How are you today? I'm superfantastic.

Oh, Lori. Is nothing sacred?

From an actual conversation I just had with the roommate regarding what to wear for happy hour/dinner/post-dinner drinks tomorrow:

"Not too hoochie.  Just hoochie enough.  Like if Goldilocks were a hoochie."

In that spirit, coming soon (out of my mouth):

• Jack Sprat could eat no fat and his wife had a muffin top coming over her low-rise jeans.
• Little Jack Horner sat in a corner throwing napkins at two girls down the bar.  (Keep up people!  Honestly, it's like you're not even reading my Twitter.)  (Hey, look!  All of the tweets that disappeared are back!)
• "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair."  "I can't.  I cut it off because it was totally covering up my lower back tattoo."
• Jack and Jill went up the hill, Jack mostly so he could watch Jill bend over in her miniskirt to fetch a pail of water.
• Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet, eating her curds and whey.  Along came a spider who sat down beside her and said, "Hey, baby.  Nice tuffet."
• Peter, Peter pumpkin eater had a wife and couldn't keep her, so he bought a Porsche and some hair plugs and went on a singles cruise.
• There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile, thus failing his field sobriety test.

And they all lived happily ever after.  The end.

It was all yellow.

San Antonio, that is, according to one of my students.  He said he thinks that every place has a color and while where he's from in Connecticut is green, San Antonio is yellow.  I can see where he's coming from there. 

Yes, the grass is all yellow-looking now, thanks to the drought, but there's also the sunshine and a certain brightness about the place.  Moving here from DC, where everyone is perpetually dressed in black, brown, gray, or navy, I noticed right away that people here dress in bright colors (I think no matter how long I live here, I'll still stick closer to the DC palate.) and there's also just a certain fiesta vibe about the place that has a bright yellow feel to it.

When I got back from Europe, I bought three photo albums in green, red, and blue (sort of a cornflower/periwinkle, really).  Italy went in red, France in blue, Germany/Czech Republic/Switzerland in green.  I don't remember putting any real thought into those choices, but they all make perfect sense to me. 

Vegas, to me is an easy one: gold, all garish and glittery.  Madison, I am thinking of as light blue.  It's the sky and the lakes and sort of a general clean simplicity.  But it's also a frosty shade for, let us not forget, I damn near froze to death there.

All of this reminds me too of Elizabeth Gilbert being told in Eat, Pray, Love that every city has a word that sums it up.  Rome's word, she is told, is sex.  She decides that New York would have to be a verb, like achieve.  This causes her to set out to find the word that is her.  It turns out to be a word in another language that I don't remember and am not going to find for you since I have yet to unpack my books.  You'll just have to live with suspense, I suppose, unless you've read the book or just really don't care.

Because I am terribly self-involved, all of this makes me consider what my color and word would be.  The color was fairly easy to choose.  I think I'd be a shade of blue-gray.  Mellow, yet indecisive.  I've been told that my element (of earth, air, water, or fire) is water because I appear tranquil, but there's a lot going on in the depths that can't be seen from the surface.  So I wouldn't be that brilliant aqua shade of the Caribbean that lets you see all the way to the bottom.  More like the steel blue of the Atlantic off the beach I used to visit in North Carolina, I think.  Somewhat impenetrable.

But I don't know about my word.  It has been easy for me to choose for other people.  For Katie, I first chose driven, but then realizing that she, like New York, needed a verb, I decided on strive instead.  Katie seemed agreeable to my choice.  When I told my friend Krystal that I thought her word was sunshine, she said that Sunshine was a nickname of hers with some people I don't know.  So, while I'm not sure if it's the one word she'd choose for herself, I have to think that means I wasn't too far off.

I've been trying out words for myself, but nothing seems quite right.  Please don't say that this makes my word indecisive.  I can't quite bring myself to accept that.  I think I just haven't quite struck on the right word yet.  I'll keep searching the recesses of my vocabulary and let you know if I come up with anything.

In the meantime, tell us what your color and word are.  Also, please tell us why you chose them.  And if you have an idea for my word, by all means, enlighten us.

Everything she says really IS fascinating.

Most people, if you suggested that they pose for a picture with a Kung-Fu Panda statue would give you a ha, ha good one and keep walking.  Particularly if you suggested that they imitate the pose of the panda.

What I love about Melissa is that her response is more like HA, HA YES! HERE IS MY CAMERA WHICH I HAVE IN MY PURSE FOR JUST SUCH AN OCCASION.

This was after dinner and Get Smart with some friends.  (In case you were wondering, I believe Get Smart got a full eight thumbs up.)  Then Melissa and I went to her apartment where she explained to me her plan for the perfect nap: buy a massage table so she can nap face-down without turning her head to the side.  That, folks, is a serious commitment to napping.  Something about her explaining this plan to me gave me the giggles and I laughed until I was in tears.  It was the best (oh, ok only) workout my abs have had in quite some time.

It's good to be in the same city again.  You can count on me to continue bringing you all of the hijinks as they occur.  And they will.  Oh, how they will.

You heard it here first. No, really.

My first job in high school was selling shoes at Finish Line.  I had a boss there who was hilarious.  He told me a story once about how he was supposed to be getting ready to go somewhere with his wife but instead was busy discovering that some old cheese he found in the refrigerator would bounce.  His wife found him bouncing the ball of cheese in the kitchen and said, "David, stop playing with that cheese and shower."  And he said, "I bet no one has ever said that sentence before."

Ever since then, I've kind of listened for sentences that might be being uttered for the first time ever.  Such as one time when Amy and I were out walking the dogs and she went to warn me about some food on the sidewalk that I should keep the dog away from.  She phrased it, "Careful, Pop Tart!"  I have to believe that there aren't too many people going around issuing Pop Tart warnings.

Then there was the time that Angela and I were walking along near the Lincoln Memorial and some ducks took off from the sidewalk just in front of us, barely clearing our heads on their way over.  Angela said, "That duck tried to kick me in the face."  (Angela is deeply suspicious of birds in general.)  I am not sure that anyone has ever laughed harder on the grounds of the Lincoln Memorial than I did about this duck face kicking remark.  I mean, imagine how it would feel to be kicked in the face by a webbed duck foot.  That's funny stuff, right?

It's in the spirit of these three instances that I have tried to come up with some brand new sentences that I believe might have never before been said:

I like a man in sweatpants and a comb-over.

The Arizona Cardinals are the best team in football.

I think mosquitoes are kind of cute.

No thanks, I don't like bacon. (I get that some of you don't eat it for religious and ideological reasons, but to not like it?  I think not.)

Which of these outfits best highlights my muffin top?

If you're looking for a light summer beach read, I recommend Heart of Darkness.

I wish we had spent more money on the wedding.

Hell no, I don't want to play Plinko.

I was really hoping you would ask me to help you move.

Appearing topless in Girls Gone Wild was a really sound decision on my part.

I like Carrot Top, both for his subtle humor and undeniable sex appeal.

Why can't you be more like that Amy Winehouse?

What have you got for us, Internet?  Something you actually heard or whatever you can come up with.

Or maybe I should stop overthinking it and just write you something funny.

I've been thinking recently about the idea that everything happens for a reason.  It gets tossed around a lot whenever something bad happens to someone, but do we really mean it?

Probably a lot of you are going to disagree with me when I say that I think this is a first world concept.  Or maybe even a first world middle class and above concept.

It should be an easy thing for someone like me to believe.  Sure, I've been through my share of crap like anyone else, but really I've had a pretty charmed life, haven't I?  And it's only a function of where I was born and the family I was born into.  No matter what happens to me, I'm probably going to end up ok.  I've got a college degree, an above-average intellect, passable social skills, and if all else fails, a supportive family to fall back on.  In a couple of months, I should even have some pretty good health insurance.  In all likelihood, things are going to wind up working out alright for me.  So if something bad happens, it's likely to be followed by something good and I can then reason that the first thing had to happen so the second thing could follow, whether they appear to be related or not.  See, you could say to me, everything happens for a reason.

