So I get there at about twenty after seven last night. I was trying really hard not to call my friend in New York to tell her to tell me not to chicken out. I had been talking to a friend of mine over the weekend about various people’s social patterns and the fact that sometimes, if you want to meet people or you want to do things, you just have to go do them, regardless of whether or not you have someone to do it with. And when you get there, you’ll find people to talk to. That’s how humans work. We’re social beings. So I went and I went by myself. Because open mic nights are things I have wanted to do for a long time. And I debated leaving my guitar in the car and just watching since I wouldn’t have a cheering section, but I made myself bring in my guitar so that I would make sure I played. So what if I didn’t know anyone there? At least I would be able to get some honest feedback on my songs. And singing in front of a group of strangers is the thing that frightens me the most, so what better way to combat that fear than to just frickin’ do it? “Do one thing every day that scares you.” Because as we all know, Vivir con miedo es como vivir a medias.

So I go. And I sign up. Slot number eight. And I look for a spot to sit. This really nice couple offered the other half of their table to me, so I gladly took and started working on some more lyrics for this other project I’m working on with my friend in Boston, just to pass the time so I’m not sitting there freaking out for a half an hour before the open mic starts. I keep having to remind myself to breathe. But I look around at the crowd a little bit and they look, for the most part, like really nice people. And this is the same open mic I went to last week, so I know that they are courteous and attentive while people are playing and whatnot. But still, I keep having to remind myself to breathe.

The open mic starts. There are eighteen performers, so in the interest of keeping the night at it’s planned two hours, each performer gets to do one song only. I decide to go with the one I know I’m comfortable playing in front of people -- Allowed. The performances start. There are some really talented people there. Some people who, for lack of a better term, play the hell out of their guitars. One man reads a scene from a play he’s working on. There are also a couple of tone-deaf people. I feel a little better, but as my turn gets closer and closer, I can feel my heartbeat throbbing in my shoulders and upper arms. My mouth starts to dry out. I keep having to remind myself to breathe.

The people sitting at my table, the nice couple who offered me a seat and then another woman who came out to watch in the hopes of playing next week, ask me what number I am. I tell them I’m eighth and I’m so nervous I’m shaking. Their automatic response is, “Well, you have three friends sitting right here.” I don’t think I will ever forget them saying that to me. What an amazing welcome into a new group of people. The fact that they smiled at me and said they would cheer for me, only having met me ten minutes beforehand was staggering somehow. I could suck, but they still were fully prepared to cheer me on. So I thank them for that. And I am going to go back next week to cheer for the woman who was just checking the place out last night.

But it came to be my turn. They called my name. I walked up to the front and asked that the second mic be placed so you could hear the guitar. I thought about saying, “My name is Kitty and I’m an open mic virgin, so please be gentle.” But somehow, it didn’t seem like the crowd for that. So I said, “I’m Kitty and this is called Allowed.” And I played my little song. I was so nervous! I could hear my own voice shaking. I tried making eye contact with people in the crowd, hoping that would calm me, but their stares weren’t very welcoming. So I looked over to the corner where I had been sitting and saw three smiling faces. Or I looked at the microphone so I could get lost in my own little world and maybe I could then remember to breathe. But I played it. And I finished it. And I got a couple of “Woo!”s when I was finished. I sat back down, all proud of myself that I had done it. Proud of myself for facing my fear head on and playing my little song in front of a room full of strangers. Baby steps towards conquering my fear completely.

And then strange things started to happen. The three people at my table all said I sounded great. They told me I have a lovely voice. They said they couldn’t hear my voice wavering at all – they said I sounded smooth and even. One woman sitting at the next table over leaned in and said, “That was really lovely.” A couple of people who walked past my table on their way out stopped to say, “You did a really great job.” I thanked each of them and tried not to smile too big for fear they might think I was a freak. But I was flying by this point. Not only did I play my little song for a room full of strangers, but they liked it, too. What are the chances of that?

So I watched the rest of the performances and finished my green tea. I determined that the better musicians perform later in the night. There were some really great performances. Some were just okay, but some were really great. And I kept chatting with the woman at my table who will be playing next week. She kept coming back to my performance, telling me things like she thinks what the judges are looking for are people who can both play and sing. Because some of the people who can play the hell out of a guitar have problems singing. And some people with pretty voices don’t play so well. But she said I could do both.

Oh, and the whole “judges” thing? This particular open mic is a contest. After everyone plays, the “judges” call up a few people who they think gave the best performances of the night and then let the audience determine the winner by applause. The prize is half of the money that is collected in a bucket that is passed around. The other half of the money goes towards the grand prize final competition at the end of six months. The pot last night was $22, which is, apparently, pretty good for this particular open mic.

The woman who will be playing next week asked me if I had another song prepared if I was called up for the “finals” (the top five, as it turned out to be) and I had to play again. I told her I did and managed not to say, “But I won’t get called up there.” There were a lot of talented musicians there. And this was my first shot ever at playing an open mic. And I didn’t have my cheering section with me to make me sound better than I’m sure I was. But I was flattered that she was thinking I did that well. To be considered an equal to some of the other people who played was, in and of itself, my own little success for the evening.

By the time the last woman played, my heart had returned to its normal pace and my palms were no longer sweating. I was having fun listening to local artists share their talents. I was enjoying my little foray into this new world. I had already made up my mind to go back next week and do this again with a different song. What better place to play my kind of music? And with one performance under my belt, they can only get easier, right?

