Thursday, July 31, 2003

My mom’s boyfriend/husband-type person is a very intelligent man. He is open-minded and creative and likes to gather as much information as possible about something before he forms an opinion about it. And he was raised Christian. He reached a certain point in his life where he decided he wanted to see what else was out there, religiously speaking, so he did a lot of research on a lot of world religions and found that most of them are pretty much the same, but with different terminology. Except for one: Christianity. Christianity was the only religion he found that actually used the word “love” in its tenants. Jesus Christ taught us to love one another. My mom’s boyfriend/husband-type person was drawn to that and decided to be Christian because of it. Which I find to be very respectable.

However, I think it is time that the Christian community (meaning the Catholic church, the Episcopalian church, the Methodist church, all of the various sects and denominations) sat down and re-read what Jesus Christ taught us about love. “Love thy neighbor as you would love thyself,” right? It doesn’t say, “Love thy neighbor as you would love thyself as long as your neighbor is not homosexual.”

There is legislation floating around again wanting to ban gay marriages. This is ludicrous. I’m sorry, but it is. It horrifies me that Christians would put qualifiers on love. Love is love. Love is beautiful. There shouldn’t be stipulations on it saying things like the only kind of love that can exist between persons of the same gender is Platonic love or that Eros love can only exist between persons of opposite genders. Love doesn’t work that way. You can’t pick and choose who you are going to fall in love with. And the chances that you will find someone who you love that much and who actually loves you back are so slim, I think that the mere fact that a partner like that has been found is cause for celebration.

I don’t mean that all Christians are this closed-minded. I know a lot of really lovely Christians, like my mom’s boyfriend/husband-type person, for example. It’s just the ones in control of how the religion is supposed to run who need a good smack upside the head.

And then I need to rant for a minute about the separation of church and state. Bush is fully behind banning gay marriages in the United States. Okay, if the church wants to be so pig-headed as to forbid homosexual unions, fine. To pass a law banning gay marriages on the grounds that they are amoral is involving the state in religious matters. What about all of the non-Christians who live in this country? I don’t know what stance other religions take on homosexuality (something I should do more research on), but let’s say that a gay Bahai couple wants to get married and the Bahai church says it is okay. Is the state not going to recognize that union on the grounds that the Christian church says it’s wrong? In short, Mr. Bush, stay out of this. I can think of no secular reason why homosexual unions should be illegal.

The right of homosexual couples to adopt children is up for debate right now, too. If I was a child growing up today’s society, my number one concern would be “do I have parents who love me?” Two men or two women are just as capable of loving and raising a child as a man and a woman combo. ‘Nuff said. If both potential parents are of sound mind (meaning non-schizophrenic) and are financially capable of raising a child, I say go for it. We all know there are a lot of people out there who shouldn’t be allowed to have children but are making them anyway. Why deny a child the opportunity to be raised in an open-minded, loving household?

I know I sound whiny and ignorant of the “real issues,” but this just pisses me off. We like to think that we are so socially advanced, yet we still have these rules and stipulations that we place on certain segments of the population for no real reason at all. Shouldn’t we be past this by now?

Wednesday, July 30, 2003

So you know how sometimes you'll see somebody just walking down the street singing? Not necessarily crazy people, but some random woman singing the song that is stuck in her head. And nine times out of ten, you have no idea what it is that she is singing. I wonder what it would do for publicity if I walked around singing my own songs to myself all of the time. Because I walk a lot of the same places with some sort of regularity. If I walked around for a month singing "Allowed" everywhere I went, would one random person find him or herself humming a part of it as he or she walked around? Interesting experiment, though perhaps difficult to quantify.
Tonight on Fox: When Bananas Go Bad

All Chicky and Dole had was each other, and that’s all they thought they needed.

Chicky: Dole, are you okay? You’ve been looking kind of, spotty lately.

Could their love survive outside of a refrigerator?

Chicky: Just tell them that you made that old lady fall. Please. They'll send you to the bakery if you don't.
Dole: I can’t do it, Chicky, I just can’t. I’d rather let the fruit flies take me than be turned into banana bread.
Chicky: I won’t let it happen, Dole. I know you’re a good egg, er, I mean banana on the inside. People are just scared of you because your peel has turned brown.
Dole: It’s not my fault! It’s cold in the fridge. You have no idea.
Chicky: Dole, I’m here for you.

And watch the amazing battle as Dole is ripped from the bunch, stripped down, and forced to go head to head with…THE MIXER!

Chicky (standing over bread pan): Dole was a good banana. He was just picked from the tree a little late, is all. He will be enjoyed by families for days to come. Weeks if they freeze him in Ziploc bags. Goodbye, Dole.
For those of you interested in pursuing a fascinating career in the field of cashierism, there are really only two things that you need to know. Well, besides how to count. Knowing how to count would be thing #3 that you need to know. Yes, the other two things are more important. And they are as follows:

1) Never put away the money a customer gives you before giving the customer his/her change. This is one of the oldest tricks in the book -- customer gives cashier $10, gets change, says, "But I gave you a twenty." The easiest way to avoid the hastle this creates is to leave the bills on top of the cash drawer, give change, then put away what the customer gave you.

2) When giving change, and I cannot emphasize this enough, give the change back COINS FIRST. If you give the bills back first, the coins can very easily slide off of the bills, out of the customer's hand, and onto the floor or into the crack between the cash register and the desk, never to be retrieved. If you give back the coins first, they can sit in the customer's hand while you hand him or her the bills, which his or her fingers are still available to grasp.

Thank you, and join us again next week on Incompetency Theater when we discuss the pros and cons of putting on your pants BEFORE you put on your shoes. Good night!
I do a lot of things in my car while I am driving that I probably shouldn't -- change CDs, dance, juggle, play my harmonica, talk on my cell phone (but only if absolutely necessary or if I'm stuck in traffic that isn't going anywhere) -- but the one that makes me feel most like a rock star is putting drops in my eyes. There is something about knowing that the person waiting next to you at the stop light sees you putting drops in your eyes and thinks, "Wow. She must have had a long night last night. And she's still up and running," or "Wow, the night is just starting and she's already partied to the point that she needs drops. Look out!" In all truth, my contact lenses just get dried out and I would rather be able to see when I drive than not. So I put drops in. But it makes me feel like a rock star. Especially when the last drop hits just as the light changes so it's drop, blink, hit the gas, put the cap on and put the drops away as I start through the intersection.

Yes, I am odd.
Okay, time for another late night, semi-intoxicated Kitty blog. Why? Because I now have a crush on a gay bartender. That's right. As if I didn't have enough problems with men, now I'm falling for the ones who I know from the get-go are not interested. Why? Because I don't have a penis. I'm sorry. Blame my parents. I don't have one.

I did a gay Hurry Date event tonight and had a blast. I think I have more fun at gay Hurry Date events than I do at straight events. But anyway, I was introduced to one of the bartenders there who is vegan because in conversation, it just sort of came up that I am vegan. So of course, vegans like to meet other vegans, so I am introduced to this really cute bartender who is also vegan. And I get bonus points from him because I don't do honey. So I'm getting ready to leave and he asks if I want to hang out and have a drink. I tell him I'll drink whatever someone else buys for me, so he buys me a drink. And I end up staying way later than I should have, making friends with a bunch of cute gay boys, driving one of the gay boys home, and thinking about the cute bartender the whole time. Why? Why is this? Why do I get along so well with gay men, but give me a straight guy and I have no idea what to do with him? Why is this?

