as i was driving back from the airport

this morning, after dropping the donut-maker off, i got a flash of a very specific work scenario accompanied by a very specific, heart-thumping, sinus-clenching anxiety. and then i remembered holy butt, i don't work there anymore!

i don't need to run down to the dubbing room - small, dank and filled with people who've started, through bad air and much pizza, to morph into a subhuman, superjudging species - fill out a form asking for 25,478 beta sps (WHATEVER THE HELL THOSE ARE), stutter when they ask if i need them compressed, flinch when they yell at me for not knowing, then finally flutter my eyelashes and pretend my brain's a gin-soaked pea (jessica simpson, you're a genius) when i realize it's the only way it'll get done. then wipe the sweat pooling in my armpits and run upstairs for some more ass-kicking.

so the answer is yes, i miss my job very much, thanks for asking!

some things

1. i'm typing this post on my new laptop, yo! yes, that very sensible piece of equipment pictured above is now cozy on my yoga-panted lap. why not white with a crunchy fruit depicted on the cover? disillusioned with macs by the crankiness of my 3 prior ibooks, we went old school and bought a pc.

mr. clay shopped his pants off to find the perfect fit, but high up on the list was the KEYBOARD. the KEYBOARD (CAPS LOCK is funz!) is the most delicious, delightful, throw-your-hands-up-and-yell thing i've ever touched. er. but really, if you're working on a book, blogging about nonsense and google chatting like a champ, this is the machine you want.

2. it's like 80 degress here today. what? huh? i woke up in the wrong city and i'm scared.

3. why do i shop anywhere other than consignment shops? i found a scrumptious pair of pants by theory today for 26 dollars. 26! basically free! these usually go for like $250. and my bum looks cute. shazam!



4. but then sometimes i still buy new things. in my defense, these were cheap, red, and when you buy one for yourself, you're also buying one for a child in need.

they're also cozy because they remind me of something my grandfather wore in florida in the 80's. i think. maybe? any familial units remember? anyways. my feet will be so cute you'll eat them with a spoon.

giving my eyes a workout

to make any progress on my book, i've got to be somewhere that's not-home. there's too many temptations here: briscoe and green, the internets, mint milanos. i'm testing out a variety of locales, but made the most headway yesterday at the library. (no! the place created for all things book?)

of course, the whole time i was surrounded by things and things and things i wanted and so it was still kind of distracting. i probably need to write in an engineering library.

once i was finished with enough pages, i let myself shop. here's what i got:



1. the adventures of huckleberry finn. this is one of clay's very favorites, so i'm giving it another whirl. i liked it the first time, but that was 10th grade and i wore pants 5 sizes too big. i hope to find i've changed since then.



2. anansi boys. i got this one on tape, so when i take my walks i can double task and fit in some stories. if you haven't read anything by neil gaiman, you should. he's creepy and smart and good.




3. s is for silence. oh, to be a tiny pumpkin pie slice of the mystery author sue grafton is. yet another yummy find in her alphabet series. i need to keep a notebook of the letters i've read so far. at this point it's kind of helter skelter, but this one didn't sound familiar... (side note: i honestly found myself looking under "f" for fletcher yesterday. too much murder she wrote anyone?!)


4. peace is every step. if martin luther king (bu grad!) nominates you for the nobel peace prize, you're probably not a slacker. for anyone interested in meditation and mindfulness, thich nhat hanh is pretty much the man.

tralalala. time to edutain myself.

making it work

this winter i bought a couple turtleneck/babydoll dresses from the gap. and then proceeded to wear them every other day for months on end. i'm sure my coworkers were excited.

well, i just found the spring/summer version of them this weekend at the same on-every-corner retailer (knock it if you will, but just you try finding a cuter poncho for so few pesos!) in both navy and gray. yes, clay, i have an addiction to jersey, but these duds are really comfortable, flattering and multi-faceted; i'll add chunky necklaces, scarves, cardigans and fun ballet flats for super cuteness.


they did border a wee bit on the safe side, though, so i was happy when i found the above foto on the sartorialist. see how she ties the ties up front instead of in the back? well, i just tried it with mine and voila. sassified.

ohm

after my morning constitutional down by the water, i welcomed two ladies, about my mom's age (this detail is to convince you i didn't pick up anyone who might slash my face off, because we all know that women in their fifties are devoid of emotion and rage), into my vw. they were attired all hippie-but-still-really-wealthy-like and held a big bunch of bananas. they had walked across the golden gate from marin and now needed a ride to the big olympics protest downtown. i didn't have much else planned for the next 20 minutes (or 20 hours), so tried my best to get them there.

as a note, i should not be relied upon for taking people to places that aren't in my daily route, since my geographical understanding of life is slim to minus-zero. i kept cursing myself and the women were all "it's okay! what a lovely day for a drive! we're just happy to know you!" to which i found myself checking them for dilated pupils and the like.

but then i found out they teach meditation at this place across the bridge i've been researching and it all made much more sense. i told them i'd meant to check out a class there this morning, but i slept too late, how annoying. and they shook their heads and patted my back and said "no, no. your body needed to sleep and so it did. you'll get there next time. how 'bout a banana?" to which i said right on, hippie skippies.

mc,we will miss you.

walking by the water, my favorite kativity these days.

i might build a cardboard house and make clay move here with me.

we'd probably get really cold, though.



thanks to jen, our lovely weekend house guest, for snapping the fotos. and buying us all that burma superstar last night.

conversations that happen when it's late

me: that BATHROOM at beacon!
it was so weird and scary

Sharon: www.soulsuckingface.com

me: www.washyourcup.com

Sharon: with the newly installed PERIOD BINS

9:34 PM
me: omg!@!!!!!

period bins!!!!!!!!!!

Sharon: we have those at the phx, but luckily

NOBODY SENT OUT AN ANNOUNCEMENT OVER EMAIL ABOUT THEM

the way that weirdo did

me: no office wide email about them???

why not?!?!?!

Sharon: THE PERIOD BINS ARE COMING

me: alert alert!!

Sharon: YOU BETTER GET EXCITED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HURRAH!

me: the british are coming and SO ARE THE PERIOD BINS!!!!

Sharon: PARADE YOUR PERIOD!!