So the emcee for the evening gets up and tells us all that the pot is $22 dollars this week and that since there were so many wonderful performances, they have selected five finalists, persons whose performances they felt really shone among the rest of them. Nobody has to play any more songs; the finalists just have to go up on stage again and the audience will applaud for whoever they want to win. They called my name. Me. Kitty. They called me up there as one of the top five performances of the night. Me with my little song played on a non-electric, borrowed guitar with my voice shaking the whole time. They called me up there as one of the top five. So I went up there. One woman chose not to go up because she didn’t want to put herself through the ego trauma of having people applaud for her performance. Which I can understand. I, personally, already felt like I had won just because I played. This part was a bonus. So I went. I was up there with three men, all of them great performers. The guy on my left played in the open mic finals last week. And they called out each of our names and the audience applauded for us. And if I am any sort of judge of the loudness of applause, I will say that I came in second place at the open mic night last night. While people were applauding for me, I made eye contact with a couple of them and this time, their eyes were full of joy and acceptance. Kind of a “Wow, you really played well. I truly enjoyed your song,” look. It was amazing. The guy all the way on the end took home the $22. I took home an almost overwhelming sense of self-satisfaction.

So I’ll be going back again next week. Possibly even with my brand spankin’ new-to-me blue guitar. I’ll probably play a different tune. And I may make the top performances again or I may not. Either way, I win. ‘Cuz I’m finally able to do something I have wanted to do for years. I think that’s worth more than $22 anyway, don’t you?

I don't know if I've written about this in the past or not, but even if I have, I think it's worth reiterating. I think Paul Simon's Graceland is one of the greatest albums ever made. If you don't have a copy yet, I highly recommend picking one up.

Okay, you buy a bottle of shampoo and a bottle of conditioner at the exact same time on the exact same day. Both bottles are exactly the same size, containing the exact same amount of stuff. You use a small dollop of shampoo every day and you use a small dollop of conditioner every day. You would think that using equal amounts from each bottle every day would mean that the bottles would last the same number of days, wouldn't you? Well, you'd be wrong. The conditioner always runs out first. Even if you lather, rinse, and repeat every day before you condition, the conditioner always runs out first. Why is this? And how come people haven't started complaining about this the way they complain about the eight-hot-dogs vs. twelve-hot-dog-bus scenario? The world may never know.

One more sunrise update:

This morning, there was a perfect cloud line behind the city that hit the John Hancock building at about the 60th floor. A perfect line of clouds, rising up from the horizon, and stopping at the 60th floor to reveal an otherwise cloudless sky. Like the tree line on a mountain, but with clouds. And then as the sun was rising, the very top of the cloud line turned that electric, blinding orangy-yellow that clouds turn when they are really thin and the sun is right behind them. It was really cool. It almost looked like a mountain range beyond the city, complete with snow covered mountain tops. For a brief moment, I got to see what Chicago would look like if it was transplanted somewhere that wasn't flat as a board as far as the eye can see. And I gotta say, it looked pretty good. How would one go about importing some mountains?

The Chinese government has blocked access to blog-type websites in China. Meaning all of those angst-ridden teenagers and disgruntled housewives and artistically repressed businessmen voicing opinions on sites just like this one have been silenced. I can’t imagine how devastated they must feel. I can’t imagine living in a country where I was not free to speak my mind. Much of the time, I feel like that is all I have – my thoughts and opinions and the right to express them. This is what keeps me from going totally insane. My heart goes out to each and every single person in the world whose voice is silenced for one reason or another. And despite the fact that we currently have a dimwit for a President, I am thankful today that I live in America where I am allowed to post on the Internet that our President is a dimwit.

There are those who say that life is an illusion. Like your fuckin’ neck!

No, seriously. There are those who say that there are an inordinate number of drug references on The Simpsons. If you sit and watch each episode, there are quite a few wherein somebody is stoned or tripping or something. Everything from the Guatemalan Insanity Peppers to the pure syrup Squishee.

I have a similar contention about my very own blog. Yes, that’s right, the very thing you are reading now. If you go back and read through the archives, you will find an inordinate number of days wherein there is some strange smell permeating the halls of my not-so-beloved office. Today it is primer. There was a big, icky, leaky hole in my neighbor’s wall that they have fixed and patched and are now painting. With primer. Which smells like nail polish remover and turpentine got drunk and gave birth to child and named that child Rank. So once again, I sit in my office getting high on paint fumes. At least it’s not quite as repugnant as last Friday when the pipes exploded again, spewing sewerage and roaches all over the office…

Women go to the gym to lose weight.
Men go to the gym to gain weight.

Discuss.

So I kind of want to start carrying little pieces of paper with me that say something along the lines of, “Learn how to park, numbnuts.” Because nobody in my neighborhood knows how to park. Yes, they are all parallel to the curb, and they don’t stick out too much. But if I may employ an example, take the person in my neighborhood that drives a Mini Cooper. This person will park said Mini Cooper, probably the smallest car available to the average American consumer, in a space big enough for two regular size cars. Right smack in the middle of the space. So that the only cars that could fit on either side of it would be two more Mini Coopers. I understand not wanting to have your car bumped – I have seen a lot of people taking full advantage of the fact that they are called “bumpers” when parallel parking. Admittedly, I tap another car every now and again, though I’m never moving more than about a mile an hour. But there is absolutely no need to have six feet in front of your car and six feet behind your car when you parallel park. That is just dumb and wasteful and inconsiderate of all of the other people who need to park in that general area as well. I live in a fairly residential area. You would think that I should be able to find a parking space within two blocks of my house if I come home late at night (as I am wont to do), particularly in the middle of winter when walking more than a couple of blocks in the middle of the night is not only potentially dangerous, but downright unpleasant as the wind is trying to rip your ears off your head. But due to the inconsideration of many, many drivers in my neighborhood, a parking space is a rarer commodity than a pair of Madonna’s underpants.