At least the cute gay vegan bartender has my e-mail address so we can go get vegan food some time or something. Apparently he is tired of his friends making him feel like a burden when it comes to dining out. And me, I'm always up for a good vegan meal. Who knows? Maybe he can become my best friend and I'll cook for him on random Wednesday nights and they'll write a sitcom about us or something. Or not. Who knows. I need to stop rambling now and go to sleep. Assuming I can sleep. I'm still very much awake. Though I bet as soon as my head hits the pillow, I'll be out like a light. With my sheet and two quilts on me, thank you very much cool summer evenings. And I bet I dream about a sex-change operation or about being a boy. Stupidfey amazing gay guys.

Tuesday, July 29, 2003

There is a problem in every office in America. It's nothing big enough to pass a law about or even create an office policy about, but it is there. And it makes us all uncomfortable. Communal pastries.

Sure, someone thinks they are going to do something nice for the office by picking up some doughnuts or bagels or danish (in this case a pastry, not a nationality, though seeing as I am now vegan and don't partake of the communal office pastries, I would actually prefer that Danish was a nationality in this case, especially if he is tall, shaves his head and has brown eyes. But how many Danes do you know have brown eyes?) to share, and said someone leaves the sugary treats in the kitchen for any and all to enjoy. But inevitably, there is someone in the office who is on a diet (or likes to pretend he/she is) who cuts a pastry in half. Leaving one sad half of a pastry in the box with all of the rest of the big, fluffy, whole pastries. That one sad half of a pastry sits there and is then passed over by everyone else in the office. Was the pastry cut or ripped apart? Was there something wrong with the pastry that someone only wanted half of it (i.e. is it the dreaded zucchini muffin)? Is the cutter coming back for the other half later? There is nothing sadder than a half of a pastry sitting by itself in an office kitchen. And inevitably, the original cutter of said pastry comes back to claim the sad half, knowing that nobody else is going to take it. Why not just take the whole pastry from the get go? You're consuming the same number of calories either way. And honestly, people will respect you a LOT more if you just fess up and eat the whole pastry. And it will make the other pastries look a lot less sad as they sit there, waiting to be claimed by someone confident in his/her pastry eating abilities. Or better yet, don't bring in communal pastries if you know there are people in your office who can't handle them. Bring in lollipops or fruit -- things that are less likely to be partitioned. Or a lovely CD of music that everyone can enjoy.

Thank you, and join us again next week as we discuss the lone coffee cup left in the conference room after the big meeting.
So I have this weird sleeping dilemma in the summer time. Because I love the feeling of blankets on me when I sleep. The weight of about four quilts on me is one of my very favorite things about the fall. But in the summertime, four quilts is too much. Though I do keep a couple of blankets on my bed (and sheets, of course) for aesthetic reasons and so that my cat won't completely shred my sheets with his hind claws. So every night as I snuggle into bed, I am torn between my love of blanket weight and my desire to be cool enough to sleep comfortably. Which is why this cool summer has been strangely nice -- the evenings have been cool enough that I can sleep under blankets without overheating. Ah, the best of both worlds.

Monday, July 28, 2003

We seem to be having a very wet summer here in Chicago. Now, I realize that a lot of you who read this blog also live in the greater Chicagoland area and are fully aware of just how wet this summer has been thus far, but there are a few out there who don't live in Chicago and are having much drier summers than those of us here are having. For those of you who do live here, I thought I would save you the trouble of having dull phone conversations with people who don't live in Chicago. Just cut and paste the following conversation and e-mail it to any non-Chicagoan friends and family.

Non-Chicagoan friend: So, how's your summer in Chicago going?
You: It's pretty wet.
Non-Chicagoan friend: Really? I'm sorry to hear that. It's nice and dry out here in Montana.
You: Well, you don't have a whole lot else going for you, but at least it's dry.
Non-Chicagoan friend: Yup. At least it's dry.
You: Yup.

There you go. And please don't forget to send me the $8.95 in royalties I should receive for every copy of the above e-mail you send out. Thanks so much.

Sunday, July 27, 2003

So I started cleaning out my apartment this weekend and I have resigned myself to the fact that it will be a long process to get everything in order. As in several weekends. Which is fine. At least I won't get totally burned out all at once. But in the infancy of my cleaning, I found several items that I don't really want or need, but that I don't know exactly what to do with. Like an unopened snowman Pez dispenser. Or a whoopie cushion keychain. Is this the kind of crap that eBay was built for?
So I wrote yet another really depressing song. I am kind of amused by the fact that I only seem able to write depressing songs as I am not a depressed person and most of the banter I would elicit in between songs at a gig would be really funny. I'm a funny person. I like to make people laugh. But my songs are depressing. Oh well.

The good thing about this song, though, is that it kind of fits into the semi-bullshit reason I came up with to justify calling my album "Hamburg." Yes, there is a song on the album called "Hamburg," but I chose that as the title track because it kind of encapsulates the feelings on most of the rest of the album. "Hamburg" the song was written because I was moved at the lengths to which my friend would go to get away from a love gone wrong. Kind of. So it is a song about failed love and the things that we do to try to fix failed love. And most of the rest of the songs on the album are also about failed loves and the repercussions thereof. Which, if you look at my own social life is kind of fitting. And I think it is a good idea to have a theme to an album. And hey, Beck has "Sea Changes" so I can have "Hamburg," right?

Saturday, July 26, 2003

Okay, if you have not yet seen Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, set your VCR or TiVo or whatever to record it on Tuesday and watch it. If you don't have cable, get cable so you can watch it. Or have a friend record it for you. This is the greatest show since Gilmore Girls. I want the Fab Five to come re-do me and my house. I wish I knew a really "impared" straight guy friend who I could hook these guys up with just because this show rocks. I was afraid that the gay guys would be really stereotypical and potentially offensive, but only one of them really has that potential but he gets the job done and ads a lot of humor to the show. I honestly have thought about getting cable so I can watch this show when it airs instead of waiting for it but so much of the rest of cable isn't worth it. And by having a friend tape it, I can watch it over and over again. And I think the food and wine expert should put out a cook book with all of his recipies in it. They could make millions. Well, maybe not. But I'd still buy their cook book even though it isn't totally vegan. It could be really handy.

