Perpetual Expat ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Pop Quiz. Hotshot... Driving Bessie in the mornings is starting to feel a little bit like "Speed," the cinematic classic of my youth, starring Keanu "Piercing Gaze" Reeves and Sandra "Worked Hard on Those Biceps" Bullock. Bessie does okay once she's gotten up to 2000 rpm's or so, but she tends to wheeze at lower speeds. The acceleration, not so good. So when cars ahead of me brake for no apparent reason on the interstate -- and they do this with DISTURBING frequency -- I have to invoke "Speed" and screech about how we CAN'T drop below FIFTY, DAMMIT! We worked HARD to get up to 70, Bessie and me. Don't make us waste it. And when she's idling, oh, when she's idling -- she shudders and sputters and shakes like a funny car on the starting line. It doesn't help that, in a possibly related car problem, the muffler has gone loco. Every time I go over a bump, which is every 5 feet on the crappy roads around here, the muffler whacks against the underside of the car as if to say, "HEY!! LADY IN THERE!! Fuckin' fix me already! We're FALLIN' APAHT down heah!!" (My muffler has a Boston accent.) I guess it's time for a return to Mr. Mechanic. We just need to patch Bessie together long enough for us to be able to afford a new car. And a new baby. (Not that there is a baby on the way; I'm just sayin'. Priorities. Come on, Bessie girl.) 8:07 p.m. - 2005-09-26 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Truck I was almost to school this morning, when the traffic in my lane slowed and then stopped. Not unusual in that particular spot. Everybody stacks up trying to get onto the overpass that goes sweeping off into the city's downtown. So I came to a stop, and then I looked in my rear view mirror and saw this big red semi truck coming up behind me. And I thought: That truck is going really fast. He better start braking. He's going too fast. Oh my God. Why isn't he braking? I need to do something. I can't do anything. Cars were stopped front and right, whizzing by at left. Knowing all the while that this was a very pathetic and tiny response to being borne down on by a speeding semi truck, I turned the wheel to the right and squeezed as far into the right side of my lane as I could, just a couple feet. The truck swerved to the left at the last minute. It passed my driver's side window with maybe one foot of clearance. And just kept going. It never braked at all. Maybe it doesn't sound so dramatic now, but it was horrifying. Mostly my helplessness. I had about 5 solid seconds of growing panic and realization that I was a sitting duck, and thinking, in a detached, bewildered sort of way, "Okay, if this truck rear-ends me, I'll get smashed into the car in front of me, and it would be very, very bad." For a few minutes afterward, I just kept saying aloud, "that semi truck almost hit me. That TRUCK almost hit me. Oh my god. That truck almost hit me." I had to call T and leave a voicemail for him informing him that, oh my god, that semi truck almost hit me. I wanted to get out and run around to the other drivers close by and say, Did we all see this? How that truck did not brake? How it came just a few feet from smashing me? 10:57 a.m. - 2005-09-19 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Overheard Overheard on Pine Street, 12:30 p.m., from a woman sitting in a parked car, talking on her cell phone: "I just want the cocaine!!" 4:14 p.m. - 2005-09-11 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fantasies The next time someone in the Bush administration uses the phrase "blame game," I'm going to seriously consider a ritual suicide at the FDR Memorial. Last night at the supermarket, this young blonde woman kept popping up in the same aisle as me, on her cell phone, saying things like, "Well, these are the same idiots who supported a jackass like Bill Clinton!" I would quickly leave the area, but she just kept turning up. Finally, when we met in the drugstore & sundries aisle, I slapped the cell phone out of her hand and sent it skittering across the floor, then I grabbed a watermelon out of her cart and slammed it at her feet and screamed, "ENOUGH, BITCH! I'M TAKING YOU DOWN!!!" I left her, whimpering and silenced, in frozen foods. So everything after the word "Finally" did not happen. But I also have been having this fantasy about semi-re-enacting that scene from Princess Bride, where everyone bows down to the lovely princess, until the old crone starts screeching the brutal truth in her face. So the way it goes is, I look my pretty monied privileged Christian Caucasian best, in my pink sweater set, let's say, and I get admitted into a Town Hall Meeting with Bush, and they pass the mike to me, and I say, "I just want to say, Mr. President, that I love America," (and he'll get that smug monkey smile going), "and it breaks my heart to see you RUINING THIS COUNTRY." Then I get my screeching crone on: "MURDERER! COWARD! MURDERER!!!!!!" Time for some deep breathing exercises. 