Mary Bellamy

Unlike some ex-boyfriends of mine, I did not go overboard on Thanksgiving. Dinner at Kevin's was a delightful potluck. I don't mean to sound egotistical, but I always feel bad when people bring desserts. Especially if they are calling their dish Bananas Foster when it is, in fact, friend bananas. I know Bananas Foster. I have made Bananas Foster. And that, sir, is no Bananas Foster. I did get a marriage proposal after just one cupcake. That might be a personal record.

After feasting, people kept rearranging their configurations in the apartment to better facilitate naps. Soon a plan formed to get the ingredients for White Russians and go to Hans and Eddie's place to watch The Big Lebowski. That certainly sounded like a good plan, but dammit, there were family traditions to uphold! And that, dear readers, is how Tom and I came to be at the movie theater, settling in for some Bond.

Oh, James. Why did this movie have to try to carry over plot from the previous film? I treasure all Bond movies as standalone experiences. If you've never seen any Bond before, you should be able to pick one at random and not be expected to know characters. (Yes, there's Bond and M, but those are so easy to figure out that they don't count.) However, the film earned extra points for having a foot chase, a car chase, a boat chase and a plane chase. And as soon as they showed the hotel that was powered by hydrogen fuel cells, Tom leaned over to tell me that it would blow up real good. It did blow up real good indeed. It goes against my female nature, but I do love it when shit blows up.

And on the subject of movies, I find it very difficult to be a movie goer in this town. I am not going to waste my time on shit like Madagascar 2. But there's only one real movie theater, so unless Adam decides to get certain films at the Loon, I'm kind of screwed. Here is a list of movies I demand to see: The Road; Synecdoche, New York; Slumdog Millionaire.

You know what I’m thankful for this year? Finding a box of my old photos and scanning some of them in. I could only find the negatives from a lot of the arty “I only shoot in black and white” days, so those will have to wait. But expect a few gems every now and then.

The holidays are here. I know that starting tomorrow morning there will be at least one radio station playing nothing but Christmas music. And thus I am doubly thankful that I have not only an iPod, but also a car with a working cd player. Fred Meyer seems to have decided that cinnamon is the official smell of Christmas. They’ve had their holiday display up for weeks, and the overwhelming smell turns my stomach.

Last night I went into a full-on frenzy of baking. The three desserts are done, though the cupcakes still need to be frosted. I’ll do that tomorrow morning. Although it is only Wednesday, tonight counts as a weekend night. I’ve got class until 8:30, and then I expect to meet up with Trista and Dara, ending up at the Marlin for open mic night.

At some point this weekend, I’d like to uphold family tradition and go see the new Bond movie. I’ve already declared Saturday to be a fancy shoes night with the sci fi/Bollywood group. I claimed desserts, since I imagine I might have some left over after Thanksgiving.

The final thing I am thankful for is Miss Leah Hill. She was eating her breakfast at drag rehearsal on Sunday. I had never thought of a bagel with goat cheese and bacon, but it does contain three of my favorite things: bread, goat cheese and bacon. I finally went to Lulu’s and ordered one this morning. OMFG. Good stuff.

The stock market keeps plunging, and I’m alternating between calculating my losses for this year and wanting to throw more money into it. But, for the foreseeable future, my money is going toward land and building a house. I got a promotion and pay raise, which kind of translates into “Mary is a grown up now,” plus I’ve been in Alaska almost 6 years now. It’s time to settle down.

So what did I do with my newfound wealth? New Fluevogs? I wish! No, I set up a high APY savings account that automatically sucks money from my bank every time my paycheck gets deposited. I figured I was living comfortably on what I earned before, so ALL of my raise, plus some extra, goes away every other week. I feel so mature. And I still wish I had new Fluevogs. Specifically, these:

Hotness, right?

Strange things are afoot in Alaska. For instance, last night I found myself flirting with two guys. Well, technically I was flirting with three, but two of them were simultaneous. It was a delightfully awkward situation. Tonight my troupe must decide if we will continue our domination of the Fairbanks dance scene by assimilating a new dancer, Borg-style. And tomorrow night I am going to check out a new restaurant, go see Laramie Project and just maybe coax someone to my sauna.

I'm doing desserts for Thanksgiving. No, I mean I'm doing desserts. Like Martha Stewart on a bender. Like Betty Crackwhore. I'm planning on no less than three dessert options. I even found a cupcake stand at Value Village. It was $0.99, of course I bought it!

Speaking of $0.99 day at Value Village, someone scored herself a new fur coat. It fits with my aesthetic, but I can't wear it to the bars because then it will smell. I've not yet figured out how to get the smell of smoke or fried foods out of dead animals.

And speaking of new things (you follow my train of random thoughts?), I have a new computer. Just a cute lil' thing with 1 TB of hard drive space. Nothing to write home about. Dual processors, 8 cores, nothing fancy. This also means an upgrade to Leopard, which I am thus far not a fan of.

Confidential note to NB: It's not creepy to read my blog. Blogging just makes stalking easier!

I thought that Dove Promises were supposed to contain words of encouragement. You know, sappy shit about the light within. The instructor has been giving these out as our prizes, and my candy has been encouraging inappropriate behavior.

I'm such a brown-noser. I'm in a training class all week, and the teacher is handing out chocolate if we answer questions correctly. I am already the sort of person who always has her hand up first and desperately wants to be right. I don't necessarily need the chocolate encouragement. But just for the record, I'm currently kicking the collective ass of the rest of the class. I even gave away one answer to Jeff Fay today. No sense in making it a total sweep.

Once again, I say that you always learn something at the Marlin.

Tonight I learned that:

a) I still like to smoke clove cigarettes. Don't worry, I didn't actually smoke one. I just kept grabbing Sean's Djarum. Does this mean I'm a smoker again?

b) No matter how smooth he talks, don't let a man buy you a "Bloody Mary martini." It is NO substitute for a dirty martini.

c) They still remember the wee top hat. Oh yes, they do!

Thanks, America. It feels good not to be totally disenfranchised anymore.

Halloween should never be on a Friday. It's dangerous. But I put some work into my costume this year, so I couldn't not go out.

Dara and James interfered with my plans to nap after work on Friday, so I didn't get my pre-party rest. After dinner, we decided to go to a party at a drummer's house, which was conveniently located across the street from the Marlin. Since the car was so conveniently parked, I walked across the street to partake of the Marlin for a bit. It was disconcerting to see other people in costume there. That's the downside to being a random costume wearer - sometimes it's not just you and your friends.

Although I had plans to go to the Loon, I found myself still at the Marlin at 2:30. I opted to just go home at that point.

On Saturday night, I went to Tom's house to get ready for Dead Writers. The Cliff Notes: English grad students dress up as dead writers and read their works. Somehow this turns into a lot of topless performances.

Tom was a very smashing Noah Webster, reading from the dictionary. Nerd. I think the cravat I made for him really made the outfit.


Dead Writers was followed by Latin dancing, which was, in turn, followed by the Oasis. Tom and I ran into some actor friends there, and then I kind of sort of accidentally maybe invited his ex-girlfriend to meet us at the bar. In a roundabout fashion. For which I've apologized.

