Get on the boat

I'm late on the cool-things-on-the-internets boat a lot. Like blogging, the "Numa Numa!" guy and Skype. But one thing that I'm better late than never on is Pandora. I am enjoying it SO MUCH. It's a great way to discover new music, and to figure out WHY you like certain songs, and let me tell you-- makes the day fly by. And who doesn't like the Roman voting?

The problem with it is that you can train it. The more thumbs up, that's more of the type of music it will play. The more thumbs down, and you'll never again speak of Cher popping up on your playlist.

For a radio station which knows I like KT Tunstall, Low, The Cure, Zero 7 and the Killers, it's recommending a lot of:

The Human League
Kylie Minogue
and
Bryan Adams

And I can't really tell what that says about me. Except that I mind the Kylie Minogue the LEAST. Ok, don't really mind it at all. Ok, got really excited when Kula Shaker transitioned into "Come into my World." And by really excited, I mean chair-danced. VIGOROUSLY.

I abuse hyphens when I blog and cry

I'm sure every water cooler that is near a place of employment where females work (and select quality mens) will be abuzz with chatter about the finales of Grey's Anatomy.

Or as I prefer to call it: "the-two-hours-of-television-wherein-I-
either-couldn't-breathe-or-wanted-to-cry-or-kill-myself-
and-I-chose-door-number-two-the-crying-that-would-not-stop."

SERIOUSLY NOW. There will be recap after recap online I am sure so I speak to you who watched it. People are going to talk the whole episode through. Blah blah blah.

Here's what I cannot get past.

You knew that somehow, Denny wouldn't survive. He was a goner the minute he decided to flirt with Izzie and his fate was sealed when he signed those DNR papers. GONER. He made it through the surgery and he and Izzie were supposed to have overly-stimulated-but-under-performing hearted children. I was always interested in their story line-- their love story.

Perhaps, because-- I AM IZZIE (though um, less crazed. Only slightly crazed. I pinch). I understand why she does things. I get her follow-my-gut, then perhaps my uterus, and THIRDLY the brain. Her crazed, ridiculous, illogical, impractical decisions are ones that beg my empathy. I understand why she cut that cord all the while shrieking like a banshee, and I understand why they found her wrapped around his dead body in a prom dress. I UNDERSTAND WHY SHE IS CRAZY. She ignores her brain and follows her heart around like a dumb dog who always wakes up wondering if today is the day that they'll get that steak for breakfast. So to have that dream that she finally allowed herself to visualize just broke my functioning-but-murmur-y heart into about a thousand pieces. She puts herself out there ONLY when her heart tells her so because you don't trust people until they worm their way into it. You may think that you can make lists about how people act, reason with them when they are irrational, and tell them what they should do but who is practical, stable and rational all of the time?

I sobbed like a blubbering fool for the last 20-25 minutes of the season finale. I sobbed because the writers wanted me to. I fell for their every trap because this episode had traps for EACH CHARACTER. This wasn't a game of "which girl from sex and the city are you" and how that corresponds to what you'd mess up in your life by your forties.

This episode had something for EVERY Chief, Dr. Bailey, Mer/Der, Addison, George, Callie, etc-- even Alex. If you identify in SOME sense with ANYONE on that damn show, you cried your eyes out for them tonight. FOR EVERYONE-- the other shoe dropped.

And I cried my eyes out for Izzie, because she was [--------] that close to thinking she had everything in the bag. Denny's surgery went well. They were going to get married. But behind door number three was a stroke. Blood clots. And a dinette set.

But instead, life threw her a curveball. I'm constantly watching for these. Like right now. Everything is great. My lame-ass job is almost done, a new one on the way, my relationships are in working order, my family is all here and healthy-- when is my other shoe going to drop? Who is going to die? Who is going to leave? Who is going to push me around? What is going to go wrong?

This is where I have completely immature problems. I cannot exactly separate fact and fiction in my brain after heart processes it. When I was watching this show, my niece has cancer, my boyfriend is dead, my boyfriend got shot, my girlfriend just shagged another dude in a hospital room, and I just let big secrets fall out of my fabulous latina-mouth on my skinny bad-haircutted-man-toy.

I understand this show is General Hospital with better writing at night. I understand these characters are FAKE, and that Ellen Pompeo has bigger fish to fry than McDreamy (more like McEating-Disorder.) But I cannot separate the emotional flogging that I just endured from my cozy apartment with all its ducks in a row. Instead I am here stuffing as much KT Tunstall and Amos Lee as I can into my ears and will probably go to bed with a sinking "you-watch-too much-television-and need-to-kill-off-some-excess-imagination-no-I-MEAN-it-this-time" feeling.

....Sssoooooooo when does season 3 start? I'm a glutton for punishment!

I'm a quitter

But I'm not very good at it. Sure there are lots of things that I don't "do" now that I used to "do". But I don't think actively saying "no, I shall not continue piano lessons through college" is the same thing as saying "Sorry, I'm leaving in a few weeks because other people are going to pay me more and it's going to rule". Not the SAME.

In fact, In my brain I still play the piano. I still do all the things I "quit". I still identify with all of that. I have a tendency to throw myself into everything I do and I really think I'm shaped by everything that I've done. Even if it's something lame, like 12 years of piano lessons.

Working here was like hanging onto a relationship that you should have gotten yourself out of ages ago. Everything is routine and you resent that, the ups are alright and the downs are a mess, you don't know who you are or who this other person is, and you take that frustration out each other. But somehow, you stay. And talk of leaving is hard to really examine. My job and I have had a rough run, and I'm ready to just shake hands, make peace, and walk away. Execpt make fun of it. Just a little. You know, when I'm with other people who have been there too. Cuz really, if you ONLY knew.

I also feel like I've done a bad job at keeping it a secret. Maybe it's because I felt like I owed the people I work with something more than just two weeks notice. Also, maybe I was afraid of quitting. A problem with being something of an introvert is that it sort of gets messed up with being self-centered. Sitting face to face with your boss and telling her about this awesome job offer you got and apologizing for leaving, and being so sorry is going to get you weird looks. Absolutely everyone here has been gracious, and congratulatory, and genuinely excited for me. And also, Hello-- they are going to get along just fine without me.

I'm 24 and in a job that people stay in for a year. In fact, I've had two jobs that they expect to have people in for a year-- back-to-back. It's my time. Give me two gold stars for surviving this long. They expect this, so why did I cry? (a little, I know)

I feel very weird about it. I've been here for nearly two years, and considering this was my first job out of college, and my first promotion, I think that's a long time. It's like my Freshman and Sophomore years of LIFE have gone on here, and I have routines and have figured things out, and L'SIGH it is SO MUCH CLOSER TO MY HOUSE. AND WHERE I GET MY HAIRCUT.

I'm feeling very zen about it. Maybe too zen. Like, I'm worried it was all a dream and I just confused the dream with real life and then I'll have no job. Change can be sort of a sticky mess, and for me generally it's pretty awful and not much goes my way and I have to kick and fight to patch everything up. There's no mess for me to clean up here, and that is REALLY weird.

I have nothing to do, not a whole lot to freak out about. I'm just sitting here filling out new healthcare forms. You can't spill ink when you fill them out online. This is just weird.

To the tune of "you don't make friends with sal-ad!"

I JUST GOT A NEW JOOO-OOB

I JUST GOT A NEW JOOO-OOOB!

Seriously, can't I just give you $12?

I went to Payless this afternoon on a total whim. There's all that bogo nonsense, and I had seen some adorable flats in Lucky magazine that I wanted. I love Lucky magazine, especially because I have a very lovely co-worker who BUYS it and then when she's done with it she passes it off to me.

THEN THE REAL FUN BEGINS. Those stickers Lucky gives you? Bring it on. I usually get a drink, turn on some TV that I can proceed to ignore, and then rip out the page of stickers full of "YES!" and "MAYBE" to lay on the pages where I see something I like. Or would like to like. Or need for further reference when I have to discuss it. Or if I want to buy a knock off of it.

This gives me such great personal joy I cannot even begin to describe. Just like the Simpsons episode when Marge says "I'll just sit here and think of products I'd like to purchase" and then she closes her eyes and hums.