But I wonder whether you'd say that to someone living in abject poverty.  Would you tell a ten year-old girl in India that she had been forced into prostitution for a reason?  Would you say it to a teenager, thrown out of her family's home in Darfur because she was raped at gunpoint?  To people in our own communities and around the world who starve while others of us have enough (and frequently too much) to eat?

I don't know.  Everything happens for a reason just doesn't seem to hold up outside of our relatively privileged bubble.  Maybe you'd say that everything happens for a more global reason, but that makes it pretty cold comfort to the individual, doesn't it?  And I'm sure we've all seen good things come from bad, but does it necessarily follow that the good was the reason for the bad?

I guess this is just one of those things that I'm tossing out there to see what you all think.  Are they just easy, empty words or do you think there's really something to the idea?  What's your take?

Keeping Goodwill stocked up with used Old Navy plain-colored T-Shirts since late last century

My attic storage space is all cleaned out now.  Which means there is a big pile of Rubbermaid containers and flattened boxes now taking up the part of my living room that I never use anyway.  I did remember to buy tape even, but that's as far as the packing got this weekend.

Which is fine.  I have three entire weekends between now and the move and, given all of the practice I have at it, I know I can pack up everything in much less time than that.

The first step, before packing even happens, is to make giant piles of stuff for Goodwill.  I do so love to get rid of stuff.  I find it very freeing.  That said, who knows how much stuff I'd accumulate if I didn't move so often.  It's much easier to motivate yourself to get rid of things when it's a game of Do I Want This Badly Enough to Move It? 

The answer to that question is especially easy when it comes to things like whatever is in that one packed box that has been in the attic since August.  Clearly really vital stuff.  Along with my stereo, which hasn't even been plugged in at any time since I've lived in Madison.  And the probably one-quarter of my clothes that I hauled up here and then never wore at any time in the past year.  (Things like that one evening gown that I still own obviously get exempted from the not worn in the past year policy.  A girl never knows when she might need a floor-length black dress, does she?  Even if she hasn't needed it in several years now and she also has a black cocktail dress and a black slightly-less-fancy-than-cocktail dress IT STILL FITS AND THAT IS WHAT IS IMPORTANT.)

It's the smaller stuff that's harder.  I threw out all of my CD boxes years ago and put my CDs in one big book.  There's still room in there, so there hasn't been any incentive to get rid of any, despite the deep shame that I'm sure some of them would bring to me if anyone knew I had ever owned them.  And there's probably scented lotion and bubble bath in my bathroom cabinet that I never will use.  (Note to parents: your child's teacher probably does not want bath products not of her own choosing for Christmas.)  Plus various unused picture frames.  I think it may be time to admit that I probably won't use these particular frames and even if I do need one at some indeterminate point in the future, they are not that expensive and I'm going to be at Target anyway.

I don't know how it is that I can have such a huge amount of stuff to get rid of once a year (or sometimes more often) but I always do.  As with all long-distance moves, I will be especially ruthless when weeding through stuff this time and then I will survey my findings and breathe a sigh of relief at having the burden of that stuff removed from my life.

Of course, my love of getting rid of stuff does not mean that I am lacking in all sentimentality.  There are two large shoe boxes in my closet that are chock full of assorted mementos that might not mean anything to more than one or two other people in the world.  That stuff is compact though.  In a storage space pinch, the shoe boxes can go under my bed.

But I haven't decided yet about the snow boots.  The eighty pounds of cat litter that were weighing down my car for winter driving have been donated to the Humane Society and my car shovel has been donated to Madison Friend Katie, but I haven't convinced myself yet that I might not need the snow boots again.  May have to be a game-time decision. 

Maybe that one packed box in the attic is how I secretly indulge my inner hoarder.  She gets one box to use how she sees fit.  I do know that a certain Cabbage Patch Kid is in there and she won't be going anywhere.  (Aindrea Sherry.  Yes, Aindrea.)  Maybe the boots can fit in there with her.  Just in case. 

Who knows?  I might decide a few years from now to spend Christmas in Switzerland and then where would I be?  Bootless, is where, and with cold, wet feet.  I better throw in some of the 1.2 million scarves I've amassed as well.  To be on the safe side.  Switzerland at Christmas is no place for a bare neck.  Particularly should the occasion call for an evening gown.

This Weekend's To-Do List

• Attempt to grasp reality that move is in just over three weeks.
• Bring boxes down from attic storage space.
• Drink a beer in celebration of all of that box-moving progress.
• Realize I have no packing tape with which to assemble boxes.
• Move box pile out of the way and plan to remember about buying tape on next trip to store.
• Congratulate self on forethought involved in not ever carrying the Christmas bins back up to the attic after Christmas was over.
• Spend time outside in attempt to become less ghostly pale.
• Get lazy butt out of bed and down to Cafe Soleil in time on Saturday morning to get a pain au chocolat before greedy yuppies buy all of them for their kids who probably would have rather had Pop Tarts anyway.
• Cruise farmer's market.
• Consider buying produce.
• Strongly consider buying flowers.
• Buy neither.
• Attend birthday party.
• Limit self to "reasonable" amount of cake.
• Look into selling kidney on black market to finance gas for drive to Texas.
• Do laundry.
• No, really.  Do the damn laundry.
• Write blog post for Monday in non-list form, with paragraphs and definite articles.
• Start studying for teaching exam to be taken just after arrival in Texas.
• Ha!  Good one!  Start studying.  Honestly, what will I come up with next?

This Space For Rent

Wouldn't you like to live here?

A lot of people might have put their ironing board away before photographing their apartment.  Then again, a lot of people might buy plants for the plant stands in the corner of their living room, believing that they should function for more than keeping the cable (running from behind the bookshelf strategically placed in the bedroom) shoved back in the corner.  I am not one of those people.

All of this (plus a parking space!) can be yours (laundry in the basement AND secure storage in the attic!) for the bargain price (all utilities included!) of just $700.  Because I'm moving out.

I'm going back to San Antonio.  It does make me sad to think of leaving Madison.  I have a lot of really good memories here and the weather is just about to get beautiful.  Then again, barring some sort of apocalyptic event (e.g., the apocalypse) there is no chance of one hundred inches of snow in San Antonio.  So there's that.

I've been accepted into an alternative certification program in San Antonio, meaning that I'll complete summer training and then get my provisional license so I can start teaching already this fall.  After participating in more training throughout the school year and given the recommendation of my principal, I can have my full teaching certification by next summer.

I have chosen to teach special ed.  You're welcome.  Because you know I'll have stories.

So I'll finally get a marketable skill and a lucrative job with paid time off and health insurance, while also getting to live with Holly again, be near my family (including certain small people), and wear flip flops three-quarters of the year.  It only makes sense.

Bringing us back to the photos (courtesy of Kristine).  My lease isn't up until August 15, meaning that I need to sublease.  Fortunately the leasing company is perfectly cool with that.  I'm not sure exactly when I'm leaving, but I do need to be in San Antonio by mid-June to start training.  Craig's List, here I come.  (Lake view!  Quiet building!  AC unit thrown in for free!  MORE CHARACTER THAN YOU CAN SHAKE A STICK AT!  THAT EXPRESSION MAKES NO SENSE!)

Gee, Lori, tell us how you really feel about Tyra.

Actual conversation overheard in my office:

Co-worker 1: He lives in Dodgeville, but he always comes down for WaunaFest because he says the most beautiful women in the world are in Waunakee.

Co-worker 2: The most beautiful women in the world?  He must not get out much.

Co-worker 1: Well.  He lives in Dodgeville.

In Waunakee's defense, there was a girl from there on America's Next Top Model this season (excuse me, cycle.)  However, she was sent home for being too immature and full of herself. 

