To All My Homegirls Out There

I hope she doesn't kill me for posting this.


Now, girls aren't getting off easy, here. As often as boys can be idiots, girls are scheming jerks. But in my broad experience there have been many, many boys who've blown it big time, and it just sort of leaves me with my head cocked to one side going, "Really? That was your choice? Because...seriously?" And then I shrug my shoulders and go find something better to do with my time.

While the guy I want is wasting his time with a crazy/stupid/wimpy girl. But his punishment is that he has to spend time with her, so karma takes care of everything for me.

The moral of this story is, call when you say you'll call, we really do want to hear from you. And if we miss your call then call you back, don't passively-aggressively punish us by not answering your phone. We know you're busy, and we're willing to give you yards and yards of the benefit of the doubt, but eventually we have to decide if you're legit or just a tool, and there are terribly few capable, smart, cool girls out there - and we all know each other, and trust us, we talk - so don't ruin your chances. Or else start looking forward to a lifetime of watching 27 Dresses with Brindee and watching her spend all your money on throw pillows and pedicures.

And in exchange, we'll try really hard to have rational explanations for our feelings, and to express them to you in clear-cut, up-front, honest ways. We won't make you pry them out of us to show us how much you REALLY CARE, we won't throw things at your head when we're frustrated (except when you deserve it, and you know sometimes you do), we won't pitch screaming fits about how you never really cared about us. We know, we have issues. Try processing seven different emotions a second. Go ahead, try. Were you successful? Now picture doing that all day every day FOR THE REST OF FOREVER. It's exhausting. And we're usually too busy to take a nap. So cut us some slack and learn to work with us.

We could really work out something pretty fantastic.

A Lake Story

So yesterday Jason and I planned to escape to a lake in PA and enjoy the heck out of it. We pulled up to what looked like some information center, and when I got out of the car I spied a fenced-in enclosure with some sort of animal inside. I couldn't quite tell what it was, so of course it was all I could think and/or talk about. Once we got inside, we were told that basically we had to be campers/lodgers to enjoy the lake, so we scrawled a big, fat "Screw you!" on the walls (metaphorically; we have great and deep respect for personal property) and left.

We stopped in the general store to buy supplies (some water, pop rocks, and something called a "Charleston Chew," which frightened me greatly) and Jason asked the cashier lady for something awesome to do while I walked around and pretended like I had no idea what was going on. I cannot ask questions like that. I will not ask you for directions. I will not go into your Blockbuster store and ask you to help me locate a movie. I will walk around that store for twenty-seven minutes looking for what I came in there for, and I will never once ask you for help. It is a side to my personal independence that could really stand to be worn down some, but I'll worry about that later. Like when it's a life & death situation.

So anyway, we left, and went to go check out the mysterious animal, and realized it was a goat. (What are those animals there, the ones that look like half cow, half dog?) (That is an inside joke. That is HILARIOUS to me.) And there were more! And they had a playhouse in the trees! Yay, goats. It's going to be a good day when goats are involved.

So we went to a State Park instead, with a creek and a waterfall and a...jiggly bridge thing...and hiking and crawfish and no sunburn, hooray!

And then the day ended at Baja Fresh where I wolfed down a burrito the size of my head that was stuffed with chicken and grilled vegetables and - I don't know, fricking SOUR CREAM, who can say no to sour cream.

Now I'm typing this and listening to the rain outside my open window, tabbing back and forth between this window and looking at pictures of Dallan's escapades in China. I'm not sure what could make this a better weekend.

I Will Shout That If/When I Am Ever Arrested, As Well

Here is why I hate Facebook Chat: People keep signed off just as I send them super witty retorts based on their status messages. How cruel and unusual is that?

Also, it keeps telling me that people I'm chatting with are offline, when I know they are not. We'll be in the middle of a conversation, and they'll blip offline for a few seconds or a minute.

Both ways in which Facebook is sadly attempting to undermine my wit. It won't work, Facebook. I shall win this war.

They may take our lives, but they will never take our freeeeeedoooooooom!

Sleeping Habits

I need about three naps to get me through my day. Why is this, what is wrong with me, and what can I do to fix it?

I sleep about 7 hours a night, at fairly consistent times. I fall asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow. The last thing I'm usually thinking is, Oh, doesn't it feel so nice with my head on the pillow like th- , and I'm out until my body wakes me up at the trained hour.

I dream a lot, and it's always about real life. I sort through stuff in my dreams, process all the emotions I don't have time to feel when I'm awake (I'm pretty busy, and I'm always feeling something or other, so a lot of things just fall by the wayside. Plus, my mantra is "repress, repress, repress," which is entirely healthy, shut up.) Sometimes, and maybe it's more than I realize, the dreams exhaust me. My brain is more alert on waking up, but I'm still, somewhere, tired. Turns out the brain is a little complicated, huh.

I exercise regularly, I try to eat healthily, plenty of vitamins and vegetables. I usually don't even touch caffeine, which makes 2 - 4 p.m. at work soooo hard, but I feel better about myself in the long run.