ENJOY YOUR BINZ

PERIOD BINZ.com

say it ain't so!

goddammit, the gutte got kicked off dancing with the stars last night. and right after he performed the mango no less! he danced cheek-to-cheek with another man, on live television, in a spandex ensemble and they think it's legal to kick his sweet ass off? wrong.

a few other things of note:

try and catch the latest "the stars are at macy's" commercial: this hot dude walks into the store and everyone's swooning and donald trump is all mad for some inexplicable reason. ignore him and look for martha stewart in the background, fanning her face all siren like? spooky.

as simon said, if he can make a song about sparrows sexy, david cook can do anything.

that was a diverting break, friends, but it's bathroom cleaning time. we've got company this weekend and the faucets must shine!

meanie.com

as i was driving along a busy strip of san francisco roadway today, i became increasingly annoyed by the construction trucks parked and clogging up the left hand lane. how dare they interrupt my seamless journey to best buy? aren't they supposed to do this kind of work in the middle of the night so i can drive in princess-like peace?

but then i looked closer and realized all the men in orange were busily planting flowers along said roadway and i smacked my head hard, like they do in the v8 commercials that make me want to die.

easter candy sale happening now!

please don't worry about me consuming my third box of 12 cent peeps. i'll be just fine. the marshmallow may chemically react with the acids in my gut and cause an internal explosion, like a bird eating rice, but i'm young and robust and i'll pull through. rest assured, if this does happen, we won't throw either rice or peeps at our wedding.

oh, and the tahoe trip was good. the house was filled with wooden beams and spiral staircases and a central fire pit thing surrounded by cushions. we should have donned turtlenecks and brandy snifters and thrown our keys in a bowl, but instead we played poker and guitar hero and broke our butts snowboarding. i also ate a lot of guacamole. but back to breaking my butt. when it's not so recent, remind me to tell you a good story about that. it's a real knee slapper.

dear people,

i'd like to raise my hand and ask the it manager at my old job to please turn off my email account? as much as i love knowing that there's leftover hummus on 6 and lost keys on 2, i've moved on to bigger and better things. namely, the corn dog cooking in my microwave.

i'd also like to thank my neighbors for putting up with my recent habit of dancing to the entire new britney album. i can't help it, people, the whole thing makes me shake it.

next i'd like to say goodbye to chikezie, baby. i liked you, pal! but i didn't vote for you, so i guess i didn't like you that much. upon greater reflection, you remind me of a creepy guy i went to theater school with, who wore tights and talked like a newscaster. so nevermind. i'm relieved you're gone.

and lastly, i'll be signing off for a few days while we frolic in the peaks of lake tahoe. yet another bratty san francisco activity we're adding to the repertoire. seacrest out!

well, first off

david cook's rendition of billie jean last night was just about the best thing to hit idol ever.

he makes me want to throw my undies.

you're gonna win it all, dawg!

but then let's not forget the original, which is also, obviously, amazing.

just being honest with myself

sometimes the best way to narrow down what job you should do is to start with what you shouldn't do. also known as, things you're bad at.

this will be a running list, but we'll start today:

1. running fast
2. watching shows about world war 2
3. not talking
4. seeing a 3D shape unfolded flat and guessing what shape it is folded up
5. hip hop dancing
6. putting things away correctly

i just found this

and i love it. the end.

ur so kewl

whenever i'm on a flexible schedule, i start to think i'm 13 and my parents are away and it's time to party. no matter my levels of fatigue, i just start staying up later and later. like last night. just for kicks, i stayed up until 3. i watched some matlock, read some kazuo ishiguro, cracked my knuckles? i still woke up at 8:30 because i had a nightmare about the dishes in my sink joining forces to eat me, but still.

in unrelated news, can i tell you my least favorite interweb feature of all time? yahoo answers. the hell? you enter a harmless question into your search engine and up pops a link with posts from the 12,000 morons who "answered" your question. usually with a combination of "UR sooo STOOpid why ou AskIN me that" or "follow ur <3 and u'll kno". i want it OFF my computer now.

okay, must do stuff.

day one

of Time Off commences...now.

i've already enjoyed a sunny walk (alamo square park! you're so adorable! i will visit you daily!) followed by a salty salad and some meandering through the paper store. i went with a friend, also in the midst of Time Off, and we discussed the curious reactions one receives when in her twenties and Not At Work during the day. are we in college? housewives? jehovah's witnesses? i just raise an eyebrow and pretend i'm very important in my yoga pants.

the real story is: because i'm not entirely sure what i want to do career wise and because the wedding is rapidly approaching, i'm taking this time to figure and plan.

i know i'm very (very) lucky to be able to rest for a little and focus on the stuff i want to focus on without the pressures of finding/maintaining a full time job. mr. clay flies all over and works the live long day to make the bacon/donuts. and for that i am eternally grateful. for that, i will don high heels and an apron and present him with a roast and apple pie. or in his case, quinoa and some sorbet.

to ensure my time is productive, i plan on scheduling my day into units, ala About a Boy.

a) editing my book
b) planning my wedding
c) career research
d) meditation
e) exercise
f) cooking/cleaning
g) stuff that is fun

oh and!

h) blogging

i'm going to try and write a post mon-fri, to keep it real. (wha? totally inappropriate usage.) because as with NaNoWriMo, when i publicly let people know what i'm working on, i'm a helluva lot more likely to get it done. i don't do well with shame.

and so! you can look forward to a constant stream of drivel from yours truly as i frolic through this city by the bay and feign importance.

steve guttenberg

is on dancing with the stars this season. it premiered last night, to (bja's) rave reviews.

i'm personally invested in his involvement after viewing this movie over christmas break. i'll never get those 3 hours of my life back, but i've come to terms with that. it was just so many things, most of them non-good, but the whole debacle was kind of saved by steve-o and his chipper rendition of a scorned man. he also showed his naked bum!

but back to dwts.

never has a show induced so much frantic smiling on my part; my face actually hurts when the hour's up. i can't help myself! it's primal or something.

and never has a contestant induced such a complex mix of emotions: joy/pity/love/confusion/lust/embarrassment/mania.

i'm already hungry for more!

living life, etc.

one of my favorite treats in this little world is new york's look book feature. i recently bought a subscription because i wanted a hard copy of all the ridiculous things amy larocca finds people on the street wearing and saying. but i still check it online first.

i'm quite pleased with this week's find. while the outfits themselves are nothing special (although I am becoming more and more enamored of black lace-up boots), the things these girls say are ridiculous and amazing.

check out the first quote in particular. i bolded it for you, thanks. seeing that my last work day is friday, i'm getting a lot of WHAT'S NEXT WHAT'S YOUR PLAN WON'T YOU DIE WITHOUT YOUR CUBE? i'm going to word for word use her response. and then stare at them in uncomfortable silence.