Let's pause and appreciate that for a moment.  Tyra Banks thought this girl was too full of herself.  Tyra, who had a doctor feel her breasts on national television in order to convince us all that they are real, because she KNEW that we had all been thinking they were fake.  Perhaps I am not representative of everyone, but I would like Tyra to be aware that I had never before invested one moment of thought into the chemical make-up of her breasts.

Anyway, I present this information as a public service to single men the world over.  If you're looking for beautiful women (who may or may not be even more egotistical than an actual supermodel) WaunaFest might just be the place for you.  And ladies, if you're looking for a man, you may want to hit up Dodgeville.  I hear they're hard up for pretty girls.

I think my work here is done.

Willing to accept cash for any of these endorsements

I can't really think of anything to write about, so I am just going to list some things I recommend to you.  Please bear in mind that I am not an expert on, you know, anything really.

Aveeno Positively Radiant Daily Moisturizer.  I had forgotten how hard winter can be on skin.  The Neutrogena moisturizer that I use the rest of the year was not up to the winter dryness, and my Chicago-based friend Jennie suggested the Aveeno.  I can't say that anyone has pointed out that I am looking particularly radiant since I started using it, but it does keep my skin from taking on the texture, as Heather Armstrong so eloquently put it, of an elephant buttock.  For which I thank it.

Fair warning though, use of Aveeno products could lead to this conversation with your significant other and the resulting imagery:

Aveeno?  Isn't that made from oatmeal and...hippie juice?

Yes, from the juice of freshly squeezed hippies.

Psych on USA Network.  Are you watching this show?  I gave it a try when it came out because one of the stars is Dule Hill, who was Charlie on the West Wing.  And it cracks me up.  If you're anything like me, your busy social calendar precludes you from following a show that airs on Friday nights.  But you're in luck here because not only does it air on basic cable, meaning that each episode is aired over and over, but you can also watch complete episodes online.

The movie Persepolis, which I saw on Saturday.  You should see it too, as long as you're down with subtitles.

Betty Crocker Warm Delights Minis.  I mentioned these before, but I had bought the full size, which was kind of too much.  The mini is quite nice.  And it's already all portion-controlled for me, so it makes a good PMS week concession to my chocolate craving without adding to the Why are my pants so tight? I have gotten fat overnight! panic.  (How, every single month, does it take me an entire day to realize that I'm just retaining water?)

Cold weather stuff from Miles Kimball.  My mom sent me some, which has come in oh so handy, especially these socks.  And if you're internet-impaired like my mom, you can call and have a very nice conversation with the lady who takes your order, especially if, like my mom, you happen to be from the town where the company is based.

Spinach Goat Cheese frozen pizza from Target's Archer Farms brand.  Yum.

Sarah Jessica Parker's perfume, Lovely.  I got a bottle for Christmas from my sister and brother-in-law and was happy to find that I liked it even more than I remembered from when I tried it quite some time before.  It's a very clean scent, which I'm into.  I always like the Clean Cotton/Clean Linen/Cotton Blossom family of scents.  Maybe I should just wash the sheets more often.

Cherry Coke Zero.  I'll admit I have cheated on Diet Dr Pepper with this product.

That's what I can think of right now.  And now it is your turn to tell all of us what we should be watching/eating/drinking/wearing/etc.  Advise us, Internet.

Bad Housekeeping

I had some stuff to do tonight.  Domestic-type stuff.  It seemed like a good idea to do these things concurrently.

The problem here: I don't multi-task well.  Nor do I domesticate, really.

I was planning to make some pasta.  This is a task that is normally not a problem.  I bought some ground turkey to throw in with the sauce to inject some protein.  Except this was not regular ground turkey, it was Italian Seasoned.  Mostly I bought the Italian Seasoned turkey because I had just come in from the arctic cold and wanted to exit the refrigerator section as quickly as possible and it was the first ground turkey I saw.  But, you know, buono apppetito or whatever.  I can tell you that it's not a subtle seasoning.  In fact, I went through about a half a bottle of Febreeze Air Effects spray, seeing as how opening the windows to freshen the air is really not an option at the moment.

Before I even got to the turkey though, I boiled some water in the largest pot I own so I could make an entire box of pasta.  Then I discovered that the entire box from my pantry was actually more like half-full.  What to do?  Well, there was also a slightly less than half-full box of lasagna noodles.  Because they give you too many noodles for one pan, but not enough for two.   It's a scam perpetrated by Big Pasta to get us perpetually buying lasagna noodles.  I bet Big Sauce and Big Ricotta are in on it too.  Also possibly the mafia.

So there I was, cooking up a big pot of half macaroni, half broken up lasagna noodles, while browning some terribly fragrant Italian Seasoned turkey.  When it occurred to me that my laundry had been in the washing machine for a very, very long time.  But I have just promised my mother that I would try not to burn the house down, and I believe that the first rule of not burning the house down has to do with not leaving things unattended on the stove.  So in the washer my laundry sat.  Which couldn't really have hurt much, since I stuffed that machine so full that I wasn't entirely convinced that all of my laundry would even get wet, much less clean.

I did eventually finish cooking (with a minimum of noodles stuck to the pan due to neglectful lack of stirring) (unless you consider a minimum to be zero or any number lower than about eight) and draining and stirred up the pasta and turkey with some Paul Newman marinara sauce (mmmm...philanthropic) and somewhere in there, I got my laundry changed.  The dryer ran for all of three seconds before quitting.  My knowledge of appliance repair consists entirely of unplugging and replugging-in, which, as luck would have it, totally worked.  So I was not forced to drape wet socks and underwear all over my apartment.  This is fortunate, seeing as how my apartment is being shown tomorrow.  Because I didn't commit yet to resigning my lease, which is up in AUGUST.

Actually, the whole apartment showing thing, even more than a dwindling underwear supply, is what inspired the laundry-doing.  Because I knew I'd have to actually put the laundry away before I went to bed instead of leaving it in the basket for a week or two until I need the basket again to transport the big pile of dirty laundry from the floor of my closet downstairs to the machine.

Bringing us to now. 

It's 11:00 and I'd like to be in bed soon.  Except my bed is currently covered in clean laundry, both from the load I just washed and what was left in the basket from the last time I did laundry.  All except the one shirt that I changed into when I got up here so I could soak up its hot just-out-of-the-dryer goodness.  Best part of the whole night.

Probably I should clean the bathroom too, but really, how do you know if you can imagine living somewhere until you can picture yourself cleaning the already-dirty bathroom?  I am doing this potential renter a favor.  You're welcome, person attempting to make sure I have to move again come summer, even though I am only one third of the way into a year lease.

I suppose I better go shove the laundry into drawers fold my laundry and put it away so I can get to bed.

Oh, in case you're wondering, the end result of my Turkey Lasagnaroni Italiano?  Zesty!

In case you were curious about the state of my sinuses

This is something that I am considering:

(Thanks to former DC roommate Holly for the picture.)  (That's not her in the picture. It was just part of an email that she forwarded to me.)

Here's something that most people don't know about me: I have excess amounts of histamines.  This means that my body tends to overreact to anything that irritates it (sort of like me, certain days of the month) which is why mosquito bites swell to the size of quarters and a fire ant sting roughly tripled the size of my right ankle one time.

It also means that my body overreacts to what appears to be an ever-growing list of allergens.  Over the summer, this meant that my ears were clogged up for an hour or two in the mornings.  Annoying, but not that big of a deal.  But in the months since then, it has progressed to the point where I currently consider being able to breathe through my nose a novelty.  It catches me by surprise from time to time.  Oh my gosh!  Was that an unobstructed breath through my nose?  Hallelujah!

Ever since I ran out of Nasonex, I've been cycling through the various options.  Alavert kind of works.  The Vicks spray kind of worked.  The Mucinex spray was an absolute miracle product for the three days that I was allowed to use it.  According to the pharmacist at Copps, they're serious about that not going over three days thing.  Otherwise your nose could become addicted to it and you'll never be able to breathe without it.  For some reason, this is considered to be a bad thing.  I, personally, could make my peace with a lifelong Mucinex habit.