So I want to start carrying little pieces of paper that I can put on the windshields of people who park particularly badly so that maybe they will take a look around and realize that the world does not revolve around them. It’s all about consideration towards one’s neighbors. We all have to live here together; we might as well be nice to each other while we’re here.

I’m weird today. Moreso than usual. We’re not talking your usual fantasizing about a world that doesn’t exist, marching to the beat of my own drummer kind of weird. We’re talkin’ weird. And I’m not exactly sure why and I’m not exactly sure any of this is going to make sense to anyone reading this, but I’m going to ramble for a little bit anyway.

I went to an open mic night last night. It was the finals, meaning it was everyone who has won at the open mic night for the past six months. Or something like that. And I’m sitting there watching it thinking to myself, “I could do this.” There were obviously people there who are much more talented than I. Much more skilled with their instruments. But I have a better voice than some of those people. And some of the people with good voices were singing songs that I could have written. It was very cool, don’t get me wrong. There was a woman with a hammer dulcimer that was absolutely amazing. And a sort-of friend of mine was in the top three, so that was cool. There was some really amazing music being made last night and it gave me the feeling that my music should be up there, too. On display. For people to enjoy. ‘Cuz I think they might actually really like it.

So I’m buying a guitar off of a friend of mine. He wants an acoustic electric and only has an acoustic. So I’m buying his acoustic and he’s buying an acoustic electric. If the price on it wasn’t so amazing, I’d probably pass. Who buys a guitar without ever playing it? But it’s a steal and he guarantees me it’s a good guitar. And it’s blue. And I really can’t afford it right now, but he’s letting me buy it in installments, so I will have my very own brand new guitar within the next couple of weeks. So I, too, can go play at open mic nights. And so I can give back the guitar I am currently borrowing. I can’t wait to own my own guitar! I know it sounds silly. But to have my own guitar that I don’t have to worry about treating badly ‘cuz it’s my guitar to do with as I please. I can break strings. I can sand down the bridge if the action is too tough for me. I can buy my own strap and capo and case and stand for it. And someday down the road if I’m feeling really ambitious (and wealthy), I can look into souping it up and making it electric. It sounds really funny, but this guitar is calling to me from 500 miles away and I can’t wait to start playing it. So what if I have to live on peanut butter for a week?

I really don’t have any money right now. It is all claimed. This is the scary thing about only getting paid once a month. If you need extra cash, tough shit. You have to sell a kidney or something. There are all kinds of things coming up in the near future that I want to be a part of, from concerts to my family reunion to a trip to New York (that I have been wanting to take for a year now) to buying accessories for my new guitar to buying studio time to lay down an album to buying trash cans with lids on them so I don’t have to keep the garbage can in the bathtub anymore to buying one of those water dishes for Owen that recirculates the water so he doesn’t have to drink out of the toilet anymore to the workshop with my favorite dance instructor to just plain being social, that I’m really feeling that I just don’t have the money for. But I can’t miss out on these things. I can’t miss my friend coming to the United States for a week because he doesn’t come that often. I can’t miss my family reunion. I can’t not renew my license plates. When is my salary going to catch up to my life? I know it is something I brought on myself, but in three years I will be out of debt. But I can’t wait three years to live, you know? And it doesn’t help that rumors of no raises again this year have already begun to circulate. What if they raise my rent? I need another job.

I’m really excited that my favorite dance instructor is coming back to town. I am very much looking forward to hugging him and dancing with him. I know I sound like a sap when I say that, but I really am. I have missed my friend and I will be happy to see him.

I also feel like I’m playing matchmaker for a bunch of my friends. I know of a bunch of crushes going in a bunch of different directions and I’m doing my best to encourage the ones that seem plausible and so on and so forth. All the while talking myself out of my own crush. Why do I do that? Or perhaps the better question is, why don’t I develop crushes on men who are more suited to me so I don’t have to walk around saying, “But it would never work out?”

And here I am, sounding like a girl again. Sorry. I’ll stop that.

I went to a callback audition last night, too. I’m pretty sure I’m not in the show. But it was fun to go and prove to myself once again that I am a good performer. That directors and producers and such like me and appreciate my work. It’s encouraging. I have another audition this weekend that I hope goes well. This one, out of all of the stuff I have been auditioning for, sounds like the most fun. And I think it’s a paid thing, too. Wouldn’t that be nice? Kill the proverbial two birds. ‘Cuz we all know I wouldn’t kill a real bird. Me with my hippie ways.

I like being a hippie. For the record. I feel good being a hippie. And I’ve noticed that I haven’t really gotten sick this winter (knock on wood) like I usually do. I’m wondering if it is the herbivore-ism.

And I should go now because I do have work to do. But I’d much rather keep rambling. My mind is going way too fast for it’s own good. But to recap – I want my new guitar, I still have no love life, though I am living vicariously through my friends, I have great friends, and I’m wanting very much to kick start my career, be it my acting career or my musical one, but I need more money, and I like vegetables. Crap. Okay. I’m going to work now.