This is my closed-eyed, humming times. Where I can afford to buy that tunic, because someone's told me it's "effortlessly chic", which are two things I like. No effort and looking "sooooo goood!"

But back to the flats. They're cute and like $11.99 or something. So I walked the three blocks to the Payless next to the SALSA (not Spanish, who are these people?) Safeway and stuck my feet in about a hundred pairs of shoes. I tried on nearly every shoe there in size 8 up to 9 1/2. AND NOTHING. There were like three pairs of the flats I was looking for in that store, and not my size, But one close.

I had to talk myself out of buying the cute flats in a 1/2 size too small thinking back to other payless shoes that made me bleed. But seriously, where were all the cute shoes in size 8 1/2 or 9? The two full aisle of 7's were sitting there untouched, but the big-boated ladies had nothing to choose from but heinousness and more heinousness. What gives?

OH. And while I'm on the subject of "what gives?" and Payless, WTF is going on with people wearing THESE monstrosities around? UGLOR. STOP IT. Especially those red ones. Did you read the description? It says GARDEN. KEEP THEM THERE.

So listen up, Payless. Next time I need to get an image of Star Jones hawking shoes out of my mind, and to do so I want to give you $12 for some 9-time-use footwear, be a peach AND TAKE IT.

Katatrophe: 0 Tylenol PM: 1

So yesterday, I walked home from the CVS with 228 pills in my bag. This was weird, purely because a) HELLO, that's a lot of pills and b) I felt like I needed a backpack and a good swagger and to play some house music, walking around looking a little dazed offering the goods to skinny girls with PLUR bracelets and pacifiers.

Well, maybe not. All I did was fill a prescription and buy Advil (necessary, long shift at the 2nd job catering on Sunday) and Tyenol PM, which was on sale for 8 bucks. EIGHT BUCKS! As I've written about before, I am not a great sleeper. It always takes me forever to fall asleep, a la when I get in bed it's at first with Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte on the WB and when I fall asleep my bedfellows have changed to Conan and Max Weinberg. When it's Wednesday night and I am up late worrying in bed, and those damned Ambien and Lunesta commercials come on, they ARE TALKING TO ME. I AM THEIR AUDIENCE. They tease. They taunt, "oh katastrophe, if only you weren't overly anxious, than you too would be dreaming of butterflies and puppies that we put in our commercials to soothe you."

So, EFF YOU BRAIN, I bought Tylenol PM. Baby step towards being soothed. I took some last night to ward off the monstrosity of a headache that I was dealing with and hopped into bed early, thinking I had tricked the system.

Ohhhhhh but on the contrary, Tylenol PM reigned supreme over both me, AND my brain.

Last night I had a dream that I was canoeing on a very flat river. Then, I saw a VERY large face that looked just like the dude on MAD magazine with a VERY large mouth gaping open and dove into it, with a backpack on my back and a snorkel. When I surfaced, I looked up and realized I was in a strange land. Middle-Earth-ish. Then I met up with a group of backpackers (who may or may not have been Australian) and they were like "WE ARE SWIMMING TO NORWAY!" and I was like "saaahh-weeeeet! I'm in" and so we put on flippers and swam in very shallow water UP STAIRS, AROUND TREES, and then on a very flat indoor studio that didn't look unlike the TLC's "Waterfalls" video set.

So after swimming, we surfaced at the beach. In Norway. Which was hot, by the way. Flat, flat, flat and then huge mountains in the background. Lots of people walking in crisp white bathing suits. You could see people skiing in the mountains in crisp white snow-bunny outfits. It was like Capri had thrown up on Norway and Michael Kors was their god. Then we hear shouts of "oh no, THE TIDAL WAVE IS COMING" and apparently, the tidal wave was ONLY for the non-Norwegian. Norwegians weren't susceptible to such conditions, so all us lowly backpackers had to go back down into the sand and swim back (yes, swim through the sand), this time UPSTAIRS.

One of the backpacker friends said that we could hide out at his mom's place, because the tidal wave wouldn't find us there, but we had to keep up. So I swam my little heart out and when we came up for air near his mom's house, they were all trolls living in gummed up pink and purple tee-pees, but for his mom, who was a woman I saw on TLC's What Not to Wear and somehow got mixed into the dream. I was the only one that could keep up so I went into his mom's house, which was a trailer. It was snowing in this troll heaven, and his mom gave me a flannel jacket and let me sleep on the pull-out-couch. I could see the teeth of the large mouth I had swam into high in the distance and I fell asleep on the couch looking at fish in a fishbowl thinking "if only I had gills". And then I realized that I was in fact, UNDER WATER. And all I could think was NOT "gasp! How can I breathe" but "gasp, my hair looks like THIS?"

What I don't get is the TLC waterfalls set conjoined with TLC's What Not To Wear. Too much TLC.

So thank you, Tylenol PM for such an engaging evening. Shall I meet you tomorrow, same time-- same place?

Wherein I make a bad hair analogy and run with it

It's officially the season for change. Temperatures are warming, hemlines are rising (Vogue said so this month, so it MUST be true), and all possibilities are on the mend.

Today, to celebrate these changes, I whacked off all my hair. It felt awesome. My hair used to be down past my shoulders and has been incrementally crawling upwards towards my ears. I had 5 or 6 interim chops that each felt so good, that I might be officially addicted to the drug of haircut-thrill. It's like, half the thrill of doing something bad (props to my fallen sister, Chloe, the eyebrow ring of angst, who lasted 10 months) but better than new-outfit thrill, THAT'S FOR SURE.

I had very short hair when I was a teenager. I cut it all off, from below shoulder length to quite short, thanks to some movie-inspiration. I had just seen Sliding Doors and the short hair business that Gwyneth Paltrow sported, and coveted it.

Ok, actually the longer story is this dude Mike, sat behind me in biology and would sing me the "Adams Family" theme song to me, because apparently my long, dark hair reminded him of Cousin Itt. I never appreciated this, but he seemed to think it was really funny. Perhaps in hindsight it is; my hair is very thick and there is a lot of it, and it had a tendency to be triangular in nature. So in the interest of about 60% spite, 40% get rid-of-5-lbs of hair, I chopped 11 inches of my hair off and showed up the next day and told him to shove it with a big grin.

Lately, I've been yearning to get back to the short-haired times. Short-haired times are the ones where I was optimistic-- hopeful for the future. I knew what I liked and I was in an emotional place where I was a little too naive to worry too much but just wise enough to worry some.

I feel more like MYSELF than I have in a long time, if that makes any sense at all. It's been a slow process of me re-acquainting myself with feelings of deja-vu in good ways. It's remembering what it's like to be into music, needing to hear a song because it's already coming up your throat and out your mouth but just didn't know the words. It's having outlets for creativity so you remember you are worth more than your cubicle and (in/de)flated job title. It's reading books you love to read because you sort of maybe wish you were British and in a hoopskirt, denying your love for Mr. so-and-so because he was cross with you once blah blah blah..... and you are unabashed about the daydreams thereof. It's being more connected with friends, and understanding sort of maybe even just a little where your insignificant speck belongs with the galaxy of others. It's about having my life sort itself out after the confetti of college-life hung in the air all sparkly and suspended and it's all gently getting reacquainted with where it will rest.

So, the short-haired-times are hopefully leading somewhere good, taking me back to a road I got tripped up on. I am a Taurus, and we are notorious for being resistant (or at least anxiety-prone) to change. But there's nothing more shocking than changing what looks back at you in the mirror, because you know that change was $45 and fleeting. But what's to come is worth more. After that, hopefully a (FINGERS CROSSED OH PLEASE OH PLEASE) new job and (FINGERS CROSSED OH PLEASE OH PLEASE) new apartment will just be the icing on my butterscotch krimpet.

Motherly Advice

I call my mom to discuss tomorrow's second interview for potential new-job glory.

I tell her everything I know and how excited I am for it.

I tell her I am nervous a little. I tell her I bought a new shirt to wear under suit for the occasion.

Her response?

"Oh Honey, just don't use the F-word and you'll be FINE."

