary must wait until I have a real office or at least another bookshelf.

And no, the CD won't cut it. It's all or nothing.

When I ask myself, why, why must you own all the words that ever were, it requires serious thought. The main reason I've settled on is that I want to contain and capture every word in the English language because then they will always be at my fingertips ready and waiting. Part of me believes that the simple act of owning these volumes, imparts wisdom and facilitates discipline transference. Because if I have the ability to know everything, I probably already do.

Chew on that.

Fog swallowed the city in the night. I looked outside past the scuba divers and there was nothing but a wall of shifting white.

We've been in Seattle for 9 months now. I can't say it feels like it. Everyday I'm glad we made the move. There's nothing quite like riding the water taxi into work, sitting on the upper deck in a plastic chair, the sun warm on my face. There's nothing like working downtown, high above the streets, with all the different people and the shops and the restaurants and the happy hours. There's nothing like the view from my office window, here and now, with all the lush green trees, the few dark red leaves, the sound of bird calls, seal barks, and boat horns. Or the view from the living room, watching the cargo ships floating past courtesy of their tug boats, or the city lit up at night -- I can recognize most buildings now -- or the scuba divers sharing a rocky strip of beach with thirty Canada geese.

It's so far from Santa Barbara where we lived in the front half of a tiny duplex. There I was enamored with the purple flowers on the trees and going for long walks in the evening, the houses glowing with orange light that spilled from windows, and the sky a beautiful shade of deep blue. Our little house was always too warm, and never quiet. There was always the overwhelming drone of Buddhist chants from our East coast neighbor and his pals, or the banging of one song on the piano, over and over. Or, waiting until the sun had set, the sound of him yelling for his cat, "Fluffy" into the night.

California still has its bureaucratic hooks in me, but everyday another one falls out. I received a CA registration renewal for my car, and once I send that in with a note attached, I can only think of one more hook -- transferring my medical records. After that, the rest may as well drop away. Taxes were paid, addresses were changed. I finally feel like a real resident, not just another transplant.

I spent the day alternately flipping through investment how-to texts, sleeping on the couch, and watching crappy television. It was the first Saturday I haven't had a class in six weeks, so I decided to celebrate by doing nothing.

It wasn't as satisfying as I thought it would be.

We're close to reaching the first major milestone on a product release at work, so I expect the next few months will involve a lot of late nights.

And I broke down and made an appointment with an endocrinologist. I've been dreading it, but it has to be done. Huzzah.

Now I better sign off before the cat sits on my keyboard and erases everything. Again.

It is difficult to concentrate when the other person you share an office with is speaking video game commands into his headset.

I miss the laptops. I miss having the option to sit by the window and tap tap tap away at my keyboard. At work they monitor what websites I go to, and sniff all of my packets, so I am too paranoid to post from there. From here, it is too loud. And there is a fan by my head that dries out my eyes so that they water. I am full of excuses. You know the type.

Someday I will own a laptop again. I may still have my old one somewhere, but the hinge broke when someone else opened it one day. I did not break it. I would feel better if I had broken it, but I never had the satisfaction. Just the memory of writing a $2,000 check for it in 1996. It was my college laptop. We had good times.

I can either go watch television or put headphones on loud or go for a walk. But I guess of all the options in all the world, I get my kicks from sitting here and waiting for my eyes to dry out completely and fall out of my head. Into my lap. Like waxy marbles.

We went from DINKs to SINKs this week when Jer got word his job was no more. I don't think he's too bummed about it because it means sleeping late and more time for Warcraft, which since he hasn't had a genuine break from work, well, ever, I can't exactly fault. It was a contract job so the end was always in sight and it wasn't a surprise, but I'm sad we had to give the laptops back. I will miss their delightful whirring noises. I hope they both go to good and loving homes.