So I'm on to Claritin D 24 Hour.  This works for 24 hours much the same way that I worked for eight hours at my temp job in Austin.  Over a period of eight hours, I worked at times.  I also did nothing for long periods of time.  The difference here, of course, is that my periods of inactivity were due to there being no work to do.  But there is ALWAYS work for anti-histamines and decongestants in my head these days.  The Claritin is also very much not non-drowsy, despite the fact that its entire advertising campaign is built around that claim.  It is currently six in the evening and I have been fighting sleep for about an hour now so that I can watch this here Cowboys/Giants game.

Since this has gotten worse in the past couple of months, I have developed what (as far as I know) is a new symptom.  Internet, when I am especially congested, I snore.  I am aware of this development since on more than one occasion, I have WOKEN MYSELF UP.  I cannot tell you how upsetting I find this.

How tired am I of this whole allergy thing?  Well.  Alan and I were discussing those Nasonex commercials where the bee has some sort of Antonio Banderas-esque accent.  Alan is disturbed by the concept of using a cartoon bee with sexual overtones to sell nasal spray.  And my response?

I'd have sex with that bee if he could get me some Nasonex.

I think that pretty much says it all.

People Are Dumb

There's some commercial on with the slogan People Are Smart.  Every time I hear that, I think to myself, Really?  Have you met people?

The title of this post comes from the text of a sign that Vicki and I had planned to make and stick to our steering wheels.  That way when another driver did something stupid and we started to ask "Why would you..." then we could just look down and say "Oh, right.  People are dumb.  That's why."

I could have used that sign this morning as I witnessed this year's first example of a particular brand of stupid that you see in Wisconsin (and other winter-having states, I would imagine) around this time of year: the guy wearing shorts in the freezing cold.

With his shorts, this guy was wearing flip flops, a sweater, and a stocking cap.  When I checked the weather before I left home, it said that the temperature was 16 and the windchill was 2.  TWO DEGREES.  Why on earth would you wear shorts on a day when you can count the degrees using only your thumbs?  Is this some sort of demonstration of how manly you are?  Are we supposed to be impressed?  I don't understand.

If you're out there, winter shorts-wearing guy, kindly explain yourself.  And at the very least, put on some socks.

Quitters Never Win

But do perhaps finally get their apartments cleaned up.

I'm quitting NaNoWriMo.  This is for a number of reasons.  These include how utterly terrible my book is and how thoroughly bored I am with my characters and my premise.  Yes, I was convinced last year that my book was bad, but it was the writing that was bad and that can be fixed.  Last year I really liked my characters and my basic plot.  There was a lot of good stuff to work with.  I went in this year with only the faintest idea of what I would write about and there just didn't turn out to be anything there.  Also, last year I felt some obligation to the Austin group in its competitions with other NaNo groups.  Plus there was the My God, But the Internet Will Know if I Don't Finish!  Apparently I no longer fear your judgment.

But really NaNoWriMo just can't be my priority right now.  Last year I could spend a few hours a day at work writing and then sit in front of the computer all night working on it.  Back then it only took a few minutes a day to confirm that there weren't any new jobs to apply for.  Here there are new jobs all the time and more job sites to check and so any time that I am spending on my novel is time that I am feeling guilty and stressed about not looking for jobs or applying for jobs.  And when I then spend several hours on one cover letter, I feel bad that I haven't accomplished anything on my novel.  I am ready to get off this particular merry-go-round of shame.

So I give up.  You win this round, NaNoWriMo.  Perhaps next year we'll go for the tie-breaker.

The good news is, the terribleness of this year's novel (what there is of it anyway) makes last year's novel look like Pulitzer material.  So maybe I'll put some real work into editing it at some point.

For the moment though, I am letting myself off the NaNoWriMo hook.  On to the next cover letter.

Pants is a funny word. Pants, pants, pants.

I've been out of the business casual game for a few years now.  I could get away with jeans every day at my jobs in San Antonio and Austin.  When I asked my summer boss here in Madison about her dress code, she said "no short shorts".  She also said that I looked professional in what I had on, which was a skirt, t-shirt, and flip flops.  Awesome.

But now I'm back in the world of no jeans/no tennis shoes.  Since my last business casual workplace was about four years and two pants sizes ago, I found myself with exactly one pair of khakis and some suit pants.  I have skirts and tights, but it has suddenly gotten wintry around here, plus gale force winds in the mornings, and I, as we know, am hugely wimpy where the cold is concerned.

So on Sunday night, off I went to Shopko.  Shopko, for those of you outside the midwest, is like Target, except without Starbucks.  (I bet you non-midwesterners would be envious of the two Target-esque options we have, had I not just mentioned the whole winter thing.)  And Shopko, God bless them, even had some pants in petite so I could wear them this very week without having to get them shortened first.

(Non-pants-related digression: Shopko, why is it that all of your sweaters fit me except they are too roomy in the chest while your button down shirts fit everywhere except that they pull across the chest?  You can either think that I am too flat-chested for your discounted clothes or too well-endowed, but you can't have it both ways, Shopko.)

Here is what I am finding about pants these days: increased security.  All of the pants I have tried on recently have had two hook and eye closures, a button, and a zipper.  Really, pants-makers?  Are these flat front khakis or a chastity belt?  Has there been increased terrorist chatter regarding the pantsing of women in cubicles?  Was this mandated by the USA PATRIOT ACT?  Hands off my pants, Congress!  And I mean that in every way it could possibly be understood.

Thanks for nothing, subconscious.

I think I've mentioned before this wacky thing my brain does where, if I read before bed, I dream about the story all night.  My subconscious tries to continue the story.  It's really no fun at all since I have all of these short dreams and I wake up after all of them and generally have a very poor quality of sleep.  But I have always thought that if I could just get my brain to do this with a book I was writing, I would be all set.  My subconscious could do the heavy lifting, plot-wise.  This annoying habit of my mind could finally pay off!

Well, folks, last night was that night.  I had been writing all afternoon and evening, so the characters and what small shred of plot I have were firmly lodged in my head.  I had novel-related dreams all night.  Which, let me tell you, were not only disruptive to my sleep, but also completely unhelpful.  This was deeply disappointing. 

My subconscious, while not helping out with the plot, did go ahead and cast a celebrity in the role of one of my main characters.  I can't say I completely understand its choice.  He is not even an actor or someone who, given the choice, I would necessarily want to dream about. 

My sleeping brain chose, of all people, Doug Wilson.

Doug Wilson, the designer from Trading Spaces and Moving Up.  Probably I watched a little bit too much Discovery Home during those two months of unemployment.  If only I had bothered to watch anything with a plot...

Gus-Gus, ever see a trap-trap?

Remember that part of Cinderella where Jacques the head mouse asks Gus the chubby mouse whether he'd ever seen a cat-cat?  Well I have no cat, but I do have two d-CON No View, No Touch mouse traps.

Fortunately, I had just seen a commercial for these yesterday morning, so I was aware that there was an alternative to snap traps and visible mouse carnage.  Also, as we discovered (and by "we" I mean "he" since my part involved staying put and not approaching the scene of the SNAP SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK) at Alan's house, sometimes a snap trap only gets the mouse by the leg and then you are responsible for putting said mouse out of his misery.  I want no part of that.  I want my role in this business to be that of exterminator, not executioner.

I discovered the problem yesterday when I went to put some groceries away in my kitchen cabinet.  I dislike grocery shopping and have to get pretty desperate before I'll go, so the fact that I had gone to the store means that I was seriously out of food.  I assume this is why the mouse went for my bag of flour.  (Seriously, mouse, you couldn't have found an apartment in this building where there was better food to be had?)  I noticed flour on the shelf and assumed that I had just not closed it well or had somehow poked a hole in it.  But no, there were a couple of pretty large holes chewed in it and paper scraps on a lower shelf.  Damn.

