It was kind of a low key Christmas for me this year. Not a lot of gifts were exchanged (though I did get a kick ass Moby calendar from my brother – I’m putting links to the photos here so you can enjoy them as much as I do: cover, January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December). I made a bunch of yummy vegan treats for everyone, including a chocolate tofu cheesecake that I made yesterday that is fabulous. I always knew I was a good cook/baker before, so it is somehow gratifying to know I can still work wonders with food without using animal products. One of my co-workers had a slice of the cheesecake and loved it. We have yet to tell him that it is tofu. Hey, Christmas is over, I’m allowed to be evil again.

The thing that really struck me this year, though, is the amount of love there is in my family and amongst my friends. I was watching my dad sing in the choir at the Christmas Eve service and I was getting all teary eyed because I really do love him a lot. He is a wonderful person and he does his best to be the best father and husband that he knows how to be. You have to love and respect him for that. I am blessed to have him as my father.

And my whole family is like that. We like to give each other things and share things with one another, be they material possessions or talents or whatever. Whatever we have to give, we give it joyfully and with the knowledge that someone else will gladly receive it and treasure it with all the love they have. It really is an amazing thing to experience love like that.

And for the first time, I was not frightened by the love flowing in my direction during the holidays. I did not run from it. I was not made uncomfortable by it. I did not hide from it. I let it envelop me and I reveled in it before turning around and sending it right back out to someone else. Considering I was thinking of ending my days on this planet just two short years ago at about this time (I didn’t, thankfully. I went to Boston instead. I know, same thing.), I think that’s doing pretty well. I didn’t get depressed this year. I spread love and good cheer this year. That’s something to be proud of.

And now I have a Jersey girl in my office, so I’m going to wrap this up. I think I had more to say, but I’m feeling too good to get all introspective and stuff right now. But please promise me that each and every one of you will have a safe and happy New Year. By all means, go out and party, but please be safe doing so. I love you guys and would hate to see anything bad happen to any of you. Except that one guy…

My first job ever was in the produce department of a grocery store when I was fourteen. After about a year of that, I moved over to our local variety store as a cashier. My neighborhood growing up was a pretty even mix of Christians and Jews, so come holiday time, no matter the store I happened to be working in, we were told to greet our customers with either “Happy Holidays” or “Seasons Greetings.” I always opted for “Happy Holidays” because “Seasons Greetings” isn’t really something any teenager would ever really say. Not even “back in the day.” It’s not part of normal speech. It is a phrase made up probably by Hallmark so they could sell more cards. But anyway, I spent many a year saying “Happy Holidays” to many a person celebrating many a holiday.

Personally, growing up in a Christian household, I hate having to say “Happy Holidays” to everyone. It is such a generic, impersonal term that is supposed to convey very personal feelings. Feelings of love and sharing and giving and so on and so forth. So to say “Happy Holidays” to person after person after person while working in a store and having it greeted with a look of almost total indifference would get to me after a while.

On Christmas Eve, my dad’s church has a candlelight service at midnight. Towards the end of the service, the congregation sings a couple of Christmas carols in a row as everyone’s candles are lighted. By the time we get to the third verse of Silent Night, everyone’s candles are lit, the lights in the sanctuary are dimmed, and the organ stops playing. So you have a room full of hundreds of people, each with a candle, each singing softly into the night. It sends shivers up and down my spine and moves me to tears every year with its beauty. And following the service, you can greet each and every other person in the room by saying, “Merry Christmas” and each and every person in the room will smile and say, “And a very Merry Christmas to you, too.” And that, to me, is what Christmas is all about. That feeling of welcome and love and sharing. To me, that is what “Merry Christmas” means.

So in this world of Christmas and Hanukkah and Ramadan and Kwanzaa and the Winter Solstice and however many other holidays all celebrated around the same time by people of however many different religions, all I really want for Christmas is to be able to say to each and every one of you “Merry Christmas.” Christmas is the holiday I was raised with. It is a part of who I am, regardless of how I spiritually classify myself now. And by saying “Merry Christmas” to you, I am sharing myself with you. My feelings of love and peace and sharing and welcome and giving and so on and so forth. And if you smile and say back to me, “And a very Joyous Winter Solstice” or “Happy Hanukkah” or “A peaceful Ramadan” or whatever you say to celebrate your holiday, I will smile and thank you for sharing that part of yourself with me.

From the bottom of my heart, I wish a very Merry Christmas to each and every one of you.