Words of wisdom I shall carry with me for life. Thanks, Mom!

My Friend

is an internet sub-D list celebrity! It's Michael Goldberg!

His blog has been linked to by a site that has access to a large group of 14-year-old boys and therefore has found his target audience.

We befriended him lo these many years ago at GW for that very reason.

All I'll tell you about Goldberg is that he was involved in a very cruel yet very hilarious-in-hindsight prank involving me and my stuffed penguins.

OH yeah, internets, that's something embarrassing about me.

Hello, my name is katastrophe, and I am a girl who

a) still has stuffed animals (I know, I know. I'm THAT GIRL)

and

b) I have a penguin "thing". A collecting "thing". It's a problem. I know.

I was 18 and just finished taking my first college exam. I was over-caffeinated, sleep-deprived, and recovering from what would then be a pattern of pre-exam anxiety attacks that would grip me for about half a day, and only eventually let up a few hours after the exam when I could finally nap.

I came home to my freshman-year dorm room to find my door slightly ajar.

I FREAK.

Yes, we all sort of kept our doors open. It facilitated the borrowing of things and the notes to leave. But this was unusual. I ran up to my room and burst through the door. To my horror, I found my stuffed animals swinging by nooses around their necks from the ceiling, in some sort of stuffed animal suicide pact.

I gasped. I looked to the floor.

Strewn beneath them were all my class materials from THE WORST CLASS EVER THAT I TOOK IN COLLEGE: Attitudes towards DEATH AND DYING.

Yes, that's right. At 8am Mondays and Wednesday I got to learn about death, which was not limited to grief, psychologies of death, cultural attitudes towards death, and types of death. The professor collected funerary photography and shuffled about the campus ensconced in floral mumus and a morose air about her 400 lb self.

Back to the penguins-- which were gently swaying with the heat coming out of the vents, their glass eyes looking past me. It was like someone knew I was coming, and gave the penguins a good shove so that I would find them swinging. There was a suicide note, but I was too overcome to read it.

This was the icing on my panic attack cake. This was my 18-year-old breaking point. Before bills, job interviews, housing concerns and sort-of real life dicisions. These penguins were with me from a very early age, and are the closest thing I have to a security blanket. I had flitted around the backyard with one tucked under an arm on some sort of imaginary adventure as a child, snuggled with them to help me fall asleep as an awkward kid, and clutched them while I cried when high school boys broke my heart.

I did the only thing my exhaustion would let me do. I burst into tears. It was funny exactly 72 hours afterwards, but it was a great joke to return to. A la "It's not like she hung your penguins or anything! god!"

I think I let Goldberg have it for like, two WHOLE years. My tears weren't the desired outcome, and the culprits immediately tried to make me see the humor in it.

The college humor.

So have a heart. Visit CollegeHumor.com and click the link "banging the queen". Yes, that's what his blog entry is called. He's also linked at right, so checking him out that way is probably easier. In fact, bookmark him and read often.

He really will cream his pants if his site meter stats get any higher, so help a guy out who is living at home and going to law school IN NEW JERSEY. He could really use those nerd-rays of sunshine.

Let me say that again: HE IS LIVING AT HOME AND GOING TO LAW SCHOOL. IN NEW JERSEY.

Have pity, click on through.

The numbers on today

Number of women in obscene dark stretch denim cat-suit-type-things that were offensively tight and involved a jacket or shirt attached to a long skirt that made me gasp a little with their heinousness (not the ladies, but the get-ups): 3 (!!!!!)

Number of times I sighed deeply wishing for a new job: 17

Number of times I played web boggle and scored below 20: 5

Number of times I played web boggle and scored below 40: 11

Web boggle high score: 48

How many times I wished for a nap: 3

How many times I actually said slightly audibly "Damn I need a new job": 2

Number of times I closed my eyes and sighed with glee about how good my sandwich was: 2

Number of times I wished for more potato chips: 1

Number of times I tried to articulate in blog entry how weird today was and then scrapped it because I sounded like a whinny loser: 3

Number of times I was like "hmmm... blogs aren't just for complaining, you know": 2

Number of minutes I spent praying to the gods of the interviews that the interview place I went on would finally call me back. You said you would, place, and I know you take a long time BUT COME ON: 17

How long I spent online window shopping: 1.5 hours

What my time sheet will reflect: database clean up and donor research

Number of new blogs I started reading today: 3

How many times I wished to have Mischa Barton's new puppy as my own: 19,000

How many minutes spent trying new experiment of making tea in my nalgene and then putting it in the freezer and in 3 hours I have iced tea that is thick and delicious: 21 (here and there over the 3 hours)

How many tea bags that takes: 2

How many times I had to not think about cheese because I OD'ed on it last night at Banana Cafe: 6

How many references to my upcoming birthday did I make today: 9 (shameless!)

Number of engagements to which I am going tonight: 2

Number of beers I intend to consume: 5 - 7

Number of slices of pizza I wish for dinner: 1 (beers count as food tonight a little)

Probability that the Nat's game will be rained out tomorrow: 99%

How sad that makes me on a scale of 1 - 10 with 10 being the highest: 8

How many people I read about on the internet that quit their jobs today and made me salivate with envy: 3

Web boggle score for the word salivate: 7

Things I learned this weekend

In no particular order:

1.) Brisket is some pretty tasty stuff.

2.) Dog hair doesn't come out of pajama pants magically in the washing machine. Who knew you had to brush it off first? And wash things twice?

3.) Asti makes all family get-togethers even better. For AM Asti enjoyment, a mimosa. For PM Asti enjoyment, with some raspberries in the bottom of the glass. For anytime enjoyment, chug from bottle and wink at your cousin.

4.) Canal street is not a fun place to drag a little wheelie suitcase through, no matter HOW lost you are, HOW above asking for directions, HOW hot it is, and HOW you are SO-GOING-TO-MISS-THAT-CHINATOWN-BUS.

5.) It is worth getting lost in Chinatown to buy your mom a $2 pair of souvenir slippers because it made her day a little.

6.) Also worth it cuz you got yourself 2 pairs!

7.) Knitting these slippers wasn't as hard as I thought they would be. I can count, therefore; I knit. One slipper down, the other to go.

8.) Grey's Anatomy isn't going to be on until the 23rd. GRRRRR, ABC, GRRRR.

9.) Pennsylvania DMVs mean BUSINESS.

10.) And by BUSINESS, I mean make it clear how much of an idiot you are for not waiting for your camera card to get in the mail before you decide to prance into the photo center ready for some glamour shot of a new license that will be horizontal, not vertical like your UNDER 21 UNTIL APRIL 26, 2003 trading card.

11.) Attention PA drivers: That camera card is very important. Don't show up without it, lest Yvonne at the Rosemont DMV give you some 'tude for how dumb you are.

12.) Century Coach is vastly superior to Today's Bus.

13.) Some people, like the girl sitting next to me on one of my busses, would like a tattoo of an oversize octopus sitting in a lifeguard chair on a lovely shoreline.

14.) Other people at one point wanted a tattoo of Kermit on their stomach.

15.) Dave's parents two favorite stories about him as a child involve polka and a gerbil named "Husky" respectively.

16.) You can't go wrong in a sort-of-smelly Chinese restaurant with sweet and sour pork.

17.) Teen night at a local Peruvian bar is probably the scariest thing you could possibly imagine.

18.) When in doubt, shamelessly tease your boyfriend in front of his parents to gain their respect.

19.) Swiffer Wet Jet is probably the most amazing invention since pasteurization.

20.) Scrapple contains some nast pig bits. That's why it's delicious!

21.) Seltzer water is a gift from God.

22.) Septa makes me sleepy.

23.) Amtrak makes me hungry

24.) My brother Neal makes a kick ass power point presentation.

25.) My brother Kevin leaves ridiculous messages on my cousin's facebook page.

26.) I am officially too old to talk about facebook.

27.) Wawa's 2 soft pretzels for 99 cents is something to call home about.

28.) I still remember how to drive.

29.) I am impressed my 17-year-old brother Neal listens to more NPR than I do. He is well on his way to yuppie-dom.