Maybe the answer is that I'm a wuss. Probably. In fact, I established that a long time ago when Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were Rabbit proved a little too intense for me.

Or maybe it's just that starting at 6 a.m. a giant mutant cat jumps on my bed and starts pawing at my face for me to wake up and, I don't know, feed him, or clean up his barf, or pet him, or just be awake to witness all his cat antics. Cantics. Whatever it is, he's more pushy than any boy I've ever known, including the one who spent the night outside my bedroom door. But he's also way more soft, so bonus.

Anyway, I need to go take a nap now.

Avoidance, But Not Quite

I just checked my e-mail to find a picture of me kneeboarding wearing, I kid you not, pearl earrings. Only me. I rock so hard accidentally. Also, my dad sent the picture to me, and in the message body he wrote, "I hope it's not too big." I didn't even need to open the picture to know what I would find, because I have known the man for 23-odd years. I had to scroll and scroll and scroll and scroll even to find my body, the file was HUGE. Which I like, don't get me wrong; it's just weird to play Where's Waldo with a picture of you instead of an animated stripey shirt guy in a book from the children's section of the library.

All this is to avoid talking about how I found out this morning that a friend of mine died last night. I got the message, and I didn't believe it at first. Even now, I think that maybe it's a joke, as sick as that would be. This kid was amazing - at 22 he graduated from a top-20 law school, and he always had time to come over and play video games. He even put up with my foolishness and participated in the only two mini marshmallow roasts this world has ever or will ever see. You were a good kid, James Bodell. I kind of just assumed you'd keep on shining in this world forever. Shine in the next, my friend. Shine in the next.

As I Write This, Two Girls Are Slip N Sliding Right Outside My Window

Jared came into town on Saturday, and I think it was at some point while I was folded into one of the audience chairs at the band shell, clutching a black-eyed susan I'd stolen from the grounds while he played Brand New on his guitar that this huge sigh of happiness escaped from me. It was a perfect night, just the right temperature between hot and cold, the air was moving but not breezy, and the humidity wasn't all that intense. And we'd just spent the evening at Harper's Ferry, which is my favorite place on this entire planet. We talked physics and sound engineering while swinging in the park. That's pretty much what it takes to be friends with me; I love knowing I'm surrounded with interesting people who are always willing to teach me things and to run the wild, dizzying race of speculation.

The next day I was at my desk in the afternoon, getting some things done and talking to some people online, when I noticed I could hear the rain outside, and it was LOUD. I opened the window and watched it pour. Pour, as in, I don't know if I've ever seen it rain so hard and so consistently. There was no fitfulness in this rain, it was not one of those big gushes that steadies out in a few minutes. This was just RAIN. So of course I had to go out to play in it. I ran around to the swingset behind my house and pumped my legs and watched the water droplets fly off of them into the bushes. I don't know how to describe the rush of that feeling, but it was pretty much pure happy. Too bad getting drenched left me freezing, so I rushed inside to go take a long, hot shower, and then I snuggled down with a book.

Today I went to the Sprint store, because my phone is broken. Very broken. Throwing it against the windowsill didn't even fix it broken. But I was charming and patient, and they're rush-ordering a new phone for me to come pick up tomorrow for FREE. I like free things. I especially like that it was going to take four or five business days, but when I told the guy, "Wow, really? That's great! I was expecting to have to wait two weeks!" and I thanked him so much, he was like, "You know what? Thanks for being understanding. I'm going to go ahead and put a rush on this, we should have it sometime tomorrow." And then as I was leaving, he offered me a job. THAT's when you know you've been a good customer, the sales rep is like, Not only did I enjoy seeing you today, but you were so cool I want to see you every day. And I want to give you money!

I was so pleased with the way things turned out, that I decided to get my hair cut at long last, and now it has movement and shine and not bugging the crap out of me by hanging on my neck. Ness.

And now I'm off to go wakeboarding, hooray!

Puke And Pancakes - It Really Is All About The Alliteration

Today I scrubbed up cat puke from the carpet while (while!) somehow managing to make myself a delicious breakfast of hot pancakes. Check out them skills.

And it only leads me to wonder, How am I not married yet? I am the oldest single Mormon in existence. (True fact!) How did a massive conclave of notoriously commitment-happy Mormon boys not scoop me up into their prayerful, obedient clutches?

Then I remembered - I ran screaming from their clutches and into the hermit cave known as Intellect.

But still, I'd make a great candidate for Mom, since I'm pretty sure all you do is clean up puke and fry up dozens and thousands of pancakes. At least by the way they tell things.

Revisionist history starts in the home.

Oh, And I Learned Where Bhutan Is. And What It Is, Too.

