Paradoxically Speaking

Subtleties

Tue, 14 Aug 2007 03:07:27 GMT

You know, thinking it over, it amuses me in a depressing sort of way how very much my father fails to notice about me. Or about people and relationships in general, come to that. My father is not a subtle or astute person when it comes to dealing with people. Except when he's being charming. But even then, his style of charm is more blunt instrument than careful precision. Also amusing, then, is the way I've taken that and turned it so much. I've inherited my father's ability to charm in full, when I care to. But where in him it's all joviality and unsubtle compliments, I am much more careful. Probably a combination of my own personality, since I am not the type to draw attention to myself and my father very much is, and having watched Dad for years and deciding that I didn't want people to KNOW I was being charming, as it seems to dilute the effectiveness.

But I digress. My father's not a stupid man, by any means, and I don't mean to imply that. He is just not very good at picking up emotional nuances.

This is most apparent to me of late with regards to his inamorata. She and I, I think, understand each other. We are pleasant, courteous, and unfailingly polite. We also do not spend time alone without my father present. I know, and I think she knows as well, that we do not have a relationship at all. I put up with her presence because that is (in essence) the condition my father has set on his love and support. I couldn't say truthfully what she thinks of me. Not a great deal, most likely, other than that I am not unpleasant company (I am, after all, as charming as my father, just in a different way) and that I at least don't intrude too much into their time together.

(Yes, it bothers me that my father's caring is conditional like that, but what can I do? I cannot change him. He doesn't know HOW to love unconditionally, I don't think, at least not people. He can love his flying and his sailing and his boat unconditionally. But not his family. Anyway; I had to decide which was more important, my pride and the sense that a parent shouldn't put conditions on love, or my wish to have my father as part of my life. I chose the latter; my brother chose the former, and he and my father haven't spoken in almost six months. Which is a long time when one is 18, as my brother is.)

But the thing that brought this all up to me lately was thinking about my impending move. In late September, I'll be moving from California (which I love, and which has been my home my whole life) to Tennessee (which I very nearly hate, with only two or three mitigating factors) to live with my lover for two years while he finishes school. I think of it as a sort of exile - that's the easiest conception of it for me. It reminds me that it's temporary, and that I'm not stuck there forever, as opposed to thinking of it as a move, which is a much more solid thing. An exile can end; once you move, you can move back, but you can't *go* back, if that makes any sense.

When my dad asked me how I was planning on getting all my stuff across the country, I said I wasn't sure, and I had thought of a couple ways. My father then said, "Well, you know, Cathy used to work in production and shipping for her last company. If you haven't decided yet, maybe you could ask her if she knows of any ways it could be done cheaply. She'd know."

I didn't laugh, mostly because I have excellent self-control and am used to keeping my face a pleasantly neutral mask around my father when he says some of the outrageous things he tends to say. I said I'd think on it, and we moved on.

But it says a lot about my dad's obliviousness that he would say that. A question or request like that is something you make of a friend, or at least someone with whom there is mutual goodwill. Neither of those conditions exists between his inamorata and I. And yet, because I have spent time with them both (sailing every other weekend or so, sometimes dinner afterwards) he assumes that "everything is okay between the three of us". I think he sees this as somehow building a new family. If he starts pushing that idea, I will have to make a stand. Until then, I'm just going to continue to be sorrowfully amused at my father's expense.

Although I can't help asking myself, how could he not see that I'm just playing nice for his sake? Is he really that blind?

The answer, of course, is yes.

Wow....

Wed, 25 Jul 2007 21:27:02 GMT

So I graduated college (mostly) this spring. My mom and dad hadn't gotten me anything for graduation yet, either one of them. I'm not rushed, I thought they were probably waiting until I was truly finished *for good*.

This past weekend, my mom called and asked me to come up and kitty-sit for her kitten, Diablo, while she and my brother went up to Oregon to get him registered for his first year at college, at Southern Oregon University. I agreed - Diablo is such a baby, he wouldn't know what to do with himself if left alone for TWO WHOLE DAYS! And besides, I like spending time with him, and having the house to myself sounded enjoyable enough. So on Friday morning, I drove up to my mom's place, bringing my rat, my laundry, and my Xbox...but not my homework. ;)

We passed a pleasant-enough weekend, although I got little sleep because a certain kitten sleeps all day and then wants to play all night. Anytime anything moves under the covers, he must pounce it and make sure it's dead again before he leaves it be. Gets kind of annoying when you can't roll over without getting jumped on. But it's still cute. Sunday my mom got home a little after noon; I was out running errands when she got there, and came home about twenty minutes after she had. We chatted a bit, and then Mom asked me about the puzzle she and my brother had asked me to finish while they were away - of course, they left me 100 pieces of SKY, dammit. I said I'd finished it, and she went out as if to take a look, so I followed her.

We got to the formal dining room, where the puzzle had been set up on the table because nobody ever uses it. And after a minute, Mom was looking at me with an odd expression, expectant almost. I asked, "What? Is there something I should be noticing that I'm not?" She replied, "Maybe," smiling secretively. I looked her over - she was standing in the doorway to the room, facing the room, and I had my back to it, facing her - and didn't see anything different. Hair's the same color, nails same color, no new tats that I could see...so I looked at her after a moment, confused. I said, "I don't...see anything...?" She kept smiling that enigmatic smile. I asked, "Is it something in the room I should have noticed but haven't?" The smile got a little bigger, so I turned and looked the room over.

And sitting there, quite in the middle of the floor between the formal dining room and the formal living room, was a large, deep-red instrument case, in a very particular shape. A very recognizable shape.