30.) Rita's Water Ice is just as good as I remembered it.

31.) My family on both sides have the following general characteristics: Loud, hungry, gossipy, bossy and nosey.

32.) Confusing Penn station and Grand Central station is dumb when you proclaim your deep conviction that the ATM you need is there, only to realize after a few laps around that you are in the other station.

33.) Amtrak employees mumble. Both on the PA and off.

34.) When in your parents house for 24 hours, eat as much food as you can, no matter how un-hungry you are. You'll relish the memory of those 4 oreos later in your oreo-less house.

35.) Bassett hounds are a little stinky, but OH so lovable.

Playing Catch up

We all have reading that piles up on us. First it's summer reading as a kid, then reading in college that you skim the night before, and then the adult version: the publication pile-up.

Right now I only get 2 magazines, Vogue and Vogue Knitting. The DK complains of the Economist or Foreign Affairs stacking up on his desk (snobs, the both of us). I used to get Glamour in Spanish but that subscription had run its course. It was always the month behind gringa Glamour, and really, once you know the Spanish words for thong, doggie-style, and lip-liner I feel the novelty had passed.

My roommate works with lots of publications, hence we have lots of them sitting around the house. This makes for extra pile-up reading, because now you feel the need to read things that you didn't know you needed to read. Like Mother Jones. Or The New Republic.

[Sidenote: I refused to let myself be the kind of lady who writes about things I've read to show how interesting/well-read/globally connected/better than you I am. I understand that they have their audiences and I read blogs like that, but that's not my intent for this space be book report-ville.]

However, I read a really interesting article regarding the New York Times in The New Republic, and its abundance of luxury porn. And I have to say that I fall for it, in the New York Times, and elsewhere-- hook, line, and sinker.

Hello, My name is Katastrophe, and I am a luxury-porn addict.

I am a devour-er of all sorts of luxury porn. Note my shortlist of magazines. Sometimes I swindle co-workers into giving me Vanity Fair and Dwell. I have apartment therapy bookmarked at work AND at home so I can get my fill of design/apartment/modernist porn. I get Daily Candy DC because hell, of COURSE I want to know about where to get sleek French underthings and buttery soft handbags in the District and it's posher outlying suburbs. I watch Cribs and The Fabulous Life of...... . I troll the goss blogs. I hear Oprah says it's good being rich.

Luxury porn is everywhere, and I lap it up al fresco in a plastic bowl outside the fence of the cafe du you'll-never-have-a-Prada-dress-though-it's-been-a-life-goal-
since-you-could-spell-Prada.

I don't get paid a whole lot. I work a small-time gig. I won't buy wine that's more than $15.99. I go out to lunch maybe once a month. H&M is more how I roll. The most expensive handbag I ever purchased was $45 at Loehmanns because it's the closest thing to turquoise butteriness I could ever hope to afford.

I don't think I've ever had "rich" on a list of my aspirations. I'd like to not fret everytime I check my balance online, but I don't need to be wearing that Prada dress every day, and wouldn't appreciate it if I had a whole closet-full. Part of luxury porn is seducing you with and desensitizing you to wealth, price, and what you are worth. It's like I don't blink when I see how much dresses cost in Vogue, or bat an eye that a rapper with the word "Lil" before some sort of animal noise as a name makes more money that I ever will, and has the closet to show for it.

What the article had to say was that the New York Times wasn't always put in that position. People like me GET Vogue for the fashion-porn (and yikes, Dolce and Gabbana, your ads are porn-porn) and to step into actress's French mansions, Christian Louboutin stilettos, and Narciso Rodriguez gowns. Which is worse-- getting your luxury porn where you know you can find it, or turning to every day sources for fur scrunchies? (yes, they actually referred to them in said article).

Fur scrunchies? Shouldn't that send out the signal for collective vomiting throughout Manhattan?

But I digress. It made me wonder why I seek out luxury porn. I'd like to say it's because I am grooming my good taste for the future, when I can look at Vogue and then find a knock-off that isn't so knock-y--off-y. It's for ripping pages out and bringing them to Ikea, to H&M and to Target. But when I am faced with spending money, I balk at prices on clothing that Anna Wintour wouldn't blow her nose with.

I would say for someone my age, I live in luxury. I have a roof over my head that isn't my parents', a double bed with soft sheets, food in the fridge, clothes rattling in the dryer, some disposable income for booze and the occasional savings for some sandals. This is enough for me now, but I worry there will come a day where that won't do.


P.S. ha ha oooh the web statistics on site-meter are going to be HILARIOUS with the use of the word "porn" so frequently.

Of safeways and sprouts

Today, I made my regular weekly trip to the Soviet Safeway for some provisions for lunch for the upcoming week. Some of us are a little too poor to enjoy the finery of Galileo grill every day, (but bless them for being open so much these days!) so I generally load up the work fridge with as much as I can. A girl's gotta be a little selfish sometimes.

Last week, I OD'ed on raisins and Lean Cuisines. I am officially OFF lean cuisines. I know they are gross, but when you can get 7 for 10 dollars, what's a girl to do? Really, I would much rather spend my hard-earned money on shoes, jewelry, or a well-deserved trip (read, after I pay my bills and save for a new apt and all it's hidden costs).

So, I am anti-lean-cuisines-bistro-gourmet-you've-got-to-be-effing-kidding-me-this-pizza-is-the- size-of-my-fist. It's never as good as you psych yourself up to be. You think "this is going to be a party!" And then you realize that you have five Swedish meatballs and a handful of noodles in "gravy" that is some grayish brown color that looks like all the deliciousness was scientifically removed by the Swedish bikini team themselves, just to make those of us who are poor and looking to stay trim feel an extra kick in the pants.

You'd be surprised, what more a girl would want. Then that girl is dying of hunger like she's a third world orphan and needs to go to CVS to buy Pringles cuz they're on sale for 88 cents and she's got a possessed, starving glare in her eyes as she hands over that cvs extra-care card. At least I bought the low-fat ones, but a pringle's a pringle.

At the Soviet safeway, I came the closest I ever have to actually complaining and then retreating, giving up and carrying the anger with me in my little, passive-aggressive soul.

I waited for literally 13 minutes at the deli counter before someone decided to meet my eye-contact. At first I had the waiting posture that indicates that you know that anyone behind a counter deserves some respect, after all, they handle your black forest ham and they probably deal with some awful people so being nice is the absolute least I can do. But then I was full on arms-crossed, foot tapping, looking around for someone to even acknowledge that yes, I was waiting. Still. I just wanted a half-pound of turkey. One poor employee was stuck making sandwiches AND handing out some turkey and was being eternally patient with a 96 year-old-woman who needed her sandwich just so. The other was leaning on the counters, chatting at her, drinking sodas and bitching about how he didn't want to go clock in yet, but he were late so he should. Then he finally went to go clock in. And then he came back and continued talking at her and sipping his Tab. I understand that job must blow, but give me a break. My job blows. Get in line.

OH WAIT, I AM IN LINE. HOW NOVEL! Like you, sir, my lunchbreak is also an hour.

Situations like this always makes me think of the song Pixie, by Ani Difranco. That song surprised me very much, because for all her liberal leanings it brought her down to a human level in which she too, apple of my teenage eye, can have it up to HERE when a girl can't get a taquito with some semblance of timeliness. That always was sort of my green light to at least say "damn the man, but for the love of god, can I PLEASE HAVE SOME TURKEY" or at least "I'll be with you in a few minutes". Or at least a LOOK. Something. Anything.

Nothing. However, over-worked employee finally came over and apologized and I resumed my deference for her handling fine meat products and thanked her and wished her a nice day. I felt better about the situation because after I had circled the store 6 times trying to find non-frozen bagels and agonizing about what flavor of cream cheese to get, I heard her lay into her lazy co-worker real good, and I smiled for her.

And then, my smiling for her, and for fights for fairness, equality, civil rights, and all worthy causes swelled up inside my chest like a balloon filled with hope. I thought of all the people who would be swarming the mall today to protest their right to just get some effing turkey. On the walk home, I let a penny lie on the sidewalk, because I thought, "you know? Right now, someone else needs this luck more than me." On all my favorite blogs, I clicked their ads. All of them. On my walk home, I smiled at all the people who looked a little forlorn, babies, and dogs, completely drunk on my own benevolent sensitivity.