There is this house around the corner from where I live. There are quite a few houses around the corner from me, actually, but there is one house in particular that I am just absolutely in love with. It’s so pretty. They just redid the whole thing last summer and it looks like they converted it from a two-flat with a garden apartment into a single family home. What I have seen of it is really stunning. And it is on the market. It has been on the market since they finished it. There were two other houses on the same block that were redone about the same time and both of them sold fairly quickly. But this house is still on the market. Still unoccupied. Still calling to me to buy it. It’s like it’s waiting for me to be able to buy it. I so badly want to but I know that there is no way in hell I could afford it right now. It is just reason number 87 why I wish I had a million dollars in my back pocket right now.

*sigh*

I know I complain a lot about the fact that I have to get up at the proverbial butt-crack of dawn every day, but when faced with the alternative of missing out on sunrises like the one that happened this morning, I think I'll put up with the waking up early. It really was breathtaking. Colors I don't even have words for. I got in my car and didn't even let it warm up because I wanted to get to a better vantage point to see the sunrise before the colors were gone. But beauty like that only lasts for a minute or two. And I got to see it. Because I wake up way too frickin' early.

I know I write about this stuff too much. I'm just trying to enjoy being alive is all. The simple pleasures in life. I'm trying to take note of all of the beauty around me so I don't get too weighed down in all of the crap that goes on in this world. So if that means I write about beautiful sunrises for a while, please bear with me until summertime comes and the sun wakes up even earlier than I do.

So they are passing legislation in Chicago to ban smoking in restaurants and such. I don’t know if it extends to bars yet or not, but in my humble opinion, this is a step in the right direction. If you’ll pardon me, I’m going to be very politically incorrect for a moment.

Smokers annoy me. I have a lot of friends who smoke. I do not proselytize and try to get them to quit or anything. I often times find myself hanging out in the “smoking lounge” so that I can still be social with my friends, despite the fact that I detest going home reeking of cigarette smoke. But I do hate going home smelling like smoke. I hate my clothes reeking. I hate the smell in my hair. In some cases, I have been known to say, “Eh, it’s something you get used to.” I don’t like the fact that it is something I have gotten used to. I like going outside and breathing fresh, clean air. And then someone lights up a cigarette and my nose says, “Um, no, I don’t think so,” and I stop breathing. This is not a good thing.

And for the record, I have smoked for a couple of theatrical productions and a couple of times when I was really drunk. I don’t think I ever got high off of it (yes, I have inhaled) and I ended up feeling like crap the next day. Not to mention the stench, the horrible taste in my mouth, and the fact that even my fingers smelled from holding the cigarette. I don’t understand why on earth anyone would intentionally do this to him/herself? People who have quit smoking are thrilled that they can again taste food. And let’s not forget that it is kind of gross to kiss a smoker. Might as well lick an ashtray. Unless your partner is a smoker, too, in which case you probably can’t taste each other at all.

So if they want to ban smoking indoors in Chicago, I am all for that. Not like you didn’t know this already, but smoking is bad for you anyway. My surgeon friend contests that our friends would all stop smoking if they spent one day with her at work. It’s disgusting and deadly. That’s all there is to it. But I don’t think that banning smoking indoors in Chicago will stop anyone from smoking. People won’t quit because of that. I have friends who will get up three times in the course of a meal at a restaurant to go outside and smoke (which, in my opinion, is quite rude, but hey, I’m not in the throws of a very powerful addiction). They will continue to do that if it becomes illegal to smoke in restaurants. Every culture in the history of the world has found something to smoke and something to drink. Some law will not stop that kind of cultural momentum.

But it would be really nice to be able to go to a bar and come home smelling only of cheap beer.

I heard a little blurb on the radio this morning about hip huggers being bad for your health. Apparently, some women who wear hip huggers have been going to their doctors complaining of a tingling sensation in their hips. The doctors have concluded that the pants apply unnecessary pressure to the hips, causing a sort of carpal tunnel-like disease in the hip joints. When the women switched to baggy pants, the tingling went away. I couldn't help but chuckle.

Yay baggy pants!

There are few things in this world nicer than brand spankin’ new, fresh, clean contact lenses when you have been wearing the same pair for about two months. When they are the kind of contacts that you are supposed to wear for two weeks and throw away. Yeah, my eyes weren’t liking me too much there for a while. But sometimes you have to make choices – comfortable eyes or Christmas presents for the family. And I always have my glasses if it gets unbearable. But it was really nice to put in brand spankin’ new, fresh, clean contact lenses this morning.

And then I had a smoothie for breakfast made with orange juice, pineapple tidbits, and mango chunks. Aside from the word “chunks,” it sounds pretty tasty, no? Well, it was. Darn tasty.

And then one of my co-workers said to me, “Kitty, you’ve lost weight.” A couple of nights ago, another friend of mine told me my face looks thinner. So maybe the whole vegan diet plus a healthy amount of exercise thing is paying off. I know it is because my clothes fit better and I don’t have saddlebags anymore. But it is encouraging to have it be noticeable, you know?

And I had a task to perform for my boss this morning (the biggest of all of the big cheeses in my office) and I did it exactly right and really fast so he e-mailed me back saying I’m great.

So all of these really good things are happening to me lately. And again, there was an absolutely gorgeous sunrise this morning. I can’t really justify complaining about anything right now. I don’t even feel like complaining about it being cold outside. I have auditions coming up soon. I have great friends. I have the greatest family a person could ever hope for. I’m getting into really good physical shape. My favortie dance instructor is coming back to Chicago in about a month. I’m just happy. I will be purchasing an acoustic guitar in the very near future. Things are good. Things are looking up. And I am doing my very best to just enjoy it while I can. It’s going pretty well.