1:22 p.m. - 2005-09-07 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- \"Your first question?\" God, this is hilarious (Scott McClellan represents) except when you remember that it's real life, and then it makes you throw up. Q In view of the national crisis, will the President withdraw his proposal for this tax cut for the richest people in the country? And, also, my second question is, why did we turn down foreign help? MR. McCLELLAN: Actually, I'm glad you brought that up. We have not. We have made very clear -- I made clear last week, the State Department made clear last week that we are going to take people up on their offers of assistance from foreign countries. There are some 94 nations and international organizations that have made offers of assistance -- whether that is cash support or I think water pumps from places like Germany or other areas. We said that if this can help alleviate things on the ground, we're going to take them up on their offers of assistance and we appreciate the compassion from the international community and their offers of assistance. Q And how about my first question? MR. McCLELLAN: Your first question? Q Biggest tax cut, permanent tax cut for the richest people in the country -- in view of the national crisis, in view of the deficit -- MR. McCLELLAN: The highest priority for this administration right now is the ongoing response and recovery efforts -- Q No, no, I'm asking you a question. MR. McCLELLAN: And I'm responding to your question. The highest priority right now for this government is the ongoing Katrina response and recovery efforts and helping the people who need the help. There are other priorities, too, and we'll be working to address those, as well. Q Has he made up his mind about that, the tax code, changing the tax code? MR. McCLELLAN: I think he's made clear what his views are on other priorities. [To another reporter] Go ahead, Terry. 1:10 p.m. - 2005-09-07 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Soothing "This is the big lie the world tells us: that the universe is connected by trade agreements, electronic banking, computer networks, shipping lanes, and the seeking of profit—nothing else. Whereas this is the truth of God: all creation is one holy web of relationships, and gifts meant for all; that creation vibrates with the pain of all its parts, because its true destiny is joy." -- Julie Polter 6:38 p.m. - 2005-09-05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sputtering "Well, if you like getting email from NARAL..." was T's comment on learning that Rehnquist died. Mine was the somewhat less pithy: "Aggh. Jesus.... JE. SUS. Aggggggggggggh." Then there was some stomping of feet. Literally. This, on top of the rage and helplessness I feel every time I read, hear, or think about the Hurricane Katrina situation. This country. I don't know. This country. What are we doing? What are we doing? 12:09 a.m. - 2005-09-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Unfathomable In my morning class (which will begin shortly) the following is on the chalkboard: 1) cul de sac 8:53 a.m. - 2005-09-02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Holly Homemaker is Mildly Stressed. OK. I am blogging to keep from freaking out. Spectacular Handyman and Silent Sidekick are 10 feet in front of me drilling braces into my china cabinet so that it will be secure to the wall and will not topple forward onto any toddling progeny T & I manage to produce in the coming years. I had to empty the cabinet, after just getting things in there, though I don't mind too much since I want to protect the precious goodies. But now Spectacular Handyman is drilling things into the top of my most expensive furniture, frankly, my ONLY furniture that's worth anything, and Silent Sidekick is holding the cabinet at a perilous angle, all leaning forward, and the whole thing makes me wildly nervous. I am trying to relieve stress by chatting with Silent Sidekick in Spanish. Turns out his silence is not just a language barrier. He's very shy. Ooh. I feel like I'm going to be sick. This china cabinet and its contents are the bulk of our net worth, really. Monetarily and, for me, sentimentally. I want to be damn sure this thing won't topple over in the middle of the night before I put away the china teacup my grandma picked out for my wedding shower right before she died. Spectacular Handyman keeps making worried breathing noises. Maybe they're just breathing noises and I'm... oh man, I can't even think of the word. You know, when you feel something, and -- projection! I'm projecting. You know I'm stressed when I forget basic professional terminology. From my own profession. Maybe it's time for some breathing excercises. The wood is creaking ominously. 