And in this time of rampant consumerism, a small group of Chicagoans set forth from their humble abodes to visit a Warehouse Superstore to gather items in mass quantities that would be used at a meeting of the minds in the not too distant future. And by “meeting of the minds,” we, of course, mean “party with loud thumping music and lots of alcohol.” Of our four weary Chicagoans, three had before ventured to the Warehouse Superstore to be parted from their hard-earned dollars. The fourth had only heard tell of such a place.

There were scarcely enough hitching posts for the myriad noble steeds carrying the hoards of holiday consumers to the Warehouse Superstore. After a few moments, an available post was found and our valiant Chicagoans ventured into the Warehouse Superstore to part with their cash.

Our one Warehouse Virgin was taken aback upon entering the Superstore. The sheer volume of merchandise was almost overwhelming, not to mention the size of each bit of merchandise. Forty-four pound bags of dog food (our Virgin’s cat goes through a four pound bag of food in about three months). Three pound jars of cayenne pepper. Boxes of 1000 paper cups. As one who had only been shopping for herself and her cat for three years, our Warehouse Virgin could not help but giggle at the excesses presented to her in the Warehouse Superstore. For who really needs eight microwavable brownie bowls?

After much laughter and merriment, our four valiant Chicagoans left the Warehouse Superstore with more items and more cash in their pockets than they had anticipated. All in all, it was deemed a worthy shopping trip. And our Warehouse Virgin (a Virgin no more) will never forget the feeling of hick-ish-ess she experienced, dwarfed by sixty-foot tall racks of thirty-six count rolls of paper towels.

I know I’ve said it before and I’m pretty sure I will say it again, but I have to say once again that I have some of the world’s most wonderful friends. The thing that I love most about the lindy hop scene is that the people in it embrace this spirit of giving and sharing and helping one another out whenever they can. It really is a wonderful thing to behold. And even the seemingly small, insignificant gestures mean so much to me that I am at times on the verge of tears because my friends are so wonderful.

So a very happy holiday season to each and every one of them. And to each and every one of you. May your days be merry and bright, your holidays be safe, and your new year a happy and prosperous one.

And I went to see The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers last night and I feel like I should write a review of it, but I don't want to give anything away in case you haven't seen it yet, so all I'm really going to say is go see it. It is beautiful. You don't even realize you've been sitting there for over three hours. Gollum rocks. Aragorn is hot (but we already knew that). It's really just a darn good movie -- the kind of movie that makes me want to make movies.

I wanna be an actor so I can be in cool movies like The Lord of the Rings. *pout*

Just in case you were wondering, or in case you are a pharmacist or some other person who might care from a legal standpoint, that other pharmacy did not fill my prescription. I have to go to a dermatologist and jump through about 8,000 flaming hoops in order to get put on this very effective, very toxic, highly restricted drug. At least my doctor is mailing me my referral so I don't have to pay another $10 to go back for what I went for in the first place because she screwed up.

I think I’m slowly turning into a tea drinker. At least while I’m at work. I did the whole “I’m going to drink three or four liters of water a day” thing for a while and then recently decided that some occasional flavor would be nice. As would something hot in the morning. Besides my radiator. (See, if I had a boyfriend, I could make a hot boyfriend joke right about now, but I don’t. Note to self: get boyfriend so I can make jokes about us having sex in the mornings.) But I’ve been enjoying having tea in the mornings at work lately. I’m even trying teas I would have scoffed at in the past like chamomile and earl gray and so on and so forth. And I’m quite enjoying them. I don’t know that I’m too thrilled about getting myself into something involving caffeine again (I kind of like being off caffeine), but if I keep it to one cup of tea a day when I’m at work, I should be fine. And a lot of the teas I’ve been drinking are naturally caffeine free anyway. But the green tea is calling to me – drink me and enjoy the thrill of a caffeine high! I haven’t had the green tea yet.

The one thing I don’t like, though, is how quickly tea gets cold. When I brew it, I brew it with water that is just this side of boiling, so I have to wait a little while before I can drink it without scalding the entire inside of my mouth. But then by the time I get about halfway through the cup, it’s room temperature tea. The flavor is still there, but as we’ve already determined, half of the fun of tea is that it is hot. And me not wanting to waste anything, I drink the room temperature tea anyway.

Maybe I should get myself one of those insulated mugs.

So to make things that much weirder, I just took my prescription to another pharmacy and they are filling it, no problem.

*shrug*

In the next presidential election, I will put my full support behind whatever candidate has a viable solution to the crappy state of the health care system in America. Seriously.