I remember I used to sob my eyes out when I would leave my cousin’s house in Wisconsin or my grandparent’s house in Minnesota. Something about leaving and not knowing when I would be able to see them again. Saying “good-bye” seemed like such a permanent thing. Maybe because I was at the mercy of my own parents to determine when I would travel again. But yeah, I used to have a really hard time saying “good-bye” to people who I loved.

“Good-bye” seems to have lost a lot of its permanence, though. I’m not complaining about that – I bank on the fact that “good-bye” is not permanent. A lot of the people who I really love live far away – San Francisco, Europe, New York, Boston, all over the place. And if I had to say “good-bye” to any of them permanently, I would be devastated. But I don’t. And I’m wondering when exactly it was that I figured out that “good-bye” is not forever. When did that feeling of, “Yeah, I’ll see you again someday,” become the norm?

Granted, I would prefer it that all of the people I loved were geographically close enough to me that I could hug them on a daily basis, but I know that wouldn’t happen. Not even in Kittyland. But as an example, I have a friend who moved across the country on Monday. I don’t know when I will see him again. I probably won’t call him much, nor he I, and I don’t think we have ever e-mailed each other. But I was not heartbroken to see him go. I was sad, yes, because he is my friend and I enjoy dancing with him and I won’t get to do that as often any more. But it was more of a “see you later” than a “good-bye.”

I like it that “good-bye” is not permanent. I take a lot of comfort in the fact that I have at least some control over who I see and who is a part of my life and who is not, you know? It is wonderful to know that you have the ability to surround yourself with wonderful people if you so choose.

Please pardon this momentary indulgence on my part: I sometimes wonder what I would say if I was being interviewed about a film I did or something. ‘Cuz you know those interviewers always want to know about your personal life. So I’m kind of hoping that when that question is asked, the interviewer says, “So, is there anyone special in your life?” so I can respond with, “I am surrounded by special people.” ‘Cuz it’s true. And it’s a nice way to dodge a bullet, huh? Hi, my name is Kitty and I’m a dork.

I don’t really have anything interesting to say today, so if you tuned in hoping for some wonderful words of wisdom from the mind of Miss Kitty, let me take a moment to apologize and tell you it is really not necessary to read today’s entry. Though if you really want a fun read, feel free to wander on back through my archives. Did you know I’ve been keeping this blog for eleven months? I’m almost at a year. A lot has happened in that year. So why not take today to play catch-up on all the entries you may have missed?

Don’t you love how I write like this is important stuff that people actually read? I know there are a couple of you out there who still read my drivel and I love you for that. Thank you.

I made vegan pad Thai last night and fed it to an omnivorous friend of mine. He said he liked it. I must say that I thought it was pretty tasty, too. And not bad for a first attempt. I learned a couple of little things, though. Like put the sauce on the noodles right away ‘cuz rice noodles are about a billion times stickier than your average everyday pasta and nobody likes sticky pad Thai noodles. And I need to find tamarind concentrate. All I could find was tamarind nectar, so I put in a little more than the recipe called for, assuming that the nectar is a kind of watered down concentrate, and now my pad Thai tastes a little too strongly of tamarind. Or at least I’m assuming it does. Tamarind is something completely new and foreign to me. But now I have an open can of tamarind nectar in my refrigerator (sans about a tablespoon and a half) that I’m not sure what to do with. I don’t know if I want to drink it or not ‘cuz the picture on the can of tamarind makes it look like I’m drinking vanilla extract. And as lovely as it smells, vanilla extract is NOT something you want to be drinking straight. If you’ve never tried straight vanilla extract, you’ll just have to take my word on that. But over all, I think it was a successful first attempt at pad Thai. We’ll see come lunchtime how well it stands up to the reheating test.

And I would also just like to point out that the sunrise this morning was particularly lovely. So much so that I actually said, “Wow,” out loud to myself in my car as I went over the Belmont overpass on Western. It was really pretty. And it reminded me once again just how much I love Chicago. Chicago has the best skyline. Ever.

So again, I apologize for my mundanity. If that’s a word. Mundaneness. I’ve been tired lately so I haven’t been doing very much that is very exciting. I’ll have to work on that.

So the Grammy nominations were announced this morning. Typically, I don’t pay that much attention to the Grammys because I don’t quite understand them. What is the difference between rap/R&B and rap/hip hop? There are so many categories, I get really confused. And then there are songs that seem to have come out last year but are nominated this year and the “Best New Artist” is sometimes given to someone who released his/her third album and so on and so forth. I don’t understand the Grammys. The music industry is foreign to me.

But I heard some of the nominations on the radio this morning on my way in to work and I must say that some of them made me really happy. Danny Elfman was nominated for his Spiderman score. Vanessa Carlton was nominated for a bunch of stuff, as was Norah Jones. Moby was even nominated for the song 18. I guess I was mostly impressed because these nominations did not seem to be based on radio airplay, but rather on *gasp* actual musical merit. Granted, a lot of it seems like it has to do with personal taste, but a lot of artists who I can respect and admire were nominated. Which made me really happy.