Eglantina Zingg and Elisa Estrada, Travelers

• By Amy Larocca
• Published Mar 16, 2008

What do you guys do?
ELISA: Right now I am living life. Because I can. I’m living, and I’m enjoying. I collect art, I collect fashion. I can’t lie to you, I love it. At some point you follow a type of life with a schedule, and I kind of said, “You know what? I’m going to take a hike for a while.”
EGLANTINA: I was just in the Amazon. My father has a farm there. I was doing some work that was ecofriendly, planting trees. I study drama in London too.

Where are you from?
ELISA: Ecuador. South America. Far away and beyond … but I like to travel. When I get sick of seeing the same thing, I travel. I have to go many places, I live many places.
EGLANTINA: I am from Venezuela, the most beautiful country you can ever see. But lately I haven’t spent much time there. I live between Miami and L.A. and New York and London and Italy. But don’t think that I’m just a jumping fly—I come to every place with a reason. I don’t just come and sit and scratch my tummy.

Tell me about your outfits.
ELISA: The fur is Fendi, the hat is like a Rasta type of hat, and I don’t know where it is from, but it is a great hat.
EGLANTINA: My coat, it is vintage. I love getting dressed. It’s my favorite thing, getting dressed.

a couple big things

1) i quit my job.

the hell? i know - it all probably feels a little abrupt. i guess we all just have those moments when it's time to make like a tree. and so i'm leaving.

my senior year of college, i took 100 pieces of paper and hung them up on our living room wall to represent the last 100 days of school. every day that i survived i drew a big x thru. it helped keep me stable when shuffling around at 3 AM writing about rats. you'd be wrong to think i haven't created a similar such installment.

i'm leaving on perfectly amicable terms to explore more...altruistic professions. and i'm in a pretty good mood about it. i'll miss my pals and all the free muffins, but i won't miss the stress that led to the jaw grinding that led to my broken teeth and cost me 3 million dollars to fix. snap!

2) we bought a vespa.

i held off writing about it for awhile because i knew the parental units would throw a fit. and i wanted to be sure i liked it before i exerted any energy defending it. which i now do. it's cute and bright red and looks old-fashioned/european, which is always a good thing with me.

i wear my tall boots and the most enormously huge helmet known to man; i'm pretty sure i could create my own biosphere under there. san francisco is teeming with scooters and it's really the perfect city for them. you can park just about anywhere (even our lil gti has trouble finding spots most nights) and you get up close to the bay, the ocean, the golden gate and those big, coughdroppy eucalyptus trees in a way you just can't with a car.

if you're worried about my safety, most of the ride is spent tooling around at slow speeds on small back streets, smiling back beatifically at all the people who beam at us and our cute little buddy.

things mr. o'loughlin never told me

my mom used to have these cards she'd use with her speech students; each jolly illustration depicted a jolly little person acting out a profession. the students would guess what the job was, they'd tell story about it to to practice vocab, and so on.

one night i was helping her laminate the cards. i was amused by the fifties-esque portrayal of each job. nurse = snappy lady in white. engineer = man with striped cap riding a train. etc. but then i came across two cards i found rather troubling.

1) showed a man in a full feather headdress, beaded necklace and leather tunic.
2) showed a man, covered in dirt, carrying a stick with a sack attached.

my guidance counselor had really led me astray! not only could i be a biologist, a dentist, a teacher or an accountant - i could also be an indian! or a hobo!

i now had to wonder: could bu offer me the classes required to become an indian? if i decided to choose the hobo path, would there be opportunities for advancement? the vacation day package alone had to be stellar...

i've just discovered online scrabble

i may never work again.

and your little dog too

my girlfriend and i went for manicures yesterday evening, to get our minds off various stressful situations. it was either that or one of those homemade chocolate donuts from starbucks. and since here on the west coast manicures somehow cost only $8 (?!) and my very public day of nuptials is fast approaching, it was an easy decision.

just before the lady started applying the candy apple red i'd chosen, i changed my mind. (what? me? change my mind?) i remembered this crazy color i'd seen on a friend's nails, this super dark purple shade that reads as black - hilariously, it's called lincoln park after dark - and i bolted up to grab it. the whole time the lady worked she kept looking up like: really? are we really doing this? and i'd laugh maniacally and she'd silently return to her painting.

so now i'm all goth account girl. and i like it. i do believe it's helping me write more assertive emails to certain, er, feisty people at work. i'll hesitate, then look down, see elvira fingers and press send without another thought. a highly recommended color if you're looking to kick some interweb ass.

sorry for the silence

it's just that i'm very important and sometimes i don't have time for you.

lies, lies!

the truth is i'm in la shooting a commercial (or six), which sucks up more time than you'd ever imagine. and while this maybe sounds glamorous, it's raining like southern california shouldn't, the hours drag, and any time a camera is around and i'm not in front of it i feel very sorry for myself.

but all those free breakfast burritos and homemade peanut butter cups they keep feeding my face aren't bad. nor is my hotel room on the ocean, equipped with a tv next to my bathtub and a robe that feels like marshmallows.

so while i'm tired enough to be watching hannah montana without caring, i guess life could be worse.

david lynch,

where have you been all my life? are you looking for a new best friend?

yes, i realize i'm 18 years late to the phenomenon that is/was twin peaks, but i was 8 years old when the thing was on (yes, that means i'm about to turn 26 - gag!) and since one episode of unsolved mysteries at that time sent me reeling into a year of sleepless nights, it was probably best i stayed away.

but now i have the whole series in my greedy little hands and i'm having a hard time not binging on episodes until i'm in a tv coma. because honestly, this show answers every single one of my program needs. it's a murder mystery! it's stylized! it's well-written! well-directed! well-acted! ridiculously creepy! the list goes on into infinity!

i bunker down on the couch and proceed to scare the hell out of myself. last night, i checked the locks 5 separate times. and whipped around to look behind me every 2 minutes. though, i'm not sure who i think will come eat me: the dancing dwarf? the one armed man? the lady with an eye patch? they probably all live in pacific heights.

the sad thing is i know the show was canceled before it reached the end david lynch envisioned (damn you cbs!), but i'm sticking with it anyways. even if i wanted to stop i couldn't - the crack pipe is fully glued to my dropped jaw and i can't stop puffing. oh and if any of you sneaky people out there watched the whole series and give away anything, i will hunt you down to chinatown.

can you please kick my ass

and make me edit/rewrite my book? the first draft is all bound and ready to go, but lately i've been coming home from work, putting on sock monkey pajamas and collapsing without even watching television. THIS IS NOT NORMAL.

so a) make me edit my book. b) make me watch tv.

i know they sound mutually exclusive, but you're wrong.

for your edification

1) last thursday i drove to the airport to pick up clay. it's always tough to gauge exactly when to arrive, what with those ridiculous men guarding the curbs with whistles and megaphones, who do a little circus dance when you pause longer than 4 seconds. as i was making a lap around the terminals, i thought to myself: man, if i could perform magic right now, i'd turn my car into a taxi and hide out in their line. and then i thought to myself: that's the most pathetic use of magic ever.