Sunday was a day for rest. After starting a fire and installing a door closer on the sauna, we had dinner and went out for some quality sweating time. And now it's back to work and to the mad rush to get everything packed up and out the door for Supercomputing Convention 2008. Ugh.

I think that “There’s a Hole in the Bucket” is not so much a children’s song as an example of dialogue between a frustrated woman and a lazy, passive-aggressive man.

Not this year's costume. Not any of this year's costumes. But a picture of me in costume nonetheless.

Someone used the phrase “interwebs” in a presentation at the ARSC staff meeting today. It was Halloween, so the meeting was particularly festive. Since tonight’s outfit is not work-appropriate, I simply grabbed one of my normal “wear-a-costume-to-the-Marlin” ensembles, in this case the Schoolgirl. I toned it down a bit, wearing a looser sweater, but I did put on white knee-high fishnets. I think my new retainers really complete the schoolgirl look. Did I mention I was getting some orthodontic work done? I got the retainers on Wednesday and my word! They sure are sparkly. I did opt for the silver glitter "Elvis in Vegas" model. So now my teeth hurt and I'm slurring when I talk, which just makes my coworkers think I've been drinking.

I’m getting tired of trying to coordinate many schedules so that we can all meet up tonight. I think a nap is in order after work so that I can be rested and ready to go for hours. We’re hoping to hit multiple stops tonight. Tomorrow night will require yet another costume, but only one bar. I'll be supporting Tom in his quest for the top prize at Dead Writers. Let's hope that guy from last year doesn't copy him again.


Tom as the best Hunter S. Thompson last year. Until the OTHER Hunter S. Thompson won first. Bastard!

Who knew a post about an alcohol-fueled weekend would inspire comments and e-mails? But in a grand service, I have decided to stop addressing my readers indirectly and instead address them directly.

Anonymous Admirer asks “Was the Trek talk/flirting about TOS, TNG, DS9, Voyager, or, (god forbid) Enterprise?”
Although we touched briefly on some of the other series, mostly the conversation focused on my recent attempts to watch DS9. I know, I know. I always thought it was crappy too. But after listening to 20+ podcasts of Make It So, I decided that if two fucking funny British nerds listed it as their second-favorite series (after TNG, of course), it might be worth another look. Thus far (5 episodes into season 1), some of the acting has been remarkably wooden. I find myself once again wondering why Miles O’Brien is around. Clearly I’m supposed to like him, but I just can’t do it. A pleasant surprise, though, is Quark. Normally Ferengis just annoy me, with their thick way of talking that you just know involves lots of spraying spit. Quark has had some good lines, though, and I find myself hoping for some character development.

John from Nashville says “I just really need to know...what is MFA....”
MFA stands for Masters of Fine Arts, in this case all from the Creative Writing department. This advanced degree virtually ensures that you’ll spend the rest of your days teaching high school kids and trying to convince people to play Scrabble at cocktail parties. I’m just kidding. Or maybe I’m not.

And finally, a confidential note to one of my readers: The Constitution guarantees your right to free speech. So thanks for breaking one of your rules and telling me what you think. As it so happens, you are in the majority.

On a side not, the title for my car finally arrived. That means I can now get real plates and, more importantly, can get vanity plates. It’s not too late to vote in my vanity plate reader poll!

Another long weekend has come and gone. After the drama during the week, I managed to get out and about several times without running into any unpleasantness, which I count as a victory.

Friday night was, as expected, quite a treat. I met Tom at an English department reading, then he and I went out for Korean food and complaining. He works very well as a friend, and the best part of the whole breakup is that I no longer have to share my food with him. We headed back to his place so he could plug his car in to go to a bonfire while I changed into a costume. The Good Daze were playing at the Marlin and had declared it Viking night. I was only able to find one Viking costume in town, and the package referred to it as “Viking Vixen.” It was indecent even by Mary-wearing-a-costume-at-the-Marlin standards, so I had sewn another skirt to go underneath it. Tom kindly cut the skirt up to a more desirable (read: shorter) length, and then we headed our separate ways.

If you’ve never been to the Marlin before, I must tell you that you have to descend some stairs into the basement before you enter. Once inside, you’re pretty much on the stage. I fear for the noob who tried to visit the bar for the first time on Friday, for he or she likely walked in as the entire bar was singing along to a Viking song, mostly dressed in costume.

I had the pleasant experience of flirting with someone. Actually, I have that experience several times a week, but in this instance the flirting soon turned to talk of Star Trek. It’s a good bet that you can win my heart through geek talk. Too bad I got blocked by some skinny girls from the Pub Line.

Saturday found me baking up a storm in preparation for a round of events that evening. The best-laid plans always fail, though. I brought baked goods #1 to a bonfire at Kendall and Wayne’s house. I was supposed to bring baked goods #2 to JK’s going-away party at Chris John George’s Rock Band extravaganza, but instead found myself at a quite acoustic concert in a candle-lit Pub. Sista Trista and I quickly departed that scene in favor of the Marlin, where the Good Daze were once again playing, though this time in their street clothes. More flirting with the Trek guy, more MFA action, then someone force-fed me part of their hotdog and I realized it was time to get out of the Marlin. Which is how I ended up at the Big I, where I found Christi, Gary and Steven. Christi had not mentioned her birthday, but fortunately I just happened to have baked goods #2 in the car (still). Gary dubbed me Betty Crackwhore. I take it as a compliment.

Sunday should have been a day of rest, but Tom and I had agreed to usher at a play. OMG. Our friend Brandon directed “Wait Until Dark,” and it is fantastic! Holly Carroll, Mike Karoly and Shannon Luster are a particularly talented trio, and they helped put on what will easily be the best play at FDA this season. After that, I canceled my sauna plans in favor of a night of Halloween costume sewing. I really do plan to cut back on my going out, but it will have to happen after next weekend. I’ve been working on the costume for a while, though I’m not giving hints just yet. Pictures to come.

Yeah, so maybe there's truth to that whole "Mary shouldn't be around kids" thing. I do lack the internal censor necessary to keep me PG or even PG13.

And speaking of underage girls, I heard some disturbing facts about my ex tonight. And then he showed up at the bar. And proceeded not to talk to me. WTF? This was the guy who, when I broke up with him, proclaimed that he loved me and wanted to be my friend and still wanted to hold me in his arms. I guess a lot can change in a few weeks. Thinking back on it, he did tell me in our first conversation that he didn't believe that exes could be friends. I guess Tom Moran will remain the only exception to that rule.

On the bright side, I met a guy tonight who just wanted to dance. Well, just wanted to twirl me around enough to raise my skirt. I think is name was Charles. And a group of the MFAs showed up again, including the one I have a vague crush on. Too bad they're all smokers.

Why do the authors wait until page 297 of an instructional book to tell you how to start a project? I’m trying to use Final Cut Pro to edit a time-lapse movie I made of the construction of our newest supercomputer, and it’s been about 3 years since I’ve used the program. However, Diana Weynand has seen fit to spend the first 296 pages teaching me how to edit my film. On page 297, we start to get into how to get my film on the computer in the first place. The logic defies me. Plus, as it turns out, I remember how to do it.