It was a harp. I stared at the case for a moment, then turned back to Mom. I swear, for the first minute or so, I literally did not make a single intelligible noise. Just "Buh...th...ih...muh...ne..." Finally I got myself speaking again, and said, "That's...what I think it is, isn't it? That's a pretty distinctive shape. I don't think there's anything else it could be, shaped like that. That's...it's...you bought me a harp!" I was crying by this time, so touched by it all was I.

I have wanted to play the harp for years, ever since I was ten years old and played a duet with the pastor of the church we used to attend's wife, she on harp, I on flute. She and I continued to play duets from time to time, for Christmas, for Easter, for the yearly cabaret the church put on. And while I continued with and became fairly accomplished as a young flutist, I never relinquished my fascination with the harp. They moved away when I was sixteen; my wish to play the harp went somewhat dormant for a few years. But during my last two years of college, I began thinking of it again, any time I had more than two hundred dollars in my savings at once. I would go on Ebay and look at cheap harps, and look at the Harpsicles (cute little cheapo lap harps, good for beginners though). But I could never really afford one, and then things like buying a car and keeping it on the road became a priority.

When my mom and I spoke about graduation and what I wanted, I spoke of trying to wrangle this very expensive camera I want out of my dad, since he has plenty of money and can afford it. I also, though, mentioned wanting a harp. I had no idea she would take me so very seriously.

Because, you see, this harp she bought me, is not some cute little lap-harp. It's a Ravenna 34, by Dusty Strings. Here's a picture of her - well, not HER, but the Ravenna 34, taken from the Dusty Strings website:

It stands 49 inches high at its tallest point, with a 4 and 3/4 octave range (34 strings), all-hardwood construction (no plyboard), and an extendable stand leg allowing you to play seated or standing at any height. She also bought the deluxe case, well-padded, with extra pockets for music and tuning lever and other accessories, and multiple attachment points for a strap allowing it to be carried across the back at almost any angle you like. With this, she also gave me two Sylvia Woods books - Sylvia Woods being just about the best in harp lessons and books - one basic instruction, one of wedding/church songs, both with CDs and an instruction DVD that they didn't have in stock but which will be shipped to me. The wedding/church book, she said, was because she'd spoken to the man who owned the shop, and he'd told her about a harpist friend of his who, during April-September, could make $2000 a month just from playing weddings on the weekends - so $2000 a month on top of his usual job. And Mom figured that, well, if I was going to learn to play and get good at it, it'd be even better to turn that into an income-earner. Which I think is a great idea. It'll be a while before I'm up to that standard, of course, but still.

I got it out of its case immediately. It needed tuned after its trip back from Oregon in the back of Mom's car...I don't have a tuner anymore, or if I do, I don't know where it is, so instead I pulled out my family's dusty old keyboard and used that for tuning purposes. Not as good as a real tuner, since I have to rely on my ear for whether or not the string is on-pitch (as opposed to watching the needle and trying to make it go in the center, a lot more idiot-proof) and I don't have perfect pitch or anything. But it works. So I tuned it, and pulled out the instruction book, and proceeded to spend most of the rest of my afternoon/evening playing my new harp. Also the next morning, while I waited for my laundry to finish.

I couldn't bring her home with me, as I was driving in the heat of the day, in a car that has no air conditioning, and heat and direct sunlight are REALLY BAD for harps. So I had to leave my lady up in Fairfield with my mom for the week; this weekend, assuming I get the one-month extension on my lease that I have been badgering my property manager about for WEEKS but that's a whole other story, I will be bringing her back down here with me.

I am pining for my harp. I want to play so bad...can't wait to go home and get her.

I love my mom. ;)

Nipples!

Tue, 17 Jul 2007 17:34:15 GMT

*giggle* Honestly...it's kind of a long story as to how I got to this point, but...

If you think about the word long enough - particularly if you READ it enough times! - you come to realize, that "nipple" is one of the funniest and silliest body-part names ever. Snork. Giggle.

NIPPPPPPPPPPLES!!!

Furthermore...

Tue, 17 Jul 2007 04:50:56 GMT

Also...It doesn't fucking SNOW in California! At least not anywhere I've ever lived in the past 22 years, and why someone would live full-time in the mountains just baffles me, so that's a moot point. I utterly refuse to deal with shoveling the damn driveway. NOT MY PROBLEM. If it were up to me, we'd be living somewhere with a temperate climate, none of this below-freezing bullshit.

Spring 2008

Fri, 13 Jul 2007 01:01:31 GMT

So the decision has been made for me, as to when I am going to come back to UCSC to finish my last few classes. I'd been wavering between Winter 2008 (Jan-Mar), and Spring 2008 (Mar-Jun). Or perhaps spreading it over both of those quarters. All of which had advantages and disadvantages.

Since I'm planning on moving to TN and living there with my partner while he finishes school there, the timing had to be worked out with that. If I were going to do Winter, I'd probably just live up at my mom's (in Cali, about an hour and a half's drive away from Santa Cruz) for the fall and come back here for classes in Winter. No sense in moving out, getting settled in, and immediately uprooting myself to come back, right? But if it were going to be Spring, I would move out, live there for six months, then come back to do Spring. It still means I won't be able to get a "career position" kind of job during that first six months, as I'll be taking a three-month absence, and that's not exactly a selling point when one is trying to get a "real" job (as opposed to working at Starbucks or what-the-hell-ever). But it'll be a bit more time and such, not quite rubber-banding across the country.

Well, I heard from the Academic Standing Committee today. They've decided that, since it's a mental-health issue, they want me to take two full quarters off before attempting another quarter. They're going to let me finish out the summer classes I've already signed up for, but after that, they're barring me from enrollment until Spring 08.

On the one hand, that irritates the ever-living fuck out of me. If it were a physical health problem, they'd let ME decide when I'm capable of returning. But no. Because it's a mental health problem, they've taken it on themselves to decide how much time I will take to get myself together. Without consulting my doctor, no less, which I know for a FACT because he'd have to request written permission from me to discuss my case with the committee, and I received no such request. I HATE bowing to "authority" in cases like this! Fuck it all, I am an adult, and perfectly capable of making my own decisions as to what I'm able to handle. Let me do so!