So the traps are out and baited (nothing caught overnight) and everything that was in bags is now in sealed containers (I would say Tupperware, but in reality they're old yogurt and cottage cheese containers) or the fridge.  But here's my question: If, instead of killing the mice, I got them tiny shirts and hats, do you think they would make me a dress? 

A girl never knows when she might need a ball gown.  I draw the line at glass shoes though.  Sure, the guys love them, but they don't offer any of the support required for a long night of dancing and fleeing the scene.  And anyway, if the guy can only remember you based on your shoes, chances are, he's not looking for a princess.  He's looking for a queen.

UPDATE: Well, apparently I caught a mouse.  Not that I saw it, of course, but the trap tells me that there's a dead mouse inside and I am taking the trap's word for it.  (Aaaand now a second mouse.  And I am out of traps.  I will see you tomorrow, Walgreens.)

Having my cake and anti-histamines too.

I have some kind of cold or allergy business going on at the moment.  It's not serious - just some post-nasal drip nastiness which is causing some throat swelling and soreness.

Some wooziness too, as I discovered in the soup aisle of the grocery store today.  One minute I was thinking about how tragic it is that Campbell's is apparently no longer making double noodle and the next minute I was experiencing some concern about my ability to remain upright.  Not to worry, I walked it off.  I mean, I pretty much stood there until the spinny sensation stopped, but then I just kept shopping.  I can't be sidelined that easily.  I am the Brett Favre of grocery shopping.  Except without the stubble.  Well, unless you count my calves.

I decided to be responsible and wait to go grocery shopping until after I had eaten lunch so I wouldn't make any inadvisable impulse purchases just because I was hungry.  This seemed like a good idea, but then while I was eating lunch I saw a commercial for that chocolate caramel cake bowl thing that you heat up in your microwave.  And I decided that I needed some of that.  FOR MY SORE THROAT.

Did you know that once you finish microwaving that ooey gooey goodness you have to let it stand for five entire minutes before you can eat it?  If I had any self-control, Betty Crocker, I wouldn't have bought a microwavable bowl of empty calories in the first place, would I?

I have to say, I do recommend it, lag time notwithstanding.  It would have been better with some milk, but I didn't buy any.  Because milk increases mucous production and I'm all stocked up for mucous at the moment, thanks.

My plans for the immediate future involve throwing back a Benadryl cocktail and making sure I wake up in time for my haircut at 2:00 tomorrow afternoon.  I'm a big believer in sleeping it off.  I'm pretty sure I'll feel better tomorrow.  At the very least because I will no longer resemble a 70s housewife.  And really, isn't that the very foundation of wellbeing?

Got better.

Reasons why I am less crabby today:

1. No job rejections all day yesterday.  Also no calls about interviews or anything, but no news, while not good news per se, is at least not bad news.

2. I managed to apply for a job yesterday in under an hour.  This was mostly because the cover letter that I wrote on Wednesday covered almost everything for this one, so it only needed minor tweaking.  Still, that's got to be a new record for me.

3. It's almost the weekend.  But Lori, you say, You have no job.  How can it possibly make a difference to you whether it's the weekend?  Well, curious friend, the coming of the weekend means football, doesn't it?

4. Birthday presents are paying off.  A Target gift card, in the form of the perfect jeans for me.  After much searching and frustration and rending of garments, I found them right there at my second home.  And in the Juniors section no less!  I had some concern that I would be carded at the check out and forced to put them back.  But I made it out of the store with them and they are pretty outstanding and I may have to go back for a second pair before they stop having them.

5. Also a Borders gift card.  I didn't have anything in mind, but even if I hadn't come out with anything, it would have been worth it just to have an excuse to go in.  Even though I wound up picking out a book within seconds of walking in the door (a quote from Anne Lamott on the cover is pretty much all of the recommendation that I require) I spent probably an hour just wandering around, breathing in the happy that comes of being surrounded by books.

6. Madison Friend Katie has offered to take me out drinking Sunday night for my birthday.  And since she's off Monday as of course am I, and we can walk back to my place, there's no need for anyone to be overly responsible.  Nice.

Happy weekend, everybody!  Enjoy the football.

A revealing peek into the exciting world that is late night at my apartment

I needed to take some Target Brand Ibuprofen for a headache. Dinner was a long time ago, so I figured I should eat a little something. But there are no crackers. There is, in fact, no food to speak of here, unless I wanted an entire Lean Cuisine Club Panini or a whole bag of microwave popcorn. I did have peanut butter. Fine, I thought, surely a spoonful of peanut butter would do the trick. Except then I noticed that there were really only a couple of spoonfuls of peanut butter remaining. And then I remembered about the Hershey’s Special Dark syrup in my fridge. I’ve been ignoring a persistent chocolate craving for the past couple of days, so I suppose what happened next was inevitable.

Yes, Internet, I poured the chocolate syrup directly into the peanut butter jar, mixed it up, and ate it with a spoon.

And I’m not sorry.

This post does not hug trees, but does offer them a polite handshake.

I'm just watching some Planet Earth.  The one about jungles, which I haven't seen before.  Do you think that Sigourney Weaver was their first choice to narrate, or did the first few people decline?  And who else do you think might have made the list?  I'd go with John Cusack, but that's just me.  Although it could have been kind of stellar with, say, Bill Clinton.  Or Ted Kennedy!  Ha!

And have you seen that the History Channel has its own series called The Universe?  As if someone at the History Channel was all "Planet Earth?  Screw that, we're doing the ENTIRE UNIVERSE!  That'll teach those cocky bastards at the Discovery Channel!"

I haven't watched The Universe because I assume it will be about, you know, space and stuff.  And I could not possibly care much less about space.  I like to look at stars and all, but I don't feel any sort of need to know anything about them.  I used to have to take students to the Air & Space Museum...yawn.  While the American History Museum served us tasty food and you know, had exhibits that related to what we were teaching these students, the Air & Space Museum only offered us McDonald's.  And to add insult to apathy, the security people there confiscated my scissors.  As if I were going to hijack the museum!  Really, I just wanted to get some work done while I was busy not learning about air or space and the students were educationally engaged in buying astronaut ice cream.

And despite my fascination with the Planet Earth documentaries, I also don't care that much about...the environment.  I KNOW.  It's not like I'm cheering for the expedited ruination of the earth.  Just, I can't get too excited about it.  I recycle, drive a small car, and try not to waste energy.  And, for whatever reason, I get really stressed out by people standing with the refrigerator door open.  Even if they are doing it on TV.  I don't know why.  So it's not that I'm opposed to environmentalism.  You just won't ever see me out rallying or whatever it is that the environmentalists do.  I did coordinate a trail clean up that was done by my division at my job in Austin, but I did not participate as we were warned that there could be snakes and scorpions present.  I prefer nature that will not bite or sting me, thank you.  And I'm sure the many people I signed up and emailed directions to did a tremendous job.  Go team.

Also, I blame the environment for perpetrating a fraud on all of us unsuspecting carnivores.  Lobsters are shellfish, eh?  Mmm...tasty, tasty fish.  Uh huh.  I have just learned while reading with a student that lobsters are related to spiders.  People, we have all been eating sea spiders dipped in butter!  While part of me realizes that shrimp are rather bug-like in appearance as well, I generally only see them in their fried state.  Which renders them not so much any sort of creature as just little nuggets of battered goodness.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

This post went awry somewhere, didn't it?  Anyway, I've got to get going.  Last Comic Standing is on and if there is one thing I do care deeply about, it is other people making me laugh.

This represents a new low for me, I think*

When I said I was staying here in Madison, I obviously didn't mean here in my same apartment.  No, that would be far too easy.

The thing is, while superadorable and all, my current apartment does not have any off-street parking.  Which is not such a problem now, but once all of the college students come back and there is...whimper...snow, finding a spot will not be easy or fun.  Also, I just got my third parking ticket in less than two months, this one for parking less than two inches from another car.  Who knew that was a thing?  I did not.  And that car was on the end.  I was being considerate and not parking in the car in front of me.  They charge you $20 for this sort of consideration here, FYI.