I spent my fourth of July getting rained on, sleeping in corners with all my worldly possessions piled about me, running barefoot through the questionable sidewalks of D.C., sampling a petunia and hoping they're not one of those toxic plants while at the same time thinking it would be kinda cool, wishing for more dinosaur-related gore at the IMAX, eating a festively-blue rice krispie treat that was as large as my head (with help) that dyed everything in its wake a brilliant unmistakable shade, sleeping on the Metro, and watching the fireworks obscured by a dense smoke cloud.

Vive Le Quatre Juillet!

Titles Are The Worst Part Of My Job

I was going to write something very, very different originally, so I'm glad I waited two days.

For - well, for years. For many years, which is purposely vague, because I don't know when it began, I would experience pretty intense stomach pains. Idiopathic, because doctors were stumped, so I dealt with it mostly. Then I moved away from college, and I'm not really sure when it stopped, I just sort of noticed one day that, hey, my stomach hasn't hurt in a while. Not like that. For years it stopped, and I thought myself cured.

Then I moved back home in the beginning of May, and here I found myself two months later experiencing those same daily stomach pains. Nothing hurts quite the same, and boy was it all so familiar. I've even considered that there's some sort of environmental factor. By Wednesday night, I was pretty miserable, and I'm pretty sure I almost got up from my desk, walked out of my job, grabbed a sweatshirt, and headed out of town for good.

But then I held out for Thursday, and that went pretty well. I was happy again, nothing hurt, and I waited in line at the Wal-Mart for twenty-three minutes without killing one person.


Happy Fourth of July, everyone. I just had the best Fourth ever, but I'm sure yours came in pretty close. I'll post pictures sometime when I didn't spend the whole ride home sleeping.

This Is How It Works

I am tired of wringing words.

Mid-morning I caught a glimpse of the sun, and then my own pale complexion, so I decided to bring my book outside to partake in the glory of the day. Barefoot on the deck, my skin drank in the warmth and the glow, and I'd brought out some pomegranate juice in a glass bottle, naturally. I think my entire body took a gulping sigh of contentment. Which lasted all of twenty minutes.

In that time, I managed to fling a spider to his spiraling, violent death, so at least I had an accomplishment under my belt when I decided to beat a retreat back inside. Yes, the air was already shimmery hot, and everything looked blue because the sun was so bright - when you close your eyes to it and reopen them, everything takes on a blue tinge, try it - and I was already growing uncomfortable. But more than that was a growing mental disquietude.

I told myself I was taking a break, three minutes tops. I ran upstairs, carefully conscious of how my muscles worked as I bounded up; I cannot escape from my obsessions for very long. Into my room to glance at my computer, and still no response.

I am tired of wringing words.

All thoughts of mid-morning sunshine fled, and I sought for something else to do. My number one rule when facing something of this nature is No Dwelling. If my time is not important to someone else, then I refuse to waste a single moment more thinking about it. I cast about for a What Next. Filtering through my abundant projects, I found nothing that suited me, casting idea after idea aside like thumbing through the garments at Goodwill. There had to be something in there, though, and then came to mind La Follia.

I used to be a musician. I used to spend hours every day at my craft, poring over pages of notes, aching with the thrum of four strings. I wanted to be a concert violinist until I was seventeen, and I realized that I hated performing, so I left that world. At eighteen I played my last concert, and that was when I stopped. But I never stopped wanting to be a musician, wanting to feel the confidence of the notes beneath my fingers.

The miracle of the internet is, that if you look hard enough, you can get what you want, and most times immediately. I wanted to play Corelli's La Follia again, but somewhere in my many moves, I'd lost the music.

YouTube had a performance of it, and I listened, but that wasn't enough. So I googled. And googled some more. And switched up my google searches and honed them and finally found a place to download pdf files of sheet music, and as I printed the pages out, I brought out my stand and tightened my bow and tuned my strings to the a442 that I prefer.

And then I practiced. 45 minutes poring over just two pages of the piece, going over note by note, working until my fingers had the pitches just perfect. That is the joy of the violin, there are a million degrees of a pitch you can sound with just the tiniest variation in finger placement. You strive and strive for just the correct clarity of tone, and often the same not won't be played in the exact same manner a second time, due to chord progression.

And then I was filled, caught, free, held. This is why I make the rule No Dwelling, because nothing in life is worth wasting the time that could be spent on a thousand different pursuits. Go out there and chase the things you love to do. And if you want, come find me and we'll make some music together.

The Persephone Factor

What is it about pomegranate that is so irresistible? I swear, if you put pomegranate juice, or seeds, or scent, or probably IDEA into a product, I will see it and feel compelled to buy it. And then I will feel so good about myself, so complete and nourished, and for some reason, prettier.

And I want to know what it is, what archetypal whisper keeps nudging me to do these things. Next thing you know, I'll be traipsing down to the Underworld, saying my last goodbyes to sunlight and happiness, trading it all away for the sweet promise of pomegranate.

The stuff is even littered with seeds! I HATE seeds. Above all things, I hate seeds, as long as you count pulp under the seed category, and believe me, I do. But it smells so.... And it tastes so.... And it is so very, very red.