2) when we bought our handy new bed (working out quite nicely thanks!) we ate at the ikea cafe, my favorite part of the ikea experience. if you don't have time for a sit down meal, may i suggest you at least purchase the $1 cinnamon bun? they're heavenly. but my point is, we sat next to a couple in evening wear. meaning, the man was in a full tux, the woman in a ball gown. and they were upstairs at ikea, eating meatballs, and i believe talking about opera. to get into ikea in the first place, you have to purposely park in the large garage and purposely follow the large blue and yellow arrows. you don't just happen upon the ikea cafe, like you may happen upon a quiznos. so these people either showed up on purpose to eat before the symphony, which is great, or they dressed up for my benefit, to which i say: thanks guys!

3) whenever we drive home from work we drive through the red light district. we always turn our heads to see who's walking in and out - it's impossible not to. the other day i made clay engage, much to his annoyance, in a discussion about what circumstances would have to come together to make me strip. here's what we decided: it's a friday afternoon. clay, my family and friends are all dead. i have a child. he's sick and needs a $10,000 operation by monday morning. my credit cards are maxed out. i'm in shape.

you guys, i just thought of something

i'm manager of the gap. i'm responsible for all those t-shirts. french-cut, v-necked, ribbed, what have you. dude, i'm in trouble.

which is to say, i got promoted yesterday. i'm now officially an advertising account manager at _. where i work on the _ account. totally cool, right? in order to avoid getting dooced, i'll have to leave it at that. except to say that i'm really slow on the uptake and it took me an (embarrassingly) long time to figure out what was happening - until suddenly there was champagne and chocolate cake in my face. it kind of felt like proposal deja vu, except instead of a shiny blue, i got new business cards. in case you can't tell? i'm kind of a big deal.

in other news, i bought my wedding dress today! woh, what? yes! i pulled the lacy trigger. my lovely friend/trooper rachel and i hit the shops this afternoon and had a lovely time. probably not the best idea to head out on a rainy chinese new years day, but things ended up being low key and fun and felt pretty princess-y but in a manageable way. i won't reveal any details because a certain cow likes to read this site, but i will say it's very me, it's very pretty and it's very vera wang. snap!

listen pupcake

it may seem like wedding talk has all but vanished here on bja.com. but fear not! it will be returning very shortly. we've turned all traditional on you and hired a wedding planner to help us finagle this thing. see, my mom (got married in 3 days) and i (can't remember to put a clip on the potato chips) realized we're not exactly qualified to throw a big wedding ourselves, and sent for reinforcements. they're coming in a woman by the name of shelby. i think if you're born with that name you are legally required to become a wedding planner.

tomorrow she's delivering her first round of research on venues and what color of buttercream frosting we'll be licking off the chandeliers (read: barn rafters). i'm excited to see what she's come up with and really excited to get this venue/date thing hammered out so i can start jamming on the fun stuff/shaking hands with my inner bridezilla.

it smells like pine in here

because we live in a small apartment, we're always looking for creative ways to save space/store our crap in aesthetically pleasing but also efficient ways. on weekends there's lots of furniture juggled and computer diagrams of the floor plan modified and me spatially retarded, pulling out my hair and narrowly avoiding decapitation by standing up when clay says he's going horizontal.

we really want to stay here as long as we can; it's affordable, in a neighborhood we love, and the small space keeps us from buying things (eames chair) we don't need. after hours of hgtv shows on small apartment design, we're confident we can make the magic happen in this place.

but we all know there's no room for magic without a little ikea dust. so today we took the trip over the bridge and into sweden, where we feasted on meatballs and lingonberries and ran with a crowd decidedly sherpa-ish. it was mostly a fact-finding mission, but last minute we did walk away with a fairly large purchase: a new bed! (image attached!) our current one is big and bulky and this new one is small and sleek and has drawers for extra storage as part of the frame. and it smells like a pine forest. and it will be very easy to roll off of when i pee 12-15 times each night.

right now clay is putting it together very patiently in a superhero t-shirt while i sit in a small corner untouched by small bags of nails and type about his cute bum.

it seems i forgot how to sleep

as in...i just don't really do it anymore. the hell? sure, i lie down in bed every night and i close my eyes and eventually fall asleep. but soon i'll wake up to use the bathroom and then lie awake for a long time before falling asleep again for another hour or so, wake up, rinse repeat, rinse repeat. the only way i can sleep for stretches longer than an hour is by knocking myself out with tylenol pm but i always feel groggy the next morning and need too much caffeine to function and it sort of feels like cheat sleep anyways, like it didn't really count. i've never been a good sleeper - ask anyone who's had the great fortune to parent and/or share a room with me - but things have reached an all-time low. someone once told me at night it sounded like i was wrestling with an alligator. it's a full swamp now.

so right now i'm trying an experiment. it's 3:09 (edited at 4:19) in the a.m. and i'm not even a little bit sleepy. i'm going to stay up until i'm genuinely exhausted, so exhausted i don't have the energy to feel nauseous about work, so exhausted i don't need any tricks (pretending i live on 'frontier house') to make me fall asleep, i just do it and it's nice and peaceful and maybe i dream but nothing too scary/vivid/memorable, maybe it's about cupcakes?, and i wake up and it's lightly drizzling and we go eat some brunch and then buy some things at ikea.

that was then, this is now

the last time i went to the dentist (a too-long time ago), i went because of a relentless, mysterious, heinous pain in my gums (lower left if you're interested). the dentist poked around for ages, finally concluding i was maybe under some emotional distress? which sometimes manifests itself in tooth pain? maybe relax a little, take some time off and it'll go away? i'm pretty sure he was most awkwardly referring to my parents' recent separation and it made me want to kick him in the junk. let's keep in mind i was 22, not 12, and while the whole divorce thing was distressing on a previously unfelt level, i was pretty sure this was a bona fide toothache, so please stay out of my personal life, crazy man, and make the effing pain go away?

fast forward till now, post first dentist appointment in a long while, the most thorough evaluation/inspection/detection i have ever been through. i was there for 2.5 hours. and that's just the tip of the iceberg, people. the lady was a winner on many levels, but what sticks out most is a) she had a blanket to keep me warm b) she said her heart hurt when i flinched c) she laughed out loud with me when i brought up clay needing his wisdom teeth pulled (sorry chip!) and then quickly covered her mouth and blushed d) she didn't accuse me of feeling tooth pain because i'm sad over my split ends or heath ledger.

unfortunately, over the next few months my entire mouth is going to be replaced, but that's neither here nor there.

lunchtime!