So my options were to stay here and rent a parking spot a couple of blocks over, or pay $65 more per month and move into an apartment in the building that is actually right next to that parking space.  And has laundry facilities, unlike my current building.

I walked in with the leasing agent, saw the filthy blue industrial carpet, and was ready to turn back around until she said those three little words: "new hardwood floors".  As in, installed before I move in.  I'm listening.  Then there was the small matter of the giant fireplace.  And the built-in bookshelves.  And the whole place being above ground, unlike my current semi-subterranean place, which is also a Cell Phone Reception Free Zone.  (Seriously.  Ask anyone who has attempted to speak to me and had their call dropped anytime I moved from the one square foot of Somewhat Decent Reception Area that requires me to sit on my kitchen table in order to talk.)

I won't miss that about this place.  Or the view from my living room window of the undercarriage of a Saturn station wagon.  Or the pipes along the ceilings absolutely everywhere.  When Jake came over, he said they give the place...character.  In every room, he'd say, "look, more...character." 

I am engaging here in a practice known as manclogging, in which you make yourself feel better about the loss of something by dwelling on its negative qualities.  It was so named by some friends of mine before I knew them.  They consoled one girl that a certain guy wasn't all that desirable anyway, in part because he constantly wore some embarrassingly ugly manclogs, and the expression was born.  It can be used as a verb, as in "Manclogging my apartment makes me less sad about giving up my separate eat-in kitchen" or as a noun, as in "the total lack of bathroom storage is a real manclog of this place."  (Caution: You may try this at home, but DO NOT preemptively manclog.  The guy/apartment/job/etc. must be definitively out of the picture before you begin, lest you talk yourself/your girlfriend out of something that you could have had/are stuck with after all.)

A weird thing about me is that the much larger size of the new apartment was not really a plus in its favor.  I like small spaces.  My current living room is pretty much perfect, in my opinion.  Cozy and all.  I'm not at all sure how I'll fill all of my new space, not to mention the two additional bookshelves that I'm about to have.  I get my books from the library because then they are free and I don't have to move them twelve times in eight years.  But if you have borrowed a book from me at any point, now would be a good time to return it.

And if you're interested in lugging my stuff a couple of blocks over, I'm looking at August 12.  Everyone is welcome (to move my stuff)!

*I think this might be the shortest amount of time I've lived anywhere, although I did only live with my friends Don and Sherri for a couple of months when I moved back to DC from NY.  Me renting their spare room for dirt cheap was supposed to be a nice moneysaver for me and moneymaker for them until they moved back to upstate New York five months later.  Then Sherri got a great job offer there a couple of months early and I had to move again sooner than I had planned.  So that one was not even my fault.

Around here, this is what we call lunch.

(Yes, as a matter of fact, I did drink straight out of the milk jug.  Bachelorhood has its privileges.)

That right there is my very first pie.  My pieginity.  I've baked cakes, cookies, brownies, all sorts of delightful things, but never a pie.  I decided to start with blackberry.  And damn, I make one stellar pie.   Really, really outstanding.

I am currently home alone with this pie.  I am coming up on a week of the month during which there is a real danger of me eating the entire rest of it for dinner one night.  So if you live in Madison, perhaps you'd like to stop by for blackberry pie?  Probably you'll want to bring your own milk.

I am also not a thrice-married Scientologist. Or a crazy person.

Any time that it is cool enough to require socks, I cannot stop sliding on my lovely hardwood floors, all Tom Cruise from Risky Business-like.  Except if it is cool enough for socks, it is definitely also cool enough for pants.

Misanthrope, party of two.

I'm living alone again.  I do so love to live alone.  I recognize that there's some danger in it, since it's entirely too easy to become accustomed to having everything my own way, on my own terms.  Which includes time spent with other people.

Bringing us to one of my most cherished indulgences - hibernation.  On Sunday, I didn't leave my apartment all day.  I talked to some people on the phone, but I had a total fast from actual human contact.  And as always, it was bliss. 

I slept until almost noon (thanks, Upstairs Neighbor, for being so noisy until THREE O'CLOCK IN THE DAMN MORNING), read, watched an Arrested Development marathon, even opened up my NaNoWriMo novel and did a little bit of editing.  I stayed in my pajamas for hours and when I finally showered, I didn't bother to dry my hair.  While it rained all day, I was oh so cozy in old jeans and my big Wisconsin sweatshirt.  Beat that, you with your going places, your doing things, your seeing people.  I didn't think so.

One of the people I spoke to on Sunday was my friend Jake.  We've been friends since high school and he lives here in Madison now.  We got together last weekend and discovered that while we're both very different people now than we were when we met, we still have a real good time together, thanks to some shared interests and a whole lot of sarcasm.  And now we know something else we have in common.

I left him a voicemail on Sunday afternoon to see if he wanted to get together sometime this week.  He called me back that night to say that he was sorry, but hadn't looked at his phone all day.  He was just having some quality no-people time at home to recharge.  Nice.

So we met at Panera today for lunch.  We got our food and he asked whether I wanted to sit in the front or off to the side.  The exchange went something like this:

"Let's sit over there - it's less crowded.  I'm not really into other people."

"That's why you're such a good friend."

I think this is the beginning of a beautiful renewed friendship.

Putting the "packer" in "Packers fan". Ha! (I apologize for this title.)

I packed up my kitchen tonight.

How is it that I have six bins of kitchen stuff?  I NEVER COOK.

(Full disclosure: that top red bin is currently empty.  What is in the dishwasher will go in there along, I assume, with plenty of random non-kitchen stuff.  But still, that puts me at five and a half bins, plus glasses, wine glasses, a microwave, and Kitchen Aid mixer.  Which is vintage and weighs roughly one thousand pounds.  But it was free.)

Currently consoling me: Thursday night I packed eight boxes of books.*  Now there's something I can really use.

*Small boxes, naturally.  This is not my first move.  Or my tenth.

Hanging out the passenger side of his best friend's ride, trying to holler at me

Do you watch Scrubs?  Because you really should and now that it is syndicated all over the place, you really have no excuse not to.  I suppose it's ok if you don't seeing as how I am certainly taking up your Scrubs watching slack, but it means that you will have very limited understanding of what I'm about to post.  Better luck next time.

The thing is, thanks to Scrubs, I now have even more specific information for you regarding my post about the female mind.  While watching an episode, it occurred to me that Inner Crazy Girl is depicted vividly by Dr. Elliot Reid.  So much so that I think we can replace the cumbersome phrase Inner Crazy Girl with the vastly more efficient Inner Elliot.  See, Elliot is neurotic, emotional, and thinks everything that everyone does or says has to do with her.  She is indecisive and doesn't trust her own judgement.  She has an obsessive need for approval.  In the episode I was watching when all of this came to me, she was telling Carla how she was afraid that she couldn't hide the crazy any more from her new boyfriend Nurse Ricky Schroeder and that at any minute she would erupt and spew molten crazy all over him.  If that doesn't cover Inner Elliot, I don't know how else to explain it to you.

But that's not all!  I had previously been told by A Representative Male that there is also an inner guy fighting for control of your male minds.  This guy only thinks about sex.  His actions are motivated by a single-minded desire to get sex.  He can make any innocent comment about sex.  He is, in short,  Inner The Todd.  So boys, it's not as if we didn't know this side of you existed.  We are well aware.  Inner The Todd has screamed at us from construction sites and passing cars.  He has used bad pick up lines in bars.  He has possibly even grabbed my ass in an Italian train station.  But isn't everything a little less scary if you can name it?  I think so.

Notice how Elliot and The Todd never get together.  So I guess it's up to all of us to keep trying to suppress whichever of these personalities may be troubling us (and those around us.)  However, guys, if you have an Inner Dr. Cox, for the love of God, let him out.  I like my men like I like my mochas: tall, hot, and a little bit bitter.  Keeps my Inner Jordan oh so happy.

For 'mid old friends, tried and true, once more we our youth renew.