10:36 a.m. - 2005-09-01 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Scenes from the last few days I think several of these could be developed into longer anecdotes with a moderate amusement quotient. For now they'll have to remain as scenes. 9:04 a.m. - 2005-09-01 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Good curtains make good neighbors I think the curtain is going to help my mental state. Yes yes yes. Last night, when T and I were both feeling sick and crappy, and I had soup on the stove, and T was eating cereal, and we were trying to regroup after a long, tiring, frustrating day, we had ANOTHER drop-in visitor. And I said several times that this was a bad time, we were sick, we were eating dinner, and the visitor still took over 10 minutes to leave. I think there were actually small licks of flame coming from my temples by the end. I began to mutter and sputter about putting up an opaque curtain over the door window NOW to prevent this from happening. I cannot have to open the door to people every time they stroll past, just because they can see me inside relaxing. I need to have some privacy sometimes. Dammit. So I rummaged around until I found a curtain that my mother made for my freshman dorm room in college -- it covered up that weird doorless closet I had -- and I folded it in half and dug out every magnet we own and stuck it up on the door. PRIVACY IS SO SWEET. So you'd think I'd be a little saner today, and I am, a little, but fucking Verizon is working my last nerve. They were supposed to come yesterday afternoon, and they didn't, and they didn't see fit to tell me so in any of our numerous conversations until like 6:30 p.m. So then they were supposed to come this morning between 8-12. Note that it is after 12. I called and was told that I was in fact "on the list" for between 8-5. I said that I had been told 8-12. The guy repeated, "8-12?" as if I was speaking Polish. He insisted that I was "on the list" for today, and I should just "sit tight." I asked if I could come over to his house and disconnect all his appliances and make fun of his kids and his dog and spill some crap on his carpet. No? THEN WHY DO YOU GUYS GET TO TREAT ME LIKE SHIT IN MY HOME, hmmm? In the end, I succeeded in getting them to waive my $45 connection fee. I fumed a lot and kept saying I had now missed two days of work, which isn't really true, since I didn't have work on Monday and I had already pretty much committed to calling in sick today because I feel like ass. Oh well. Here ends the bitchfest. Perhaps some hot tea will make it allll better. 12:26 p.m. - 2005-08-23 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Home Sweet Home Well, one way or another, we got into our new home. The last minute fill-in movers were two hours late, which made poor even-keeled T almost lose his mind. They did get there, though, and seemed to know what they were doing -- they had oodles of moving pads and blankets, and lots of tape, and they plastic-wrapped our two couches, which made them look very amusing. I wondered if the movers were a front for the Russian mafia, but T said they were too disorganized to be mobsters... They spoke a lot of Russian to each other, and did not seem to want to say one word more than necessary to us. Though once we all got to the condo, I offered them bottled water, and then thought to offer animal crackers -- I had impulse bought a big teddy-bear shaped tub of them the week before at a home goods store -- and those were a BIG hit. I encouraged them to eat all they wanted, and they took great handfuls every time they went through the kitchen, saying things like, "I LOVE animal crackers. These are my FAVORITE." So that was the best $3.69 I every spent. Furniture insurance in snack-food form. Nothing was damaged except our oldest cheapo desk from college (which was already falling apart) and T thinks he can fix it, once we find the hammer... We made a lot of progress today, and the furniture is all in place. Best of all, we brought over the kitchen contents this afternoon, and the kitchen is pretty much put away. There are many more cabinets here than I've ever had (which is not saying much) -- but it's wonderful. We've met some more neighbors, and everyone seems nice. A few stopped by and said hello during the move, including an 18-month-old, who periodically dashed into the condo and offered me his toy broom. "Hi! Broom!" There is also a beautiful, sleek black cat who wanders around the courtyard meowing. His name is Zorro. T is sick, so he hit the hay early tonight. He has a really busy week ahead at work, poor guy. Sickness, a move, and work stress -- not good! He did manage to carry my over the threshold -- I considered wearing a helmet in case he collapsed. Fortunately we, like our belongings, made it into our new home in one piece. 