I am not one who goes to doctors often (I’m a pretty young, healthy kid), so I’m on an HMO plan through work. For those of you who don’t know this, HMO stands for Horribly Managed Organization. The principle behind an HMO is that every member has a Primary Care Physician (PCP) who they go to for just about everything and you have a modest co-pay for each office visit. Which would be great, but do you have any idea how hard it is to find a general practitioner these days? Everybody is specialized. I have friends in medical school or who are thinking about medical school and before they even pick a school, they have often times picked their specialty so they can then decide which school has the best program for that area (OB/GYN, surgery, pediatrics, etc.). So my PCP is an OB/GYN. Which makes annual check ups and whatnot pretty easy since she knows what she’s doing and regardless of what I go in there for, she inquires into my gynecological health (when was your last Pap smear?). But on the rare occasion that I need to see a doctor for something else, i.e. acne ‘cuz my skin is acting up again, going to see my PCP is a major pain in the ass.

One would think that one could diagnose one’s own case of bad acne. Particularly when one has been on just about every acne medicine in the past because one had problem skin in high school. And one would think that if one wanted to be treated for acne, in this world of ultra-specialized doctors, that one should go see a dermatologist. Here is where being in an HMO is a pain in the ass. One has to obtain a refferal from one’s PCP prior to visiting said dermatologist or the insurance won’t cover it. Meaning, I have to go pay my doctor $10 (my co-pay) to tell me something I already know. And I don’t know if this is just my doctor’s office or what, but I called over there to speak to my doctor and I got to talk to everyone in the office except my doctor. She’s my doctor. I have questions for her. Why do I have to ask the receptionist and seven different nurses? Can’t I talk to my doctor? Am I asking too much to want to talk to my doctor and not one of her minions? Maybe I am. But I digress.

So fast forward to my appointment to go see my doctor to try to get a referral to see a dermatologist. My appointment is for 7:30am. At 7:40, they finally open the reception window and check me in. By 7:50, I’m taken to an exam room. 7:55, my doctor comes in and asks when my last Pap smear was. Finally, we get to the topic of my skin. I tell her I would like to be put back on Accutane, the only drug from my childhood acne drug experiences that really did anything. She looks at me from across the room and says okay. She writes me a prescription and I’m out the door by 8:00. And I’m out $10. But at least I don’t have to go see a specialist.

So I take my prescription with me to the pharmacy and present it to the pharmacist with my insurance card. They take one look at the prescription and tell me it is missing a little yellow sticker. They can’t fill the prescription without the little yellow sticker. Apparently a new law was passed six months ago requiring all prescriptions for Accutane issued to women to bear a little yellow sticker. And both pharmacists look at me with “You should know this” type eyes. Hi, I go to the doctor once a year. Maybe twice. And I haven’t had a prescription of any sort filled in about six months. And I haven’t been on Accutane in five years. And what the fuck is the purpose of the little yellow sticker in the first place? Is a doctor stamping a prescription in the little box that says “physician’s stamp” no longer enough? And who the fuck passed this law? Who decided it was necessary? I’m the one who asked my doctor to put me on this medicine. I distinctly remember saying to her, “I would like to be put back on Accutane.” And I distinctly remember her saying, “Okay.” And I even have a little piece of paper to prove to the pharmacist that she said, “Okay.” Why the fuck do I need a little yellow sticker?

Granted, this medication is for a largely cosmetic purpose. Though I don’t know if any of you have ever experienced sub-dermal acne, but it can be painful. But anyway, my life doesn’t depend upon me getting this medicine today. In a way, it might be better for me to not start it until January ‘cuz I think I remember being not able to drink while you’re on it. And not being able to drink on New Year’s Eve would kind of suck. But what if it had been a really important medication? Like heart medication or insulin or something? Would a pharmacy turn away a patient with a crucial prescription because the prescription didn’t have a little yellow sticker on it?

I know. I’m annoyed and I shouldn’t write these passionate entries when I’m annoyed ‘cuz I’ll probably piss off exactly the wrong person. But I really would like to see something happen to the health care system in the United States. I can’t imagine how frustrating it must be for someone who really needs to see a doctor if it is this stupid and irritating to get treatment for something relatively benign.

I do understand the theory behind an HMO and I understand the reasoning for having to get a referral before seeing a specialist – if we all just called our PCPs to get referrals, they wouldn’t be able to bill for services rendered and they’d go out of business. But maybe if we had more general practitioners, we wouldn’t need to see so many specialists. Or maybe doctors wouldn’t have to worry about going out of business for giving referrals if their malpractice insurance premiums weren’t so high. But maybe malpractice insurance premiums wouldn’t be so high if Americans weren’t so eager to sue their doctors for everything that ever goes wrong. Sometimes things go wrong and it is totally out of the doctor’s hands, but people feel hurt and upset, so they sue. Of course, sometimes something goes wrong ‘cuz your doctor is a quack, too. I dunno. This is why I’m not in politics – I don’t have an answer to fix the health care system. Though I would suggest maybe looking into health care systems in Canada or Switzerland or other countries. I think the Canadians have a pretty good deal.