And on the other hand, it's a faint relief to know for sure what I'm doing, one way or another.

But I'm still annoyed by it.

And, oh, gods, the move in general. I'm so fucking scared of it. The more I think about it, the more terrified I get that it's just going to snap something in me. I am Californian. That is not up for debate. And yet I'm going to have to reregister my car in TN, get a TN driver's license. Do my banking there. I can't keep residency in both places. And I am so scared that, once I've done all that, what's to say that I'm NOT just "one of them"? Which prospect makes me literally nauseous to think about. I AM NOT ONE OF THEM. I am not southern. I am not the kind of person who belongs in the motherfucking bible belt. I am Californian, I am a western person. I thrive on being near the ocean - the Pacific, specifically, and yes, it matters. - and on the liberal, progressive culture you find here. I belong in places where mass transit is more than just a concept, where you can actually breathe in the summertime, even if the air does kind of sear your throat, but at least you can draw breath without drowning in it. I'm damn PROUD of being from one of the weirder places in California - people call Berkeley "Berserkely", but it's also said that Santa Cruz is Berkeley's smaller, more suburban sister. And I LIKE that, I'm proud of it. I love that it gets me weird looks from a lot of people in Tennessee, like "oh, you're one of THOSE people". Yes, by all the gods, I AM one of "those people", and I intend always to be.

Yes, I know my prejudice is showing. But honestly...the times I've been there - and I actually did live there an entire summer once - my prejudices about the area and the people were not exactly disproved or even really challenged.

And I swear by all the gods and demons, I really will kill myself if I develop a fucking accent.

But it was worth it.

Thu, 12 Jul 2007 09:22:25 GMT

Urgh....never again, I tell you. Never again.

My close friend and I decided to go out for drinks last night - we've been trying to get a chance to go out, just the two of us, to do a "girl" thing, for awhile now. Finally got our schedules synched and went to Rosie's last night for drinks. We decided we were going to get more than a little drunk. And we then proceeded to make good on that decision.

Mind you, I don't often get *drunk* at all. I usually get a bit tipsy, mellow, a little unsteady on my feet, but not that bad. Partly it's that I know I have a very strong predisposition to alcoholism (my dad's entire family lives in the bottle, basically), so I have to be careful. Partly it's simply that I'm a control freak, particularly when it comes to self-control. That's why I don't bother to smoke pot anymore. All it would ever do was make me hyper-vigilant and self-monitoring, constantly checking "Has it kicked in fully yet? Am I high? What other effects am I feeling? I'm hungry - is it the munchies or am I just actually hungry? Dry mouth or have I not kept hydrated today?" and so on, a constant running monologue that drives me nuts. I'm not as bad with alcohol, but I do self-monitor a lot. I can pull off appearing relatively sober even if walking steadily is a struggle for me - nobody can tell. It helps that I don't get so bad that I can't control it.

But last night...yeesh. I not only drank *more* than I usually do, I drank it a LOT faster, and I hadn't had dinner beforehand. Smashed. Plastered. Baked. All those other nonsensical terms meaning excessively intoxicated. I was out. Happily so, but still. Julianne was in a similar state, although perhaps slightly better than I. I remember texting my lover while I was in the restroom at the bar, because my legs had felt slightly numb when I walked from bar to bathroom, and I for some reason found this supremely entertaining and felt I should share. We staggered back to her apartment sometime between midnight and 1 AM, where we hung around drinking water to stave off the hangover, and finding food. But by that time I wasn't feeling well - I tossed back too much water all at once, and the food didn't help. Julianne had already gone to bed, by the time I started puking. But it was only once, and really, it wasn't all that bad as far as throwing up goes. I felt better afterward, downed a half a glass of water slowly and carefully, then fell onto her couch and slept until 9:30.

Waking up, I didn't have much problem. The beginnings of a headache, but my stomach felt okay. I drove home, took some Excedrin, and fell back into bed to let it do its thing. And when I woke up...ow. Somehow the hangover had had a delayed reaction or something, but by 11 when I woke up again, it was there. Pounding headache, nausea, etc. Took some more meds, ate some crackers, went back to sleep again. Woke up early afternoon, still feeling shitty, but hungry, so I made myself a grilled-cheese sandwich and tomato soup, then went back to bed again since my stomach wasn't all that pleased with my offerings. Didn't wake up until after seven, but finally felt better when I did. I can now say, I have had my first experience of drinking until I puke, and also my first-ever hangover. Not fun. Very not fun. Going to be more careful in the future.

Now, the entire day that I was going to devote to my project (due 10 AM) and two papers (due 4 PM) due tomorrow has been wasted. I'm going to catch a couple of hours of sleep, then get up before 6 and get to work. Hopefully I can get it all done. Wish me luck.

But damn, the evening was fun.

Hoo-ray, America.

Fri, 06 Jul 2007 07:12:41 GMT

You know, try as I might to be "patriotic", I have to say...the Fourth of July depresses me.

I guess it is pretty quintessentially American to spend the day gorging ourselves, getting drunk, and lighting up explosives. But really, guys, how does this celebrate our independence as a nation? It doesn't. At least not in any way I can see.

And all the flag-waving and parades and other such things...this sounds bad, but they make me kind of sick. All the invasion-and-occupation-in-the-name-of-patriotism, all the PATRIOT Act bullshit, all the "You're either with us or you're the enemy" crap. All of it has just left a really bad taste in my mouth. That's the association I have with the word "patriotic". With the whole concept of it, really. Particularly with all the discussions in my Women&War class right now, nationalism and militarism and how they come about, what they do. Create a carefully delineated "us" and "them". Portray the "them" as threatening. Proceed to build up a massive military, divert funding from social programs and send the nation spiraling into debt to support it, and go whomp the shit out of whoever you feel like. All in the name of "the homeland". And if any of the citizens dare to protest, call them "unpatriotic", because they're clearly not with you, so they must be against you. It's twisted and pathetic and scary as all fuck.