11:25 p.m. - 2005-08-20 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Nothing is easy, my friends We were supposed to move on Saturday. When T called the movers to confirm this, well, gosh darn if the movers weren't in North Carolina with a broken down moving truck. T scrambled and found another company, but on such short notice, they could only do it tomorrow. So we are moving TOMORROW. TOMORROW. My hatred of moving, which previously knew no bounds, has now found those bounds and moved, way, wayyyy the fuck beyond them. 6:31 p.m. - 2005-08-18 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Reason number 362 I love the Internet [Actually from yesterday, in case you cared] I love the twists and turns Google takes you on. I just googled “find a mailbox,” and yes, I realize that makes me sound both clueless and lazy, but I would like to mail some things on my lunch hour, and I don’t know where a mailbox is around my office, and because it’s approximately 35,000 degrees (and humid!) outside, I’d rather not wander around too much. Sadly for me (and any coworkers within olfactory striking distance), it appears that the USPS doesn’t list mailbox locations online. But google did delight me instead with a conservative blogger celebrating a gun-shaped mailbox (“you won’t FIND this MAILBOX in San Francisco!”); lots of confused people attempting to locate mailboxes real and virtual, mostly in academia (“If you can not FIND your MAILBOX, ask Denise.”); and a website with tips on playing the online role-play game Warcraft (“MAILBOXES are usually FOUND outside an inn, or near the bank in major cities.”) 6:30 p.m. - 2005-08-18 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Lookin' for some hot jeans baby this evening I know I haven't posted in a while, and I would like for this to be momentous, and frankly, some interesting things have happened in the last few weeks, some thought-provoking things. A trip to the ancestral homeland, an in-law family funeral, an in-law family engagement, a long orientation for my future internship, more moving chores... But I haven't had the ganas to write about that stuff. And so, I greet you all again with a trivial yet tragic tale. A tale of my Hot Jeans. I believe every woman has a pair of Hot Jeans. The jeans you believe, at all times or at least occasionally, you look hot in. I have a pair that I love deeply, and they hug the right places and skim over the right places, and they look good with just about everything. And what did I do with these precious pants? I washed them. Dammit, I washed my Hot Jeans. And even worse, I unthinkingly threw them in the dryer for a whole dryer cycle. They say time heals all wounds, but will time heal my shrunken Hot Jeans? I can only hope. And keep wearing them around the house while doing elaborate squats and stretches. 9:33 p.m. - 2005-08-14 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Written in the bleakness that was 3:30 p.m.: Written in the bleakness that was 3:30 p.m.: I cannot believe my Internet connection would have the nerve to die on this, the longest day in human history. It was a huge struggle to get out of bed at all, let alone come in to the office. Then a client came in to meet me, and that took up my morning, thank god. I jotted notes, asked questions, filled out forms; I got to speculate about whether that was in fact alcohol on his breath, and whether I should ask him directly about that, and think about how to phrase my question about the HIV test he took a few years ago (“And do you remember whether it was positive or negative?” Truly, those words came out of my mouth. I could not have felt more idiotic. Do you REMEMBER…) So that took up my morning, and then a gaggle of interns went out for lunch. Then my gears ground to a halt. By three, it became clear that drastic measures were in order. Another intern and I went to get shakes from Potbelly. Now even that is over. I have one sip of Dreamsickle smoothie (they must spell Dreamsicle funny for copyright reasons??) remaining and I can’t bear to drink it down, because then there will be nothing left to distract me. Just me and my progress notes. Typey typey typey. And then the Internet connection died. The streaming radio went silent, the blog I was reading went blank. And now the smoothie is