In which I'm a little non-liberal

Downstairs in the mail room there are stacks of magazines up for grabs, addressed to employees who no longer work here. I can get some serious gems down there (Real Simple, Vanity Fair, Shape) or the sometimes some not-so-gemmy (Southern Living, Golf Digest). The other day I came across a publication I'd never seen on our shelves before: trusty Seventeen.

I myself never subscribed to it - I always got the dorky mags - but I somehow managed to pore over each and everyone during my youth, usually at a cooler friend's house, sometimes on the floor of my cousin's closet which held piles and piles of them. It was more sophisticated than YM, more traditional than Sassy - kind of the Redbook for teens. It definitely talked a good amount about boys and dating, but the quizzes and info revolved more around how to pull off plaid and whether to kiss on a first date instead of the heavy stuff.

Not to get all creepy conservative on you, but I found the following excerpt, from the February '08 issue, a little startling:

"You may have noticed among your friends or the girls at school that most of them don't have sex regularly; it's usually unexpected - like when someone's parents are out for the night. Sure, it may seem romantic to think of sex as "just happening" - as if you'll get swept off your feet in this big passionate moment. Although planning ahead may take away from the spontaneity you always imagined, it will actually make sex more enjoyable."

Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for sex education and supplying birth control to teens. Most likely, if they've got the opportunity to do it they will, so let's help them stay safe and un-preggers. But there is just something off about this whole passage, no?

Since when are teens worried about falling into a rut and missing out on sexual spontaneity? And is "enjoyable" sex even possible for girls when they're dealing with hormone-crazed, skinny-bummed, hit-it-and-quit-it teenage boys? And should we really be working hard to make sex super enjoyable for 15 year olds? Maybe it should be a little awkward and uncomfortable at first. Kind of like getting your wisdom teeth pulled or standing in your bathing suit for a scoliosis check. Oh, adolescence. How I mourn your passing.

The benefits of working at an ad agency

My good work buddy and I are on a two woman crusade. We are sick and tired of every single toilet on the 6th floor being filled with...unspeakables...every time we go in there.

What in hell are these chicks doing? Doing their damage then bolting out the door? They're so ashamed of their own work they can't wait to leave it behind? We're all busy running around to meetings and signing estimates and what not, but I'm pretty sure we all have those extra 3 seconds to clean up after ourselves.

So. After months of this nonsense, my friend and I decided we needed some serious stall signage. We wrote a little copy and emailed it along to our favorite designer, with the directions to do with it as he pleased. It's attached below. We enjoy it deeply and hope you do, too. It's currently lining every one of our stalls, at sitting down eye level. I fully anticipate a steep decline in bathroom incidents. I'm charting the progress starting...now.

In which I'm exactly the same

When I was home for Christmas, I found a bunch of my old journals from elementary school laying around the house. I skimmed through a few, full of the usual volley between teacher and student. I'd write something lame and lazy about my weekend ("Ate pizza."), she'd write something cheerful and a little pathetic back ("Pizza is yummy!"). By the hectic sloppiness of my handwriting, it's easy to see I found all this ridiculous and not worth my time. An ever-recurring theme in my academic and professional life. Sometimes I just wrote: "Nothin' to say." Which is kind of awesome.

But one entry in particular, from 2nd grade, caught my attention. It went a little something like this:

Amy: We went to see Cinderella last night. It was okay. But the girl playing Cinderella was overweight! Her voice was okay though.

Teacher: What do you mean?! She wasn't fat at all!

Amy: I guess!

Snap!

Honestly, I'm a little bit mortified by all this (what must she have thought?!) but it's comforting to know there's such a thing as consistency in personality. And it's a good excuse for fights with friends and family. I've been judgmental and dismissive of authority since age 7! Can't change now! Gotta go!

To barn or not to barn

I'm always torn between things like washing my hair with a bar of organic soap stuff and dropping fi'ty bucks on the shampoo O magazine says will change my life. Between $9 shirts from Target and half my paycheck on a designer dress to make me look like Mary Tyler Moore. Between bringing eggs in a plastic cup to save money on lunch and dropping $3.50 on my 'Bux. Scheduling a laundry pick-up and wearing 10 year old holey yoga pants to the gym.

Of course this schizophrenic dichotomy is showing up in my wedding planning. Pay (up the nose) for the convenience of a bundled venue or take the time to put together a unique, kind of funky, but very me day? There was lots of back and forth. We're doing this bicoastally, so maybe the bundled option is less painful for everyone? But forever I've been saying I just want a dance party with barbeque, wildflowers and cupcakes! But there are so many more decisions and hodgepodge things we need to fit together this way? But at the end of the day do I want to spend more on one day than I make in a year? But will my friends ever speak to me again if they travel hundreds, even thousands of miles, to eat smoked meat on a paper plate?

I decided they will. As tempting as the turnkey solution was, we really started getting excited about planning when we took the plunge into do-it-yourselfdom. So check yourself friends. You're going to a hoe down.

Spoken for

Settle down, settle down! The rumors are true, people. BJA is engaged. Spoken for! Betrothed! Back off scary men on the #45! Back off.

I've had this very delightful bauble (a sparkly, yummy, glittery sapphire to match my eyes, dahlings) on my lefty finger since New Years Eve in Boston, where the question was popped over probably the most delicious meal I've ever inhaled. Feed me figs with melted cheese rolled in prosciutto and I'll say yes to shaving my head and swimming with great whites. And a mariachi band.

After I (obviously) said yes, we hopped in a cab and made it to Copley Square in time to count down to '08. We kissed at 0, made the obligatory "we're getting married!" pronouncement, then chanted "Law and Order!" before sprinting across the street into our hotel, pumping our fists to the theme song in our heads. You see, TNT was running a 32-episode L&O marathon and nothing but nothing gets in the way of Amy, Clay and Jerry Orbach. Although that new friend on my finger sure makes our crime-fighting team a happier one.