I had a strange dream last night. I’m on Facebook and have been running into a lot of old high school friends there. (Can I call them friends? I don’t recall having many friends in high school, but there they all are...) I dreamed that a whole bunch of them started working with me. It bugged me because the powers that be decided to take away my cubicle and just have us all working together at a bunch of desks. It got to the point where I wanted to see if I could just share a cubicle with my supervisor. Interestingly enough, the only classmates I recall from this dream were all male.

Seriously, do these lines normally work? I went to Tom's reading last night, which meant drinks afterward at the Pub, which meant the rest of the MFA students showing up later on and quickly wising up to the fact that there was a female in their midst. Naturally, the cute Asian one was not flirting with me. Sigh. Why must I be white and therefore somehow off-limits to most Asian men?

The new rims for the snow tires?

Did.
Not.
Fit.

I gave up and went home to eat my breakfast and contemplate the situation. The flood gods have shined on me, and among the pile of shit that floated to my house was a tire on a rim. A tire on a rim that fits my car. Don't ask, because I don't want to know. But if you want your tire back, you'll need to pick up your 55-gallon fuel drum, 3 ripped tarps, 2 sleds, pile of stuffed animals, jacket, 2 garbage cans, wood pallet, wire spool and raft too. We ended up with a lot shit, but at least one bit was useful.

Still need to figure out those tires, though.

My new car did not come with a spare tire. But don't worry - Robin and I went to a junkyard in Portland where we got a full-size tire mounted on a rim for $16. I've been thinking about this as I contemplate paying $70 and up per rim to get my new snow tires mounted. And that's just for one rim, mind you.

Fortunately I never had to use the spare while Tom and I were driving the Alcan to get back home. Today I got a flat on my way to Pilates class. I swapped out the tire, and lo and behold the spare tire fits! Well, fits on the bolt pattern. When I tried to drive the car, the wheel grinds horribly and the car jerks. Now, I'm no mechanic, but that ain't good. So after leaving a message for Tom to please drive to work today, I walked to campus. (And did I mention I've been meaning to leave an extra hat and gloves, etc. in the car but haven't gotten to it yet? Good thing I decided to wear pants and practical shoes today.)

Since Tom did not get my message in time and biked in, I am beginning a delicate dance of getting Liz to pick me up and work and drive me to Tom's house to fetch his car (again with the reasons why we're still friends), then I can grab my dead tire, drive to the tire shop, hope that my snow tires have been mounted on the rims by now, possibly fall back on the alternate plan of getting a new tire, maybe find some time to get breakfast, and finally get around to actually doing some work.

I baked a cake last night and left it in my car. If it was here, I'd probably eat it right now. Instead, I can use it to reward Tom and Liz for helping me.

Boy, these election years sure do keep my social life hopping. The picture above is Hayley, me and Liz at the VP debate the Blue Loon last week. Liz won at Palin bingo, damn her. Since one debate is never enough, I ventured back to the Loon last night with Stefan to watch McCain and Obama go at it.

For someone who pays attention to politics like she pays attention to sports (i.e. every four years when the big events come around), it might not have been a wise idea to attend a debate with a former political reporter. Stefan is pretty cool, but I felt politically out-classed. Good thing he had forgotten that borough elections were yesterday, whereas I had already voted. Ha! One point for Mary.

The debate went much as I expected: McCain looked like a confused old man and I felt a little bad for him, especially since we’re friends. Very good friends. He kept calling me his friend throughout the night. I finally leaned over to Stefan and suggested we get a bottle of hard liquor and start playing a drinking game. Memo to the senator: You’re not even my MySpace friend.

All in all, a good evening, even if it did end in the destruction of my final pair of nude fishnets. I can’t find them anywhere in town, so I’m going to have to order them online. Someone asked me recently if I was going to keep wearing fishnets and heels throughout the winter. The answer is yes, yes I am. If other people can keep wearing shorts or sandals when there is snow on the ground, I can wear fishnets and heels. They go better with my dresses than stripey polypros and bunny boots anyway.

A breakup forces me to look philosophically at my romantic life. I never regret anything I do in my life, and I don't regret any of my past relationships although at times I feel like I wasted time before ending things. But from each relationship, I found a lesson. Some of the bigger ones:

J.R. A high school fling. If a boy says he loves you, actions speak louder than words. For instance, if you fight and he then sleeps with a mutual friend, he probably doesn't actually love you. You are perfectly within your means to never speak to him again.
Lesson learned: Don't listen to what people say, but do pay attention to how they act.

Ted My first love. Breakups happen for a reason. You can't control when they come, but you can control how you react afterward. Fortunately, Ted provided numerous chances for me to learn this lesson, as we broke up every six months for many, many years. I got to experience some horrific breakups this way, the kind that left me sobbing and calling my sister in California for hours of consolation. But, like a fool, I took him back every time. Well, every time until the last time.
Lesson learned: It's hard to keep going down the same road. Relationships don't fail for no reason, and it's usually best to leave them broken up.

Tom My best friend. Sometimes a guy can be right for you in so many way. So very many ways, but there's still something missing. We had 5 years of mutual love and respect, and he showed me that I deserve someone who is considerate of my feelings. I still consider him my best friend and the one person who knows me better than even my family. It hurt like hell to end things, but I ended up being able to keep him.
Lesson learned: Stop dating guys you wouldn't want to be friends with. And if you value him enough, you'll want him to be happy again after the breakup, instead of hoping he'll always be miserable without you. (Even though I'm the awesomest person on Earth and he'll never be more compatible with anyone!)

Robin My recent ex. It's hard not to sum this up as a rebound fling, but I did think it was a relationship since we lasted about 6 months. Maybe I'm just getting older, but it's hard to waste time when it becomes clear that the relationship can't go anywhere.
Lesson learned: Don't waste your energy trying to make something work. The first time someone does something cruel should be the last time. This would have made me single again by June, but live and learn.

So as I re-enter the dating scene (quite literally tomorrow), I'm trying to look at my past and figure out where I've gone wrong. The big thing that jumps out is that I fall into relationships too quickly. When I meet someone I really like, I don't see the point of dating anyone else, which means I get to that "exclusive" place far too quickly. It pushes things along too fast and blinds me to other possibilities. The other big issue is the "project boyfriend," aka my-love-can-change-him. I don't want to find someone who's good is some ways but really bad in others. I don't want someone to rely on me to help them change into a better person. I want that better person now. I want someone who meets a reasonable amount of my needs, who is considerate of my feelings, and who has their shit together enough to be content in their lives. I'm tired of transitions. So my goal is pretty much the same that it was until March: Enjoy single life, date a lot, get to know a lot of people, hold off on a relationship until I'm sure it's someone I want to be with. And this time I'll make sure he's someone I would consider a friend, too.

I have found the gays. It was supposed to just be a costume night at the bars (not for everyone, mind you, just me and my friends. We are in your bars, wearing costumes), but apparently there was a drag show across town. It ended, and the bar was infiltrated. Joy!