I'm losing my edge. I'm becoming a little too emo for my own good.

Must be all the second degree hookah smoke.

However, this also led me to purchase alfalfa sprouts, and now I am concerned that my bacon-cheeseburger-eating, beer-drinking, combat-boot-owning self is getting all soft in her old age. And now I'm a little put off. I didn't know I was the sprouts kinda girl. But then I looked down at my black-cat-stamped-hand, holding a bottle of seltzer water, listening to KT Tunstall and panicked.

send help!

Abuses of the words "actually and particularly"

Now, everyone please be a love and cross your fingers. Cross them well, cross them often and with good wishes, please, please, please.

I'll be busy between the hours of 10 and 12 trying to prove to some people how amazing I am. This will be interesting, because, REALLY? I'm not that amazing (who is when you're 24?), I am just a desperate, desperate woman with a particularly interesting thing going on.

But you know what doesn't hurt amazing-ness? Some really hot shoes, some lipstick (!), and about 3 - 5 good questions (they love it when the prospective peoples ask questions! and lots of 'em.)

The suit is fabreezed (the poor woman's dry cleaning) and ready to be ironed. Perfunctory DC-suit pearl accessories have been selected. I have an eyecatching bag with some detailed notes and said important questions.

I have made the rounds of lies to say I had a doctor's appointment, which I hope does not choose to bite me in the ass. I actually feel bad about lying.

That's a total lie, actually. I feel bad about being sneaky because I totally suck at being sneaky. I was that child with a fistfull of cookies who jammed them into her mouth when she saw a parental unit, and then vehemently denied that cookies existed, my mouth was full, or that my ears were burning from the heat of the devil rising up from hell to take my 5-year-old-soul back down with him, because isn't that what I learned in Catholic school?

An intense fear of the devil and of hell I think is what drove me to behave as well as I did as a kid. I remember being in second grade, sitting in my plaid skirt, pigtails perfectly braided, hands folded while the teacher was talking. A particularly unruly boy asked me why I was so f---ing good all the time, and I just angelically lifted my finger to my lips and shushed him with the grace of a saint. Clearly, the F-word didn't exist yet in my little world and fast forward to 24 and I have been proudly kilt free since the age of 11(britney spears and naughty-catholic school girl Halloween costumes in poor taste included.)

Things are hard now that I ruined my run as being perfect, which had a good long life of about ages 6 - 9. I am freaking out that I might say "balls!" if I drop a pen, or swear absentmindedly to myself while filling out paperwork. I have done my homework, and now all I can do is get some beauty sleep, and hope for the best. Oh, and GET THERE, could that be ANY more difficult? For serious. Thanks public transportation. I'm just hoping that this goes so well that it's the last I mention of occupational hazards of boredom, because I'll be doing something awesome. Also, it would be particularly nice to NOT WRITE ABOUT WORK ON THE INTERNET.

Basic outline of why I am still awake.

At the top of that list right now?

Stressing about not being able to sleep. Damn you daylight savings. Daylight savings time always screws me up, and I don't fall asleep easily; I am a fretter.

Sunday nights in particular I never get a good night's sleep. I have read books, watched tv, counted backwards from 99, envisioned sheep, fantasized about the shoes I would like to buy and the jobs I would prefer to have-- even read the drug information packet from my new medical wonder-friend, Zelnorm.

But nothing. Not. sleepy.

I can't sleep right now, due to your average sunday-night-case-of-the-worries, which I've included here in outline form

I. MONEY

A.) I wonder what my balance is. should i check it? no-- let's just ballpark the math.
1.) pay bills:
i.) Rent
ii.) Student Loans
iii.) Credit Card
2.) Balls. check balance. budget money for the next 2 weeks to maximize credit card payment. This includes food, necessary amounts of booze, fun times over the weekend, travel for passover and easter, and doctors hoo ha (see III).
B.) Notation that I need to make more money... leading into

II. JOBS

A.) I would really like a new one, please. My current job isn't doing it for me anymore. I am interested in a lot of things. I really would like to do a lot of things that I am underqualified for.
1.) Internet strategies for non-profits: qualifications = i read blogs at work a lot
2.) Transition into the arts = I take bad faux-artsy pictures and stalk flickr
3.) Get out of things that involve the things I hate about my job now.
4.) Get to be more creative in workplace, however, I need to figure out
a.) what exactly I am good at
b.) what to do with what I am good at
c.) figure out what makes my skills unique
d.) figure out how to get paid more than i am getting paid now for such qualifications
B.) Also figure out new job that will let me start to think about grad school, but first I should
1.) figure out what I'd like to study
2.) get over being really bullishly stubborn about higher-higher education because I feel like the world is really just so self-important re: higher-higher education. Everyone has all these plans,that are falling into place, which they sort of talk about in such a way that makes me feel really bad about myself because i've finally come to the realization that I don't have to like school as much as I pretended to. Smart girls are supposed to like school. And deciding this isn't always true was hard.
a.) once i am over this, figure out how to pay for such an education, which apparently i am ridiculously ignorant for not knowing what it shall be in and or not having a huge drive to attain it because I am well in the hole for undergrad alone.
b.) I have no interest in going into the realm which I studied in college, and I am now paying citibank often for the luxury of that mistake. (see I. MONEY)
3.) But maybe should stay at job with super good benefits because

III. MY HEALTH

A.) Zelnorm packet has not put me to sleep, though said drug has increased my overall life
satisfaction insomuch as now i am not sitting on the couch green with envy.
1.) Neither is my 9am appointment for bloodwork tomorrow.
2.) I am not afraid of needles.
B.) I am afraid of having to take a pill for the rest of my life and I have always been afraid of getting results of ANYTHING back.

IV. CASE IN POINT

A. To this day, I don't know what my grades for my second semester of college are. I have never looked.
B.) I never looked because I had the WORST professor in a NORTORIOUSLY hard class who had failed most of us on a midterm and I was PETRIFIED of failing, because I am not the kind of girl who 'never failed'. I have failed at a great many things.
1.) gymnastics
2.) childhood dream of becoming cowgirl-mommy by age 19
3.) 3 midterms (ALL CLASSES for my major)
4.) to figure out what I want to be when I grow up (see I, II, IV, V, VI, VII)
C.) When cleaning out desk this weekend, I found my letter stating that GW had let me graduate, and that my diploma was on its way. I had forgotten about this friendly letter, and a few months anxiety rushed out of my body.
1.) so where the balls IS my dilpoma?
2.) and where the balls are all my important documents?

V. IMPENDING BIRTHDAY (April 26)

A. I need to renew drivers license
1.) stick with PA?
2.) Get DC?
a.) what papers do i need
b.) where the eff ARE THOSE PAPERS
B. What the balls am I going to do for said birthday?
C. Not asking any family members of my overly-presently-inclined family because I am going to need some help for

VI. THE MOVE

A.) The goal is to live by myself. I am really ready for my own apartment with my own mess, own decorating decisions, and own emotional space. Even if it's like 300 square feet of it. I am ready for not turning on the light to figure out what that creepy noise is. I am ready to just sleep with a baseball bat and hope for the best.
B.) Finding a studio apartment is going to be really hard.
1.) especially in my price range
2.) especially on the Hill (preferred neighborhood)
3.) i've lived without windows in my bedroom (and office to boot) and am looking for some LIGHT, AIR CIRCULATION, and PEACE AND QUIET.
C.) And my parents will want to help me buy what I need to fill in the gaps at Target and what not, and after having helped me pay for college (see IV) I am completely incapable of accepting their money, which is a real shame.
1.) example 1: when i was home before my cousin's wedding to hang out, my mom took me shopping for a dress to wear. she offered to get me some new work clothes too, but i refused. They had done so much for me, how could I really accept some slacks? My mother told me that i was acting foolish, but she doesn't quite understand how guilty i feel that they paid a lot of money for my education and I am not using it exactly.(see I, II)

VII. TIDBITS IN CONCLUSION

A.) currently reading A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby, which is so beautiful and yet so depressing that it makes it hard to sleep, because I am now worried about
a.) people throwing themselves off of buildings
b.) how to make life worth not throwing self off building
1.) do i ever think about throwing myself off a building?
2.) if i have is that so bad?
3.) if i haven't, is that so bad?
B.) Am gripped with sudden realization at impending age (see V) that my parents are getting older. And my grandparents are getting older. And I am sad about the day I will have to worry about this for real.
C.) is making outlines of why it's now 2:45 am and i still cannot sleep COMPLETELY NEUROTIC?
1.) Why is my poor blog my outlet for neurotic tendencies?
2.) Does blog enable neurotic tendencies?

for reals now. i'd like some sleep.