Bow in our presence

Here at the M&M homestead, nestled behind a fortress of snow, we eagerly await the annual Christmas card from a family we, for the purposes of this post, will call the Joneses. Each year I worry we will not receive said card, because for a few years now we have failed to send out our own, and I know there's some sort of etiquette equation that dictates how long you'll blindly receive cards without reciprocating. I fear that this year we've reached that juncture.

Why, you ask, am I so interested in this particular card? Because, I answer, of the pure joy we feel reading it. I'm scrappy and usually find it in the piles of mail first, earning the privilege of reading it aloud. I tried to hunt up last year's for an example, but no luck. Put simply, every single word of it attempts to put you and your pitiful life to shame, what with all their saving of the Whales, playing of the Fiddles and climbing of the Mountains. The nerve to put out this massive long letter detailing so many ridiculous exploits is incredible! And I love every second of it!

We haven't been sure over the years what our answer to all this should be; we've made several attempts, but nothing strikes quite the right note. Below, is my most recent try. It's not ready for release, but we're getting close.

Dear Family and Friends,

We can't believe another year has passed! What with the war in Iraq and Jamie Lynn's pregnancy, we feel very thankful for the lives we lead; the health, peace, intelligence, beauty, great genes (and jeans!) and prosperity we enjoy everyday. If we haven't seen you lately - and I'm so sorry if we haven't! - here's a quick rundown of what we've been up to in '07.

Trevor, in his third year of collegiate studies at a liberal and woodsy university, constantly and successfully strums a wooden instrument with strings, wears glasses that make him look thoughtful, and hopes one day to be in the Olympics without practicing. He also likes to bake casseroles!

Judith, a Speech Language Pathologist, makes a mean cup of black tea, washes her hair with biodegradable soap in the river, and will beat you at Jeopardy. She also has remarkably good skin! Especially for one who's spent so much time in her garden!

Amy, residing in the hilly and expensive city of San Francisco, continues her work in Advertising. She spends her days signing digital estimates, using a Blackberry to Google chat with her boyfriend, and drinking Organic coffee while looking important. She's also able to put on her pants two legs at a time!

We hope that all is well with you and yours. And that you can bear to live in a world filled with such Excellence!

Peace on Earth!

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

The M-M's

But it's cold out here

I came home the other day to find a leak in the ceiling. My favorite piece of furniture in the joint was covered in water and my Christmas lights were taking a bath. Safe! It'd been raining hard all day, so it wasn't too surprising. Until I employed my brain and realized we don't live on the top floor. Apparently, our neighbors upstairs let their bath overflow or their meth lab run amuck or something. I sopped up the mess, put out a bucket and went about my snack eating and television watching.

Clay wrote the Landlord, setting up subtle distance from my claim by explaining he was in Austin. Which basically implied: I know, old man. And you should see how she wraps a present. The Landlord was all "How can that be?" which didn't shock me because I'm pretty sure the man hates me and all my nonsense.

Perhaps rightfully so. Before I snagged this job, I had a whole glorious month to myself where I watched hours of Frasier (oh, the good old days before I'd seen them all!), took little trips to eat oatmeal down the street and even went for runs. One day, frustrated by the janitor-like bulk of my keys, I left them outside under some phone books. And yes, of course, I came back 30 minutes later to find all the books and my keys gone. Turns out the maintenance man was holding them hostage, and eventually gave them back - but not before the Landlord told Clay I was "really stupid". We've had a rocky relationship since.

Today he's visiting our place to check out the leak. Which I'm sure will somehow end up being my fault. Like, I ate my grapefruit too loudly and so the people upstairs couldn't hear the water running out of the sink and thus the yellowed ceiling and lowered property value and destitution. He will kick us out and we'll have to live on the streets in a cardboard box, huddling for warmth and taking up smoking to curb our appetites. Happy holidays!

If I could teleport it would be very helpful

I have a sick need to inform others when I bring my own lunch from home, especially when it includes things like fruit and vegetables and whole grains instead of processed meats and caramel. Like, I deserve a pat on the back or maybe some kind of reward. Like, processed meats and caramel. So, the first purpose of this post is accomplished. I ate a grapefruit today and I brought it from home and yes, you too can achieve such greatness.

The second purpose is to explain to people not in client services, that bringing lunch from home simultaneously serves an evil god because it means I won't see the outside of this building for many hours. And then I develop a mild case of agoraphobia and even though I'm dreaming of my couch and Niles Crane, I can't leave my desk because the thought of Chinatown and public transportation seems more insurmountable than K2.

The third purpose of this post is to say 3 people in my 4 person team are sick and I think I'm about to be taken down. And making sense is not high on my priority list right now.

Taste the rainbow

The eggnog latte at S'bucks is kind of yummy, but it's also a disconcerting drinking experience because every sip tastes different. Spices! No, eggs! Now it's fake rum! Back to eggs! And now black coffee! Chili peppers?

I drink it, though, because I can't do the cold stuff (didn't everyone get the memo that icy drinks shouldn't be spicy/creamy?) and I've always felt left out of all this talk of nog, whatever that may be.

And then she rolled her eyes again

If you want me to like something, somewhere, somebody, it's really in your best interest not to oversell its awesomeness. I certainly appreciate an endorsement from a trusted source, but if you shove a cup of Kool-Aid in my face and make me drink it, I'll spit it back in your eyes, kick you in the nuts, and hit the road.

In summary, I'm happy to have today to myself.

Adrienne

For as long as I can remember, I've had this thing that happens in the morning when I'm halfway between asleep and awake. My eyes are closed and there's a page of a book in front of me and I'm reading it, but I'm making up the words to what I'm reading as I go along. Sort of consciously, but mostly unconsciously. And it's strangely very relaxing, this mixing of the reading with sleeping.

This morning I read about Sylvester Stallone and the steroids he took to bulk up for Rocky Balboa and how he openly admitted it, but claimed it was okay because his wife told him to and it was for a role. And I think he was giving me this interview over oatmeal. I don't remember how I got in touch with him, but when I remember the number you'll be the first to know.

Is this appropriate?

I'm sitting here watching an episode of A&E's Intervention - a pretty hardcore one about anorexia - when a commercial spoofing a family intervention for a grandpa with bad cable service comes on. Now that's class, people.

Maybe the reason I had no bum

Pretty apropos of nothing, I was thinking today about high school babysitting and the strange dance with food we all danced while doing it.