I know what you're thinking. "Mary, if you just broke up with your boyfriend, shouldn't you be looking for a straight man?" But the answer is no! Since Jeremy left, I've got no gay boyfriends left. And a girl needs to be surrounded by hot men who wink, flirt, dance and appreciate her wee little top hat.

Did I mention I was wearing a wee little top hat?

Today I am going to answer all questions in Palin-ese.







I wish somebody would ask me a question.

So I broke up with my boyfriend last night. Did I also mention that I’m a firm believer in jumping right into a conversation?

Anyway, don’t cry for me or send me gentle comments of regret and sympathy. It had been coming for a while. I started thinking about it before I returned to Alaska, but some wise friends suggested that perhaps I ought not make decisions about my relationship while I was suffering from depression. Good advice, but I found that my therapist and I were mostly talking about why I was unhappy in the relationship. I ended therapy last week, which was about one week after I resolved that it was over. That it took two weeks after I made up my mind to actually see him and end it is an entirely different story.

Can I keep his mom in the breakup? I mean, his dog is cool and all, but I really like his mom. Maybe we can split her and I’ll get her every other weekend and two weeks in the summer.

But more importantly, I am single once again. Kind of the way I wanted to be when I broke up with Tom in January. And you know what that means …. time for a costume night with my girls.

1) Arse Elektronika. Apparently, it's some sort of dirty conference. This year's theme? "Do Androids Sleep With Electric Sheep? Critical Perspectives on Sexuality and Pornography in Science and Social Fiction"

2) Are the kids these days really feathering their hair? Even the boys? God I feel old. But this reminds me why I prefer bald men. It's so much harder for them to have fucked up hair as long as they stay current on the shaving.

It’s the weekend. Oh yeah! What’s on my to-do list?
* A beer tasting tonight. Bonus: It’s at the Winter Show, so I can see all the latest snowmachines! I plan to follow the beer up with a trip to the Marlin for, well, more beer. And dancing!
* Chores chores chores. Bob is doing a great job of attacking our woodpile, but I’ve got to clean up the yard a bit and try to round up the errant wood that floated away during the flood. Plus I ought to:

• Put my old studded tires on Craigslist
• Do my drawing homework
• Finish some sewing projects
• Clean my room
• Winterize my car
• Install the closer on the sauna door
• Start downloading the Mira Betz video (I am sooo behind on this project!)
• Rehearse Victoria’s breakdancing robot choreography
• Have brunch with Amanda and get caught up
• Go to an organization meeting for Barack the Vote
• Fix my personal life
• Hit up the library for some DVDs I have on hold
• Value Village misses me
• Apply for disaster assistance from the flood
• Place a massive order from Amazon, which kind of requires me to go to Barnes and Noble for some research
• Try to avoid making any baked goods. The stress baking has got to stop. Can't I just start stress running? Or stress swimming? Or not stressing?
  

I added a new feature to my sidebar - an online playlist of music I'm currently digging. It should be updated about as often as the "books I'm reading" list. I have been tinkering with the code that the music site generated, and have removed the annoying links, but can't quite get it to size up to my sidebar properly. That may be a task for another day.

Congrats to Tom, who completed another Equinox marathon in fine form. And then realized that it was going to hurt to bike home after running 26+ miles.

My current random thoughts:

• Is it wrong to decide to stay in Fairbanks simply because the dry climate here gives me great hair?
• Are the Palin hackers after me, too? Because someone was tinkering with my Yahoo! account. Good thing I rarely use that one anymore. I'm going to delete a bunch of stuff from it.
• I like coming home and seeing my wood pile growing. Almost as much as I like scoring almost half a cord for $37.
  

OK, the log didn’t really win in the end. I’ll get the last laugh as I burn the bastards in my woodstove this winter. This weekend Marmian and I decided to tackle the firewood project. I have a friend of a friend who had some cut wood, some downed trees and some standing dead trees she wanted off her land. Two women, two trucks, one chainsaw. We went to work on Saturday afternoon, cutting down trees, loading up cut wood and lengths and hauling it to our respective house. We managed to put away four truckloads in about five hours. I fled to Chena Hot Springs that night to:

a) soak my aching bones
b) bid a fond farewell to Victoria, who leaves Alaska on Tuesday

After downing some ibuprofen before bed, I awoke to sore and achy muscles on Sunday. Nevertheless, Marmian and I drove out again for more wood. We were pickier this time, cutting into the downed trees to determine the quality of the wood before proceeding. We were also a hell of a lot slower, getting just two truckloads in four hours. A lot of that time was spent debating a particularly heavy piece of wood that was good for burning but was going to be a bitch to cut down, load, unload and split. In the end, I made a persuasive argument that healthy forests flourish when a certain amount of organic matter is left to decay and feed the young trees, and we left that piece there.

We made the mistake of stopping at Carl’s Jr. on the way back into town. This was a mistake not only because I ate another deadly bacon guacamole burger, but also because we sat down, then discovered our muscles had stiffened, leaving us nearly unable to stand up again.

It’s all worth it, though, to look at the large pile of wood next to my driveway. Next weekend I’m going to put the roommate to work cutting wood down to length, splitting wood and gathering kindling. Marmian and I hope to make one more run out to the property for more wood, and I’m also going to get a load of slab wood for fire starting purposes. When you combine this with the triumphant return of my furnace, I’m starting to feel more prepared for winter.

And war wounds? I gots ‘em.

The insurance adjuster called. My car is a total loss. He said it was underwater for over a week. Um, yeah, I knew that. Now if you could please figure out if you’re going to give me any money for it, I’d greatly appreciate it. Speaking of money, today is PFD-and-energy-rebate day. $3,269 in my account. Ka-ching! Things are looking tough but not undoable for the winter. I think any car money will just go into my Roth IRA and the extra into mutual funds. And next year I'll probably head back to the land of small dry cabins. They're cheaper to heat.

Things that excite me:

• my furnace appears to be fixed
• sauna party tonight
• the new Jenny Lewis album hits stores in 11 days
• hot springs with the dance troupe tomorrow, possibly followed by dancing at the Marlin
• gathering some free firewood with Marmian tomorrow
• my shiny new “Picard/Riker ‘08: Leadership for the Next Generation” T-shirt. order yours here!
• a 4-mile run this morning

Things that do not excite me:

• the overwhelming aroma of fuel oil that woke me from a dead sleep this morning
• the prospect of paying a LOT of money for more firewood
• this week at work - lots of Department of Defense people here for the annual security review
• women who will vote for Palin just because she has ovaries
• art class - I hope this moves into the other category soon

But Christopher Walken? He's the scariest man in the world. He'll kick your puppy if you look at him wrong.

	Make your own at MoreCowbell.dj

I've been having fun since I found this site a few days ago....

It's not just the insomnia that has my stomach in knots. Though my staggered sleep sessions and lack of proper food today certainly have me off balance. Tomorrow I start my evening class for the fall semester. If you didn't know, I've started taking some foundation classes for possibly getting another degree in graphic design. UAF doesn't offer such a degree, so I'm just getting a lot of the basics out of the way, and I'll look into transferring when I'm ready to move on.