gone. Two hours to go. 9:48 p.m. - 2005-07-26 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Git'R done! Spent most of last week in the rural South. It was fascinating. I spent the entire time alternating between being awed at the beauty of the scenery and being appalled/amazed at the culture. I went out running around my relatives’ house in the mornings, with all the houses and trees shrouded in fog, and as I ran, the sun came out and the blue sky opened up, stretching over green grassy fields with horses grazing next to sagging barns… hills, mountains, trees, flowers… it's really almost unearthly, the prettiness there. Maybe that's why they all turn to God. There is a church about every three and a half feet. It's a tad oppressive. We went to Dollywood, which was pretty hilarious. The drive there took us up into the Smokies, and it was stunning. Then we came out into a place called Pigeon Forge, or, The Seventh Circle of Hell. I have never seen more ticky tacky little stores/attractions/waterslides/paintball/minigolf places in my whole life. It was as stunning as the natural beauty, in a completely different way. Mom and I about died laughing when we drove past a garishly painted place with four huge placards out front indicating that this was a place you could purchase "Fudge," "Knives," "Swimwear," or "Leather." (Perhaps one is meant to use the knives to cut the fudge while wearing leather swimwear??) Anyway, you turn off of this horrendous miles-long strip, and wind up into the hills a bit, and there's Dollywood. And in many ways, it was actually a lovely amusement park. Tons of trees and plants and flowers, and things were on a human scale. Frankly, it seemed like Disneyland, but with a little more heartfelt Americana and a little less over the top enforced values (which is surprising for this part of the country). Disney always strikes me as "BE HAPPY! YOU MUST BE HAPPY! AND BUY DISNEY STUFF!" Dollywood was actually a little more chill than that. There were some pretty hardcore "bubbas" (as my Dad calls them) but all in all, it was not the mecca of tackiness I expected. Though we did see a live show featuring a 30-minute medley of the history of country music… Best to leave that alone. But perhaps my favorite part was the bumper stickers in the parking lot. The classy competition included one that had a Confederate flag saying, "If I'd known, I'd have picked my own cotton." And "GRITS: Girl Raised in the South!" And "Redneck Woman." And “I love my guns more than I do my wife.” But we decided our VERY favorite was "Git'R done with Jesus!" No fucking joke. "Git 'er done with Jesus!" Things are strange down there. Then, after my visit to Appalachia, we went slightly Appalachian at home, when we were hit by a supposed “microburst” thunderstorm and lost power from 1 a.m. Saturday until around noon on Sunday. Happily, since we own the condo now, we could go over there with an inflatable bed and our frozen foods and chill out. One starts to miss light and air conditioning and hot water and all that good stuff. And the apartment building looks a little freaky when it’s on auxiliary power – every 4th hallway sconce lit, only one functioning elevator, the mailroom a dark, spooky cave… Going to the condo made it easier to read the new Harry Potter. Everyone else in the universe got a head start on me – T got custody of our shared copy first, and I only inherited it when I came back on Friday. Between unpacking, painting, schlepping around in search of electricity, and reading the Sunday paper, I haven’t gotten so very far with Harry. But that’s okay; it will just be around for me to enjoy longer! Painting was delightful. It was hard work, and by the end my right arm was in a surprising amount of pain, but we did a good job for being complete novices. Our new bedroom is a lovely shade of sky blue (“Blissful Blue,” in fact) and the spare bedroom is a gorgeous shade of sunshine yellow (“Solaria”). Combined with the white trim (clouds – what else?), T and I agree it makes for a sky motif that we shall henceforth claim was intentional. I can’t wait to move in for good. We are toying with the idea of giving up cable, which would not only make us morally and intellectually superior snobs, it would also ease our floor plan woes, since it would allow us to move the TV away from the very annoyingly located cable jack. If any readers out there have gone from having cable to not having cable, do let me know how it went. 3:22 p.m. - 2005-07-25 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dream snottiness is fun I slept terribly last night and was fretful and anxious for reasons I couldn't quite figure out, but at least I had an amusing dream. I was back in school, and