Point being, this is a good show. You should watch it. If for no other reason than it will be a great topic of conversation next time we chat.
My dad showed my brother and I his pictures from Alaska last night. My god is Alaska beautiful! But anyway, one of the pictures was of some rapids that are rated a 6. Meaning don't even think about running these rapids unless you really do want to die and we're not talking about a cry for help but an actual honest bona fide suicide attempt. And one of the comments my dad made when he showed us that picture is that they "don't let people run" those rapids. And my question is, how does one enforce that rule? These rapids are on a river in the middle of nowhere in Alaska. I'm pretty sure that if someone really wanted to run the rapids (and I'm pretty sure there is at least one guy out there crazy enough to want to run it), he could get a friend out there with a videocamera and be done with it in between the tour buses from the cruises running by. There isn't a safety station nearby or anything. No fences. Hell, not even a caution sign saying, "Run this and die." Maybe there should be. Or maybe this is Darwin's natural selection at work -- anyone who really wants to run rapids that dangerous shouldn't be procreating in the first place.
So I went out with some college theater friends tonight and he was there. I was all ready to come home and blog about seeing myself on the big screen again and about what a great job I did in Mix Tape and so on and so forth (the other actor from the film who was there complimented me on the fact that the stakes were always raised when I was in the scene. That felt really good.) but then I went out and saw him and now I can't even really think about seeing myself on the big screen. Had I known he was going to be there, I might not have gone because I hate the awkwardness. I hate walking into a situation where I know there is a person in the room who hates me and is perfectly justified in hating me. I wasn't really prepared for that, but there it was and I had to deal with it.

My first boyfriend was there, too, and in a strange way, it felt like he was hitting on me. There's a road I don't really want to go down again, but it was nice to talk to him. We always made better friends than lovers. And it was my first boyfriend who told me that the other one is getting a divorce. The one whose heart I broke. The one who I watched propose to the woman he is now separating from. He wasn't even wearing his ring.

Under normal circumstance, I would have thought, "Divorce. Such a pity," and gone on about my day. But seeing as I have kind of up close and personal experience with divorce as of late, it broke my heart that he would have to go through that. He was one of the good ones! He shouldn't have to go through the same kind of pain that I watched my honorary brother go through. He was supposed to go on to lead a happy, productive life without me. He was supposed to do well after I broke him. He wasn't supposed to get divorced.

We kind of said hi to one another. I don't like going to these types of functions and not being able to talk to him. He is a quality person, or at least he was when I knew him. "It's been so long since you've been a friend of mine." He could be someone completely different, but somehow I doubt that. He still has the same aura he had so many years ago. Was it that long ago? Wow. I miss being able to talk to him. Not all of the time, just when I see him. I hate it that people can either talk to he or I, but not to both. I would like that to change.

So as I was saying good night to everyone, I said good night to him, too. And I hugged him. And he let me hold him for a minute. I think he was uncomfortable with it at first, but I just held on and I could feel him relax into it. And I told him that I was sorry. He took it as sorry about his divorce, which it kind of was, and I asked him how he was doing. He gave me the universal sign for "iffy" with his hand and tried to keep smiling. I told him I understood what he was going through and that again, I was sorry. And then I said, "I'm sorry about other things, too, but that is a conversation for another day." And in a strange way, the channels of communication were opened. I told him that I don't like it that things are weird between us and that I would like to remedy that. I asked if it would be weird to make a plan to see one another again and he said that it would be a little bit, but that we will probably run into one another again at a gathering like this one. And I think I told him I was sorry a third time and I hugged him again. I was so glad that he let me hold him for a minute. I don't believe in regret, but I regret the way that I treated him. I treated him horribly and I am ashamed that I could treat anyone that way and I am ashamed that I did it to him in particular. So the fact that he let me hold him for a minute...I was practically in tears the whole way home. I want to tell him that I am sorry in a way that will make everything better. I'm not saying I want to get back together with him, but I want him to know that I own up to the mistake that I made and that I wish I could take it all back and spare him the pain I caused him. Because I do wish those things and in some strange way, I think he might feel better about it if he knew that.

I don't know. Maybe I'm a crackpot. But I felt like perhaps I am starting on a road to redemption as of tonight. I am glad that I said something to him. It wasn't eloquent and it wasn't the perfect setting, but I said something. I opened the gates for communication. I know I won't be able to heal the hurt of his divorce, but maybe I can lay what happened between us to rest so neither of us has to think about it anymore.

I know he doesn't read this, but my heart aches for you. Let me soothe you with my voice.

Friday, July 25, 2003

So a friend of mine and I were discussing the nature of art this evening while we had a couple of cocktails in our systems. Because seriously, what better time to discuss the nature of art than in a bar on a Thursday evening while you have a couple of cocktails in your system? But we were talking about it nonetheless and whether or not art is still art if it is never experienced by anyone other than the artist. To which I have to say yes, but with a qualifier.

To make art, one does not need an audience. One can write or paint or act with nobody else around and those acts still qualify as artistic. I can sit in my apartment all day and do monologues and I am still being an artist. However, art is much more satisfying if it is shared with someone. My monologues are much more fun to do for someone than in front of my mirror. And while I wrote most of my music with the understanding that nobody would ever hear it, some of the greatest moments of my life have been when someone tells me that they really connect to a line or two in something that I have written. It is in those moments that it is all worth it. Because for me, art is an expression of an emotion. And while it can be satisfying to just feel an emotion just for the sake of feeling it, it is more satisfying or easier to put said feeling to rest if it is acknowledged by someone else. I don't think I'm totally off-base in this because of all of the people who go to therapists just to hear the therapist say, "That's perfectly normal. What you need to do is recognize your emotions, deal with them, and move on." Art is a way of dealing with emotions so that one can move on.

So then the question of art that is destroyed before it is ever experienced was brought up. For example, a poet who burns his/her poems before anyone gets to read them. Yes, those are still poems. Yes, the author is still a poet. But in a case like this, I think that half of the artistic merit of the poems lies in the fact that they are burnt before they are ever seen. There is something beautiful and poetic in that very act of destroying or covering up the emotions that the artist felt so strongly that he/she had to express them but couldn't bear anyone else to see.

However, if the poem is written, nobody reads it, AND nobody knows that it was burnt, well then that's just sad. That is a waste of artistic energy and there isn't enough artistic energy floating around to be able to waste it.

In summation, art should be shared. The whole point is to reach out and touch someone else's spirit with your own emotional expression. Yes, the creation is just as important as the exhibition, but by the same token, the exhibition (in whatever form it might occur) is just as important as the creation. I think. Today. Talk to me tomorrow and I might have a different story for you.

Thursday, July 24, 2003

I'm getting claustrophobic in my own apartment. I have too much stuff. I have to get rid of some stuff. A lot of it is stuff that I'm hanging onto "just in case" and I'm wondering if I could bring myself to part with it, knowing that I will have to replace it when "just in case day" comes. Like the box for my microwave. I know it will come in handy when I move, but I don't know when I'm going to move, so in the meantime, it is sitting on my kitchen floor acting as a cat toy. But it's getting bad. I need to do a thorough house cleaning. Empty drawers. Empty closets. Get rid of things I don't need. Hell, I could probably eBay some of the stuff now that I have a computer at home. But yeah, I think it is about time for a ritual cleansing of my apartment. Meaning I might be "working from home" tomorrow. I love it that I have the capability to "work from home." I think I'm going to ask if that's okay for me to do tomorrow. 'Cuz I'm going nuts.

Wednesday, July 23, 2003

You know what cracks me up? Pop-up ads wherein you get a 404 error message. 'Cuz, ya know, I was SO looking forward to reading that pop-up ad and maybe clicking on the flashing lights telling me I could win a prize, but now I'm so disappointed that I will hit refresh over and over and over and over and over and over again until you can sell me the smallest digital spy-cam ever.