And to top it all off, I’m watching the news last night and I see a report about Bush’s plan to build a missile defense system by 2004. Not counting what it would cost to build and implement this system, it will run about $10 billion a year to maintain. Ten billion dollars a year just in case North Korea decides to attack us one day. And just in case that attack is a missile attack. Mr. Bush? Have you looked at the state of your own country lately? There’s plenty of stuff going on internally that could use some attention, not the least of which is the health care system. And, I dunno, maybe I’m being stupidly optimistic and naïve here, but I’m thinking that if some of our internal problems were fixed (our attitude towards foreign policy, our dependence on oil, our social security, welfare, and healthcare systems), maybe we wouldn’t have to be so paranoid about being attacked by other countries or what the repercussions of such an attack might be. But that’s just me. And being a stupidly optimistic and naïve American youth, I will give my political support to a politician who is ready, willing, and able to deal with those issues as opposed to a politician who just keeps asking for more money to build more weapons that do very little but inspire more fear and paranoia in the general American public.

Okay, I’m shutting up now.

So I had a kind of an odd experience last night. I went out dancing and learned the Tranky Doo (how often do you hear that? Huh? Pretty cool, huh? You have no idea what the Tranky Doo is, do you? This is why I rule) and then stuck around to do some dancing after that. There is a dancer in Chicago who I absolutely love dancing with. He is always challenging not only his partner, but himself in his dancing. I can’t even tell you how many times he has said something like, “Well, that didn’t work,” while we’ve been dancing. And I love it. If you hang around the lindy hop world long enough, you will hear people talking about the dance as a conversation – both partners can talk and both partners need to listen. Well, this particular dancer encourages conversation in the dance. He is one of the best listening leads I know and get to dance with regularly. He actually asked me at one point to please practice speaking with him because he felt he needed to listen better. Anyway, I love dancing with this guy. For a long time it scared the crap out of me to dance with him, but now it’s like an adrenaline rush – I crave dancing with him sometimes. And lately, we’ve had some really great dances. One of them on Saturday threw my back out of whack, but it was so worth it. When you dance with him, you feel like a dancer. If that makes sense.

So anyway, I’m dancing with this guy last night and he was, admittedly, a little bit tipsy. He doesn’t drink much and he is thin as a rail (but its all muscle), so one drink is usually enough for him. He had one drink last night and it was a strong one. But he was still totally capable of dancing really well. Actually, in a lot of cases, one drink can improve a person’s dancing because then they stop thinking about it and just let their body do what the music is telling them to do. But anyway, he had some alcohol in his system. So there were a few times when a move wouldn’t work perfectly or a lead would be a little unclear, but it was still a good dance. I, on the other hand, kept tripping over my own feet and stuff. I felt really off. Unmusical. So when something would go wrong, he would apologize for it, thinking that he was too drunk to dance well, and I would apologize for it ‘cuz I knew it was really I that fucked up. And at one point following an apology from him, I replied, “It’s all good. I’ve just forgotten how to dance.” To which he replied, “Yeah, right” in that “the day you forget how to dance is the day that water buffalo start speaking French” kind of a way. Which, admittedly, threw me off. When my brother started taking dance lessons a few years ago, this is the guy who he took from. When I used to base my opinion of my own dancing on who was asking me to dance, he was a top tier guy (meaning I knew I was good if he would ask me to dance). So to receive that kind of compliment from him…it was unexpected and really nice. That whole feeling of, “Wow, I really respect you. And what’s even cooler is you respect me just as much.” It’s not something I experience all that often, but it’s really nice when it happens. So thank you to that particular dancer.

For those of you who have not yet tried a Clementine tangerine, I have only six words: go try one this very minute. They are sweet and juicy and not bitter like some citrus fruits can be. Clementines are one of my absolute favorite things about winter. I’ve started dividing the year into fruit seasons – berry season, apple season, Clementine season, and so on. I love Clementine season.

Clementines were bred to be small, seedless, and peel easily, thus making them the perfect anytime snack treat. Though they do beg a question – if Clementines are seedless, how does one plant them?

And I also learned at the show last night that there isn't nearly enough jumping or writhing in imagined pain involved when I play my guitar in public. I'll have to work on that.

I went to see Moby last night, but he wasn’t there. Apparently he’s still recovering from the beating or something like that. I had a feeling this would happen, so I’m not really pissed. I understand the desire to not go out in public for a while. Hell, even when I’m not beaten and bruised, I understand the desire to not go out in public for a while. I was disappointed, though, that I didn’t get to see him. I was really looking forward to watching him play cover songs badly and to trying to meet him after the show. We all already know I’m a fan. And I’m kind of annoyed that I paid that much money to see a bunch of bands that were, for the most part, just okay.