school-aged, and we were doing group projects on the states. I guess the group I was in was taking too long or something, so the teacher made us stop and she started presenting the state we were working on, California. So she started talking about California, but I guess I was the only one in the room actually from California, so she would say a sentence and then look at me hesitantly, as if to confirm what she was saying. Except it went something like this: "Wine is one of California's leading..... reptiles?" I love that I was being such a snot in my dream. I love that I got to say something like "Ag-ri-CULTURAL EXPORTS?" My subconscious entertains me. 6:59 a.m. - 2005-07-18 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- On the train I was riding the subway to work this morning. The man who sat down next to me fell into a fitful, upright sleep. I was engrossed in my book, so much so that at one point something caught my eye outside the window, and I looked up, fully expecting to see sheep in a green field. The book takes place in England, where sheep outside the window would make sense. My view, though, was of green grass surrounding freight tracks and rusting metal. Four stations before mine, we stopped, disgorged a fleet of passengers, and then didn’t start again. The doors stayed open and the driver eventually told us over the intercom that we were holding due to a “problem train” up ahead. He repeated this several times as the minutes passed. What, I wondered, is a “problem train”? Is it a train with faulty doors? A train with brawling passengers? A train with a suspicious bag on it? A train blown to bits? I was in a window seat in the middle of the car, and I began to think things like: if we all had to evacuate this train, I would be the last to get out. And: I am not wearing good shoes for running today. I looked around the train, trying to see if the rising tension I felt was mine alone. I couldn’t tell. People shifted in their seats, cleared their throats. This was the first day since the London bombings that I haven’t sat near someone chatting up their seatmate about terrorism. I really don’t like contemplating terrorism on my morning commute. Or at all, really. Obviously, though, I was not blown to bits, nor was anyone else this morning. Nearly ten minutes later, we were informed that the “problem train” had been moved and we would be on our way. Only then did I start reading my book again. 10:14 a.m. - 2005-07-14 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Romance is not dead. I was just at the supermarket, and this fellow ahead of me in line was looking kind of shifty, kind of darty-eyed, and he gave me a quick, funny look when I walked up to stand behind him. We were at the self-serve lines, and there was someone ahead of him going quite slowly, so I had time to peruse his basket. He had piles of those scented, colored devotional candles -- the ones in tall glass jars in the "Hispanic" aisle -- you know, right next to the cheaper, better tortillas and the Goya beans. Well, Ol' Shifty Eyes had at least six of different sizes and colors in his basket. This interested me. What was a yuppie-looking white guy in his twenties going to do with these candles? I continued to peer into his basket, because, hey, it was only minor snoopery. There was a little plastic container of something... what was it... couldn't quite see... AH! A-ha! K-Y lube. And next to it, a box of condoms. And, interestingly, a half-gallon of milk. It was all coming together. I decided Ol' Shifty was planning a night of romance and I gave him a wide berth to purchase his, um, love aids. (Marital aids, in fact, or at least I hope so -- he was wearing a ring.) But then, to Shifty's dismay, the register froze and began blinking and intoning loudly: PLEASE WAIT. HELP IS ON THE WAY. (They made it sound rather like a superhero was going to swoop in from frozen foods: "HELP is on the WAY, ma'am! Never fear, GROCERY GUY is here!") But alas, no help came. I thought Shifty was going to die. He kept looking around nervously. He was clearly not going to abandon his plastic basket o' carnal desire. So I wandered off in search of an employee, who eventually came and fixed things so that Shifty could get home to Mrs. Shifty. I examined a large mylar fish balloon studiously the entire time he was ringing things up (as fast as he could). Doo de doo. No funny stuff going on in this lane, no sirree. This whole incident was amusing enough to take the sting out of the $207 ticket and tow I got today for being 5 minutes late back to my car. Sigh. No thinking of that. Think more about the hilarious Mr. Shifty and the shifty shenanigans he is no doubt setting up at this very moment... Godspeed, Shifty!! (And a p.s. to T -- thanks for never trying to turn me on with devotional candles from the Hispanic aisle. I mean, these things have the Virgin Mary on them, for heaven's sake. Shifty, what were you thinking??) 