What class, you may ask, has me so worried? Basic Drawing. Why am I scared of drawing? I'm so Type A. I like things to be under my control and as perfect as possible. However, I lack artistic skills. And now I have no choice but to take a drawing class. And seriously, when I try to draw an apple, it had better fucking look like an apple!! Whoa. Deep breaths. This is going to be a humbling experience.

4:42 a.m. and I'm posting? Insomnia has struck again. It doesn't come often, but there's no way to fight it when it happens. I'm just glad it usually doesn't occur during the week. I've found that the only viable solution is to go into work at around 3 a.m. and just try to pull off a full 8 hours. By that time, I'm often ready to go to bed and try to realign my sleep schedule. My bosses have always been pretty flexible with my schedule, but it's still strange for them to find me working feverishly at 7 a.m. and then watch me depart before noon.

Despite my hopes that returning home might ease the depression that resulted from my extended trip to Connecticut, I'm still in a bit of a funk. The random crying jags seem to be lessening, but the return hasn't been the cure I'd hoped it might be. I still have my house, which survived the flood, but share it with two new people. We do not have our heat back yet, so I am curled up under an electric blanket borrowed from a co-worker. My relationship is in a weird place that I don't want to think about or define right now, as the only logical thing seems to be to end it. Am I being overly analytical? I started therapy on Friday. Some wise and cranky old vegans told me that it was OK to feel sad, especially given the amount of crap I've had to deal with in the last 2 months. I'm hoping to get out of therapy without any medications, but when I lay awake at night, my stomach twisting in knots as my mind races and picks apart every aspect of my life, analyzing all problems and possible outcomes, well, it starts to seem like a magic pill might be a good thing.

Yawn. I'm going to read car repair forums until I feel tired enough to tackle this "sleep" thing again.

4/29truth.com has a beverage-spewingly funny post. I'm not going to violate their copyright and reproduce it, because you can just click the link right here.

OK, I'll spoil it a little. McCain is a Cylon.

Seriously, go read!

I nearly fucked up my entire blog just trying to put in a new element. Somebody please remind me that I cannot use the new version of Blogger. My XML isn't valid and I haven't the energy to look at it. I don't have the energy for much these days, but that's a story for another day.

Today is the day I put it all in the hands of you, the readers. I am back in Fairbanks with my shiny new-ish car. And since I've got many weeks yet before I can actually register it in Alaska, I've got time to think. I'm thinking vanity plates. I've never done them before because, well, my cars don't last that long. But this one had better last, dammit. I'm going to make the $30 investment that share my passion, my pride AND my joy with the world.

So, what will they say? Well, that's where you come in. I'm putting up a poll to let you vote on what my new vanity plates should read. I'm going to give you several options, along with the "Other (See comments)" option that will allow you to make your own suggestions. And per a discussion with Christi and Tom today, I am pretty sure that the DMV will not let me put "Asshat" on my car.

 What should I get on the vanity plates for my new car?

• 
  
  fonts Because I am a font dork


• 
  
  fusion Tribal fusion dance


• 
  
  bllywd My love of Bollywood knows no bounds


• 
  
  picard See above, substitute Jean-Luc


• 
  
  trek Simple, classic, probably taken. Hell, "Imzadi" is taken


• 
  
  jedi A lone Star Wars reference


• 
  
  borg Really, this would only work if I owned a Scion


• 
  
  nxt gen Easily misunderstood, but of course it's a nerdy reference


• 
  
  srk lvr Shahrukh Khan lover


• 
  
  frak Alternate spelling: frack


• 
  
  frak me More likely to be nixed by the DMV


• 
  
  jeebus To match the possible Jeebus fish


• 
  
  ganesh Because these days I feel like I need an elephant god to guide me safely through my journeys


• 
  
  other (see comments) Go ahead, make a suggestion

view results
Free vote poll

Screw this country. I haven't had cell reception anywhere yet. I'm holed up in a tiny 8x8 cabin because it
a) has wi-fi (again, the first I've encountered in Canada)
b) has a shower next door

I'm in Whitehorse after some epic 800-mile days, getting ready to push for home.

My dad got out of the hospital on Tuesday. He went back into the hospital today. But it's a different hospital this time.

I'm starting to think he's just pulling this shit to keep me around. If you can have Munchausen syndrome by proxy, does he just have Munchausen syndrome? Or is it my mom who is secretly poisoning him?

Once again, I'm feeling like I'll never get home. My cat is an orphan. She was evacuated by canoe to my ex-boyfriend's house, then over to Dara's. Dara is in New England now, and I think her family is checking in on the cat. Or she has a friend staying at her place. Or something like that. Nibbles is going to totally snub me when I get home.

Tom always says I shouldn't quote myself in my blog. Which lead me to....


My dad is recovering, but slowly. His heart is not repairing itself after that heart attack, so tomorrow the doctors are going in again. They'll do another angiogram, then place two more stents to help repair his hear. Dad is being persnickety, and refuses to let the nurses take any more blood for tests. I can't really blame him, since one arm is completely shot, and the other is covered with bruises and track marks.

But it can't all be hospital time, so Saturday I joined my sister and brother-in-law for a trip to the casino. They had tickets to see Chris Rock, but not me. No, I went to see Charo. If you don't know, Charo is like the Shakira of the Rat Pack. Like if Dolly Parton and Elvis had a Spanish daughter.

She's a big hit with the gay crowd, and it's easy to see why. It's hard to explain the singular joy of a Charo concert. She's loud, Latin and campy. And a little bit of me will always be with her. Because my hair got caught in her costume bodice. How did that happen? Don't ask.

But don't think she's nothing but Vegas. In the second half of the show, she toned things down, pulled out her acoustic guitar and started to play. She's trained with Andres Segovia, and it shows—the woman can play! Yet another free concert that was worth every penny. And I spent most of them in the magic crystal martini mountain after the show.

I'm in Connecticut, dealing with my father's health. My work laptop is wonky, slowing down my efforts to do my job remotely. I don't know if my house is livable or if I'll have to move when I get back. I don't know where my cat is living these days. I don't know if my boyfriend is aware that I'm still alive.

It's one of those not-good days.

Where did I last leave my updates? I don't think I've been very forthcoming in blogular terms.

My father had the surgery last week. The stent was successfully placed, meaning they won't have to do open heart surgery. This is normally cause for rejoicing, but you don't know my father and hospitals. A bout of Legionnaire's Disease about 30 years ago left doctors wondering what the long-term effects on his health would be. Apparently, it results in a bad case of everything-that-can-go-wrong-will-go-wrong-itis. Seriously, he's 61 and has the circulatory system of a 90-year-old man. He's already had a triple bypass about 5 years ago.

So, bearing that in mind, he got the stent. And then he started having bad back pain. And then he lost feeling in part of his body. Paralysis was a risk with the surgery, and it's been one of his big fears. All this stress combined with recovering for surgery is a recipe for disaster, and thus he had a heart attack. And then the doctors found fluid building up in his lungs. And so they sedated him and put him on breathing machines, aka life support. And then he regained consciousness long enough to rip out his tubes, causing a panic in the cardiac intensive care unit. And so now he's sedated once again and tied to the bed, just in case he wakes up.