It took fifty minutes to ride the bus into town this morning -- normally a 20-minute ride. It's my own fault. I stood on the street and I looked at the water taxi and back at the bus and back again. At the time it was sprinkling and I was sleepy and the water taxi means I have to walk uphill for a very long time and get all sweaty before I get to work. But the bus drops me off two blocks away on level ground. So I chose bus. I chose poorly.

At least I had my iPod. Full of Eels.

Speaking of, I bought tickets to see the Eels Sunday night. If you haven't heard it or them, I highly recommend their With Strings: Live at Town Hall album.

Jer is dropping his parents and sister off at their hotel, so I have a minute to write. It's been a whirlwind few days that involved wandering into a folk life festival, a variety of tourist activities, too much food and drink, and an hour long drive to the bead store.

Which about sums it up. In 12 hours we pick them up again for breakfast and the airport. I keep pushing the Krispy Kreme but after all the other food, I think we'll have to pass.

And it's rained almost their entire visit. We keep telling them it's not normal, and they keep not believing us on account of all the rain. After leaving the Experience Music Project and dawdling at a few more booths at the folk festival, the rain started to pour and all the hippies scattered. Some of them danced barefoot on the sidewalk, but most of them ran for cover. I stood under a tree.

We also went on the Underworld Tour -- the Underground Tour at night with cocktails. I highly recommend walking under the streets of downtown Seattle and the added history lesson bonus makes me love this town even more. Greed, hubris, capitalism, prostitution... all the ingredients of a city I can get behind.

snap out of it

As I was leaving work last night I was overwhelmed by sleep. It struck me in my office, and followed me into the elevator, and out onto the street. Every step was a monumental effort. Couldn't I please just lie on the sidewalk for awhile? Couldn't I use my purse as a pillow for five minutes? What'd be the harm?

So I called Jer and asked him to pick me up. The bus was so very far away and I didn't want to wake up with my head on a stranger's shoulder. When we got home I slept for three hours.

I think I'm finally all slept out. But there are a thousand little things I need to do and I'm indulging my right not to do them. Maybe coffee will be my magic cure-all. All I know is the grocery store is the last place I want to go. Standing in the too bright aisles, listening to soft rock, and pushing past the elderly and the frazzled housewives. Sounds totally unappetizing.

We are out of everything. I can't even pretend that there's still that last box of pasta, because we ate it last weekend. With olive oil, salt and pepper, and garlic seasoning.

Let's give this coffee thing a try. I hear good things.

list-less or list-full?

There are still a lot of days until payday. About 7.

I'm rereading "Atlas Shrugged."

The cats are shedding. Clumps of fur are everywhere.

My stress ball is shaped like Jack Skellington's skull. It is squishy.

Sometimes I use the wrong words for things and use those words with absolute conviction. Later I feel stupid.

Mixing vodka with sparkling lemonade isn't terrible.

I can juggle.

Taking the water taxi home makes commuting fun. I see fish in the water at the pier. They are small and thin, darting around the wooden posts. The water is bluegreen. When the sun is out, it casts splotches of shadows on the surface. When Mt. Rainier is out, it is always a surprise because hey, there is a volcano over there. With snow on top.

Sometimes I eat lunch at the pier. I buy either the alder smoked salmon or the deep fried scallops and chips.

I don't know what I'll eat for lunch today.

Last year about now I was in Yosemite. Same as the year before. I miss how the valley smelled.

I am not a stellar housekeeper.

I put french fries on my cheeseburger.

My hands are cold.

fritter-ing away the morning

In some parallel universe/dimension, I'm at home, having called in a Mental Health Day. There's nothing wrong with me that a little coffee and a great big apple fritter won't fix, but I'd still rather be in bed, dreaming. I managed to steal almost a full extra hour of sleep by taking a bus that left only ten minutes later, skipping the gym, and showering fast. And then I bought this here coffee and fritter, which is settling heavy in the pit of my stomach. But it was so gooey. And I was so... I don't know what.