At the beginning of your night, the Mrs. or (the horror) the Mr. would give you a little tour of their kitchen, saying "Help yourself to anything you can find! I'm so sorry - there's nothing to eat!" Which was either glaringly apparent or a blatant lie. She would laugh a little and perform the cursory opening of the cabinets and fridge, without revealing anything; you nodded and smiled anyways.

But you could already tell by that time where your night was going. Houses with the heat on and activated cable harbored goods like Doritos and Dove Bars, while the cold houses ("we have solar panels!") with "lots of movies, but no TV!" tended towards tofu, stale rice crackers and flat seltzer. You'd wave off the invite - "Oh, I already ate. But thanks, thanks" - knowing soon as they left, you'd grab anything remotely edible.

Why the eating had to be so secretive is still a mystery. One night I had just poured a big bowl of Froot Loops. As I dug in, I saw the flash of headlights and the sound of tires on gravel. I spit my mouthful into the trash, quickly pouring the rest down the sink. Total panic. I ran to the couch, put up my feet, "oh I've been here for hours", and flipped my Seventeen. I do believe I looked genuinely surprised when they opened the door.

i wrote a buncha words and all I got was this pretty logo

but i'm a big sucker for gold stars and pats on the back and small treats at the end of long hauls. for example your new little brother was born and suddenly our previously undivided attentions will be cut by 50% but we bought you this lovely skipper doll! sweet! not even a real barbie!

but so yes, yes: 50,026. done. dun. dunne. dunny mc.dune. doen38@#$$%*.

and now i television and sleep and eat pasta and cupcakes and stop the typing. oh and no, it can't be read by any of yous for a long while. i am putting in a drawer for 6 weeks. and then i will come back with fresh brain and then i will start the very long process of rewriting and editing and rewriting. and after all that if i decide it isn't turrible i will share. maybe.

thanks to all my cheerleaders during this month! if i hadn't had the grim threat of disappointed friends and family staring me in the face i may have given up. but i didn't. so thank you. and you.

Tomfoolery

There's this commercial I often see on my beloved telly, a commercial presumably about check fraud. It shows an old lady writing a check - probably for $11.51, probably for her Reader's Digest subscription - only to be foiled soon thereafter by a Bad Guy who watches the mail and steals Old Lady Money. But you know what stops this vicious cycle of thievery? A fantastic pen with fantastic ink that can't be washed off! Surprise! Fooled ya! It's really an ad for pens. Pens!

Hmm. You don't seem as outraged as I am. Maybe you've missed it? Catch up on your Matlock reruns. Then we'll talk.

Word Update: 45,500. Tomorrow is The End. I'm tired.

Doomsday

Birds? I don't like them. It might be more accurate to say I hate them. And yes, Mom and Clay, I realize they are related to or descendants of or best friends with dinosaurs. I could care less. The beady eyes, the talons, the...feathers. Some of it goes back to the time a parrot attacked me in a pet store, some of it goes back to the evil swans that lived in the bog near my house on Cape Cod. All I wanted to do was eat my peanut butter sandwich while wearing a tutu and all they wanted to do was eat my face. Nice.

I don't mind ducks so much, and while we were in Texas this past week I suggested we go feed some at the state park. But instead of ducks we found geese. Huge geese. Huge, diabolical, hungry for my flesh geese. I tried to get away. I tried to throw the bread in the water and keep them there. But they followed me onto the dock and tried to kill me. And now, pictures of my death-defying adventure.


I see the geese. I panic.

The geese see me. They begin to salivate.


I just like my hair in this one.

I hide in the corner. Still convinced I'll get out alive.



They find me, they find my bread.



Checking to see if he can climb up on the table. It's unclear at this point.


They hiss. They plot. I run away. They chase.


Closer they come.



I faint. I die. They feast.

The End.

Sorry for the Fug

So I got a little bored in Texas and I started playing around with Photoshop and um, I made that wimpy little header with my feet poking out. I'm punchy so I'm leaving it up for a bit. Because why not. Bear with me if I continue to feel inspired post-Nanowrimo and funk around with it during the hours I usually wrote words. It could get ugly.

Oh - and I'm happy to relay I was (fairly) dedicated during the holiday and brought the ol' word count up to 38,000. Choo-choo.

A Statewide Bubble

You know how a bite off of someone else's plate doesn't count towards your daily calorie quota? I'm fairly certain the same thing goes for anything I eat in Texas. That's why all those homemade rolls, green bean casserole, pecan pie and nachos covered in cheese and jalepenos didn't count. And that's why the pizza we're about to stuff in our faces is like eating air. Tasty, cheesy, fatty air.

Old Times

My little brother is home for Thanksgiving, watching our family's extensive VHS collection, many of which feature me in some theatrical capacity. We were discussing my outfits and accents and overall weirdness, and it brought me back to that very distinct period of my life. Where I lived and breathed theater, carrying around highlighted, rolled-up plays, reading George Bernard Shaw for fun, listening to a life shattering amount of Rent. And in the midst of all this fumbling, people thought I was having an affair with my high school drama teacher. Age 34. Who was gay. It was all very young adult novel of me.

I wasn't the one directly accused, though. He was, unbeknownst to me, behind closed doors by some secret coven of paranoid teachers. (Direct quote? "We have reason to believe you're having an affair with Amy." The drama!) I didn't find out about it all until months later, because he was that good at keeping a secret, that good at keeping it professional in the face of small town madness.

I like to imagine what those ladies worked up in their minds, huddled over coffee mugs and leftovers in the teachers' lounge. Did they think we hit it in the back of the theater after my dance routine? In his Honda Civic while we discussed Singin in the Rain? That we talked over stage directions before swapping spit? Please. Would have made more sense if I'd joined the circus and walked on top of elephants.

After the accusation, he gathered together a group of (intelligent) teachers to stand up for him. And by "stand up for him" I mean say that he was gay. Which, for the uninformed, means he doesn't like girls. Even teenage ones. Even ones who cut your class to attend his rehearsals. One more time everyone? Girls = Never. They let him off the hook because, well, it was obviously a witch hunt and they looked pathetic. But I can't imagine he ever viewed that place quite the same and I can't say that I did either.

(And for those following my progress, word count = 30,750. Little Engine!)

Half Way!

Just reached 25,560 words, suckas! Thinking of trying to kiss my face. Feeling pretty happy with my usually procrastinating a#$, though I have to admit this hasn't been too painful. Some people talk about pulling all nighters and having no social life and eating 67 Snickers, but I think I'm just doing it the fuddy duddy way. Slow and steady, achy joints and blue hair. With lots of Grape Nuts and Murder She Wrote along the way.