The doctors estimate he'll be in ICU for at least another week, then about a month more in the hospital before he can come home. And if I sound flip and not too concerned, well, just bear in mind that I joke my way through any tough situations.

To distract myself, I went down to Mystic on Sunday for brunch at Kitchen Little with Meg. Mystic is my old stomping grounds - I spent my formative teenage years hanging out at the Green Marble coffee shop, mocking tourists, getting up to all sorts of no good. It felt weird to be back, though I skipped downtown because it was the outdoor art festival weekend, which is always a madhouse. And in case you're wondering, yes it is the Mystic of Mystic Pizza.

In the evening, I headed for the casinos. OK, it's true that I grew up in the country. It is also now true that the largest casinos in the world have been built in that countryside, which is a little freaky. But it also means concerts. On this particular night, at this particular casino (Mohegan Sun, instead of Foxwoods), I had my choice of three concerts. I could have gone to rock with the old hippies at Jethro Tull. I could have schmoozed with the blue hairs at the Smothers Brothers. But both of those cost money, and I have highly honed skills for getting a cheap night out at casinos. So I opted for the free show by They Might Be Giants. One local ale and one giant foam finger later, I was chatting up the people at my table and then bopping along to the entirety of the Apollo 18 album, plus a few extras and a few encores. The band dubbed it the "Night of 1,000 Fuckups." They came pretty close to success.

Today it's back to business. And by "business" I mean "sitting on my ass in the hospital instead of at home."

In an effort to save some money, I used some Alaska Airlines miles to get to Seattle, then bought a ticket from Seattle to Hartford. Clever, yes? No.

My father's surgery did not happen last week, which means my flights home tomorrow won't happen. And now I have to deal with two airlines.

My tickets on United? It seems the best thing to do is just not show up for the flight. It will cost me a $150 airline change fee, a $30 Orbitz fee plus the cost difference for a new ticket, which is around $120. Grand total: $300. On a $475 ticket. I can get a one-way ticket for under $300, so why bother jumping through these hoops, especially with the possibility of my flights changing again?

My tickets on Alaska? I cancelled the return leg. For right now they aren't charging me anything, but they're also holding my 10,000 miles for that leg of the ticket hostage. If I rebook that specific leg, I will be charged $100. If I don't rebook it and buy a car and drive back, which is looking increasingly likely, I forfeit the return and lose the miles but don't have to pay the $100.

And why, you may ask, would I consider driving back?



My car is the blue one in the back. Apparently the ground is much lower in that part of the driveway - who knew? So, why rush to get home? I'll just have to canoe in to my house and try to find a car in town to buy. Might as well see if I can get a better deal in the Lower 48 and drive back.

• Soy and mirin glazed tofu with spicy peanut sauce
• Dairy Queen soft serve ice cream
• Wasabi goat cheese
• Sushi
• All-you-can-eat Indian lunch buffet (and I can eat a lot)
• Mango ginger stilton
• Devil dogs
• Apricot wheat germ muffins
• Bombay fruit salad
• Corned beef hash — this was in the hospital cafeteria, where apparently they don't believe in overcooking it so that part of it gets all burnt and crispy
  

I know that no one ever believes me when I say I'm from the country. No one believes that Connecticut has any countryside left. But really, it does - mostly in the small area around my parents' house. Examples:

• Upon leaving the house to head to town for some groceries on Monday, I promptly got stuck behind a tractor.
• The farm stand has pies for sale on Tuesdays.
• While in the entryway looking at a flyer for a haunted pumpkin ride (not happening until October), I realized that the bank smells like manure.
• We stopped by the general store for grinders (know as sub sandwiches to the rest of you). The general store is located on the town green. I think it sells chicken feed along with people feed.
• Sign on the road: Baby donkey, $500.

I've realized that I miss big trees and old buildings, neither of which are present in Alaska. I snicker inside when people talk about preserving a historic building in Fairbanks that has been there for 100 years. I grew up in a 300-year-old farmhouse.

And now for the update on my dad. We went to the hospital on Wednesday, leaving at 5:30 in the morning to get there on time. It is not sunny in CT at 5:30 a.m. Chalk one up for Fairbanks. A lot of the day was spent doing tests, including an angiogram. The two surgeons needed to talk with each other about the best way to proceed, so naturally one of them was in surgery most of the day. We left the hospital with a "We'll call you about scheduling surgery sometime within the next two weeks." That was a little disconcerting, as I came home on Family Medical Leave expecting that the emergency surgery would happen immediately (as in the day we went ot the hospital) and I could return to Alaska the next week. All jokes in my previous post aside, this is not a vacation and I am not at the beach. But I have had some damn good cheese.

The good news is that the FDA has finally approved the procedure they want to try on my dad, and the surgeons say he is just within the limits for them to do the surgery. For right now, the surgery is scheduled for next week. I wish I had more news of any sort, but I don't.

So I fly to Connecticut because my father is sick and in need of surgery. And while I'm here, dealing with this, what happens?

Oh, does that look bad? Let's take a look at the close-up.


I know I have a history of bad language on this blog, but seriously? Seriously? Fuck me.

According to my roommate, the water is around 3 feet deep. Our landlord dropped off a canoe. The rain stopped this morning, but the water is a few inches from getting into the house. And it will keep rising even after the rain has stopped.

My friends are trying to mount a rescue effort while I sit here, 5,000 miles away, unable to shake the feeling that I'm screwed.

Trapped in D.C. No flights out until tomorrow, if then. Almost rented a car to drive back. Have been up since 9 a.m. Saturday. Have not eaten since 5 this morning. Must find food or will eat my own foot. All clothing, toiletries, etc. in checked bag trapped at airport. Just found laptop charger and am now very happy. May start using full sentences soon.

Ugh. Travel commences tonight. I don't normally mind traveling, but buying a last-minute ticket means taking whatever The Man has to dish out. In other words, it's the middle seat for me. I've got a total of 6 flights on this trip, with one aisle seat and only one precious window. I think I hate everyone else on those planes who had the luxury of planning ahead for their trips.

10 days on the East Coast. I've told my father that the only reason I'm actually coming home is to go shopping. And I will certainly do some of that. But for those of you who don't know, I am going home because he is sick. Hence my lack of recent posting. Dear Papa has three aortic aneurysms in his heart, one of which requires immediate attention. He'll be playing the part of a guinea pig, as he's going to try an experimental procedure first. Open heart surgery is the last resort.

But rather than stress him out, I'm going to list some things that will have fellow Alaskans green with envy.