Random Times

Strangeness begets strangeness in its most random forms.

An old college friend who I had not seen since the day his father drove him away the day after graduation come into town tonight. This is a friend I have known since DAY ONE of college at GW. Small group in Colonial Inauguration, that's how old. Meeting him for drinks with a bunch of old friends was hilarious, because though we all have grown up in some respects, we are all still the same.

It's funny to think what purposes certain friends serve. Every person isn't every friend. The word "friend" encompasses so many functions: comrade, co-worker, family, peer, lover-- yet we all sort of shrug it away. We have friends we call to try to pour our hearts out, friends we call when we want to get wasted, friends we call when we want to reminisce and (the occasional) friend we call when booty is the question and what follows is a complicated answer.

I am probably some of these friends to some people. Most call me with either super good or super bad news. I feel like in those situations is where I am best. People don't call me when they are looking for a blunt opinion, because let's face it-- I'm not the best when it comes to either tough love OR telling people something that's hard to hear. People call me for tea and sympathy, for laughs most likely at my own benefit, and for support in their decisions. I am ok with that, but the super hard truth is hard for me to pussy-foot around. Confrontation and I have never been friends, so why should confrontation be my friends friend?

What I am good for in a crowd is saying something that I don't mean in a sexual way and having it come out the fattest innuendo EVER. If you are looking for a good inside joke to recyle, I am your woman. Case in point: tonight. Rosemary's Thyme. After a very long, very involved conversation with people of all sexual persuasions, a nearly unanimous decision was made re: various shapings of women's pubic hair. (does that look like a Q to you?)

That became the David Letterman theory of comedy. You know, whenever something quiets, it's the joke you always come back to, waiting for someone else to piggy-back on your incessant repeating of a clever observation, summation of comments, or quirky phrasing. Whenever something was quiet for a moment, we went back to "genitals" or "landing strips" if you will.

My friend Drew made a comment about "yay genitals", his turn for a David Letterman theory humor take.

Then, to my horror, my mouth-which-just-had-multiple-margaritas said this: "Aah, Drew is Pro-Genital.... You know, it's really something he CAN GET BEHIND".

And then everyone falls to pieces. Because I said that. Without sexual connotations implied. Like genitals were a cause you could vote for or donate money to-- really get behind not GET BEHIND. Is that why people invite me places? Maybe. Who knows?

But that's what is funny about friendships, in many forms. They change shapes, colors, and time-zones but still you have that David letterman joke to fall back on. And there they are to quip back, digging you further into your attachments to them, from wherever they originally came.

I have friends I think very fondly of in all stages of my life: middle school, summer camp (WHY DID YOU NOT SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THE CUT OFFS?) high school, college, work, and beyond. You've all been there when my blue cue cards telling me what to say are ready. And I thank you for that.

Some people think that you are either attached to college friends, or high school friends more. I keep in touch (directly.... Thanks, internets!) with a disproportionate number of people on a truly regular basis, that I don't ever really tell college friends, high school friends, friends-of-friends and friend-friends-- especially those who are far away or whom I never call back because HELLO, I listen to my voicemails every 4 weeks...

I miss you all. You all are very lovely folks. I'm looking at YOU, people I haven't talked to in a while. I have pictures of us laughing. Paul Shaffers are hard to find. Play the keyboard and be bald. I'll make a joke, about it, in a blue suit and buck teeth, I swear. Or maybe you need someone around to wear small sunglasses and laugh at your jokes. I also serve that function pretty well.

That will never change. Everything else is workable.

Embracing my inner gladiator

OMG.

I talked to Tim Gunn.

Rather, Tim Gunn let me ask him a question.

sort of.

Tim Gunn answered my question on the Washington Post chat today. He was talking about spring styles, and I had submitted a question about my lovely new shoes. These are "the-sandals-of-toe-doom-which-rendered-me-a-cripple-for-two-weeks-because-the-blisters-were-so-bad" shoes.

Aren't they cute? So very now. so very $14.99.

The first time I wore them my feet were bleeding so wretchedly that other pedestrians sort of sidled away from me at the crosswalk and probably went home to tell their friends and neighbors about the bloody girl in payless shoes who was silly enough to try and walk in them!

BUT: TIM. GUNN. ANSWERED. MY. QUESTION!

(me) Washington, D.C.: Hi Tim! I join the ranks of women who gush about how fabulous you are. We speak the truth! My question for you is: I bought a pair of bronze gladiator style sandals for the spring, but am unsure what would be a good match for a complete ensemble since I feel like I am in roman high-tops. Thanks so much.

Tim Gunn: Let's be blunt about this: gladiator sandals are just that. And I'm confident that you bought them for that very reason. Think 50's and embrace that style -- a pair of black cropped pants, for example, with a crisp white top. Or try a circle skirt. Don't force the sandles to compete with the rest of your ensemble. Embrace your inner gladiator, just don't carry a trident!

My friend at work called me to be like "YOUR QUESTION IS UP" and I freaked out! I was so excited! His answer was adorable, and I agree with him completely! Now I feel like I can't "just carry the trident", i have to be fashionable-er!

I'm sure people read it and were like "um.... gladiator style sandals? give me a break". But who the balls cares?

Not me! Tim Gunn hath spoken!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Go on, drink the kool aid

My least favorite season is here.

Don't get me wrong, I love spring in DC, all two weeks of it before we begin the slow simmer of perpetual August. It's our punishment for such a lovely spring. Temperatures are comfortable, and spring fever hit us HARD. Remember that really warm day about two weeks ago? The world was out on blankets making out. The city stripped itself of grey suits in favor of showing some skin, and the unseasonable timing made it all ours.

And then....

You remember, as a DC resident, to avoid being outside.

The cherry blossoms have arrived.

This means two things for me.

1.) take the bus everywhere instead of squeezing on metro, because someone's fanny pack is going to get all up in my business while they are reprimanding their 13 children in a vague southern accent that could be from anywhere and everywhere at the same time.

2.) I sneeze like a sickly child for their entire 10 day peak time. Straight.

I have never suffered any other real allergies. Sure, a lot of dust makes me sneeze, but give me a break. I only actually for-real dust when the OCD becomes so acute that the swiffer duster doesn't do it for me and I have to wipe everything down to remove the offending particles. I have spent more time at home and at work staring up into the fluorescent light praying for freedom.

One of my favorite episodes of the Adventures of Pete and Pete (you remember it, don't lie) was when everyone revolted against bedtimes and they tried to stay up for as many days as they could to beat the world record of no sleep. One of the friends of Pete (or was it Pete?) succumbed to sleep after staring at the sun to make her sneeze.

I have had no such luck, but EVER since I was a little kid I have ALWAYS squinted at light to make myself sneeze. It's just about the only thing that works for me. Last night while poking around on my computer I spent more time staring up than a twelve year old boy hanging out by the staircase at the mall with a camera phone. At work, all day, I have been staring at the fluorescent light in vain, pleading with my nose.

I would go outside, and just stare at the sun, but thanks to THE STUPID CHERRY BLOSSOMS, there are 8 million Midwestern tourists who are going to block my view with their gi-normous Midwestern selves (Midwesterners I know, my apologies). Note their FBI cheap sweatshirt, white reeboks, and light tapered-leg jeans. They have infested our city and my view.