Don't get me wrong. I truly do have a great deal of affection and loyalty for my country. But I feel that part of that affection is the obligation to tell it when it's fucking up. I wouldn't just stand back and be disgusted if my lover, or my mother, or someone else I love started beating up other people and other assorted bad shit. I'd do something about it, as best I could. And I feel that I have that same responsibility with America. If I love my country, I owe it to it to take care of it.

And while I'm on the subject, it disgusts me when people have the mentality that ANY dissent means you don't *really* love your country. Ferfucksakes, you people, this country was founded precisely BECAUSE PEOPLE DISAGREED WITH THEIR GOVERNMENT. Have we really gone so far that we've become the corrupt, bloated power we disdained so long ago?

Well. Happy Fourth of July, Internet.

Thu, 05 Jul 2007 02:15:07 GMT

Okay, so I'm pretty sure I've mentioned that productive is NOT a normal or comfortable state for me, right? I may also have bitched to high hell about how horrifyingly abysmal I am at managing my money. Partly just a factor of how I *don't have any* in general, but also I seem to have this less-than-quiet voice in me that tells me "You're already broke, so go ahead and spend the money on (insert item here, Starbucks, a good bottle of vino, expensive salmon, new shoes, books, etc). What's it going to do, make you broke-er?"

So given all this, how the HELL is it that I have completed more than HALF - half, I tell you! This is not possible or normal. - of the tasks on my to-do list for today? Including several pertaining to money! Paying off old parking tickets - Thank you, Mom, not that I couldn't have spent my graduation money on it, but I'd rather not. - putting my books for my new classes on my freshly-paid-off credit card - Thank you, Boyfriend, not that I couldn't have spent my grad money on it... - sticking to my official grocery list and not buying indulgences like fresh organic strawberries, omg they looked SO GOOD I tell you, AND (this is the coup de grace here) entering all my receipts for the past two days in my mini-ledger book, which had gone sadly neglected for the past three years or so. Okay, yes, I'm in debt again, when am I not? but this is manageable debt. My monthly stipend will be coming in from Dad either tomorrow or Friday, plus we've got a standing arrangement that I put my books on my card and he pays me back, so once that's all done, I'll actually be in the black...if you don't count the parking tickets at the college, which need dealt with soon too.

OH! And I also actually DID the reading for both of my classes! All 150 pages of it, dear goddess it took me longer than I'd ever dreamed. Literary fiction is not exactly swift reading. Why couldn't they have run a class on women fantasy writers, rather than Caribbean women writers? Much easier to read. Okay, so I still have a reading response to write for one class, but that's only 1-2 pages, and I have a two-hour break tomorrow that I'm doing that in.

This is just flat-out amazing. I have NEVER been on top of things like this before.

Strategic Withdrawal.

Tue, 12 Jun 2007 16:04:42 GMT

Yes, that's what I'm going to call this. Strategic Withdrawal. Also known as, sticking my head under the pillow and singing to drown out the world and hopefully, drown out my own mind with it. So much shit to DO, and yet I can't seem to develop a coherent plan, or indeed do anything but sit in front of my computer, nekkid, with a book and a bag of jelly beans. HOW have I made it through almost four years of college? It's a mystery to me.

You done it.

Mon, 11 Jun 2007 17:46:41 GMT

Congrats, little brother. You've grown so much in the past four years - I can't wait to see what another four is going to do to you. Even if you are studying poli-sci. Heathen.

Everyone could use a hug

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 05:01:55 GMT

First of all, watch the video if you're not familiar with the Free Hugs Campaign.

I spent three hours of my day today standing in the sun at Quarry Plaza (central area of UCSC campus), holding a sign saying "Free Hugs", and...hugging people. The first hour, from ten AM to eleven, I was alone. There was a tour group of middle school aged or early high school aged kids that came through - and why shouldn't I offer them hugs, too? So I did. And I got glomped by seven or eight or maybe more of them in a group hug that nearly knocked me down. We were all laughing, and one of the kids kept coming back for another hug, until the group left. One of the kids asked if he could hold my sign and give hugs for a minute or two. The tour moved on, and I was on my own again.

A little later, another girl arrived who'd signed up to be part of it. Her style was rather different from mine - just holding out her arms to people and saying "It's free hugs day". But you know, it seemed more...personable, I guess. More in the spirit of what we were trying to do, to put down the sign and just reach out to people, literally. So I propped the sign up and adopted her approach. The traffic flow through the plaza had increased by later in the morning, and we were hugging a lot of people.

And it was amazing, to see the different ways people responded. You got people who, without reservation or hesitation, came over and gave you a hug. You got people who looked at you funny for a moment, as if deciding, Does she look creepy? and then came over for a hug. You got people who just kind of laughed in an embarressed sort of way and shook their heads, and people who flat-out wouldn't look at you. And then there were the different kinds of huggers. The one-armed huggers. The squeeze-you-so-you-can't-breathe huggers. The quick oh-my-god-I-can't-believe-I'm-hugging-a-stranger huggers. The lingering huggers. Those who talked to you while hugging you. Those who asked why you were doing this. And the reactions were never predictable, who would hug and who would ignore, who would half-hug you then jump back and who would squeeze you.