I *am* taking off Thursday and Friday, but it's different when you know all your time is accounted for and the schedule does not include any delicious moments of laziness. No lounging. No wallowing in my own filth. None of the things that make a five-day weekend great.

Listen to me. All day Sunday I watched the "Law & Order: Criminal Intent" marathon. That got big marks for lazy. Sure, there was some half-assed cleaning scattered in like showers, but exertion it wasn't.

I saw an ad in "Scientific American" for Belize. I've never even considered Belize, but maybe its time has come. The quarter page of copy was very convincing anyway.

In honor of our guests I've charged my camera battery and am ready to unleash my artistic vision upon the city. Be warned.

Coffee, please, work now.

odds and ends

Sometimes I do things. On Saturday, for example, I went to the gym for an hour, sat in my community college class for three hours, and then came home, ate dinner at the crab shack across the street, and watched a double-bill of "eXistenZ," and "Pulp Fiction." Today, however, is reserved for cleaning the apartment. I'm sitting here trying to motivate myself to throw on the iPod and grab a Magic Eraser, or Soft Scrub soaked sponge, or pile of clutter to disembowel.

Motivation is not easily forthcoming. The reward just isn't great enough.

We're also attempting to write an activities' list for entertaining family for three and a half days. I know that's not the primary reason for their visit -- entertainment. I know they want to see their son and how we're living. But when we all get together there's usually a lot of downtime that involves sitting around figuring out what we plan to do with the afternoon. A nice list of possibilities would keep me from having to think too hard. And I'm all about not thinking.

I am excited to see them, by the way. It'll be fun to show off the place and hang out.

My indexing class took an interesting turn yesterday, when one of the students asked about speed reading. Our instructor teaches a different course entirely about speed reading, which he says has helped him immensely over the years and allows him to complete his work faster and more efficiently. Then he offered to sell us the course materials he developed at cost, which is $12. I say, sign me up! I read pretty fast, but damn, I want to read super hero fast. I want the physical act of flipping pages to slow me and my giant brain down, not digesting the text itself. So, you know, stay tuned for trying to teach myself to speed read out of a book. There's an 85% chance that hilarity will ensue.

ten days of catchup! er catsup?

I lost another four pounds, which makes the grand total eight pounds. This is due almost entirely to exercise and a little bit to Apex Fat Burner 1 pills, and maybe a little more to semi-paying attention to what I’m consuming. And by paying attention I mean thinking to myself, damn, that has a lot of calories, and then eating it anyway. Also, switching to gin & tonics and 7 & 7s from pints of cold, delicious beer.

In other words, I’d like to thank the elliptical machine and the television that my fitness center was kind enough to attach to it. And also, my iPod. Without music, life is meaningless.

Let’s see. It’s been awhile. Last Sunday, I drank my coffee with Baileys and rode the water taxi downtown. First, I went to Pike Place Market for the cheese festival, which was packed with people, so I found the wine tent and bought five tastings. After five ounces of wine I was better equipped to handle the crush of people, elbowing their way to the free cheese. I didn’t get to try as many samples as I’d like because I had a ticket to Christopher Durang’s "Miss Witherspoon" at ACT Theatre, and only had about 45 minutes to push through the sea of elbows.

The play was okay. I liked "The Pillowman" better, which was the last show I saw there. However, it was entertaining and worth watching. I am continually impressed by the quality of the shows at ACT Theatre.

My mother sent me a postcard from Greece. It’s her first time outside of North America and I wish I could remember what she wrote exactly. It was something like, "You know how the Acropolis is a city on a hill? No. It’s a mountain and there are lots of steps and they go up and up and it is a long way to the top. By the way, we met your Dad’s relatives. Love..."

Jeremy’s family is coming for a visit next weekend and I’m taking a couple days off so we can entertain.

And yesterday I went on a very long walk all around downtown, from where I work to the International District to Pioneer Square and back. We’ve had incredible weather lately and it was perfect. As nice as any nice day in Santa Barbara.

Happy weekend.