People, they are just plants. Yes, very pretty plants, but just plants. They are near museums, nice museums, but pretty boring museums. They are from Japan, yes, but I suppose it's not even on your radar screen to think about traveling there? You've been to Vegas right? Why ever go to Paris? If you are coming here, why not look at the cherry blossoms in other places, or take a cultural walking tour of an interesting neighborhood? Do something aside from be big white people gaping at big white buildings.

But then again, I don't want you to. Stay where you are, tourists, in pockets of the city that are easily avoidable. Maybe I don't want a zillion people clustering around what is unique about this city. Does cakelove need a line around the block like Magnolia bakery? No thanks.

Perhaps I confused the haterade with my claritin this morning, but I'm serious.

image taken from www.nationalcherryblossomfestival.org

Poor little friend

My sad I-pod armband
Originally uploaded by kspriss.

My poor i-pod armband! She's all alone! Her other half had gone to the Apple store, where she had to take some tests. We were worried about her battery, because she would get finicky if I was trying to coax her into playing for more than 2 hours. In fact, she would get finicky if I asked her to do ANYTHING, except play that damn catchy KT Tunstall while I am hard at work filing from 9 - 5. She seems to know that will make me a little less bitter and pass the time a faster with such pleasant Scottish company.

The Apple store in Bethesda is very nice, and quite small as far as apple stores go. I showed up at 6:50pm on Friday for my appointment with "the genius". The Genius was a pleasant 19 year-old-kid who probably makes more money than me. I chatted nervously with him while I asked exactly "how many crazies like me, who come in and worry about their I-pods like it's their firstborn?" The Genius then laughed at my ipod cozy asking if the "sleeping bag" was helpful. I stopped chatting nervously and looked him squarely in the eye. How dare he insult my knitting.

Mr. Genius-19-year-old then told me my options. I felt like I was 6 again,faced with the death of my first pet. Greeny the grow-a-frog had met his untimely demise after being with us for a few short months. We figured we could bury him, or flush him like a fish, maybe. We went with burying. Except we didn't bury him, we put him in the freezer first.

Mr. Genius-19-year-old explained that I could either send the ipod back to Apple for a battery test and if it failed, then I could keep my original ipod (with the engraving on it.) Or they could run a test for me and if my little friend failed, then they would give me a replacement ipod (thank god a mini for a mini, pink for pink!).

Losing the engraving pulls at my heartstrings a little. This friend was a gift, a very thoughtful gift, coupled with a Jem lunchbox. It was the best birthday ever. However, I am an idiot, and the warranty is up in 3 weeks. Not wanting to risk it, I consented to letting them test it at the store. He said he would get back to me in a few days.

I left hurriedly, after patting her screen gently, sweating with the anticipation of her performance. If she couldn't play for 12 hours straight (since, in theory, the mini's battery life is 18 hours) then she would fail. I had my money on her making it through 3 hours. TOPS.

Precisely 18 hours after I set foot out of the Apple store, I get a phone call from my Genius. ALREADY.

I ask, "so how did my little friend do?"

Genius said, "not so good ma'am. She failed." Then he said he had ordered me a replacement pink mini, and they would call me when it arrived.

Now I am faced with an emotional attachment to a small electronic thing. It's my Snowball I and Snowball II. Nothing can replace Pinky I. She was a special gift, and I mourn the emotional attachment to my name proudly (and noted by gift giver: FREELY!) emblazened on the back. Girls are attached to that sort of thing.

The thing is the in-between of Pinky I and Pinky II is really hard. Rendered I-pod-less is proving to be very difficult. The gym? Less motivation without Confessions on a Dancefloor. The walk to work? Less depressing now that I'm not listening to Low's The Great Destroyer, but I need the depression to fuel a job search.

And that filing? Without KT? NOT HAPPENING!

A Year Ago Tomorrow

This was me.

Drunk.

Happy.

Warm.

With a man in an inflatable hurricane costume. It's been a year since that day, and I can only NOW bear to look at a hurricane and not want to vomit with a Category 4 Fury.

Fully aware of how crazy this makes me sound

If you are reading this, chances are hugely favorable that you KNOW me.

If you KNOW me, you know that I am a tit-bit neurotic. Adorably so. Part of my charm. I freak out about things, often for about 45 seconds with the arms flailing and the voice jumping some octaves -- and then *poof* it's gone. Calm as a cucumber. Wee that was fun.

People who have waited in lines for roller coasters with me know this to the perfect example. I am almost 24 years old. I have taken some science classes in life. I know that loopy rollercoasters are made by Scandinavian engineers who test ride this stuff. I know gravity will keep me in my seat. I know that 4 Gs isn't a lethal speed. I get on the rollercoaster, I strap myself in (REPEATEDLY CHECKING THE STRAPS). The ride takes off, and I am laughing and fine. Going fast is fun! weeeeee! And then afterwards, I say "let's do it again!" and though I JUST DID IT, the process repeats itself.

But I still work myself up to such a level of absolute TERROR that I am going to be FLUNG from that seat and not have the luck to land in the wave pool at the connecting water park. I wouldn't be able to think in those four seconds about "whether I should grab onto this branch" or "I should fall on my legs cuz if they brake who cares, but don't fall on head". I would just be gripped in this moment of total fear that I am going to splat onto the parking lot and fry like an egg on the sidewalk of an august afternoon.

I have never been one to trust my brain. Sure, I got fine grades in high school and college, but NEVER have I EVER been like "it's fine, whatever, I'll just let the old noggin have a crack at it and it will be fine". I don't trust brain to remember important things (ranging from the Hecksher-Olin model to where in the crap I left my goddamn keys!). Brain has failed me before, because anxiety prevails. Exams rendered the palms clammy, the heart poundy, and the brain weepy.

I've gotten over some of the specific anxieties I had as a kid. Some of them are with me today, and have seen me through some spectacles.

But when I saw this on Boing-Boing I completely regressed.

I was PARANOID as a child that my eyes were going to fall out and hang by the optic nerve and dance on the stage of my cheekbones for all to see. I would each night before I fell asleep, align my palms on my temples and bend my fingers over make sure that the eyeballs were about evenly protruding (using the VERY scientific measure of index fingers). If they were a little uneven (which they are prone to be, especially given the angle of your vision, because eyeballs UP feels different than eyeballs DOWN) I would immediately go to the bathroom and quietly freak out, inspecting them from every angle until I had talked myself down from requesting an ambulance to the psych ward because I was a completely ridiculous worrywart EVEN AS A CHILD.

One night, when I was about 6, and I creeped into my parents room absolutely terrified. I scared the bejesus out of my mother because I poked her on the shoulder like she was awake and interruptible. I started wailing even before the poking and asked her,

"are my eyes even?"

After careful poking and prodding (and one bad dream) I had come to the decision that brain couldn't tell me if they were ok or not.

And my mother, a patient woman when it came to fears, as she was a nervous child and semi-nervous adult, before had tolerated this dribble. However, this time, she had been awakened by some severe poking, insta-sobbing, by some short thing that could clearly walk, talk, and function, so what COULD HAVE PROMPTED THIS?

She flipped over, and sternly grabbed my cheeks in one hand to muffle my sobs and said,

"Katastrophe, you ARE OK. LISTEN TO ME,YOU ARE OK. YOU NEED TO STOP THIS, BECAUSE YOUR EYES CANNOT FALL OUT. IT CAN'T HAPPEN"

Then, being a good mom, she felt sort of bad for being so stern when I was clearly so distraught, so she patted my tears and my hand and got up and made sure I climbed back up to top bunk safely.

I had carried that maternal promise through the ages. Don't care what you say, brain, I don't trust you. EYEBALLS DON'T FALL OUT.

A while back I had reiterated this story to the DK, who was like "um, actually, yes. They can. And they do." But I didn't believe him. Where was this information coming from, A BRAIN? WHO TRUSTS BRAINS?

UNTIL I saw this. If eyes can fall out, you should trust eyes to see the truth. EYES CAN POP OUT. I didn't see the basketball game, but Lord, AM I GLAD I DID NOT. I take this as a note from Karma, because the player that was injured went to Villanova, which is precisely 4.9 miles from my parents' house.