Fuckin' pop-up ads.
Oh, and I almost forgot. It's been a long time since I outright sang Moby's praises in here, but today I am reminded of why I have a penchant for singing Moby's praises. If you have a minute sometime today, please check out his journal entry for today. Well, actually, it is one of several for today, but I just really like this one. He is a smart man and the kind of person I think we could use more of in this world. "i don't want you to agree with me, i just want you to be involved." This is why I have as much respect for him as I do. Thanks, Moby.
I've been having some really weird dreams lately. Really involved dreams that I can't remember when I wake up, which is odd for me. But I am pretty sure that at least two nights in a row, there has been a moment in my dream where I see my cat walking around carrying my tennis shoe in his mouth.

But the annoying part about these dreams is that they are so complex that I wake up exhausted. I know, I know, poor me getting hours and hours of sleep when there are insomniacs out there who haven't slept in days. But I'm not sure which is worse -- not getting any sleep at all or getting lots of unsatisfying sleep. If I could just have a bout of insomnia for comparison purposes, that would be great. Thanks.

Tuesday, July 22, 2003

So my cat likes to hang out in the bathtub. Is that weird?

Monday, July 21, 2003

I have another song that I wrote last night swirling around in my head and I don’t know if I like it yet or not. I think it has the potential to be really good; it’s just a matter of cleaning up a lyric here and there, that kind of thing. It’s a nice, bitter chick song. Is there a place in the market now for bitter chick music? I don't know. But this brings me to a list of things that are bizarre.

It is bizarre to think of myself as a musician. All those years my brother told me I couldn’t whistle or I couldn’t sing and here I am, a musician. I have to give another thank you to Chris Gorcek who helped me lay down some background vocals and stuff last night. Not only is he a great help, he is very encouraging. Just little comments like, “You have really good pitch” or “I like that harmony line,” that kind of thing. Sure, they could be lines, but he sounds really genuine when he says them, so it makes me feel better about what it is that I am doing which makes what I am doing sound better. It’s cool. So thanks, Chris.

It is bizarre to be your own backup singer. It is a completely different mindset. I spent the last couple of weeks practicing my harmonies and stuff so that I would be ready when I went into the studio and in a really strange way, it has been very unsatisfying. I like singing all of the words. I like singing my melodies. So now that I have some harmonies down, I can go back to singing along with the melody, which makes me feel good.

It is bizarre that people like my music. I write this stuff because I want to write it and with the full understanding that nobody but my cat and Simon will ever hear it. But the people who do hear it seem to like it. It’s a very strange validation of my innermost thoughts and fears and stuff. It is very strange.

It is bizarre to put my innermost thoughts and fears and stuff out there for people to validate. And it is bizarre to want that validation.

It is bizarre that men like my music. I write angry chick music or bitter chick music or sappy chick music. But guys like it. I get more positive feedback from men than I do from women, as a matter of fact. Is it because men think a woman with a guitar is sexy or is it because I probably have more male friends than female friends? I don’t know. But it’s weird.

It is bizarre that my life is simultaneously taking me in this direction and sending me back to school to become a paralegal. Talk about keeping both halves of my brain busy.

I don’t know. I’m feeling kind of strange, but in a good way. I am feeling at least sort of productive and more confident about my abilities as a musician and as a student. I feel like I am on the brink of something really cool and I am kind of scared to find out what it is, but I’m going to find out anyway. Wish me luck.

Oh, and as soon as my mp3.com site is approved, I’ll let you know where it is so you can hear “Hamburg.”

Sunday, July 20, 2003

So I just got home from seeing Diezel. Not bad. Probably not a band I would have sought out if I didn't know the lead singer, but not bad. There is an interesting mix of sounds in there and everyone in the band is fantastically talented. So it was a good time. But it got me thinking. As most things do. And now I am going to share those thoughts with you because I can. Thanks to Simon.

I always have these moments of doubt when I seen another artist play his/her/their music. I find myself thinking, "This isn't the kind of music I play. Look at all of the people who came out to hear this stuff. I don't play this stuff. None of these people would want to hear the stuff that I do play. If I ever play a gig, I'll have three people in the audience and they will all be friends of mine." I know I shouldn't think that kind of stuff, but I do. I can't help it. I need to work on it, though. I need to work on not comparing myself to other bands/artists. I write the music that I write because I want to write it. Because I need to write it. For a very long time there, I was writing music with the understanding that nobody would ever hear it, but I wrote it anyway. I don't want to become the kind of musician who caters to a specific market because that is where the money is or whatever. Music is a release for me. I want to write my music. And if people want to hear it, groovy. If not, well, at least me playing my music has a calming effect on my cat. And on me. And that is the important part, right?

Speaking of which, I'm going back into the studio in about twelve hours to lay down some harmonies on the stuff I recorded a couple of weeks ago. I should then be putting some stuff up on mp3.com. I'll let you know when it is up there and listenable.

The other thing I was thinking about had nothing to do with the band tonight, actually. This one guy got out on the dance floor and just kind of flailed with reckless abandon. I say reckless abandon because not only did he bump into several other patrons (on all sides of the room), but there were a couple of times when I thought he was going to hit his own head on the floor. And he had this almost Muppet-like quality about some of his movements. So I turned to my friend and told him that you have to respect someone like that. Who will go out and be the only person on the dance floor and will just make a total ass of himself because he just has to dance. The music is moving him that much. Which then made me want to be able to harness that uninhibitedness and give it to beginning lindy hop students so that they can uncover their own musicality. This guy was all over the place, doing whatever the music told his body to do. If he knew anything about maintaining his center and then leading, he could make a great dancer. Either that, or I'm on crack.

So yeah, I'm going to listen to some chick music before I go to bed so I can remind myself that there are people out there who like that kind of music and to renew my hope that I might have a place in the music world. And then I am going to go to sleep so that I will sound good when I go into the studio tomorrow. I'm looking forward to it. I like the thought of being a musician. I think I could get into that. I'll just have to play for a different crowd than the one that was there tonight.

Friday, July 18, 2003

Oh, and something else to add to your “too cute for it’s own good” file. So last night, I brought Simon home and hooked him up in my room and did some playing, just to see if I could figure out how things work. And of course Owen was fascinated. It was a challenge to get him to not chew on Simon at first, but after a while, he became enthralled by the pointer on the screen. He was trying to attack it. It was really cute. I have this strange feeling I will, at some point in the near future, be taking a picture of my cat asleep on my laptop. Maybe I can win $50 in one of those cute photo contests or something.
Though on the down side (because we all know that Kitty is much more fun when she is bitching), I still hate being at the reception desk. The best way I can describe this morning in the office is to use the term “clusterfuck.” It’s a mess. And there are people hovering around the front desk which makes me nervous. I wish they would go away.
I know I’ve said it before, but I have to say it again. It feels really amazing to have an employer who believes in you 100% and lets you know it on a regular basis. And letting your employees know that they are doing a good job is the greatest motivator known to man.