One girl turned me down at first, then two steps later turned back and said "You know, I really need a hug." So I hugged her, and she told me that she'd had a shitty week, and that this was the nicest thing anyone had done for her all week. That...that hug alone would have made the whole three hours worthwhile, even if I hadn't had a single other hug. Because that's what I wanted to do. I wanted to make people smile. I wanted to give people who needed it some simple, affectionate human contact. I wanted to make people feel that someone CARED. Because you see, when my boyfriend isn't visiting and when I don't go up to my mom's for a few weeks, I get absolutely starved for touch. I'm not normally a very touchy-feely person, unless it's with someone I know *really* well - family, boyfriend, maybe one or two best friends - so when I don't see those people much, I don't really touch anyone. And I have depression, so a lot of the time I'm very withdrawn. I can count so many times in the past years that it would have helped me so much if some person just gave me a hug.

Just before noon, the guy who had organized it all came back from class and rejoined us. So there were three huggers. I hugged staff people and workmen, lots of students both male and female, group-hugged people. By around 12:20, we'd picked up two other huggers, people who wandered by, got hugged, and then asked if they could stay and hug with us. And who are we to turn down more huggers? It was...amazing. Five people, scattered over Quarry Plaza, hugging anyone who wanted one. One of our spur-of-the-moment huggers and I struck up a conversation and had a great time, laughing and joking about the people who pretended not to see us, calling out things like "You can't turn your back on love!" and "Aww, okay. Air hug!"

Overall, it was the most glorious time I've had in a long while. The day was gorgeous - clear and sunny, breezy enough not to be hot, but warm enough that I kicked off my shoes and stood there in bare feet, jeans, and a tank top, and was happy. I swear I near enough broke my face from smiling so much. But how could I help it? First of all, nobody wants to hug someone who's just standing around flat-faced. A smile does so much to make people feel welcome. And secondly...I was just so damn happy I couldn't help it.

And this from a woman who is SO not a people person. My gods, how weird I am. A quasi-medicated, antisocial depressive who tends to be afraid of everyone and everything, who hates being forward and putting herself out there, and who is deadly terrified of rejection...standing in the sunshine holding her arms out to total strangers, calling out to everyone who walked by to come get a hug, and not even being all that bothered by the ones who refused or ignored. AND BEING HAPPY DOING SO.

I may need to make this a regular thing. Not necessarily at Quarry Plaza, maybe downtown, maybe at Lighthouse Point, wherever. Maybe up in Fairfield, or out in Tennessee. Because...the world just needs more hugs.

Cinco de Mayo!

Sun, 06 May 2007 06:39:27 GMT

Tequila. Is a deLIGHTful beverage!

I make my margaritas very very strong - the look on my housemate's face was kinda funny. It's revenge for all the time's she's cooked dinner and made it too spicy.

I'm having to squint and blink a lot to see the screen. Oh, I can just SEE the hangover on its way. Happy Cinco de Mayo, Internet!

Only in America...

Sat, 05 May 2007 05:10:31 GMT

...does Paris Hilton going to jail warrant a "Breaking News Report". ON FUCKING CNN.

Holy shit. The world is going insane. Genocide in Darfur, war throughout the Middle East (that we certainly aren't helping), sex trade from Asia to America, and your "Breaking News" is fucking Paris Hilton going to jail for drunk driving??? I could understand that on E! or something stupid like that. But CNN? Wow. I'll never take a CNN news report seriously again.

Begin Radio Silence...

Fri, 27 Apr 2007 19:54:00 GMT

So after hitting my snooze button no fewer than five times this morning - gods, I'm horrid some days! - I finally hauled my ass out of bed and did a full workout, 40 minutes of cardio, 20 minutes strength training. Good times. I learned that I actually CAN do a squat, not very well, but it's possible!

That makes two days in a row of doing exactly the workout I had planned, and if I stick to things foodwise, three days of being on-track with exactly the meals I had planned. Yarr. Okay, so that's not very much, but it's more than I usually manage, so I'll take what I can get.

As of this evening, I'm driving up to my mom's to house- and dog-sit for the weekend while Mom and Nick are up in Reno for the jazz festival. Taking Keili with me, who I swear drove me nuts for a solid half an hour AFTER I'd gone to bed last night with "remodeling" her cage. Why must rats be nocturnal? I'm just glad I haven't put a wheel in her cage, cause I'd never get to sleep again.

The boyfriend arrives in two weeks as of tomorrow; anticipation wars with irritation/stress, since the roommate is still "not happy" about him being there for the week right before her birthday - oh, horror! Because of course I PLANNED it that way. - and I dislike the conflict there, but give me a break, I only get to see the boy every couple of months, so I'm damn well going to take advantage of any time I can have with him.

Oh, and I weighed in at 183 this morning, *real* weigh-in this time. I'm pleased. Not hugely impressed, but still pleased. It's progress.

So the weekend will be spent...doing nothing, pretty much. House to myself, except for the dog. I'll probably play a lot of Civ, maybe take Diablo with and install that on Mom's comp...except then I'd have to bring my save-game files with me, too, because I've just re-gotten to the final level this time around, and I'm DAMN well not going to re-do those fifteen levels again, until the next time I get nostalgic and play it again, anyway. Oh, and I'm definitely taking FFXII with me to play on my brother's PS2 (why do I own a FF game when I don't own a PS2, you ask? I don't know, either), and my Xbox and DDR pad. A weekend of solitary gaming, hahaha. Unfortunately, it's a weekend of solitary gaming WITHOUT INTERNET. Damn it, Mom, come into the DSL age already.

Be back Monday - have a great weekend, Internet.

Sneak Peek!

Thu, 26 Apr 2007 19:41:04 GMT

Okay, so I swore I wasn't going to weigh myself for at least three weeks of being on-plan. I really meant it, too, since the scale's fluctuations were driving me batshit insane.

Well, I couldn't resist this morning, so I weighed myself. Mind you, this was AFTER three full glasses of water, my workout, and breakfast. So not my "pure" weight, right?