7:52 p.m. - 2005-07-11 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sexual Purity vs. Chinese-American Lesbians: The choice is clear. You know what I hate? The 700 Club. I resent that when I turn on the ABC Family channel to watch my beloved Gilmore Girls, I have to see even a snippet of the scary conservative religious fundamentalists that are poisoning my country and my religion. I resent having to see them for even one minute. I read some horrifying articles recently that make me worry about the future. One in the New Yorker about the homeschooled kids who end up at Patrick Henry college, striving to take over the government and make us all accept Christ and not kiss before marriage. And another in Rolling Stone about hip Christian kids in New York who are obsessed with being sexually pure virgins to the extent that they wear bracelets ("masturbands") indicating that they are successfully resisting the urge to masturbate. I don't know. I don't really mind what these folks do in their own lives, on their own time. If they want to swear off the self-love and save kissing for marriage and all -- fine. But stop trying to get me to do the same. Stop trying to force your strange opinions and beliefs on others. Stop trying to shape national policy around your beliefs as to who is and is not going to hell. It does not bode well for the future. But on another note, you know what I really liked? The movie "Saving Face." T and I went out to see it last night, and it was such a confectionary little delight. Some cliches, some laughs, some romance, some Chinese culture, some lesbians. What's not to like? Thumbs up. 11:29 a.m. - 2005-07-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Jumping, lots of jumping I've been too nervous to write about this here, because I don't want to jinx it. But I think it's okay. Right? The jinxing fairies don't read Diaryland, right? Okay. Deep breath. T and I signed a contract on a condo. We were driving around two Sundays ago going to open houses for fun, very on a whim -- we didn't have a realtor, we hadn't looked into a mortgage, we were waiting until I finished school and T got a raise -- and then we were heading home to our apartment and we saw a little yellow sign on the street advertising another open house. So we followed the little yellow sign to the next little yellow sign, around the corner until the next, and then we were there. And we went inside. And by the time I'd gotten into the second bedroom, I was literally jumping up and down for joy, clutching at T with wild eyes. And T liked it too. Miracle. We have not always had the same taste in homes. 5:44 p.m. - 2005-07-01 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hmpf I work in a small office. Very small. I'm talking about the actual room I work in. It's tiny. And there are two workstations. So one is mine, and one is up for grabs to a summer intern. Now, every single staffer here, except me, has a private office (and I accept this, because I'm an intern too, just a longer-term one). But it annoys the bejeezus out of me when these people come into my teeenssy tiiiiny little office and have loooooong conversations with the summer intern about their projects and assignments. HEY! BIG SHOTS! YOU HAVE A PRIVATE ROOM TO DISCUSS THIS STUFF RIGHT DOWN THE HALL! USE IT! I'm trying to work here, for pete's sake. 10:17 p.m. - 2005-06-28 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A Little Something For the Ladies I just stumbled across this interesting website. I don't know why these photos are so appealing, but they are. They really are. It's enough to make a gal develop a foot fetish. Or a hand fetish. Or a spectacle fetish... At the moment, tragically, bandwidth problems prevent me from attempting to develop a wet-shirt fetish. Go on, then. See what I mean. Are we agreed? You're welcome. 9:59 p.m. - 2005-06-21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Food for thought for my friends in the medical profession "To array a man's will against his sickness is the supreme art of medicine." 