‘Cuz see, here’s the thing. I’m just doing my job. That’s how I see it. I type things up and communicate with other offices on campus and whatnot I do so in a professional manner because that is what I am paid to do and because if I do otherwise, it not only reflects poorly on me, but on the people I am representing in my communications. To me, that’s just how things are done. But I guess some of my co-workers have had to deal with employees who didn’t feel the same way that I do because while I think I am just doing my job, they tell me that I am doing an amazing job and that I will excel in my paralegal studies. It all boils down to perception (there’s a new theme for me). But it’s nice to hear things like that, you know?

Okay, tangent.

See, because I was always one of the smart kids growing up. As was my brother. It was just kind of known that we were good students who got good grades and knew everything and whatnot. We were smart kids. But then I went to a college that didn’t have much of a reputation for drawing in smart kids, and I had AP’d out of most of my core classes, so I was in almost all theater classes with a bunch of other students who had spent much of their earlier education being average. I guess they kind of assumed I was, too. Which was fine with me because it meant they would interact with me like I was a normal person instead of one of the “smart kids.” And once I had graduated and I started meeting more new people, telling them that I was an actor who works as a secretary during the day to pay the bills doesn’t exactly scream “we’ve got a genius here!” Which is fine, I guess, but it does kind of get to me sometimes when people think I don’t know as much as I do or that I can’t learn things really easily. Pizzazz. And of course, the more one is treated like an idiot, the more one begins to feel like an idiot. So I guess what I am getting at is that I am nervous about going back to school for fear that I may be getting in over my head, but that it is nice to have my own little cheering section. So I thank them for that. And I’m going to stop rambling now ‘cuz all it is doing is proving I am the idiot I think I am.
See, I can tell already that this is going to be the problem with me having a laptop at home. The late night semi-intoxicated self-indulgent blog entry. A close relative of the drunk dial, the late night semi-intoxicated self-indulgent blog entry is a thing that should not exist and that is usually regretted the next morning. But I have things to say. As I always do. I always have things to say, yet I seldom say them. Except in here. Wasn't that Christian Slater's problem in Pump Up the Volume? He could say anything as long as it wasn't actually to another person? Sweet jebus, I've turned into a teen flick. I should lay off the hog snorts.

The thing is this. I think I have a new reader. Hi, new reader. Welcome to the bowels of my brain. The think about getting new readers is that I always find myself in a position of questioning why I keep this silly blog in the first place once I find out that someone I know is reading it. Because seriously, there is almost nothing that a person could find out about me that isn't in this blog somewhere. Do I really want all of that information to be available to anyone who has a half an hour to kill? Is there something wrong with me that I would want to post my life on the internet for anyone and everyone to read about? Am I an exhibitionist? Am I starved for attention?

Truth is, I keep this blog because it is therapeutic for me. I like to write in here and I like to go back and read my old entries. They remind me that things change. They remind me of who I was and where I was a year ago, you know? And some of them are downright funny. So I like to keep a blog and I will probably continue to do so for a long time.

I still get nervous when someone new starts reading it, though. Which goes back to that fear that my mother and I share that if someone really gets to know us, he or she won't like us anymore. Despite the almost overwhelming evidence to the contrary. I don't know. I don't want anyone to think that they aren't smart enough or funny enough or cool enough or anything. I hope my blog doesn't give people that impression. I hope that reading this shit is not intimidating for anyone. It is, after all, just me blithering on like an idiot for page upon page. And maybe I am being pretentious in thinking that anyone would be intimidated by this or by me. All I know is that people look at me differently once they start reading my blog. It's strange.

So to anyone and everyone out there reading this right now, first of all, thank you for reading. And secondly, please take a moment to remind yourself that I am just a person. Don't forget that. It will come in very useful over the next few months as I am learning to censor my drunken ramblings now that I have the interweb at my fingettips, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. I'll be normal again soon, I promise. Well, normal for me, anyway.

Thursday, July 17, 2003

So I was watching the weather today and I saw an intersting tidbit. There seems to be a severe cold front approaching the nether regions of hell. That's right. Satan is in for a chilly winter. And what could have brought this on, you might ask? Well, a couple of things, actually, but what it really boils down to is that it is my fault. See, I'm posting this blog FROM MY HOUSE on my BRAND NEW LAPTOP (whose name shall be Simon) while I am WEARING SHORTS. Word.

Here ya go, Satan. Have some polar fleece. You're gonna need it!
My very first job was in the produce department of a grocery store.

Stop me if you've heard this one.

My very first job was in the produce department of a grocery store when I was fourteen years old. It was my job (since I was a girl and therefore unable to lift a box of bananas, despite the repeated physical evidence to the contrary) to weigh the produce our customers intended to buy. I stood in front of a scale for hours on end, waiting for people to buy produce by the pound so that I could weigh it and put a price tag sticker on it. I weighed their salad bar purchases, too. And I got paid for this.

Now, we all know I am the sort who would rather be doing something than not. That job was torture for me. I used to say, "Time flies when you're having fun, but it stops dead when you're working the scale." It was that bad. I have had a lot of boring jobs in my day, but none quite so bad as that one.

Until now. Covering for our receptionist who took the week off to spend with her kids while they are on summer vacation. Here I sit at the front desk, greeting everyone who comes into the building, waiting for the phone to ring, directing the phone calls of complete idiots who don't understand that when I say, "Vice Chancellor's office," that means we don't schedule doctor's appointments for you here. And each day I am at the front desk is longer than the day before. It is horrible. Mind numbing beyond belief because it is difficult to perform even mundane tasks like photocopying or scheduling meetings because the phone rings every time I stand up or begin dialing. I can't wait for our receptionist to come back so I can tell her just how much I hate her job and how glad I am that she is here to do it.

I think my butt has fallen asleep.

Wednesday, July 16, 2003

I'm weird.

I don't have a whole lot to say today except that I am weird and I have nice legs.

I don't wear shorts. I wore shorts once last summer to the Gay Pride Parade and I felt like a goon. Not a moron, not an idiot, but a goon. Prior to that incident, I had not worn shorts in approximately three years. I don't know exactly why shorts make me feel like a goon, but they do. Maybe it's because I can't figure out a good shoe to wear with shorts. Or maybe it is because I haven't found the right shorts. Seriously, picking shorts is a tough thing to do. If they're too short, you're a slut. If they're too long, you get a weird tan line. If they are cut-offs (which I can never remember if cut-offs are "in" or "out"), should they have frayed ends or a nice, straight hemline? Should shorts be denim? Should they be cotton? And then you get those people walking around in work-out shorts like that is acceptable. It's just too much to think about. Give me long pants and I'm happy.

So since I am so vehemently anti-short, what do I do last night? I try on a pair of shorts that have been sitting in my drawer for years. Funny thing is, they fit better than they did the last time I tried them on. So I guess that's a good thing. And I felt slightly less goon-ish than I have in the past when I put on shorts, but still not non-goon-ish enough to wear them out in public. And it's not a leg thing. People think I don't like to wear shorts because I am ashamed of my legs. I am not ashamed of my legs. I have really great legs. I like wearing skirts and stuff because aside from the occasional bruise/scrape (thanks, new role in Floss!), I have really lovely legs. I just feel like a goon wearing shorts.