Today is a very exciting day, Internet!  Because today, Katie comes to visit! 

Those of you who read Daily Tragedies know Katie as a smart and sassy career woman.  But I knew her back when she was a wee smart and sassy fourteen year-old.  Katie and I met in band class in the fall of 1993, introduced by our mutual friend Nicole, who I believe is a doctor now.  All three of us played the clarinet.  It is a testament to the quick emergence of our friendship that the next year, I challenged my chair assignment for the first time.  I was playing the second part, which was fine by me since it wasn't boring like the third part and had, unlike the first part, no terrifying possibility of a solo.  I just challenged to become highest in the second part ranks so that I could sit next to Katie, who was of course playing the first part (and the not-terrifying-for-her solo).

If math is your thing, you have by now figured out that Katie and I have been friends for just shy of fourteen years.  I find this extraordinary.  Not only because that is a long, long time but because we are, in many ways, polar opposites.  Katie does things for the sake of her career.  She has a five year plan.  Whereas my new lease will go through August 14 and I have NO IDEA where I will live on August 15.  That has not yet begun to bother me.  And when I moved to New York, Katie really wanted there to be some sort of valid career-related reason for me to do so.  The actual reason that I moved to New York ("I've always wanted to live in New York!") clearly boggled her mind .  As did, I am sure, being fine with only playing the second part as long as I got to sit by who I wanted.

In fact, when I wrote this post, for Personality One, I thought mostly of myself.  For Personality Two, I thought of a combination of Monica from Friends and Katie.  (I told her that in an email.  I believe her response was "Ha!  Don't tell anyone."  Hi Katie!  Sorry.)  But these differences can be good.  When Katie's five year plan isn't working out like she planned, I try to help her enjoy the deliciousness of uncertainty.  And when the jumbled mess of ideas in my head is making no sense even to me, I email Katie and she helps me untangle it.

This is not to say that we don't have things in common.  We are both huge political geeks.  I assume she feels the same deep sense of satisfaction that I do when the gmail spellchecker says "No misspellings found".   And she is one of the few people in my life who will consent to playing Trivial Pursuit with me, one-on-one.  We have even discovered that we tend to have the same grocery shopping list: yogurt, bag of salad, and...whatever else seems like a good idea at the store, I guess.  Also, we both got called bitches in notes from the same guy in high school.  Katie an uppity bitch, me a self-righteous one.  We continue to argue over which is better.

But well beyond that, there just seems to be something in each of us that is compatible with something in the other in a way that I can't describe.  And there's something about having those friends who know all of your stories and all of your faults and who continue not only to love you, but to really like you too.  Really being known is a terrifying prospect to me and crying in front of people isn't something I do.  Maybe it's because I know she feels the same way that Katie has made it past my rather formidable boundaries.  Maybe it's because she has stuck around all of these years.  Maybe it is because she has literally held my hand when I needed her to.

We spent years living in different places and sitting for hours in Perkins getting caught up over pie when we were home for Christmas.  We lived in DC for a while at the same time and got to know each other as adults.  Now she's in California, and I'm not and we haven't seen each other in three years.  It doesn't feel that long, due to long phone conversations and what can only have been millions of emails.  But on the other hand, it feels like forever since I have seen my friend and I cannot wait for tonight and the five day nonstop talkfest that is sure to follow.

I know there are older photos of us in existence, but this is the best I could do without a trip to my mom's house to raid her photo albums.  I am twenty-one there and just about to move to DC.  And apparently am wearing some sort of large plaid sack.  Katie, on the other hand, is wearing her clothes unstylishly well-fitting.  Bigger was better in 1999, but whatever, Katie.  If you want to appear to have a figure under your clothes, you go right ahead.  Show off.

Currently addicted to:

-Diet Dr Pepper, as always.

-Craig's List.  Oh my gosh, someone needs to revoke my access now.  Note: checking apartment listings every fifteen minutes is not only excessive, but also rarely satisfying.  (And may lead to dreams wherein you are being shown an apartment by a man on crutches and with a neck brace.  That man turns out to be Tim Russert.  I have no idea why.)

-Vanilla yogurt covered raisins.  Is it possible to OD on yogurt covered raisins?  P.S., Vanilla yogurt covered cranberries?  Could not be grosser.

-Blistex Medicated Lip Balm.  My lips have been hooked on this stuff for years.  I have one right here on my keyboard, saving me from all of the terribly hard work of hoisting my purse into my lap and getting the one out of there.

-The sweet, glorious freedom that is only having the one job.

-Avoiding the pile 0' mail that built up during the scoring gig.  Hi Amy!  I will go through it at some point!  Before we move out.

And you?  Come on people, the first step is admitting you have a problem.  I do not know what the next step is, nor do I care to.

(Also, did you know that as soon as I save this post, Typepad will ask me if I want to create a new post?  GIVE ME A MINUTE, TYPEPAD.  Typepad is a demanding mistress.)

A river in Egypt

So Tuesday night, I was having some Stabby-esque pain, but knew it couldn't be Stabby since a) I was not stressed about anything and b) it was in sort of a different spot.  So I thought to myself, I wonder where it would hurt if it were appendicitis.  Now, folks, this was not appendicitis-level pain.  But that was not my first thought.  My first thought was, Well it can't be appendicitis.  I CAN'T AFFORD APPENDICITIS.  Really sound medical theory, if you ask me.

I started to think that perhaps it was my body revolting against the Chick Fil-A waffle fries I'd had for lunch, but then decided that since I had eaten the waffle fries about ten hours earlier, they clearly could not be the culprit.  It must have been that apple and string cheese that I had on my break from scoring.  Right?  Never mind that I had also had an apple and string cheese on my break from scoring every previous evening of my scoring career and they had never bothered me.  I blame the apple.  So clearly healthy food equals abdominal pain.  Bring on the waffle fries.  Maybe next time I should also add a mint Oreo shake, just to be on the safe side.

*This is not the post to which I referred yesterday.  Let us pretend I never brought that up, because now I really can't get it to turn into anything even marginally readable.

In the meantime...

Thanks for all of the thoughts/prayers/good vibes on behalf of Future Niece or Nephew and my brother and sister-in-law.  So far, so good.

There is a post that I am trying to write, but it just will not turn out.  Maybe tomorrow.

For now, how about if I share a little anecdote that was snatched from the dark recesses of my memory yesterday while emailing with Vicki?  I think you'll enjoy it.

Several years ago, a co-worker of mine was getting married in upstate New York.  So five of us from the office decided that a really good idea would be to rent a minivan and drive up together from DC.  The wisdom of that decision turned out to be questionable for a number of reasons, but that is neither here nor there.  Hotel arrangements worked out such that I wound up sharing a room with Vicki and me in one bed and Gustavo in the other.  We got there Friday night and Saturday we attended the wedding and reception.  Much alcohol was consumed.

We awoke Sunday morning to the Bee Gees blasting from the room next door.  To this day, I cannot hear the Bee Gees without being back in that Rochester hotel room.  Vicki and I looked over at Gustavo, passed out face-down on top of his bed, still in his clothes.  He awoke, looked at us, and said the line that we have repeated countless times in the intervening seven years and that I now give you full permission to use at will:

A big headache just sent me a fax telling me it's coming!

Just a little something to make you smile (however briefly) the next time you receive prior notice from your quickly-approaching hangover or headache of any kind.  Don't thank me.  Thank Gustavo and that great wedding tradition, the open bar.

Back at you.

A little while ago, Katie was having a Very Bad Day.  This was the apex in a series of Very Bad Days.  I looked into sending her a bottle of vodka, but I couldn't get that delivered the same day, so I settled for some flowers.  Which she did not actually get until four days later, so the vodka would have worked just as well, but that is beside the point.  The point is, Katie then wrote this post, in which she called me "the best boyfriend I never had".