What pissed me off, though, was the radio announcers. Granted, I probably shouldn’t have been listening to the announcers on that particular station as I was hearing the nominations being read, but still. They kept commenting over the nominations so you couldn’t hear half of them. And then they started complaining about how silly a lot of the nominations were. They were indignant that Eminem only got three nominations. You know what? There are 101 categories at the Grammys. About six of them have to do with rap. If Eminem wants to branch out and start doing classical music or world music or country music, then sure, maybe he can get more nominations. But Eminem is not the be-all end-all of the music industry. He can only get nominated in the appropriate categories. This is not the Billboard Awards. This is the Grammys. And the announcers were ripping on Norah Jones and Vanessa Carlton. I’m sorry, maybe it is just me, but I am really happy about the fact that female singer/songwriters are nominated. Women writing songs more interesting than “I’m a Slave 4 U” and stuff. It does my heart good to see good music recognized.

I guess I should keep in mind, though, that awards are like hemorrhoids – in the end, every asshole gets one. *shrug* This is why I don't pay much attention to the Grammys.

You don't realize how many basic, every day movments require your neck until you pull one of the muscles in your neck and are greeted with pain in it's purest form every time you try to do anything.

Note to self: Stop imitating Emily in Dancing with Gaia when doing Tacky Annies.

I’ve been developing these really weird crushes lately. Which is kind of odd in and of itself because I didn’t really have a crush on anyone for a long time there. Well, except Moby, but I think a celebrity crush is a little different because it comes with the foreknowledge that nothing is going to come of it. It is a 100% safe crush.

But yeah, I’ve been developing a lot of these really weird crushes. And they’re weird not because of who they are on or because I’m having them in the first place, but because they are of a different nature than most crushes I have had in the past. They are not necessarily “I want to date you” crushes. They are not “I want to fuck your brains out” crushes. They are more like “I really want to know you” type crushes. Which is really odd. For a long time, I felt like I knew enough people. And now I want to know more of them. And in an intimate way, though not necessarily a physically intimate way, if that makes any sense. I’m meeting all of these people (mostly guys) who strike me as really interesting people (okay, all guys) who I would like to know on a very personal level. Who I would like to be able to converse openly with about everything and anything and nothing at all. All at the same time. And there is something different about each object of my crushes that makes me want to get to know him, be it his love of music or his sense of humor or his artistic eye. Okay, so yeah, in their own way, they are each artistic. And I would like to know them for that. And while I don’t think I would be opposed to making out with any of them, that’s not my ultimate goal, here. But how does one approach a guy one has just met, or a guy one has known for a long time and has recently found a common interest with, and say to him, “I’d like to get to know you” without having it sound like a cheesy pick up line?

I guess one could not worry about it and just go on having weird crushes.

I’d like to talk today about nudity on camera. In films. On the stage. And in a moment, I will tell you why we’re talking about it. But I want to give you my opinion on the subject first.

I am not a fan of gratuitous nudity. Often times, people are naked for no reason in film, other than to show naked people, like the one woman who runs in front of the screen in Airplane and shakes her boobs. Why is there a naked woman on the plane? Hell, we don’t even see her face, just her naked breasts. I know why it was done in that particular film, but I think you know what I’m getting at. I don’t think nudity is something that should be thrown into film randomly. Why not? Because often times it is done badly. But that being said, I am not opposed to nudity in film in general. I actually even have some pointers to make nudity in film/on stage work well for the cast, the director, and the audience.

First of all, if an actor is uncomfortable taking his/her clothes off on camera/on stage, find a different actor or cut the nudity completely. Don’t tell your actor that you will “work around it.” This makes the whole thing look forced and fake and chances are that your actor will still be uncomfortable being naked in front of the crew. And just like with bad Shakespeare, if your actor is uncomfortable with the fact that he/she is nude, the audience will be uncomfortable with having a nude actor in front of them. The audience gets caught up in, “Oh my god, he’s naked. He must be really cold. Look at how nervous he is!” and they are completely pulled out of the scene. I know it sounds harsh, but if the script you are doing requires nudity and your actor is not comfortable with that, find a different actor or do a different script.

Second, find a purpose for the nudity in your script. Don’t have people taking off their clothes for no real reason. If you must show someone bathing, okay, have him or her naked. If you are doing an artistic piece about the human form, okay, have him or her naked. If you’re making a film about the Kentucky Derby, keep your actors clothed. I don’t care how much fun it would be to have a nude crowd member at the Kentucky Derby, it’s not going to work for the audience. If the nudity itself is justifiable, your actors and your audience will be more comfortable with it.

And finally, make sure your crew is professional about it, too. If your actor is greeted on set by hoots and hollers from the crew, he/she will be made to feel uncomfortable which makes the audience uncomfortable. There should be no gawking. And when you are directing a nude actor or even chitchatting with a nude actor, look into his/her eyes just as you would if your actor was fully clothed.

Why am I talking about nudity on camera today? Because of the student film I shot over the weekend. I know, I know, your image of me is now probably totally shot. I have done nudity in film. A couple of times. In one instance, it was because my character was bathing. It was done tastefully and I was completely comfortable on set with my director and my DP. It was not a sexual thing and it was non-exploitative. The director and I talked about it and decided that it would be weird for this woman who lives in a house by herself and bathes as a means of comforting herself to wear a bathing suit into the bathtub. It was fine. I had no problem with it.

The film I did this past weekend was inspired by a man who airbrushes people. He began as an airbrush artist doing characatures and clothing and whatnot and became involved with a company that does shows at nightclubs and whatnot that involve women being painted and dancing or interacting with the crowd. The director of the film I just did loves this man’s work (he really is amazing) and wanted to showcase it in a medium more appropriate to the art than a nightclub. So she made an experimental film. It really is an interesting idea for a film. And it involved five women being painted from head to toe. I was one of them.