So this is why I am weird. I figure something out about myself, i.e., I don't like wearing shorts, and then I do things to try to get over that, i.e., wearing shorts while putting away my laundry. I'm guessing that if I wear shorts once a year for about twenty minutes, in five or six years, I might wear them out for an hour or so. By the time I die, I'll wear nothing but shorts. Why do I do this? Why do I try to change who I am? Why do I try to get over these little foibles of mine?

Why not?

Tuesday, July 15, 2003

I have to share this tidbit about my office with you because it cracks me up. There are certain professions that are notorious for ogling women – construction workers, truck drivers, etc. Well, my office is primarily female, or at the very least, attracted to men. There are three young, single women in my office and one gay man. Now, normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal. But, my building is kind of permanently under construction. So there are construction workers, roofers, surveyors, etc. running around my building all of the time. And some of them are cute. Not all of them, but some of them. And the four of us have pretty similar tastes in men. So whenever possible, we set ourselves up so that we can look at the cute boys outside our windows.

I know, it is horrible and wrong, but it really amuses me. The whole gender role reversal thing. And of course, as I’m typing this, a really hot guy walks past the window pushing a wheelbarrow. It just cracks me up when I get a phone call from a fellow employee saying, “You are needed at the printer” and I go there to find a hot guy standing outside the window. So my co-worker and I fix the un-broken printer at that time and then walk away giggling. There are days when I love my job.

Sadly, today is not one of those days. But that’s another entry.

Monday, July 14, 2003

So I've spent a fair amount of time looking at pictures from the weekend on my honorary brother's website and I think I have finally figured out what it is that bothers me about pictures of myself. I have no nose. Yet it is always stuffy. Would someone please explain to me how exactly that works?
And here's an interesting one for you. When I go out to see a band play and I pay my cover charge and they stamp my hand to show that I paid, the ink mark on my hand will last for up to four days after the event. I always thought it was because I am so ghostly pale that my skin is dying for color of some sort, so it soaks it all up.

So yesterday afternoon, I went to a street festival and got a henna tattoo across my shoulders. I followed the girl's instructions on how to take care of it to make it absorb the most color (I put saran-wrap over it and I treated it thrice last night with lime juice and sugar), and this morning when I got out of the shower, most of the dried stuff had come off leaving a very faint mark across my upper back. Very feint. Faint? Feint? How 'bout we go with "light." Very little color was absorbed. It still looks kind of cool, but it looked badass when it was black. Now it's kind of a light reddish. I'm guessing there will be no trace of it come Thursday. Oh well. That's the point of a temporary tattoo, isn't it? I just thought it would be a little less temporary than it is. Oh well.

On the up side, I got a harmonica at the street festival, too, so now I'm learning to play the harmonica. Go me.
So apparently, I’m the life of a party. Did you know this? I did not know this. But apparently, it is true. There are three instances now, all within the past two weeks, when people have credited me with the reason why they had a good time.

Instance #1 – my birthday shin-dig. I had nothing to do with the planning of said shin-dig, but everyone there seemed to have a great time. I thank the organizers of the party. Several people thanked me by saying, “You throw the best parties.” I would reply, “I had nothing to do with this. Thank the people who put it together.” The people would say, “Okay, then the best parties are thrown in your honor. Thank you for letting us have a party for you.” What can you say to that besides thank you?

Instance #2 – a friend’s housewarming party. New guy in town, doesn’t know a whole lot of people, but he’s an okay guy so I figure I’ll go. I get there and find out that two of my friends decided to go once they saw I was going to be there. Much fun was had by all. I am not necessarily at liberty to discuss details of the evening, but I will tell you that if you get a chance to try a hog snort, try one. They’re really yummy. And I know it doesn’t sound like it, but they are vegan friendly.

Instance #3 – a friend’s band’s gig. I took my honorary brother out to see my friend’s band play. He brought a couple of his friends, too. And we were all just silly all night. It was great. I ended up getting to play a couple of tunes at the end of the night, too, including my newest (“Hamburg”) and “The Boxer” with the hot Irish bartender. It’s not a live gig unless you’re sharing a mic with a hot Irish bartender. But it was a great night. And somehow, once again, I was credited with it.

I’m not complaining, mind you. I just had no idea that I was such a party person. You know me. I sit and talk about how incredibly anti-social I am and how I like it that way. But people have fun when I go out. Weird, huh?

Friday, July 11, 2003

Pop quiz:

Danish. Pastry or nationality?
So I found myself in the crappy position of being stuck in the Phoenix airport for about five hours over the weekend, waiting for my plane. I knew I was going to be sitting there waiting for a long time, yet somehow I managed to only eat two apples and a few chips during the day and I hadn’t brought any snacks of any sort with me to the airport. So I start thinking that before I get on the plane (which I knew would be serving food that I don’t eat) I should see if I can find a little something to tide me over. That’s when I spot it – Burger King. I remember an article not too long ago about the new veggie burger at Burger King and how all Burger King employees have been instructed to cook them in the microwave upon request to satisfy vegetarian customers. I do not, however, remember if the burger is vegan or not. A lot of those burger substitutes have egg in them or cheese for flavor. So I decide to ask. My bad. The conversation went a little something like this:

Me: Excuse me. Do you know if your veggie burgers are vegan?
BK employee: (looking frightened) What?
Me: Are your veggie burgers vegan?
BK employee: (looking confused) What does that mean?
Me: Are there any animal products in the veggie burgers like eggs or cheese?
BK employee: (looking confused, frightened and uncomfortable) Um, I don’t know. I would probably say no because it looks like meat.

It was really hard not to laugh at this.

BK employee: (To other BK employee who happened to walk by at that moment) She has a question for you.
Me (to second BK employee): Do you know if your veggie burgers are vegan?
Second BK employee: (looking stunned)…
Me: You don’t know what that word means, do you?
Second BK employee: (looking frightened) I don’t know. It doesn’t say anything on the box. (Note: this BK employee just came walking over from the Subway store that was next door. She was carrying a towel or something. Something that very decidedly was NOT a box of veggie burgers.)

At this point, I decide that I have two choices: 1) ask to see the box that the burgers come in, or 2) say fuck it. I think for a moment about asking to see the box to read the ingredients for myself, but then I realize that I will be in a similar situation when it comes to the buns and I really don’t want to be scaring these poor girls all day. Besides, there are other people waiting in line and I’m sure the thought of using the microwave is enough to make these already frightened BK employees pee in their pants. So I say, “Nevermind. Thank you,” and walk away to buy some trail mix at the news stand.

For the most part, I love being vegan. But not when I am stuck in an airport for five hours with very little to eat. I’ll be more prepared next time.

Thursday, July 10, 2003

So I have a question for you. Why is it that I attract religious zealots? You’ve heard people talk about gay-dar before, which can supposedly alert the owner of said gay-dar as to the sexual orientation of anyone said owner meets. Do religious zealots have a God-dar or something that buzzes when they are around me that says, “She believes something different than you! Convert her!”? I have no idea if that punctuation is correct or not, but I’m not really worrying about my punctuation right now. I’m ranting. Rants aren’t supposed to be grammatically correct or use proper punctuation or really have any solid foundation in anything. They are rants. They are quick outlets of some strong emotion and strong emotion knows no grammar. But I digress. As often happens in rants. Now I’ll get back to it.