And then she sent me this:

That, it should be noted, is my attempt at a meh. face.  My post-two-jobs, 10:30 pm, shiny-faced, flat-haired, good-enough-now-I-can-go-to-bed attempt.  And I really just wanted to smile because I was wearing such a fantastic(!) shirt.  A shirt that, if I wore it to my temp job every day, would save me having to really talk at all anymore.  I may not have included the top of  my head for you, but I knew you'd want to see my towels.

Also perhaps a gratuitous bedspread shot?  Although I must say, the level of your fascination with my linens is freaking me out a little.

 

Katie, you're the best.  Then again, you already knew that.

Pretty

This time of year always makes me miss DC with all of the tulips and daffodils blooming everywhere, and of course the cherry blossoms.

But these are good too.

Might we be kidding ourselves?

I could be wrong here...

...but I don't think you can actually reduce your death risk.  I think we're all pretty much at a 100% risk of death.  No matter how much aspirin you take.  (Or how many blueberries you eat, although when added to Kashi Go Lean Crunch, they increase the risk of tastiness by 100%!)

What I am also not buying:

• That Heather Locklear colors her own hair with a box from the drugstore.
• That I will use less gas if I drive slower.  This can obviously not be true because it would take me longer to get places, thus using MORE gas.
• That bees are more afraid of me than I am of them.
• That skinny jeans will make me look skinny.
• That whole "no two snowflakes are exactly alike" thing.  Like anyone could actually know that.

Some delusions, however, I am perfectly happy to remain under:

• That I can get out of bed at 7:30 and make it to work by 8:00.
• That preservatives help keep me young.
• That if I can't see the back of my hair, it must look fine.
• That the good driving karma I build by letting people in front of me will inevitably return to me.
• That Joaquin Phoenix is just as yet unaware of how much he wants me.

What about you, Internet?  Are you deluding yourself?  And what are you not falling for?

There are places I'll remember

I was reading this list earlier of Americans' favorite architecture.  I've been to several of these places since lots of them are in DC or New York and there are even two right here in Austin.  I'd say that America has made some good choices.  This got me thinking about some of my favorite places, whether architectural or otherwise.  And here are some of them:

The Milwaukee Museum: My parents used to take us there when we were kids and we thought it was pretty much the best place on Earth.  Like Grover's Everything in the Whole Wide World Museum come to life.  But with a rain forest and an igloo!  Our favorite part was The Streets of Old Milwaukee where you got to walk around all of these old timey buildings and look in the windows at the (fake) people and the stuff.  Legalized voyeurism - what kid wouldn't love that?

Sheep Meadow: At Central Park.  Teaching, as I was, at a rather prestigious two year college, I only spent about 25 hours a week in class and the rest of my time was mine.  Having no money whatsoever, I needed free stuff to do.  What better to do with that free time when it was decent out than to hang out at Sheep Meadow?  There are always lots of people there lounging, reading, having picnics, playing sports, and speaking every language in the world.  The grass is perfect for barefoot walking and you can just see the tops of buildings above the trees.  Sigh.  I can also highly recommend the carousel in Central Park.  It is the high-speed thrill ride of carousels, and what else can you get in New York for a buck?  Honorable mention goes to Bryant Park, where I put in a lot of hours at the little green tables, correcting thousands of poorly-written papers.  It has a Starbucks hut.

Beatley Central Library: I put in a lot of time here too, back when I lived in Alexandria.  If this library had served coffee and chocolate, they would have had to forcibly remove me.  As much as I love libraries in general, I have yet to find one that I enjoy spending time at quite as much as this one.  I'm pretty sure that I paid off my fines before I moved.  Beatley Central Library made a pretty penny off of me in those five years, but that's ok.  I think they deserved it.

Lambeau Field: Obviously.

Smithsonian National Museum of American History:  Even after having been there approximately one hundred thousand times with high schoolers, I still love this place.  It's free, so there's that, and obviously has all kinds of wondrously geeky exhibits.  And the giant book shop in the basement is great.  But I bet you didn't know that they also serve the best sugar cookies ever made.  Seriously.  I am not a fan in general of the sugar cookie, but I could not get enough of these.  My staff bought me American History Museum sugar cookies as my end of the year gift.  Holy moly, I just saw on the website that the museum is closed for TWO YEARS.  Give me a minute...

Champ de Mars: At the foot of the Eiffel Tower.  Like Sheep Meadow, except with the Eiffel Tower and you can legally drink wine.  We had a couple of lovely picnics here, stopping now and again to say "holy crap, that's the Eiffel Tower RIGHT THERE!"  Sort of like when I used to meet Carl or Vicki for lunch at Lafayette Square Park in front of the White House and would occasionally think "holy crap, I'm just eating lunch in front of the White House!"  Apparently eating near an iconic structure is particularly mind-bending for me.

The Outer Banks: Of North Carolina.  Every year, at the end of the season, all of the civic education program staff would spend a week (the thought-provokingly titled "Beach Week") in the Outer Banks.  We'd all rent beach houses and life revolved around sleep, lounging on the beach, eating, and drinking with lots of friends.  I tell you, it was the life.  As a result of many years of Beach Weeks, civic education organizations are specifically prohibited from renting beach houses there.  That's what we were all about - making a difference.

The UW-Whitewater University Center: And it's surrounding grassy area.  Oh, UC and surrounding grassy area, how much time did I spend hanging out in you?  Sometimes I had so much fun seeing friends and talking that I'd accidentally miss my next class.  Whoops!  (Note to my mother who is currently pursing her lips and shaking her head: I still graduated magna cum laude, thank you very much.)  And no one will ever convince me that you can get a better sub anywhere in the world than at the Graham Street Cafe in the UWW UC.

So there you have it: two museums, a library, and lots of outdoor hang-out space.  Apparently I am outdoorsy in the most lazy way possible.  I like my outdoors to be conducive to some reading or a good conversation.  I am also realizing that I am apparently quite cheap.  The only non-free place on this list is the Milwaukee Museum, which I have not ever been to as an adult.  So my parents always paid.  (Laumbeau Field was free to me, courtesy of the UW-Whitewater Marching Band.)  I did have to pay for food and lodging at Beach Week, but the beach itself was free.

Here's your big chance, Internet: tell me where to go.  I mean to some of your favorite places.  Why, what did YOU think I meant?

Look out - she's advancing theories again.

My latest theory has to do with the inner workings of the female mind.  I know.  Frightening territory.  But based on the overwhelmingly positive response I got from females when explaining this concept to a single male friend, I feel strongly that I have succeeded in decoding the female psyche for you.  You're welcome. 

DISCLAIMER: What you choose to do with this information is in no way my responsibility.

Here's what I think: inside of every female mind, there exist two distinct personalities, two warring factions, if you will.  (Won't you?)  These are Inner Rational Girl and Inner Crazy Girl.  Your basic difference between women then is the amount of time that each of these beings spend running the show.

A short guide for the benefit of all of you men out there:

Inner Rational Girl understands that when you say something, you are generally saying that thing and only that thing.  Inner Crazy Girl believes that there are layers of meaning and subtext behind every statement you make and will spend hours attempting to decipher them despite Rational Girl's protests to the contrary. 

Let's say we come to you and tell you about some injustice perpetrated by our boss.  Inner Rational Girl realizes that you are trying to be helpful when you give advice about a plan of action or that you are attempting to empathize by telling us about YOUR jerk of a boss.  Inner Crazy Girl feels like you aren't hearing her or you don't care what a tyrannical despot she may be working for.  You'd be better off with both of these girls by sticking to a variation on "that sucks".  Feel free to elaborate about how and why that sucks, but in general you cannot go wrong with an emphatic "rat bastard!"

Inner Crazy Girl is the one who asks you if we look fat in these pants.  I can't help you here.

We try to save as much of Inner Crazy Girl's ranting as possible for our girl friends.  Again, you're welcome.  Our girl friends understand Inner Crazy Girl in a way that you never will.  Our Inner Crazy Girls go running through a field together hand in hand, screaming at the top of their lungs about how dumb you are.  Don't be offen