What was really disturbing to me, though, was the amount of anti-Moby sentiment that was floating around. He was the butt of a lot of jokes in the crowd and when it was announced that he wasn’t going to be playing because he had been beaten, the audience cheered. How can you cheer at someone getting beaten up? I don’t get it.

I like Moby for what he stands for. I like it that he uses his public figuredom to promote tolerance and open mindedness and peace and forgiving and so on and so forth. I probably would not run around preaching the ethical values of veganism, but as an herbivore, I have to say that the man has a point. I am also not one to run around promoting one religion over another, but I applaud him for having beliefs that he came to through thinking about them and questioning them as opposed to believing in something because he was told to. Not that he does run around promoting one religion over another (just the opposite, in fact), but I think you get my point – I may not agree with him religiously, but I’m not going to hold his beliefs against him. From what I know of the man, he embodies just about every good quality that I would ever want a human being to possess. And he does it with a sense of humor. And he is ready, willing, and able to admit his own faults and shortcomings and fears, of which he has plenty. So for someone to adamantly hate him…I don’t get it. Is it his pacifism you hate? His ideals of tolerance and open mindedness and peace and forgiveness and so on and so forth? And if you hate those ideals, what is it that you believe in? Ignorance and intolerance and holding grudges? People like that scare me. I’m sorry, but they do.

I dunno. I like Moby. And I would be interested to hear from someone who truly can’t stand the man. Someone with a real reason. Honestly. I’m curious

I think it is good for the soul to do something completely out of character every now and again. For example, if you are a particularly quiet person, it can be really therapeutic to just yell for no real reason. Or if you are loud and boisterous, spend an evening at home with a good book. I’m not saying all of the time, just every once in a while. And as long as the out-of-character thing you do isn’t harmful to yourself or anyone else.

That being said, I did my out-of-character thing last night. I went dancing. No, that’s not it. There was a Jill and Jill contest – meaning hot girl on girl action as we danced the lindy hop – with a $50 prize going to the winning couple. A Jack and Jill, for those of you who don’t know, is a contest wherein you enter as a lead or as a follow and are then matched up with a partner kind of through the luck of the draw. It is the ultimate social dancing competition (in my opinion), ‘cuz you don’t know in advance who your partner is and you don’t know what music you are going to be dancing to. You just have to wing it. So the Jill and Jill contest was set up the same way, but it was women only. And at one point, it was advertised as being a topless Jill and Jill contest. I’m thinking that may have scared a lot of women away.

So last night, after I did my workout tape and had dinner and did my laundry and took a nap, I dragged myself out of bed to go enter the Jill and Jill. I figured, why not? Stupid fun on a Thursday night. And, I must admit, I was feeling pretty good about myself yesterday because apparently one of the electricians who comes into my building at work remarked to a co-worker of mine that I have a great ass. Which means the workout tapes are finally paying off. I now have a noteworthy ass.

So I go out dancing in my overalls, ready to do this whole Jill and Jill thing. And I warned everyone that if I had to, I would take off my t-shirt. Keep in mind that from my perspective, wearing a bra under overalls is approximately as risqué as wearing a tank top under overalls. As in, it’s no big deal. So the contest started and I took off my t-shirt. It threw off one of my partners that I wasn’t wearing a shirt. To me, it was no big deal. But it resulted in me taking home $25 (my half of the $50 prize). So my completely out-of-character act was taking off my shirt in order to win some money.

I guess I kind of felt the need to do this because of a comment that was made to me over the weekend. When I was in Columbus, a bunch of us went out to a strip club to celebrate my one friend’s birthday. To me, going to a strip club is no big deal. By the time you see the second woman dancing, it’s like, “Oh, there’s another naked woman. Woo hoo.” It’s not that big of a deal. Most strip clubs nowadays have rules in effect to protect the dancers and while stripping is not a career I would pursue or encourage anyone I knew to pursue, if a woman wants to dance around naked and serve horny men drinks to make a living, that’s her business. And at the first strip club I went to, some of the girls were really talented, so I tipped them. It’s like being a naked street performer. Or not. I dunno. But anyway, my point was that another friend of mine who didn’t go to the strip club was surprised that I had gone because he didn’t think that was the kind of thing I condoned. He thought I would have been a strip club protester or boycotter, which, as I already explained above, I am not. I guess that was another of those comments that really made me feel like a hippie this weekend because it seemed like I was being ascribed all of the traits of being a hippie as opposed to being looked at as a person who evaluates individual issues on an individual basis. And I pride myself on looking at individual issues on an individual basis and formulating my own opinions. So last night I took off my shirt in a dance contest just to, I dunno, prove that I could. Prove that I would. Prove that I’m not a stereotype. Not even a stereotype of myself. And in a really strange way, I’m proud of myself for doing it. And the $25 is a nice little bonus.