• Target
• Sushi
• Real cheese
• TJ Maxx
• Malls
• Indian food
• Indian grocery stores
• Pirated Bollywood movies for $2 at Indian grocery stores
• 90 degrees
• Beaches

Don't hate. I plan on a complicated dance of luggage on the way back. I've got 8 hours in Seattle, so I'm only going to check my luggage through to that point, then pick it up and pay to store it. I will then hop a bus downtown, hopefully meet up with Heather at some point for dinner or a drink or just a chat, and (more importantly) hit the stores for some food shopping. I don't want to take the chance that any cheese in my carry-on will be confiscated, so I'll put it all in my checked bag and recheck it when I check in for my Seattle-Fairbanks flight. You'd think cheese would be fine, but in Auckland they confiscated my hummus. Damn racial profiling....

I've heard from a lot of people wanting to know why I haven't been posting lately. Or, to be specific, they've told me to get off my ass and on my blog. Rather than explain where I've been, I thought I'd share this latest gem.

From the San Francisco Bay Area craigslist:

Nemesis required. 6-month project with possibilty to extend

I've been trying to think of ways to spice up my life. I'm 35 years old, happily married with two kids and I have a good job in insurance. But somethings missing. I feel like I'm old before my time. I need to inject some excitement into my daily routine through my arm before its too late. I need a challenge, something to get the adrenaline pumping again. An addiction would be nice, but, in short, I need a nemesis. I'm willing to pay $350 up front for you services as an arch enemy over the next six months. Nothing crazy. Steal my parking space, knock my coffee over, trip me when I'm running to catch the BART and occasionally whisper in my ear, "Ahha, we meet again". That kind of thing. Just keep me on my toes. Complacency will be the death of me. You need to have an evil streak and be blessed with innate guile and cunning. You should also be adept at inconspicuous pursuit. Evil laugh preferred. Send me a photo and a brief explanation why you would be a good nemesis.

British accent preferred.

George Carlin, legendary comedian and funny motherfucker, died of heart failure in Los Angeles today. Carlin's bawdy humor always struck a chord with me, and I went to see him many times (usually with my friend Wayne, a dead-ringer for George. It was fun to fuck with audiences).

In honor of George Carlin and in a pathetic attempt to get my blog blocked by even even more censors, I present Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television (but can list in your blog unless you are actively job hunting):

• shit
• piss
• fuck
• cunt
• cocksucker
• motherfucker
• tits

R.I.P. George. I had to study those words in radio broadcasting class. It sure made the semester more interesting.

Mildly NSFW girl-on-girl action ahead.





See? Just be happy I didn’t call them hot bitches. On top is Itchy, Victoria’s Italian Greyhound. On the bottom is Zoe, Robin’s Italian Greyhound.

Saturday morning Robin took the big step of entrusting me with his dog. Zoe and I left him at home and went off into the big, wide world for our doggie playdate. First stop was Jeremy’s house, to pick up Jeremy and Jacques, his Chihuahua. The four of us tried to hit the Farmer’s Market in style for some falafel, but were quickly hustled out of there by an employee pointing out the “No Dogs” signs. My SUV was quickly transformed into Dog-catraz, as we put Zoe, Jacques and Itchy in the back. My car has never been so full of cute before.
After lunch, we headed over to the dog park and met up with Anne and Chachi, her pug. It is worth noting that the Fairbanks dog park is full of Fairbanks dogs. Big, loud Fairbanks dogs. Despite the relative safety inherent in being part of a group of small dogs, Zoe had some trouble hanging with the big boys. When I took her leash off, she trotted over to the fence and stared forlornly at my car. Pick dog up, bring dog back into dog park, repeat. After a few cycles, I put her back on the leash and took her for a walk around the perimeter as a form of therapy.
Back at the small dog picnic table, everyone else was having a grand time. Chachi amused herself by baiting the big dogs, then running away from them as fast as she could. When they started closing in, she would dart under the table for protection. This brought the big, drooly dogs in close proximity to us. Victoria was the unfortunate one in the line of fire when one drooler did the head shake.
I stopped at my office on the way home. I looked back before entering the building, and Zoe had her paws on the driver’s side window and was staring at me with the same intensity she’d stared at the car at the dog park. Awww! When I came back out 5 minutes later, she was in the same position, staring at me. AWWW!!!!!! Cue the sappy violin music. When I got to the car however, I noticed the detritus of my almond cake on the passenger seat. Note to Robin: If your dog got sick, that’s why.

Because we were tired and I wasn't sure if I was going to see Robin that night, I took Zoe back to my house. After one hiss-and-swat attack, Nibbles seemed to call a truce with Zoe. In fact, I spent part of the afternoon in bed with the dog on one side of me and the cat on the other. The terms of their peace treaty did not include being in close proximity to each other.

On my way to a party that night, I dropped Zoe off in Ester. This is the part where I should say that Zoe was happy to be home. It would certainly make Robin feel better. But she did not want me to go. Her little whines at the window as I walked away made that abundantly clear.

And the rest of the night? Rock Star party, barbecue, hitting the Marlin for the Good Daze/Paper Scissors show. I danced for hours in brand new heels. They are broken in, as are my feet. It made me remember how much I miss going out. I need to start doing that again.

I don't know what was going through my head when I got to the gym Monday morning. To be precise, "Maybe I ought to run a few miles today" was going through my head, but I don't know why. I haven't run since my chiropractor told me it was bad for my knees. I love Dr. Linda Schertz. She gives me excuses not to run and prescribes me medically necessary (and thus covered by insurance) massages. So, having not run for about 18 months, I decided to hop right into it and ran about 1.5 miles. Tuesday morning my legs rebelled and informed me that we would not be going to the gym. As my main means of locomotion, they have the final say-so in such matters. We reached a truce and went to the gym today, but it's an uneasy truce. They still hurt.

Last night's attempt at mini cheesecakes was less than successful. I ended up with a bit too much filling in each well, causing it to spill over a bit as it baked. Not necessarily a disaster, but it made it impossible to run anything around the edge of the well, thus making it nearly impossible to push the cheesecakes out. I've selected the two best candidates to bring to Robin's house tonight. I plan to investigate this more thoroughly. If I can't master mini cheesecakes, I'll never get to move on to tartlettes. And lord knows I want a bunch of tartlette pans.

I'm getting stymied by Fireworks. Why should I use a different program to do essentially the same things that Photoshop does? I'm going to have to look into this program a little more.

Heard at a friend's house:

I know it strikes most people as strange, but this breakup with Tom has been the best breakup of my life. For those of you who haven't bothered to read my entire blog for the backstory, here's the Cliff Notes: Girl meets boy. Girl falls in love with boy. Girl and boy date for five years, live together, get recognized as non-gay gay partners by girl's workplace. Girl and boy travel to New Zealand. Girl breaks up with boy in shadow of Mount Doom. Girl and boy continue to live together (separate bedrooms, people!) until their lease is up.

I know, I know. As my friend Anne put it, "You people are off the charts weird." But it works! Tom and I are still best friends. And as his mom put it, "You two sure got over each other quickly." And it's true: We are both new in relationships now. And, um, still sharing a house. Which is pretty awkward. However, Tom has found a place and is getting ready to sign the lease, so he'll be gone by next weekend. Until then, though, we continue to spend our sunny Saturdays running errands and eating corndogs and discussing the pros and cons of our new relationships. Plus, he got me a mini cheesecake pan on Thursday. That man understands my need to bake. And he wants mini cheesecakes.