So I go to see Liz Phair by myself last night and the guy behind me in line starts talking to me. He, too, was flying solo. So we chatted about music and cell phones and whatnot for a little while and he seemed like a cool guy. Then I made the mistake of using the word “ungodly” in a sentence. As in, “Well, at least it’s not ungodly hot outside.” Silly me. I should know better. I should realize that usage of such a word is an invitation to theological debate. I should remove this word from my vocabulary. But alas, I used it. And the proverbial can of worms was opened. Now, I don’t mind theological debate. I actually quite enjoy it. When it is with another person with an open mind. If I am debating religion and/or philosophy with someone who carries a leather bound Bible around with him like it is his organizer, it can get a bit frustrating. I like to play devil’s advocate. I like to question things, even if in my questioning I get a little bit “out there.” There are a lot of crazy things that happen in the world every day and the natural order of things is chaos, so who’s to say that everything in the universe has to make logical sense to the puny human mind? Why not explore those “stranger” options? Even if you end up disproving them, just thinking about them is an interesting exercise, I think. Anyway.

This guy just kept going on and on about how this is the one truth that he knows to be true for everyone and yadda yadda yadda. I’m sorry, but I can’t buy that. To me, that shirt looks green. To you, it looks blue. Each is our own truth that exists within our own reality. How can something as nebulous as a spiritual reality or truth boil down to what sixty-some-odd guys wrote down a couple thousand years ago when we can’t even agree on more tangible, visible things like colors?

I’m not saying that this guy has to believe what I believe. I don’t think anyone should believe what I believe ‘cuz it is a little goofy, but it makes sense to me based on my personal experiences and the (albeit limited) studying that I have done. The thing that frustrates me is that this guy would not even open his mind to other possibilities when faced with discrepancies. For example, when I brought up the fact that Jews don’t believe that Jesus Christ was the Messiah because he didn’t fulfill all of the prophecies he was supposed to, this guy replied that the Jews were expecting one thing and got another and that they just need to realize that he fulfilled the prophecy in his own way. That sounds like justification to me, not proof.

I don’t know if Jesus Christ was the Messiah or not. He might have been. Right now, I’m looking at other options and I have every right to do so. Those who want to believe that he was have every right to do so. But please stop foisting your beliefs on me. These are things that are best discovered on my own. It’s like warning your kids about the dangers of drugs and alcohol – they are going to experiment anyway and find out for themselves. Everyone has to learn and try things and screw up once in a while, even if those are the same mistakes made by those who went before. Lessons don’t stick unless they are learned first hand. So please, stop trying to give me Christian literature. When I am ready to learn more about Christianity, I will seek it out and find it. And if that time doesn’t come before this body expires, so be it. You may think it is important to share this knowledge. I think it is important to be respectful and kind and tolerant towards others.
I met Liz Phair last night. I knew I was going to ‘cuz the event was set up to be a promotional thing. They actually made an announcement when she was done playing (she played seven songs – “Extraordinary,” “Johnny Feelgood,” “Why Can’t I,” “The Divorce Song” (the highlight of the concert in my opinion. That’s probably my favorite song of hers. It’s one that I wish I had written and one that I love to play in my living room for my cat.), “Rock Me,” “Supernova,” and “Glory”) that each person could only have one item autographed and that no posed pictures could be taken, but that we were allowed to take pictures of her. So we filed out of the room in a single file line and waited about a half an hour to get to meet her. And you would think that in that half an hour, I would have been preparing myself to meet one of my favorite musicians. I have looked up to her for as long as I have known about her. Her music is honest and interesting. I don’t know all that much about her as a person, but I like a lot of the choices she makes musically and the chances that she takes. And for a long time, I loved the fact that she sang too low for herself because that meant I could, too. For me, her music wasn’t about an excellent vocal quality; it was about saying something that needed to be said in the form of a song. And I love her music for that. And all of that stuff was running through my head as I watched her play and as I stood in line to get her autograph and for the life of me, I couldn’t come up with something non-stupid to say to her. With Moby, it was a little bit easier because I had read his online journal and I came up with a plan to give him a book and whatnot. Something to talk about besides music. Something to say other than, “You rock.” With Liz Phair, I couldn’t come up with anything. I’ve read reviews and stuff and still nothing. So I got up to the table where she was signing stuff and I said, “Hey, how are you?” She looked at me a little funny and said, “Good. How are you?” I replied, “Good,” and she signed my whitechocolatespaceegg album cover. I found myself wondering if she judges her fans based on what they have her sign. But that was the first album of hers that I owned and it has a lot of sentimental value for me so I wanted that one signed. I asked the guy behind me in line (who I’ll tell you more about later) to take a picture of me with her, so she and I leaned across the table and he snapped a photo. And I said to her, “I really enjoy your new album, too. ‘Friend of Mine’ is a really excellent song.” She looked a little surprised and said, “Thank you,” and that was the end of it. And I walked away wondering if she was now judging me based on my thoughts about her new music. Wondering if I should have mentioned that I know a girl she used to baby sit. Wondering why it matters to me if she judges me or not, and if she does, why it matters what that judgment is. I asked myself what I want from her and what I want is to be able to enjoy her music. I have no idea if she and I would get along as people. But I own almost every one of her discs, so I can enjoy her music any time I want to. And now I can say I have met her. I’m cool with that. When I get my pictures back, I will post them somewhere. I still love her music. I’m still going to try to see her in concert in August. Now I just want to apologize to her if I freaked her out. Sorry, Ms. Phair. I’m just really bad at talking to people I admire.

Wednesday, July 09, 2003

We all know I’m not fashion conscious. I wear what is comfortable. I pay very little attention to the current fashions around me and I like it that way. There are, however, two trends in the footwear industry that I would not only like to see die, but I would be happy to personally lead the massacre.

Number one: mules. Not every shoe has to be available in mule form. Sneakers should not be mules. Running shoes should not be mules. There are some shoes that actually need to stay on the foot when they are being worn. If you don’t like shoes that stay on your feet, go barefoot and quit bitching that the Seven-Eleven won’t let you in.

Number two: flip-flops worn anywhere but the beach or the pool. I’m sorry, flip-flops do not qualify as shoes. I don’t care how many rhinestones you put on the strap or how many feet of foam comprise the bottom of the flip-flop, it is still a flip-flop. Flip-flops are designed to protect your feet from the grime that accumulates in public showers. They are not appropriate to wear to work, synagogue, church, on a date, etc. Flip-flops are not, have never been, and will never be classified as real shoes.

That being said, me and my espadrilles are going to go check out Liz Phair at a record store. Here’s hoping she’s not wearing mule boots or flip-flops or I’ll be forced to lose all respect for her.
I had a really weird dream last night that the guy who I was in love with in elementary school (in the way that one can be in love in elementary school, where "hello" means the two of you will be married and raise children together) had been searching for me and found me and professed his love. And then all of a sudden, we were in a John Hughes movie wherein I was Molly Ringwald and he was Judd Nelson and the whole school was conspiring to hook the two of us up, even though we both thought it futile.

I wonder what happened to all of those people I used to know. Where are they? What are they doing? Would we get along if we knew each other now?