Guess what it was? Go ahead, guess.

183.5 lbs. Compare that to 184-186 FIRST THING IN THE MORNING a week or two ago. Haha, I must be doing something right again. Neener neener!

Wed, 25 Apr 2007 20:17:12 GMT

You know, I had this hugely long post that I was going to put up on Thursday or Friday of last week...never got around to it. So this is going to be an update on the whirlwind that my life has been over the past week.

The Strictly Sail Pacific Boat Show, in Oakland, was this past week. Wednesday through Friday. My dad is in the process of buying a new boat, a Hunter 41DS, and in fact the boat he is buying (that particular boat, not just one of that model) was the Hunter 41 demo boat at the boat show. So Dad was going to be at the boat show all week, checking out upgrades and doing workshops and other assorted sailor-stuff, as well as keeping an eye on Manu Kai. I wanted to go, at some point, so I called on Wednesday to discuss it. The only day I could go was either Friday morning early, or Saturday. Well, it turned out that Friday morning was out of the question because the boat show opened later than I had thought. So I asked Dad about Saturday, if I could meet him at the show or something or do lunch or whatnot.

He told me he was going to be busy all day Saturday - doing a 36-mile (I think? I'm horrid at converting nautical miles to regular) offshore sailing race as crew for a friend of my uncle. I immediately said, "Omg, how cool. And I hate you." Because I've wanted to sail offshore, and I've wanted to race, and how kick-ass would it be to do BOTH AT ONCE? Dad then said that Phil (owner of the boat) had told him it would be all right if Dad brought Cathy (his paramour) on as crew as well, but she hadn't been feeling well (all together now, 'awwwww'). So he said if I wanted, he could call Phil and see if it'd be all right if I went instead.

Well, I pounced on the chance. Dad then spent the next fifteen minutes saying "Are you sure? The weather might be really bad, we don't know yet, you might get really seasick you know. Phil and Bob (my uncle) both get seasick for the first while when they get offshore, and they're experienced sailors." and so on. I kept saying yes, yes, yes, dammit, yes already! And finally asked him if he'd like a signed waiver of liability from me? Because if Phil said it was okay, I was damn skippy not going to turn down this opportunity. Even if I *did* get horribly seasick, it would at least be the chance to know what it's like. Offshore racing, not seasickness.

Friday morning I met Dad for breakfast, and he said Phil had given the go-ahead. We set up times, etc. So it was that Saturday morning at the ass-crack of before dawn (I left the house by 5:30) I was on the road with a cup of 7-11 coffee in one hand (Damn you, Starbucks. You should be open at that hour.) and a bag of rain gear and dry clothes in my backseat. I'll skip the logistics, in the end, we were out at the Gate by 9:30. Our start time was 10 AM.

Oh. My. Gods. That was so FUN! I'd never been offshore more than half a mile, mind you, before this race. I LOVED it! I didn't get seasick once; Bob and Phil were both wearing those seasickness-patches, Dad didn't need anything, and neither did I. I guess I inherited Dad's constitution for ocean swells. During the first leg, Bob and Dad and I sat up as "rail meat" (when racing, it allows the boat to go faster if several people sit at the very edge of the high side, ie, on the rail, to balance the boat and let it harness the wind more efficiently. The people who sit up there are called "rail meat".) for a while before we had to do anything else. I was sitting up, dangling my feet over the side of the boat, wind in my face, and I swear to gods I had the hugest shit-eating grin on my face EVER. I just couldn't stop smiling. The swells were giving us plenty of up-and-down rolling, and I was just loving it. Dad had the same grin; we probably never looked more closely related than then.

We got rained on a bit, but it was still a good time. We finished fourth out of six in our division, which isn't bad for a bunch of cruisers just starting to race - hell, we even beat the Santana with its Mylar sails who thought it was hot shit. It came in dead last, behind us by half an hour. And we were only four minutes behind the third-place boat in our division. Damn close.

That night I drove up to my mom's, and Sunday we celebrated my younger brother's 18th birthday. The kid's not a kid anymore. *sniffle*

And, in further good news, I've been doing AMAZINGLY well on my healthy eating today. A sourdough english muffin, nonfat yogurt, and OJ for brekkie, then a salad - a SALAD, I tell you, and me the queen of salad-hating unless it's smothered in creamy dressings - with a very tasty champagne-pear vinaigrette and chopped mushrooms and carrots in my salad, and cottage cheese with pretzels for lunch. Guess what I drank with lunch? SPARKLING WATER. I never drink sparkling water, but I've discovered I really love lime-flavored sparkling water, better than any soda I know.

I'm SO impressed with myself. And no, I don't have an ego problem. :P

Back on that horse...again.

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 00:09:34 GMT

Wow. People rock. Okay, so I just spent the past half hour on a couple of buses getting thwacked in the face by backpacks and elbowed and half-sat-on by total strangers, and the whole time I was muttering in my head, "People suck, suck, suck, I hate people, I fucking hate people, if one more person gets that close to me again I'm going to start bitch-slapping people!"

And then I come home and find such wonderful words of advice and comfort on my blog. Thank you guys so much.

Perspective is something I lose pretty easily, which makes it kind of difficult with weight-loss. A lot of it comes from my depression; makes it very easy to only see the bad stuff.

But today, I went to the gym as I'd planned - okay, about 20 minutes or so later than I'd planned, but I still went - and did 30 minutes of intervals on the elliptical, plus 10 minutes warmup/cooldown, and some stretching. When I came home, I did a 15-minute abs DVD.

That DVD also has 15-minute upper and lower body routines, which I'm going to be using on a regular basis now instead of doing strength training at the gym...cause I'm just not comfortable trying something that new to me in public. I'll try the gym for strength training again once I *can* do the motions for a squat or what-have-you without falling over or wobbling or anything like that. What can I say? I'm vain and don't take well to publicly screwing up, even in little ways.