Think about how stupid the average person is and realize that half of them are stupider than that.

I hate to harp on this because it really isn't any of my business, but it bugs me. Moby was beaten up after his show in Boston last night. Three guys punched him in the back of the head and in the face. Why? We're not sure. All the information I have is from Moby's journal entries -- I haven't been to find any news stories about it online or anything. And it just bugs me. What is the mentality that allows a person to hit another person? I have friends who study various martial arts and fighting techniques and whatnot and I don't really understand them, either. How can you go in a ring and put yourself into the mindset that you have to kill this other person in the ring with your bare hands? I don't get it. I guess I just don't have that violent impulse and it irks me to see it in action. Or hear about it in action. Particularly when it is not in a sports ring for competetive purposes but is instead on the streets of Boston and aimed at the back of another person's head. The back of a pacifist's head. First of all, if you're looking for a fight, pick on someone who will at least defend himself. And secondly, allow him the opportunity to defend himself. Hitting someone from behind is as low, if not lower, than taking a baseball bat to his nuts. There's nothing you can do. You can't defend yourself against that. You can't even protect yourself when a fist is flying at the back of your head because you can't see it!

And Moby, being the pacifist that he is, is not really going to do anything. He filed a police report. Which is very noble of him. But I'm still annoyed with the guys who beat him up. I was looking forward to seeing Moby in concert on Sunday and perhaps getting to meet him, and now I'll have to look at that sweet face with bruises on it. It's like looking at Owen when he had an eye infection. There's not much you can do about it and you hate to see someone else in pain. You hate to see beauty marred by someone else's stupidity.

I'm sorry. I shouldn't harp on this and I shouldn't let it bug me. It's just really not how I wanted to start my day. And I wish a speedy recovery to Moby.

There was a song on the radio this morning (on the boom-tss station) that sampled some of the music from American Beauty and it almost brought tears to my eyes. The song on the radio wasn’t very good – there were some really bad vocals mixed over the American Beauty stuff – but it brought to mind mental images from the film and certain monologues and whatnot that always get to me. Like Annette Bening yelling in her car. Or Ricky Fitts looking at Lester Burnham lying dead on the kitchen table. American Beauty is such a phenomenal film. If you haven’t seen it yet, please do so at your earliest convenience.

So hearing this song made me think about two other things. Which made me think about two other things. Which made me think about two other things. And so on and so on…kidding. The first thing I thought is that I should start another blog and fill it with movie reviews. Real reviews. Reviews that make sense from the perspective of your average moviegoer. I would state my biases (i.e. Andie MacDowell does nothing for me, but I liked the movie despite her performance) and I would put things in terms that people could understand and relate to (i.e. this is a good movie to watch when you just want to turn your brain off for an hour and a half. Do not watch it if you’re feeling particularly thoughtful or in need of intellectual stimulation). And despite the parenthetical in that sentence, I managed to end it with a dangling preposition. Sorry about that. But yeah, since we all know that Ebert and Roper have no idea what they are talking about when it comes to movies, I should start writing reviews and posting them somewhere. In the event that that happens, I will certainly have a link from this blog to that one so you can see what I think of various films. Which means I should go back through my video collection and start writing.

And the second thing I started thinking about is the boom-tss radio station in general. Why do they only play boom-tss music that has lyrics in it? Most of the best boom-tss music is purely instrumental. When you go see Sander spin or you see Digweed spin or whatever, one in every four tunes has lyrics. Maybe. The rest of the songs are sounds and beats and other fun stuff. And more often than not, the addition of lyrics detracts from the rest of the song. At least in my opinion. So you take a really good sample (i.e. the sample from American Beauty) and you add a beat and a bass line and a cymbal and some other cool sounds and you have a great song. Why add lyrics that make it a stupid, cheesy song? To get airplay? I’m sure it’s been said before and I’m sure it will be said again, but maybe it’s time we reexamined the kind of music that gets played on the radio.

And now I have some “work” to do, so I’m going to go get on that.