Yes, this film was mocking the human perception of sexuality. No, this film is non-exploitative. And believe me, when you have that much paint on you, you feel like you are clothed. People look at the designs on your body, not at your body, if that makes any sense. I spent two days wearing nothing but a thong and paint in a room full of probably twenty people, most of whom were men, and I was completely un-self-conscious. (Which is, in and of itself, a good thing in my book. We all know I’ve had body issues for way too long, so this was an amazing bit of body acceptance therapy for me.) And I have to say that this was probably one of the coolest experiences of my life. To have my body turned into such an amazing piece of art…it was like nothing I have ever done before. It really was like putting on a costume and becoming a different character. I can’t even really describe it. It was frickin’ cool. You’ll have to try it to find out what it is like.

But there was one woman who showed up to the set completely unprepared to have her breasts and buttocks exposed. How she missed the fact that that is essential to the film is beyond me, because that is pretty much the first thing the director said to me when I met her. But this one actress decided the morning of the first shoot that she would be too uncomfortable doing that. So she was not in the film. Which is fine – like I said, if you have an actor who is uncomfortable with it, find a different actor. Nobody should be forced to do anything they don’t want to do or to show anything they don’t want to show. What irritated me was that this particular actress started talking to another very impressionable actress and filled her head with all kinds of nonsense like having nudity on your resume will ruin your career and so on and so forth. We all tried talking to this impressionable actress to ease her mind. She asked me how I felt about it. I told her that I was a vessel for this man’s art and that I did not view the film as exploitative. I told her that I was, in a way, happy to be involved because I don’t have a perfect body, but I would be seen as a work of art anyway. One little step in my mission to alter the societal perception of what a woman should look like. I gave her my honest opinion of the director and the crew – they were all very professional people. The DP at one point said he wanted to be painted, too, because it looked so cool. But this impressionable actress decided that she was uncomfortable with it, too, so she did not participate in the film. Which is too bad. Because it was a lot of fun.

So I guess my point is this: if you are an actor and you are asked to do nudity on camera or on stage, think about it. Seriously. Honestly. Think about it. What kind of person is the director? What is the crew like? Does the nudity make sense to you? Are you comfortable with being nude in that context with those people? If any of these things don’t sit right with you, don’t do it. There will be other jobs and other opportunities. If you are okay with all of these things and you want to do the project, do the project. Nudity on your resume will not ruin your career. Making bad, uninformed choices will.

I’m shooting a student film this weekend that should be really interesting. I’m excited about it and think it will make for a really cool end product, but I don’t want to talk about it too much until after I’ve done it ‘cuz I’m afraid that will make me chicken out. All I’m saying is that it is like nothing I have done before and I hope it turns out well. And I’ll tell you all about it on Monday when it is too late for me to change my mind about the whole thing.

There are days when I really hate my job. I’m a monkey. I do what they tell me to do. Which would be fine. If people didn’t change everything that I do right after I do it. For example, one of my current projects is to schedule 32 meetings. Two individuals from an outside organization want to talk to 32 University persons for an hour each over four days. Okay. Fine. I have about six meetings left to schedule. So the outside organization calls me today and tells me that two of these meetings need to be moved. The two meetings each contain eight or nine participants (I’m not sure who is in which one, mind you, ‘cuz these two group meetings were not on my list of meetings to schedule) and they need to be moved to a time that has already been filled by someone else. A lot of these meetings are with doctors who still have to see patients and stuff, so their meeting time flexibility is not so great. Oh, and did I mention that the meetings are next week?

Or another project of mine is to distribute forms and checklists to, I dunno, about 70 departments here on campus so they can fill them out and return them to me. I distributed the forms and checklists back in October and told everyone that the due date was today. I told everyone that the checklists needed to come back to me so that they can be processed. Have I received all of the checklists (I don’t really need the forms, just the checklists – it’s like the Cliffs Notes version of the forms)? Not by a long shot. So I send out reminder e-mails (as I have been doing periodically since October) and I get all kinds of “But I sent my checklist to so-and-so ‘cuz I thought that is where it was supposed to go” e-mails back. Yes, that is why when I sent you the information originally, I made a point of including with the instructions a piece of paper that said, “Please return the checklists to ME.” ‘Cuz I wanted you to send them to somebody I’ve never heard of before. And I appreciate you waiting until now to tell me who it is that has the checklist so that I can run around at the last minute and talk to all kinds of people I’ve never heard of to try to get the checklists by yesterday. Thank you for your assistance on this project.

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to start the year off bitching. It’s ‘cuz I’m at the reception desk for the second day in a row. I knew I would be, but I still don’t like it. I can’t get any real work done down here. And then to have to deal with stupid people…maybe I should make a New Years Resolution to be more tolerant of stupid people. I’d rather that people just stopped being so stupid.

I was talking to my friends over the past few days about geeks. And I don’t mean that in the “persons who bite the heads off of live chickens” sense of the word. I mean dorks. Geeks. Those persons who are not “cool,” by society’s definition of the word "cool." And I would like to say that yes, I am a geek. And yes, I am proud of the fact that I am a geek. I like being a geek. It’s really nice to not have to worry so much about what society thinks of me, anyway. And I have to say that all of my friends are geeks, too. I don’t think I have any non-geek friends. And to be honest, non-geeks scare me. Because really, all being a geek means is you are passionate about something. There are music geeks and science geeks and computer geeks and dance geeks and movie geeks and sound geeks and animal geeks and skater geeks and food geeks and you name it, there’s a geek for it. The geeks are the ones who throw themselves wholeheartedly into something regardless of what other people say about it. Geeks love something. Geeks believe in something. Geeks dedicate their lives to something. And to me, that is just about the most attractive quality a person can have. Well, maybe honesty is above that, but passionate people are attractive to me. And passionate people are, typically, by societal definitions, geeks.