I don't know how to explain it really, but breaking up brought us closer together. How did I manage to pull off ending the relationship but keeping him in my life? I don't know, but I'm so happy with the way everything worked out.

As for my new boyfriend, I told him this morning that I'm only dating him for his dog. Which is partially true. Zoe is absolutely adorable. I'm working on creating the Fairbanks Small Dog Playgroup. OK, not officially, but I do have two Italian greyhounds, one chihuahua and a hardened NYC pug lined up. We need to find a time to get to the dog park and strut our stuff.

I have survived the following (in chronological order):

• a massively unhealthy dinner from Carl’s Jr. on Wednesday night (made even more unhealthy by my decision to swap out the drink for a Cap’n Crunch milkshake)
• beer. Quite a bit of it.
• moving furniture while drunk. When I was growing up, I used to rearrange my bedroom every few months. It was a small room with lots of furniture, but I found at least four arrangements that would work. Living in our cabin at the commune, I couldn’t rearrange because some of the furniture was built in. I’ve been in this house for 11 months and have rearranged the living room twice and my bedroom once. I am scared of being in a rut, even furniture-wise. Commitment issues??
  
• watching crappy TV with Jennie
• starting Thursday with a bottle of champagne. At 8:15 a.m. Don’t worry – I took the day off from work.
• finishing said bottle by 10:30 and realizing I hadn’t eaten food yet.
• an epic-length dinner at a local restaurant. We had no less than three people helping us, resulting in a lot of miscommunication, and it took us more than 90 minutes to get our food. The end result? 25% off our bill and profuse apologies from a young man who was wearing makeup.
• Bollywood choreography after a day of little work but much drinking
• a frank sex talk with my ex-boyfriend
• Thursday. In general.

But you know what can cheer me up even when I’m down? My grandmother sent me a dirty card. And tonight I’ll meet up with a friend who is in town from NYC for the summer. Dinner, hopefully no more drinks and a movie with a group of friends. I’ve nixed my plans to flee town for the weekend. Instead I’ll let James cook me dinner on Sunday. And I think I’ve found two grad students to move into my house. Life may not have been good yesterday, but it’s getting better.

Memorial Day weekend. Time to do nothing. A whole lot of nothing. Last night Marmian and I kicked off the festivities by going to see Matt Vrba playing at the Loon. Today is the Clucking Blossom post-mortem barbecue. Tomorrow is the Bob-Eley-cue. And Monday the university is closed. Coincidentally, this is also my boyfriend's day off from work, so I predict a lazy day of laying around and doing absolutely nothing for hours.

Later this week, as per usual, I will take to my bed for a day of dramatic self-absorption.

After that, the hunt for new roommates will continue. I've been talking with a few people, but have made no decisions yet.

Tuesday night brought the Meeting Of The Dogs. After dinner, henna, a movie and drinks, Victoria and I brought her Italian Greyhound, Itchy, over to Robin's house to meet his Italian Greyhound, Zoe. I guess IGs do have something of a territorial nature, because Itchy has assumed that I am her property, and thus she staked out a spot on my lap. As previously discussed, Zoe adores me, and thus she also staked out a spot on my lap. It's a big lap, and they are small dogs, but no human being can stand such a high level of cute for very long. Fortunately, it quickly degenerated into a lot of humping. Not on my lap. No pictures, but we'll have another doggie playdate soon.

Now to a more serious subject. Robin's best friend is coming to visit. Actually, the visit has morphed into coming up here for the rest of the summer. Now, this wouldn't be a problem, except his best friend happens to be female. And historically, I don't do well with female best friends. Of course, the inverse is also true: I often don't like the women my friends date. But back to the issue at hand: She is coming up. For the entire summer. And I'm pretty sure she's going to hate me.

Longtime readers of my blog who don't know me may be scratching their heads and saying, "But why would she hate you, Mary?" Longtime readers of my blog who do know me are cackling, because, well, they know me.

Let's look at the facts:

• I am dating her best friend
• He (and his little dog, too) adores me
• I have a somewhat caustic sense of humor

OK, maybe the list doesn't truly represent my fears, but trust me. She is going to hate me. We will circle each other like wary dogs for months. (Much like Dara and I did when she started dating James. We're great friends now, but this undermines my argument.) This should be an interesting summer.

OMG this hurts my brain. And I promised myself I wouldn’t make this blog political.



OK, here’s the deal:

I will give baked goods to the first person who can:

a) name two of the dance scenes featured in this clip. Just the movie titles will do, though you get bonus points for knowing the names of the songs.
b) explain why this technically could never be considered a Bollywood clip

I like it when people make me think. Driving home last night, Robin and I started musing over the difference between “oblige” and “obligate.” How can you not love a man who will discuss etymology with you? *swoon*

The dictionary, though usually my friend (OK, usually read by me and my friends at parties. Seriously.), was not help with this one. The definitions (of the transitive verbs only):

Oblige: {OFr obligier, obligare to bind, oblige < ob + ligare, to bind} vt 1) to compel by moral, legal or physical force; constrain; 2) to make indebted for a favor or kindness done; do a favor for;

Obligate: {L obligatus, pp of obligare} vt to bind by a contract, promise, sense of duty, etc.; put under obligation

Not so different, eh? Both words essentially mean to make someone feel like they have to do something. In common usage, though, I tend to think that “oblige” implies more of a voluntary act. Is this simply because we most commonly hear the intransitive form of the verb? “Much obliged” is a stand-in for “thank you” in some parts of the country, seeming to give the feeling that to “oblige” someone is to be accommodating to them, not to force them to your will. Conversely, “obligate” implies a forced or compelled act.

However, further investigation has shown that perhaps this understanding of the difference between the two words comes down to my nationality. We do not speak the Queen’s English in America. Rather, we have an English all our own. Don’t believe me? Try reading The Economist’s Style Guide section on Americanisms.

While The Economist simply states that it is oblige, not obligate, I found further explanation from an Aussie. As it turns out, “obligate” as a verb is an American construct not necessarily found in other forms of English. For example, Australians would say “Though the watch was meant as a birthday gift, he felt obliged to get her something expensive in return.” Americans would use “obligate” in that instance.

The moral of the story? Well, you can use “oblige” and “obligate” somewhat interchangeably, but it will mark you as an American. And if someone does you a favor, I would not recommend saying you are “much obligated.” And, more importantly, when you start talking words with me, I like you more.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have an RSS feed. I finally got off my ass today and subscribed to a whole bunch of blog feeds.

My Toolbar Bookmarks were becoming increasingly complicated. There were the design blogs that updated a lot and I visited daily. Some had sporadic updates, so I visited them weekly. But sometimes the sporadic sites would have a good run of posting and I'd be stuck wading through stuff for an hour.

Now all of those blogs (well, at least the ones that have feeds) go right to my Google Reader. What did I do before Google? It's my default e-mail client. I G-chat with my boyfriend almost nightly. I sort, store and share documents and calendars. Ah, Google, how I love thee!