So I went out to Columbus this weekend for a dance event that a couple friends of mine were throwing. There was a competition called “Battle of the Swing Cities” going on and some social dancing and this really great funk band and stuff like that. So at the very last minute, Chicago decides to put together a team to compete in the Battle of the Swing Cities. This means you have three couples, each competing in one of three divisions. And the city with the highest overall scores wins the battle. I got to see the score sheets today, along with an explanation of how the scores were tallied and whatnot and it all makes sense and sounds very unbiased and whatnot. Despite the fact that there were two Chicago judges, Chicago managed to walk away with a first place win. And I say “despite” the judges because they gave us some of the lowest scores in each category. Which is why I’m glad the score sheets were posted – because it proves that we didn’t get any special favors. It was the other three judges who liked the Chicago dancers. And while you’re looking at the score sheets, keep in mind that I myself competed in the Strictly Lindy division. Meaning my partner and I placed first in our division. Which (as distasteful as it is to brag) was a really nice ego boost. I didn’t think we had danced that well. But I guess it goes back to connection – Chicago dancers are real big on connection (as opposed to moves) when we dance, which I guess translates in a division that is supposed to simulate social dancing. So maybe I haven’t completely forgotten how to dance.

And I felt like a total hippie this weekend, too. We saw Bowling for Columbine again and I was sobbing in the theater during the montage that follows someone saying that as Americans we don’t just go bomb a country because we don’t like someone. The purpose of the montage is to show that yes, as Americans we do just that. If we don’t like the ruler of a particular country, we will go in and remove him, no matter the cost of human life. I had no idea that American foreign policy was so…scary sometimes. So I cried. I don’t know what else to do when presented with such horrifying facts. It makes me understand why the rest of the world hates us so much. So between that and my walking around in really crappy clothes, carrying edamame with me so I have some source of protein over the weekend and our discussions about marriage and relationships and whatnot, I just felt like a fuckin’ hippie. Not that being a hippie is a bad thing, but it is strange to start really believing in things. It makes you notice the differences between yourself and everyone else. I hope I don’t let that kind of awareness hinder my relationships with other people. I kind of like being a hippie.

I love Chicago. Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin’ town. Do you know what “toddlin’” is? It is a reference to collegiate shag. Anyway, Chicago is my kind of town. Sweet home Chicago. I am thankful just about every day that I live here.

This morning on my way in to work, the sun was rising behind the Chicago skyline and I must say, it was breathtaking. Absolutely gorgeous. There was a light cloud cover (more of a fog, really) so the whole sky was lit up in pastels and the buildings were this beautiful charcoal grey sketched onto the sky. And then the fiery orange sun itself peeked out from behind the John Hancock tower and lit up the city. It was gorgeous. My words are really not doing it justice. In all honesty, I feel like I have now defamed the sunrise because my word choice is so crappy. But when you’re face to face with such a beautiful sight, you tend to lose control of your vocabulary and adjective right there in your pants. I’m actually kind of surprised that I haven’t gotten in an accident driving into work looking at the sunrises or even just the skyline itself. Chicago has a great skyline. And me, being the visual person that I am, I like to look at the beautiful skyline. I should pay attention to my driving, though. So I don’t miss it when that Barenaked Ladies/Sarah McLaughlin version of God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen comes on the radio. Such a great song. And I don’t even like Christmas music.

Oh, and I also want to apologize for yesterday's crappy entry. I should know better than to do other things while I'm blogging. Silly me. Trying to work and blog at the same time. What was I thinking? But for the sake of allowing you, my faithful readers, to see me for the complete idiot I really am, I posted it anyway. I may live in a semi-delusional world, but that doesn't mean I want to perpetuate any delusions in other people. Find your own delusions, for Pete's sake. Use Your Delusions, Part 1. That would be a good name for a record.

The great circle of life is sitting back and laughing at me today.

I was upset by my uncle’s death. Not because he was robbed of opportunity – he lived a good life. And not because he was taken so quickly because we all saw this one coming a mile away. But because for the most part, his death will go unnoticed by the world. And I’m not saying that a person has to achieve worldwide recognition to make his life worth something. I think that if you touch the life of ONE other person, you led a good life. What made me sad about my uncle, I guess, was this feeling of nonchalance I thought I should have about the whole thing, despite the fact that a good person is now dead. He was my uncle, but I didn’t know him that well, so I was yelling at myself for mourning his passing. Yelling at myself for feeling something. I know, I’m weird. And after a day and a half of thinking about death and it’s implications and ramifications and whatnot, I’ve come to terms with the fact that his death will be recognized by the people who loved him, in however small a way and that that is the best tribute we can pay to a man who loved his family and lived a good life.

And then today I find out that my honorary sister is going to have a baby. I can’t wait to meet the baby! I want it to be born today so I can go play with it and read to it and help it learn and watch it grow. She and her husband are going to be such wonderful parents. And at the same time it is really odd to have my honorary sister becoming a mom, it strikes me as just perfect.