12:33 p.m. - 2005-06-17 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Aches and Brits I got this wacky massage last night, and she warned me it might make me sore the next day. And it HAS! So I can sit here on my day off feeling kind of bad-ass, like I was doing some crazy weightlifting or something instead of lying on my stomach for an hour having someone rub my back. Nice. I've been watching the British series "Coupling" on DVD. I'm trying to decide if British actors are smarter than American actors, or if it's just their accents and word choice. In an interview, the star actor just used the word "tragicomic," for example. When was the last time you heard an American -- actor or otherwise -- casually use a word like "tragicomic." I suppose I'm generalizing -- there are terribly intelligent American actors like... Tim Robbins? Johnny Depp? And T will attribute it to my crush on everything British. 9:25 a.m. - 2005-06-17 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- That Not So Fresh Feeling Warning to men: unless you market menstrual products to women, you probably don't want to read this. OK, folks, you know what's ticking me off today? Ads for feminine hygiene products. These Carefree ads with women in the store asking each other earnestly: "Does your ultra-thin ever get wet and sticky?" "Yes! It's so embarassing!" People, people, people. Embarassing is when your "ultra-thin," like, falls out of your skirt onto the sidewalk. Menstruating is not in and of itself embarassing, no matter how much the good people who make fem-hyg-prods would have you believe otherwise. So. To avoid all of this "ultra-thin" horror, we gals can just choose tampons, right? Oh, no, the advertising horror follows us. Now we have women playfully kicking at wading pools and spinnning around in slow motion, skirts aflutter. And why are these women so FRESH, so HAPPY? Because they have discovered "pearly" plastic applicators. Ladies!!! Whose vagina is so sensitive that it can tell the difference between kinds of plastic?! Plastic is bad for the environment anyway. Go try O.B. You won't be sorry. And if your vagina CAN tell the difference between "pearly" plastic and regular plastic, I just don't want to hear about it. 5:13 p.m. - 2005-06-06 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Overheard Overheard on 11th Street, man on a cell phone: 4:48 p.m. - 2005-06-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Anne Lamott on libraries "IN SALINAS, Calif., word went out. This is how many tribal stories begin: Word goes out to the people of a community that there is a great danger or wrong being committed. This is how I first found out that Salinas was going to be the first city in America to close its libraries because of budget cuts." ..... Read the rest on the Boston Globe website. I love Anne Lamott! Love her soooo much! 10:58 a.m. - 2005-06-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- No, you may not question my sanity. I hate the Dr. Gridlock transportation columnist for the Washington Post. I hate him soooOOOOOO MUCH -- flames -- flames -- from the side of my face -- heaving -- heaving breaths -- That was a "Clue" reference for any of you who think I have lost my mind completely. Not completely. Just most of the way. Why not stop reading this column, Mimi, you ask? Well, I have, for the most part. I realize that there is no helpful information in there and it just infuriates me. But occasionally I remember how much I used to love the transportation columnist in the Boston Globe, and I think public transportation and commuting are actually so INTERESTING, so I take a peek, and then I end up literally howling with rage, to the point where my dear husband must tell me to put down the newspaper. Today, for example, when a female pedestrian wrote in to say that she is harassed by male drivers, and asked if there is any recourse, Dr. Gridlock responded as follows: (1) despite apparently doing NO research on the subject, he believes she probably has no recourse, and (2) "Can't you take Please do let me know what you think of that comment. "Can't you take control of the situation by walking a different route?" Post a comment on that one. Is it just me? Because I wasn't so wild about it. As the culmination of months of despising this guy, I wrote the ombudsman today and suggested that he be fired. Usually I would have qualms about asking for someone to be fired. But not Dr. Gridlock. I would love to fire him myself. Not that I think my email will actually have that effect. But it makes me feel better. 10:11 p.m. - 2005-05-26 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Roller Coaster OK, first I saw the funeral scene in Four Weddings and a Funeral, and started bawling hysterically. Really. I think this living alone is starting to mess with my head. But then I got my weekly email from the Onion, and saw the lead story, "Bush Challenges America To Produce The Perfect Romantic Comedy By 2009" And that made me switch from crying to laughing. Man. Hormones. 9:36 p.m. - 2005-05-17 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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