Of course it's hard to get started after a long day at work and sometimes I worry if what I'm writing is blah, but most of the time I'm actually enjoying myself (?!) and happy to have a 'kativity outside of the grind. Anywho. That's the update. And now, I television.

Brrrrrring

If you've met me in recent years, it may surprise you to know I used to live with a crippling fear of placing calls to, buying things from, and asking questions of customer service, cashiers, waiters and the like. Calling the pizza place for a large pepperoni? My personal Vietnam. Buying gum at the grocery store? Just send me to Sing Sing. It all came from some deep fear of embarrassing myself, from the horror of inconveniencing others. Like the dude who bagged my groceries was the Pope.

I eventually got to the point where I could order food at restaurants without blushing and buy stuff without hyperventilating (I got a little too comfortable with this one), but the phone has remained something of an issue for me. I still beat myself up over what, to me, is seriously awkwardness, but which probably goes unnoticed to others. Really, I should kiss myself for the way outside of my hula hoop things I have to do for my job. Like calls to customer service representatives, pretending I'm a potential customer for undercover research:

"Yes, I'm married and live in Nebraska. Can you tell me about any deals that would help me save money? My husband has me on a such tight budget."

Or something like that. As you know, I'm currently writing my mystery novel and so sometimes I pretend I'm my heroine, er, sleuthing? Or something. The more I do it, the less heinous of an ordeal it becomes, but I'm not sure it's something I'll ever enjoy. But neither would living in Nebraska. No offense.

Just Being Mean

Sometimes when the words are coming slowly, I go to to the NaNoWriMo site (I'd link, but it's ridiculously slow) and search the forums. All these people have subjected themselves to the same insanity and there's all sorts of threads to explore. Dirty tricks to increase your word count, how to keep your plot on track, tips for character development, etc. etc. It's a great way to procrastinate and feel a false sense of cyber camaraderie.

It also feeds my black heart and its incessant need to judge.

I found this one thread today, called "Too Good for WriMo?" The first post said this:

"No, I'm not trying to sound pretentious by any means, but it really seems like what I'm writing has become the most intellectual/intelligent/awesome thing I've ever written, and I'm afraid WriMo-esque output into it is going to ruin it. That is to say... I have this overt fear that quality will truly give way to quantity, and I could irrevocably ruin my story. I love my plot, and I've dived very deeply into the minds of the characters, and I think it has resulted in a psychological suspense novel that is... amazing (hint: I want to finish and publish!)"

Oh my God.

This was followed by a second post:

"I'm doing the same thing. And I'd liken my novel to Catcher in the Rye or Ulysses, so I'm definately aspiring to the literary."

I just wrote and erased about 12 different jabs at that. But I think leaving it alone, letting it fester for awhile, does it more justice. Enjoy.

Penny Lane

This afternoon, my girlfriend dragged this procrastinating bum out of its apartment to go for a walk and "get rid of our squish." It was sunny and blue skies and smelled like fall and fires and pine. I was happy to be away from the taunting stare of my computer screen and burning up some of the lard I've eaten in the past few months. It's not welcome here anymore. Please find a new home. You've been evicted.

Near the end of our walk, we stumbled upon an old-fashioned (but actually new and shiny) penny candy store. Bliss! We hurried inside and stood in awe at all the jars. Swedish Fish. Mary Jane's. Strawberry Things. Delicious Things. Out of breath, we huffed: "We'll! Be! Back!" The lady behind the counter looked conflicted. Happy we were interested in her store, fearful of our high creep factor. We left, but didn't stop looking back until we'd walked another block. I blew a little kiss goodbye.

Nothing holds more excitement for me than little stores that sell little things for little amounts of money. When we were little, my brother and I had Candy Day. It came once a week, usually on Friday. This cut down on us begging for something sweet every time we went shopping with our Mom and managed expectations for everyone involved. One Wednesday, Amy, age 6ish, decided she wanted her candy early. My Mom reiterated over and over to me that if I ate my candy early, it meant I wouldn't get candy on Friday. Sure, sure, sure, I said. Bring on the Skittles. I got my sugar coma early and two days later, when it was time for Real Candy Day, I threw a full fledged temper tantrum. Tears, screams, punches, death threats. Which goes to show you, nothing comes between me and my foods. Hence, the squish.

(Word Count = 16,782. Plugging away.)

Ick

I know it's not fair of me, but when I see a grown man carrying a Starbucks size tall (a small to the non 'bucks drinking population), it just looks wimpy. I figure he's probably a little too close to his mother, uses toothpaste for sensitive teeth, and deeply enjoys talking about his feelings, something we ladies think we want, but when it happens makes us want to hide under the bed.

P.S. Word count = 10,846. Snap!

Oxygen Depletion

As much as I enjoy watching Jay Leno pass out donuts to his staff in the picket lines, and as much as I'm pulling for the writers and pulling against the not-writers, I'd really rather this weren't happening.

Did you know the last strike, in 1988, lasted for 5.5 months? That would take us to mid-April, aka mid-season of Lost aka that last chunk of better-than-usual episodes they throw at us end-of-season for all my other shows too numerous to list? Granted, I watch very old television reruns with a fervor reserved for the elderly, but still. I'm anxious. Donut? Stat?

Turtle Face

So, I'm pretty much on the official NaNoWriMo schedule, with 6,550 words done and done. I thought I might have some burst of inspiration and bust out 5k words at once, as some wretched people on the forums discuss, but I've been more successful with the turtle approach.

This isn't something I've ever been very good at. I had to take this Psychology lab class my senior year at BU, where we trained rats to walk in circles, tap lights and knock poles for food. Kind of sad, but mostly just gross. Every few weeks we turned in these absurd 40-50 page reports on our training methods, our findings, our data, our who even knows what. Needless to say, this was not something I spent my daytime hours attending to. I'd usually wait until 10, 10:30 the night before it was due, turn on my TV, turn on my music and type and type and type. And then take a nap from 3 to 4 AM, wake up, eat some candy, drink some Gatorade and then type some more. Nothing else seemed to get the damn things written. But I was in such angst, filled with such self-loathing, that I knew there must be another way to live.

And so, I'm giving it a shot. And finding, incidentally, my self-pity is at an all-time low. Score!

And...Go

I'm tired of thinking about it a lot and then only doing it a little, watching the Cranes on my TV instead and then eating some mango sorbet and then falling asleep in a puddle of tired.

I've never completed anything good without a deadline so fine, okay, I'm doing it.

Cheer for me, please?