So yeah, one death leads to another new life. And there is joy to be found in both. And I’m getting all esoteric and my mind isn’t really here right now so I apologize for this random, weird blog so I’m going to stop it now. But isn’t life strange?

My uncle passed away this morning. The one in Minnesota who wasn't doing so well.

I'm happy that I got to see him one more time before he died to let him know that I loved him. I'm happy that he isn't suffering anymore. I'm worried about his wife and what she will do now. I'm sorry for his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren who I'm sure will miss him terribly and who I'm sure are hurting a lot more than I am right now. And even though I didn't know him very well, I know I will miss him in my own way.

I don't know if I will be going to the funeral or not. I'm thinking not.

Good bye, Uncle Delmar. I love you.

I think the potpourri fairy threw up in our bathroom.

And when I walk outside and my shoes get wet and then I come inside and walk on tile, my shoes sound like a duck. But, if I was on Jeopardy and the answer was "A duck!" the question would not be, "What do my shoes sound like when they are wet and walking on tile?" but would rather be, "What else floats in water?"

I need to find a hobby.

I love the way snow seems to make everyone and everything move in slow motion. I’m sounding so not like me that past couple of days, aren’t I? Enjoying things moving in slow motion? Enjoying not knowing what my life holds in store for me next week? Not pissed off that it is snowy and cold outside? Blame it on the beauty of the snow and the fact that I am a redhead again. And the fact that the heat in my apartment and my office are both working really well this year.

But really. Snow in Chicago falls slowly. Slower than rain, anyway. And the weight of it makes tree branches shake slower in the wind. And people walk more carefully and drive more carefully, i.e. slower. Which is, as strange as it sounds, really nice. It’s nice to see the world take a break for a minute. Slow down and realize that Mother Nature is still in control. Why do we, as humans, insist on beating Mother Nature? With our snowshoes and snow tires and insulated houses and portable heaters and earmuffs and mountain climbing gear and whatnot. Not that I’m poo-pooing any of these inventions ‘cuz I know it would drive me crazy if I had to spend winters naked under a bush or something (unless I could hibernate like a bear – bears have the right idea), but I’m just curious. Why must we prove ourselves superior to Mother Nature all of the time? Why is everything “business as usual” no matter the weather? Wouldn’t that count as some sort of Wiccan blasphemy?

I dunno. I’m sorry. I’m boring when I’m content, I know. I’ll try to find some bit of strife to complain about. Gonads and strife! Gonads in the lightening! That squirrel cracks me up.

So yeah, I was away from a computer for a while there and all I have to say is, “Boingy, boingy, boingy?” No. I have more to say today. I just thought that was funny.

But I don’t want to sit and give you a list of everything I did while I was away. Mostly ‘cuz I didn’t do very much and partially because that’s boring. I had Thanksgiving dinner with my wonderful wonderful family and then hung out with some wonderful wonderful friends. And I went to a wonderful wonderful hairdresser and got my hair changed back to a wonderful wonderful shade of red and got it cut to a nice, sassy length. So you’d think that I had a wonderful wonderful time, wouldn’t you? Well, not quite.

I did have fun doing all of the things I said I did. And I had fun watching movies and playing with my cat. And sleeping in and cooking and so on and so forth. But it occurred to me last night as I was out walking (I swear I felt my ear getting infected it was so cold outside. You know that feeling like your eardrum is frozen? Yeah, that one. Not really fun, per se, but it lets you know you’re alive) that I really have no idea what I’m doing with my life right now. I’m kind of in a holding pattern. Which would seem to make me (the girl who likes to be busy) restless. But it isn’t. I’m enjoying my holding pattern in the way you enjoy curling up under the blankie that you’ve had since you were three and drinking hot cocoa and watching the snow fall. I feel like there are things that I should be doing with my life, but I’m somehow not motivated to do them right now. I know they will happen. But I’m not in a rush for them to happen RIGHT NOW, if you know what I mean. For instance, I’m okay with the fact that I haven’t auditioned for anything in a while. I’m okay with the fact that I haven’t played my guitar in a week. I’m okay with the fact that I am not actively pursuing a relationship with a member of the opposite sex. For right now, I’m okay with just being. Just living. Maybe I’m just caught up in relishing the fact that the holidays are approaching rapidly and I’m not depressed. Or maybe I am starting to settle. Somehow I doubt that. I have a tendency to think it’s more a matter of hibernation than settling. Wake me up when things start blooming again, okay?

I'm thinking it's probably a good thing that I wasn't the first person to walk on the moon 'cuz I'm guessing my first words would have been, "Boingy, boingy, boingy."