SO, Brain. NOTE TO SELF: Should this childhood fear of eyeball popping actually occur: here is what you should do.

1.) look DOWN
2.) pinch and pull eyelid back
3.) take eyeball, taking care to only touch the white parts back towards the socket
4.) gently push back into socket halfway, while pulling eyelid back
5.) when about halfway in, LOOK UP
6.) your eye should take care of the rest

I'm going out on a limb here, but I MIGHT TRUST YOU TO REMEMBER THIS, BRAIN!

An Open Letter to Project Runway (which thus far is yet unseen)

Dear Project Runway:

Thank you for being renewed for a third season!

Thank you for being one of my favorite shows. I wanted to classify you as my favorite "reality show" but really, you're so much more than that! You are my Wednesday night. You are my water-cooler-conversation-fuel. You are the reason I don't hang myself on hump day, because really, what's to live for when the weekend is so far away, and yet the one behind you was so close.

Your time, Wednesday nights at 10pm on Bravo is just ideal. Good going PR producers! THANK YOU. For serious, that's about the time in my life when I need some bitchiness. Not like, bitchiness that I deal with from 9 - 5:30, I mean deep-down, roll-up-those-sleeves, some-designers-are-just-really-great-pattern-makers bitchiness. I crave it. Maybe it's some masochistic instinct. I want a fabulous gay man to scream "WHERE THE HELL IS MY CHIFFON" as my alarm clock (mmm... Nick I'm looking at you). I want to know how to drape my own clothes, and I want to know how to thread my sewing machine in less than 2 hours and without 2 teaspoons of tears.

Project Runway, you are the perfect show. Drama, bitchery, hilarity (Where's Andrae?), superficial glory, and things I don't see everyday. Many shows on TV, I look at and I think "if I could win a million dollars, I could totes repel down the side of a tall building in Sao Paulo" or "Come ON now, kids. Really, are you all that wild and crazy?" but this show?! I can barely hem pants! I can make very, very simple things with my sewing machine. My fabric stash from college has been reduced to 5 yards of pink muslin, 2 vintage tee shirts, some navy blue lace, and a 5 years of ribbon and beads collected from ruined designs involving safetypins and elastic.

But, Darling PR, this is my beef and my delight with you:

1.) if Santino wins, I am going to have to throw down with the TV, write my local congressperson a letter (errr..... Ward One Councilman, mayhaps?) and then cry my brown eyes out at the thought of someone with way too much to say and way too many ruffles to convey it. It will be the ruin of my love affair with Bravo. I might have to cheat on you with either Logo, Food Network (which is already partially true), or VH1 (love to regress).

2.) If Chloe wins, than I think everyone in the country will breathe a collective sigh of relief that for ONCE, the Asian-American population will have someone to point to that is cool, creative, and successful without having to learn kung fu, play the violin, or be really good at math. Chloe is awesome, talented, and beautiful, but I fear she will not win. There are great things for her to come though, this is true. If i looked more like a sorority girl, i would TOTES wear her clothes with platform flipflops and a vera bradley tote and sashay around DC like it was my effing job. (wait-- platform flip flops, i must recind that offer). Also, Texas really needs some more things to be proud of. They're fighting an uphill battle what with Georgie-poo to begin with.

3.) if Daniel V. wins I am going to steal some of my boyfriend's underwear and mail it to him with my return address and a note attached in pink swirly penmanship that reads "Curious if boy genius is hung like a man". I'm probably the only girl in America who thinks he is cute. If I saw him on the street, I would be like "swoon!". I know he's not into my plumbing, but that's alright. I'll hold your shopping bags, Daniel V.! He is my favorite. I am rooting for him. If he doesn't win, than THE BLOOD IS ON YOUR HANDS, PRODUCERS. How about letting a nice guy with good taste win something FOR ONCE. There are enough jerks in the world who get to talk and america listens. How about letting the good guys win, for once?

That's all I have to say about this nonsense. I cannot believe that I missed it. Bless you, DK for owning a TiVo and having the sense to appease me with its many delights.

p.s. I'm serious, if Santino wins, I am boycotting season three.

p.p.s. did everyone see Kara Janx's collection? I was super impressed.

p.p.p.s let me remind you it's the EIGHTH AMENDMENT to the Constitution that guards against cruel and unusual punishment. This lends itself to Project Runway taunting, teasing, telling, and tarnishing. I MEAN IT.

p.p.p.p.s. no links because i fear that i might catch the results and really, i'm sort of looking forward to the challenge of not letting myself know. that means tomorrow, no internets (even cnn.com) and no gossipping. HOW AM I GOING TO SURVIVE?

Laundry list of things I want to knit!

So i am STILL NOT FINISHED WITH THE DAMN SWEATER.

my own guilt and its capacity escapes me for once. For once, working on ONE project was just too much for me. I'm dying to knit a pair of old-lady mary jane slippers and a cabled hat. but i can't knit them until i see how much yarn i have to use for the sweater. I just want a break from plain old knitting. there was so little increasing/decreasing (and hellooo no ribbing) that thinking of reading a pattern that says "work for 10 1/2 inches in garter stitch" makes me want to vom. on the sweater. and then give it to an alley cat. to poop on.

While i am just in laundry-ville here, i am going to go to the gym and then afterwords figure out how to pick up 12 more stitches and knit the damn cowl aready. Enough is enough. Stop the insanity. Knit the damn cowl!

After this, in no particular order, are things i'd like to knit next:

1.) cabled hat (i can cable, but i need to practice it on something that's not just a swatch)

2.) mary jane slippers

3.) a cute little shrug for the spring time!

4.) a carry all, any where bag

5.) a friend

Further down on the list include mittens, leg warmers, another sweater (ugh no garter stitch this time) and assorted other things.

maybe even a womb?

Get me a cane, I'm almost 24.

Still no sweater-finished-project to speak of. Now that I'm sort of past the "deadline", I'd rather not rush myself and stop enjoying making something. Also, I have (at this point) plenty of yarn left, so I smell a cabled beanie for myself as an added bonus.

Today, I had to work at the Kennedy center. Today, I realized something very strange about myself.

I am older than college-girls. I cannot relate to "the co-eds".

WEIRD. I was chatting on the metro home with some nice enough (remember, these are GW students, here) girls about some things and it occurred to me that I am just old.

here is a small list of the reasons why:

1.) I don't need to run to the kitchen bathroom to chug 4 glasses of VERY cheap champagne while working a RETIREMENT PARTY.

2.) ha ha ha. I can buy said cheap champagne myself. And I will, for Oscar viewing. On Sunday.

3.) I don't use the phrase "alright now, hurry it up buddy" re: boys + alcohol= your pathetic love life.

4.) who talks about that to other people in tuxedos whose names you cannot and will not remember.

5.) you are going in said tuxedo to meet friends at Cafe Japone with only $7 for some beer and karaoke cuz they didn't get carded, and your bf4evah is bringing you different shoes so at least you can appear put together from the ankles down.

5.) I would never thump my chest with my fist like I was paying respect to a fallen brother while telling a group that I would walk at graduation with some "tassels, baaaayyyybeeeeeeeeee!" cuz you "double majored and had an econ minor, and shit" because, really-- that doesn't garner respect, but pity.

6.) 2 out of 7 had nose rings.

7.) they were talking about their TA who couldn't speak English. I cannot remember the name of my TA who could not speak English. All I remembered was that he was mercilessly laughed at for pronouncing "taco" like "take-oh".

8.) They oohed and aahed when I exited the train at the Adams Morgan stop. I'll prolly see them barfing up their jumbo slice on my front steps this spring. I will wave politely and say to a companion out of the corner of my mouth "I think I know this lady with the vom."

9.) they all giggled about something POINTEDLY when I got off the train, indicating that I was a tired old lady who didn't know how to shoot the school shit anymore, because really, ha ha ha. You still have homework. and ha ha ha. You are paying out your father's ass for the luxury of not doing it.

10.) I realized, as I almost tripped out of the train, that for once, I was not jealous of their position in life. If I DON'T KNOW where my life is going, they are only just beginning. ha ha ha 20-year-old-gw-students. It's all a jagged line from here.