So I guess I'm mostly back on track now. Not the same track I'd intended, but working my own way nonetheless. Tomorrow I'm going to start C25K, running on the track at the gym instead of on the treadmill, because my housemate never runs outside, so she can't bug me to work out *with* her if I'm running on the track. Hah. Foiled her devious plans. ;) When I get home, it'll be the upper-body workout from the DVD.

I can't thank those of you who responded enough for reminding me not to discount everything just cause of a bad day.

I. Give. Up.

Mon, 16 Apr 2007 15:49:32 GMT

I give up. I just give the fuck up. Day 1, and I couldn't even do ANY of the things I'd promised myself I'd do "without fail". I thought my housemate was up and because I didn't want to go to the gym with her (I go alone or not at all), I hid in my room for an hour and a half. When I finally came out, I discovered she'd gone back to bed.

Well, by now the gym is insanely crowded, and I can't stand being there with a couple hundred other people. That's the whole reason I (try to but fail to) go in the early morning. So the gym is out for today.

I thought I'd do some light dumbbell work at home with an old set of weights I have. I couldn't do any of the exercises right. I couldn't do a fucking squat without lifting my heels off the floor because my calves are too fucking tight. The dumbbell swing I tried to do felt fucking ridiculous and all I achieved was hurting my lower back (again).

I *could* go to the track instead of the gym for the running I wanted to do today. Then I wouldn't be a complete fucking failure. But somehow I doubt that I'll make it. This is just classic "me". So, fine. Three-week challenge? You are officially OVER. I officially GIVE THE FUCK UP.

Fuck a whole bunch of this shit.

PS: I sat down on my bed and cried like a fucking wimp after realizing all this. I hate myself.

Internet, can I ask you a question?

Sun, 15 Apr 2007 07:29:53 GMT

Hey, Internet. I need your help with something. Just a moment of your time, really.

Because I have a question for you, Internet. A little personal, but nothing too intrusive. Here we go:

How much energy does it bloody well take to put the toilet paper actually ON the little rod WHERE IT BELONGS?

Because there is someone in my life who will go unnamed just in case she finds this blog, and I am going to strangle her with a garotte made of the unrolled cores of old toilet paper rolls. Specifically, the old toilet paper rolls that she CONSISTENTLY leaves on the holder, propping the new roll up on top of it, or leaving it on the edge of the sink, or on the back of the toilet. I swear by all that is holy, I honestly, truly thought only MEN did that.

It takes all of two damn seconds to change the roll and dump the old one in the trash, which, I might add, is STRATEGICALLY POSITIONED directly behind and beneath the toilet-paper-roll-holder. You don't even have to move! Undo old roll. Release grip on old roll. Watch, amazed, as it falls RIGHT IN THE TRASH CAN, no effort necessary. Add new roll. Pop the bar back in place. Voila. All this can be done WHILE YOU ARE PEEING, just in case you were in some kind of huge hurry and couldn't bear to stay in the bathroom more than a nanosecond longer than was physically necessary to void your bladder.

HOW DIFFICULT IS THIS CONCEPT? Put your fucking toilet paper ON THE FUCKING HOLDER. Or else I'm going to start hoarding ALL the toilet paper rolls in my room, and you will be stuck without them. Forever.

Come on. You're a total neat freak everywhere else in the house; even in the bathroom, as evidenced by your pet peeve about my shed hair in the sink every now and then after I straighten it, or in the shower if I manage to miss a hair or two when I clean the drain (you would think, since you have longish hair, too, that you'd be a little bit understanding on this one). Why is this the ONE issue that doesn't show up on your "must be neat and orderly" radar?

You know, because karma is the way it is, it totally doesn't surprise me that the single orderliness pet peeve that I have (cause I'm a total slob otherwise) is the single thing you're willing to ignore. Next time you nag me about the dishes, watch out! Cause a diatribe on toilet-paper-exchange is coming your way.

Stories from the "Good Ole Days", aka The Toddler with the Foul Mouth.

Thu, 12 Apr 2007 05:28:09 GMT

So I heard a story just a few days ago. A story about myself - and you know, that's everyone's favorite kind of story. Not stories about me, no, I'm not *that* interesting, stories about themselves. But I found myself doubled over with helpless silent giggles, legacy of my mother (I swear, there is nothing creepier than walking into a room when she and her three sisters are laughing themselves silly. They look like they're dying of asphyxiation, they're laughing so hard, and yet the room is TOTALLY SILENT.) and her family, in the middle of the Pizza Pucks at the mall, as she told me the story. I think it needs to be set down for posterity, or perhaps just so I can come back and give myself the silent giggles whenever I want to.

I will preface this by saying two things in my defense: one, my father swears like a sailor, or worse, like a drunken pilot. Both of those descriptions are apt. So it's not MY fault I learned to talk like that so young. And two, I do not remember this ever happening. I disavow all knowledge of it. How was I supposed to know, at that age, what's "appropriate" to tell people at school and what's not?

The story goes like this:

One day, not quite twenty years ago, my mother received a phone call from my preschool. The teacher, or whoever had made the call, told my mother, "You need to come get your daughter." My mother, of course, panicked, having no idea what was going on. She asked for more information, which probably came out something like "Oh my god, what's happened? Is she all right? Did she hurt anyone?" I'm pretty sure she'd ask "Did she hurt anyone?" rather than "Did anyone hurt her?" simply because she knew the kind of child I was, which, incidentally, has informed rather overwhelmingly the woman I've grown into. But I digress.

"No," the teacher assured my mother. "She's fine. But she's holed up under one of the tables, and she won't let anyone get her out. She's yelling 'Fuck you!' at everyone who gets close. Would you please come and...do something?"