I saw that guy I went to college with who is on a soap opera in a beer commercial yesterday. Damn, he's hot. But he must be doing okay if he has the soap opera gig and is doing national commercials. I wonder how fucknut is doing. Back when we used to talk, he would tell me that there were people who would kill to be getting the opportunities that he was getting. Which strikes me as odd because I don't see him in anything. Anywhere. Ever. So what is he doing that is so amazing? Then again, same thing could be said for me. Eh.

It's not something I spend a lot of time wondering about, but it does hit my radar every now and again. And if I was to get famous, how many of those kids that I knew in elementary school or high school would try to re-establish contact? And to how many of them would I respond?

Tuesday, July 08, 2003

If I could, I’d like to talk about my brother for a minute, too. I don’t talk about him a whole lot because I don’t see him a whole lot. But I want to talk about him for a minute.

We were kind of at odds growing up, as most siblings are. In a lot of ways, I looked up to my brother and wanted to be like him and I’m sure that annoyed him to no end. But once we didn’t have to live under the same roof anymore, we started getting along much better. I don’t see him or talk to him all that often, but whenever I do get to spend time with him, I am amazed at what an incredible person he is. Generous, caring, intelligent, funny. He always knows exactly the right moment to say exactly the right thing. He’s always looking out for other people. I can’t wait to see him as a father because I am sure he will be just as good at that as he is at everything else he does, if not better. He’s just…great. You’d have to meet him to know what I mean, but I’m sure you’d understand pretty quickly if you met him.

So yeah, that’s it. My brother is a wonderful person and I thank him for being a part of my life. The time we do spend together is precious and I love him very much.
I wrote this on the plane on my way back from Arizona on Sunday.

I'm sitting on a plane on my way home from Phoenix wishing I had my laptop already so I could blog about the million different things swirling around in my head all at once. But as it is, I will just have to write it down in my trusty little iridescent journal and transcribe it later. Curse my non-technologicalism!

But where to begin? I look at my family and I am flooded with thought. How is it that so many good people are my family? One would think that statistically speaking, there would be a pretty normal ratio of gems to bad eggs in my family, same as it is throughout the world. But my family is all gems. Seriously. They are loving and interested and intelligent and supportive and funny and talented and the best argument I can come up with for the nature of human beings as being inherently good. I spent three and a half days with my extended family, many of whom I had never met before, and I am astounded by the level of acceptance that exists in that crowd. Whatever gift anyone had to share with the group was welcomed, accepted, embraced, and adored. Be it a poem, a song, a story, a meal, or just time and energy, it was all accepted and adored. How many families do you know that work that way? How many families that you know will go out rock climbing or hiking together, three generations of family members, and they all talk to and interact with one another as equals? How many people do you know who would lend not only their rock climbing shoes, but also words of encouragement to a complete beginner and almost total stranger? Maybe I have a super-cynical world view, but I still have a tendency to think that my family is something rare and precious. We like each other. We talk to each other. We challenge each other. We support each other. I have a tendency to forget what that feels like from time to time if I go too long without it. And it always astounds and amazes me when I find it again. It is not often that large groups of people, many of whom don't know each other, all enter into a situation where they are fully prepared to like everyone else there. And I have to ask, How did I get so lucky as to be a part of that?

But then I think about the other side of my family and I am struck by the differences that exist between the two sides. On my mom's side, there are family members in their seventies who go hiking and travel and whatnot. On my dad's side, there are members in their fifties carrying around oxygen tanks or recovering from various surgeries. If you have learned nothing else about me from these blog entries, I hope you would guess which of these brands of old age I hope I have. I've been traveling with my grandmother this weekend who just turned 80. She still lives by herself and is very active. She volunteers and gardens and reads and I think she even goes swimming at the Y on occasion. But I've noticed that she is slowing down. She doesn't walk as fast as she once did and sometimes you have to tell her things twice. But we had a great conversation about religion and spirituality at the airport today. But I sometimes have to open bottles and things for her. And I can't imagine how frustrating that must be. To be in control of one's mental faculties but to not be in control of one's body anymore. To look at a can of soda (yes, I'm from Chicago but I call it soda) and know that you should be able to open it, but to lack the strength to do so. When does that happen? When do one's fingers bend? When does one's skin turn to paper but bruise as easily as a tomato? And how frustrating is that? And when does one just shrug and accept it? This weekend, I watched a fifty-something year old man scamper up a 5-10 climb with almost the same speed and agility as a twenty-something year old. When does he lose that? When does he become the old man with a walking stick who can't drive anymore?

I don't know. It was wonderful and sad all at the same time. i guess I probably just think too much. I love my family. I am blessed to be part of such an incredible group of people. I hope that like them, I can keep my mental faculties as I grow older and therefore grow older gracefully.

Though how come I only feel that "Wow, I HAVE to get to know that person" thing with family members? That shit ain't right.
So apparently, short hair is good on me. I’m not so sure about it. I like long hair that I can do things with. But apparently I look really cute with short hair. And young. Not that I’m trying to look younger. I’m not old enough yet that looking young is a priority. And I kind of look young anyway. The funny thing is that the last time I chopped off all of my hair, it was in an attempt to make me look older and more sophisticated. Interesting. But it has kind of made me think that maybe it wouldn’t look terrible if I shaved my head one day. Not saying I’m gonna do it, but maybe it wouldn’t look so terrible if I did.

Tuesday, July 01, 2003

Okay, mild panic attack just hit. I leave tomorrow for Arizona where I am going to spend four days with my family. Family reunion time. I had a really fun time the last time we did one of these and I am anticipating a fun time this time around, too. But I offered to look out for anyone with special dietary needs. There are four vegetarians and two vegans (including me) who I am now responsible for feeding for four days. I’m not worried about the money – I’m more worried that people won’t like what I’m making or won’t get enough to eat or whatnot. I’m used to looking out for me. I eat when I’m hungry. I’m okay eating the same things day after day. I have to be conscious of five other people for four days now, three meals a day. And making sure there are snacks and things available. I should have been thinking more about this all along. Looks like I’ll be reading my vegan cookbooks on the plane ride out there. I’m sure it will all be fine. I don’t think anyone in my family is that picky. But I just had a little panic attack there for a minute. I hope it stops soon. I don’t like feeling panicky. And listening to Liz Phair sing, “And nothin’s gonna change” over and over again in the background isn’t really helping. I like her new album, but I’m ready for this song to be over. Get me to a happy song.

I am so not ready to leave tomorrow. I have a lot to accomplish tonight. I know it will all work out in the wash, but I’m still nervous today. Eep. Okay. I should go do some work now. That’ll help me relax. It’s good to be able to focus on something, you know?

Oh, yeah, and if I don’t write for a couple of days, it’s because I’m baking in Arizona. When I’m nice and crispy, I’ll come back and give you an update on my life. Or, if there’s a ‘puter lyin’ around somewhere, maybe I’ll line on during the trip and say hello. I like blogging. I really do. I can’t wait for my new laptop so I can blog whenever instead of getting all these great ideas and losing them before I can get to work. Maybe it’ll be waiting for me when I get back. Wouldn’t that be nice? Even better than coming back from the bathroom to find your food waiting for you. The food situation will all work out. All will be well. Breathe in, breathe out. All will be well.