So stand up and be proud of your geekdom. I am.

Oh, and for the record, eating isn't nearly so much fun when the entire inside of your mouth is burnt. Beware steaming hot green tea.

Ugh. Happy New Year, kids. I can’t believe it’s 2003. Feels like just yesterday that it was 2002. Wait a second…

I hope it was a safe and happy holiday for all of you. I had fun. I had friends in from out of town – some of my very favorite people. And there was much kissing to be done after midnight, so that was fun. Gotta do that once a year just to prove that I’m still a girl, right? Or something like that. I don’t know. It’s early in the year; my brain isn’t working yet.

I do have a new musical tidbit for you: check this guy out. Listen to a song or two. But not while you’re at work. Or if you are under 18. But if you are not at work and are over 18, take a listen. He’s pretty funny. Cute, too.

Speaking of music, I would just like to take a moment to say how much fun it is to make music with someone else. Yes, I love playing my guitar in my house for my cat, but when someone else picks up, I dunno, a bass guitar and starts playing along…fun things are created. The energy is wonderful. I love it. I would very highly recommend that you go out and make music with somebody in the near future. You will feel good afterwards, I promise you.

And speaking of things to do in the near future (hi, my name is Kitty and I know how to use segues), let’s talk about New Years Resolutions for a minute. I don’t know how the concept of a New Years Resolution came into being, exactly. I understand the theory behind it, what with a New Year starting and all. It is a fresh beginning. But why must we wait for the first of the year to get a fresh beginning? Anyway. New Years Resolutions. I don’t know that I really want to make any this year. Making a New Years Resolution, in my mind, implies that there is something about oneself that one doesn’t like and feels needs fixing. And as I mentioned in an earlier entry, I’m feeling pretty good right about now. This is the first holiday season in I don’t even know how long that I have not found myself painfully depressed. I am proud of myself for that.

A lot of New Years Resolutions have to do with living a healthier life. I’m already doing that. I guess I could resolve to cook more vegan food for myself more often since I got two wonderful vegan cookbooks for Christmas. But I am eating well. Really well. And I’m not eating too much. And the exercise thing, I’m doing that already, too. Working out and dancing. And I’m sleeping more than I used to. And drinking lots of water. Meaning I’m taking really good care of myself physically. Because I am finally in a place mentally to do that. I think it takes a certain love of oneself before one can truly take care of one’s physical self. In other words, you have to want to take care of yourself. And right now, I do. So I am. Which is wonderful except it deprives me of the “I’m going to eat better/less/take care of myself” New Years Resolution.

Then there are the Resolutions aimed at making the world a better place. In a small way, I feel like I kind of am ‘cuz I’m using animal-product free products and organic products wherever possible. I plan on voting in the next election. I feel like I can’t do a whole lot more in this arena than I already do ‘cuz I don’t have mountains of money to give to worthwhile causes. So for the time being, I am just going to hug my friends and family and let them know that I love them, I will be nice to strange people that I meet because there are enough jerks in the world already, and I will let Mother Earth know that I love her, too. She needs to be reminded of that every now and again. Hopefully somewhere along the way, someone will smile or laugh, too.

Speaking of which, I do have a little favor to ask. A long time ago, I wrote an entry encouraging people to use “Kitty says hi” in place of some other normal, everyday phrases like “hello” and so forth. When I wrote it, I thought it was kind of funny. But the more I think about it, the more I think it could be really cool if people actually did that. Or at the very least, if people said, “Kitty says hi” to someone you’ve never met before. Or when you first meet someone. So a conversation might go like this:

Friend of Kitty: Person A, I would like you to meet Person B.
Person A: Hello, Person B.
Person B: Nice to meet you, Person A.
Person A: By the way, Kitty says hi.
Person B: Thank you. And hi back to Kitty.

At which point, Person B can then go and tell Person C that Kitty says hi and so on and so on and so on. And eventually, I will be a household name. Or at the very least, I will run into someone I inadvertently said hi to somewhere. And who knows? We might become fast friends because of it. So next time you meet someone, say, “Kitty says hi” and encourage them to tell someone they meet that I say hi. And we’ll see how long it takes to get back to me, okay?

But back to the whole resolution thing. I feel content with where my life is right now, so I feel funny making Resolutions to lead my life in a better/different manner. So I’ll kind of set goals for myself for this year instead. I would like to do more with my music, both with my solo material and with the music I am collaborating on with a friend. I want to get back into acting stuff. It feels like it has been a while since I did anything, so I’m going on a couple of auditions in a week or so. And I want to work on not hating having a crush on someone. Or at least on not letting crushes turn me into a skittish little twit. It might make for a more productive, meaningful relationship if I am actually able to talk to my object of desire instead of running from him.

But that’s about it. I am going to continue living healthily. I am going to continue to be a good person, or at least as good of a person as I know how to be. I am going to try to keep pumping positive energy into the universe and I am going to continue to try to avoid adding negativity to the universe. I am going to try to just keep being me. But moreso. In a good way. And I’ll let you know in a year how it all worked out.

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."