According to Mom, by the time she'd gotten there, I'd allowed my favorite of the boys at the school to join me under the table, and had begun to teach him to yell "Fuck you!" at everyone who passed as well. I imagine the conversations between my mom and the boy's mom later that day were pretty...interesting.

And I have given myself the silent, but sputtering, giggles no less than four times so far in just writing this. Wow.

In other news, my father has named his boat "Chicken of the Sea". Well, that's not how he intended it - he intended it to mean something more like "Seabird" or "Bird of the Ocean" - but that's one of the possible translations of the actual name. Do we see how naming things in other languages can sometimes backfire, now?

The good, the bad, and the horrifyingly expensive.

Tue, 10 Apr 2007 23:20:23 GMT

Since last I posted - what, a month ago? Two? - many things have taken place.

The good: I did well enough last quarter that the Academic Standing Committee has decided to drop my probationary status. I'm not getting kicked out of college (yet) after all! I've been on a wonderfully challenging and yet relaxing ten-day backpacking trip to the Arizona desert, had a great time, wonderful experiences, etc. Made some new friends. Prior to that, I got an unexpected four-day trip to go see my boyfriend, whom I didn't expect to get to see again until mid-June. Also, at the end of the trip, when I weighed myself, I'd lost four pounds.

The bad: The day before I got back from my trip, my pet rat Puka died. Luckily, she'd been at my mom's house and so didn't die alone. My mom sat with her and petted her, even though I couldn't be there.

The horrifyingly expensive: The day after I got back, when I drove up to my mom's to bury Puka and give back all the gear I'd borrowed from my brother to go backpacking with, I had some car trouble. And by car trouble I mean the car overheated on the freeway, the radiator cracked, I had to get it towed to a shop where I spent $385 getting a new radiator and fan, then had to spend $208 on a rental car for a few days so I wouldn't end up stranded in San Jose while my car got fixed, then discovered that my front tires were worn down to the point that metal was showing (which is very dangerous and likely to shred a tire very soon) so I had to spend another $150 getting new tires. Total cost: $743 - only $100 shy of equaling my entire share of the rent for the month. My dad is now balking at helping me out, even though he's supposed to be supporting me for my final year of college, and so I had to get my boyfriend to bail me out and keep the rent check from bouncing. I DESPISE money.

Well, no, that's not true. I'd like money, if I ever had enough. As it is, I never have enough, and so hate it.

Let's try this again...

Wed, 21 Feb 2007 02:02:25 GMT

After a four-day weekend at my mother's house, I'm home. I left the gift I bought for her at my house here, and almost left my sunglasses and the new digital scale I bought over the weekend at her house there. Whups? Ah, well. I'm here, and my rat is here, and my panties are here. What more do I need? Oh. Also, my hair straightener and my books are here. Therefore, my life is complete. -ish.

I have a midterm due tomorrow that I'm putting off writing, grocery shopping I'm putting off doing, and an entire weekend of eating out and not working-out to make up for. Whoo. Four days undid probably two weeks' worth of work. I love my mom, but in that respect, I dread going home.

*sigh* Must get to work. Must get to work. Must...

It's meeelting, it's meeelting!

Thu, 15 Feb 2007 07:40:27 GMT

I can't stand Crapentine's Day. Corporate-mandated "holiday" designed to make people feel guilty and buy things to alleviate that guilt. Pathetic. I've always been the "I'll express my love for you when I damn well feel like it!" kind of girl. Still am. Not to mention, my SO lives two thousand miles away from me and we only get to see each other about once every four to six months. So that kind of puts a damper on the whole Valentines thing. I'll admit to a tiny twinge of "but all the other girls have pretty flowers..." while walking around campus between classes today, but I quashed it pretty quickly.

But then I came home.

And, because my SO and I have discussed it and pretty much feel the same way about Valentines - or rather, I object on principle and he doesn't bother cause he spoils me rotten the whole year long anyway - I didn't expect anything unusual to happen today.

Which meant that the dozen fire-and-ice roses (my favorite kind! he remembered!) sitting on my computer with a card under them had about the same effect of a two-by-four upside the head, without the headache part.

I sat down and read the card - not going into detail, but it was terribly sweet and romantic and made me remember why I love him so much. Well, part of the reason anyway. He DOES have a nice ass, too. Anyway, by the time I'd finished reading the card I was all sniffly and gooey. Stereotypical female when confronted by not-cavemanlike male behavior. Ah, well. I enjoyed it. The roses are now sitting in a very pretty red glass vase that I had left over from some apology roses that got sent to my housemate's sister while she was crashing with us for a few nights. They're beautiful, and they make me smile every time I see them. And I think that's all he was trying to do.

Someone remind me to stop at Trader Joe's and pick up one of those little coffee-mug-miniature-rose-plants before I go to visit my mom on Friday, please. I think she needs to feel special, too.

DAMNIT!

Tue, 13 Feb 2007 17:52:34 GMT

Fucking hell. For the...what, third, fourth week in a row?...the scale is NOT going anywhere. Not to mention, I can't even tell if it's an accurate reading, because it's a dial scale, and the dial's all messed up. I'm deciding if I can afford to splurge on a digital scale.

But it is SO FRUSTRATING and incredibly discouraging to see that, despite working out all last week, despite trying to keep my food intake healthy and low-cal...it's not doing anything. Not doing any good. I'm just about ready to throw up my hands and say "Fine, I'm just NOT GOING TO EAT." See if that does it.

Either that, or I'm going to go curl up in bed and cry.

Maybe both.

That sound you hear, that is the sound of my brain cells throwing themselves off the nearest cliff

Tue, 13 Feb 2007 07:08:22 GMT

The fucking midterm.

Wasn't.

Due.

Until.

WEDNESDAY!!!