So after the Liz Phair show on Friday night, there was a guy standing by the front door outside and he asked if I had a minute to listen to something. I figured what the hell and took a listen. He was just trying to get exposure for his band. I listened to the track he played me and it was okay. Tight sound. The guy band sound that is popular right now. And by "guy band," I mean "a group of guys who got together and made a band." Very different from the manufactured "boy band," which, if I'm not mistaken, seems to be waning in popularity. In favor of the guy band. Anyway, I digress.

After I had listened to his song, he asked me what I thought and it was hard for me to not tell him. I told him it was a tight sound and a fun song. He asked if I wanted to buy a CD and I told him I spent my last couple of dollars on beer in the show, but if he had a website, I would go check it out. He gave me the web address and I went on my way and he accosted other concert goers.

What I wanted to say to him was, "What makes you different from every other band on the radio right now? Why should I listen to your record as opposed to anyone else's?" Which sounds really harsh, but I can't get over the validity of the question. Do the airwaves need to be saturated with one more untrained tenor voice fronting two guitars, a bass, a drum kit, and a synthesizer for "cool effects?" I'm not saying that they don't, but I think it is valid to ask why they do. Are this band's lyrics deep and meaningful? Okay, then I'll listen. Are this band's lyrics political or moving in some way? Okay, then I'll listen. Are this band's members the most dedicated, motivated musicians ever to pick up instruments? Okay, then I'll listen. But I think you get my point. There are so many bands out there who all do the same thing. If one is going to get anywhere in the music business, one has to have something that nobody else does.

Which got me thinking about my own music. Of course. Like you didn't see that coming a mile away. What do I have that no other musician right now has? Do the airwaves need to be saturated with another untraned alto voice fronting a couple of guitars, a bass and some drums? I'd like to say it is my lyrics. They are honest and simple and somehow, they connect with the listeners. I didn't write them to be that way; it just kind of happened. My friend from Rochester who was in town this weekend told me that she still sings "Allowed" in the shower. I'm not saying that nobody else out there who writes their own music has good lyrics. But I think interesting, intelligent lyrics is what I bring to the table.

I'm so ready to make an album. I'm so ready to go into a studio and play something until it sounds exactly the way I want it to, not just long enough to get a good enough backing track. I'm so ready to bring in a drummer and a bassist and a cellist and a floutist and whoever else to fill out my songs and make them what they have the potential to be. And I am so ready to take that record and sell it to someone. To go on tour with it and promote the shit out of it. To play my songs anywhere and everywhere I can. I've gotten much better about playing in front of people -- I really enjoy it now, even without booze. But I'm so ready for this. Keep your fingers crossed that things will start progressing soon.

What makes my music different from everyone elses? I write honest songs that hit people in a very emotional way and I am prepared to play them for each person in the world individually if that is what it takes to find and reach my audience.

God, am I a cornball or what?

And while I'm on the subject of ranting about silly things in our society, I would just like to point out that one raisin does not a cinnamon raisin bagel make.

The thing that I hate about spam e-mails is that they get you all excited only to disappoint you in the end. "I have six new e-mails!" But then you find out that they are all in reference to drugs you can purchase to enhance bits of anatomy you don't have. Stupid spam e-mails.

I found a picture online today. Albeit an old one, it was still a picture. Yes, I was looking for one; I had forgotten what he looked like. And now I remember. And I remember that no matter how many times I looked up at him, he didn't look any less attractive. I remember feeling safe and vulnerable in his embrace. I remember that every day, but I couldn't put a face to him. He was just a feeling. A feeling I've been looking for and not finding for a very long time. But now the feeling has a face again. A face that even from years ago looks wonderful to me. I know where it is and I know I can look at it whenever I want to and I take comfort in that. Because I like that face. I like the person inside that face.

I wish the person inside that face wasn't so far away.

I have to share one other tidbit with you because it was one of those things where when it happened, I was just like, "oh," but then after I realized what was said, I was almost unspeakably happy. Here's how it all went down:

I went out last night and was talking to a friend of mine who I haven't seen in a long time. I told him about my trip to Europe and stuff and he told me that he studied theater in London for six months and I told him that one of my new goals is to spend a summer on stage at the Globe. He replied, "That's quite a goal." And I agreed. And he said, "But not a pipe dream." At the time, I just agreed and shoved my hands in my pockets. But once that sunk in, I realized that it was a friend of mine believing in me. It wasn't the automatic, "Yeah, like that's going to happen" reaction that I get from so many (wonderful people as they are). It was a, "It's going to be hard work, but it's doable." And that made me happy. So thank you to my friend. You made my night.

I forgot what it is like to make someone fall in love with you on the dance floor. To spend three minutes speaking, playing, connecting with another human being. To watch as that person's initial indifference becomes respect, then admiration, then joy, then curiosity. Because if the two of you connect this well on the dance floor...

I wrote in here a long time ago about lindy hook-ups (second cousins to one night stands). Two people meet on the dance floor, fall in love for a weekend, and go back to their normal lives on Monday. I remember the days when that is what I was looking for -- a partner to spend the weekend with at a dance event who I could get excited about going to visit at some later date. And I realize now how that is exactly what I don't want. Or not even what I don't want, it's not what I'm interested in. Those relationships don't last. They are built on nothing more than a mutual understanding of the music and how one's own body works. Off the dance floor, you still have to deal with all of the same crap that you would have to deal with if you were to find a partner through non-dance-floor means -- is he smart enough? Does he make me laugh? Is he a good kisser? Do we want the same things in life? And I'm telling you from experience, nine times out of ten, the answer to all of those questions is no.

I love falling in love on the dance floor, though. Finding that connection that wasn't there before and sharing something incredible with another human being for three minutes. But when that three minutes is over, it is time to say, "Thank you. Save me another dance later?" and go back to the bar to chat with my same good old friends who I have talked to for years.

I'm kind of amazed by the human body sometimes. Mine in particular. Just at how well it works.

It struck me when I was in Europe how often my traveling companions would remark that they were out of shape. I never once felt "out of shape" while I was there. My shoulder might get tired after carrying around my backpack and guitar for several hours, but I didn't feel "out of shape." Granted, I am also younger than either of my traveling companions, but only by a couple of years -- nothing significant enough to make a notable difference. And while I do try to get exercise as often as I can, I am by no means an athlete. I walk around. I dance sometimes. I do workout tapes in my living room when I can get myself motivated to do so. And then it occurred to me -- both of my traveling companions put things into their bodies to keep their bodies going. Most notably caffeine. I'm not talking food here, because food is necessary for any body to survive, even non-human ones. I'm talking about artificial substances. People who have to have coffee in the morning before they are functional. People who need a soda come 3pm.

I'm not trying to sound all self-righteous and stuff here, because I used to be addicted to caffeine, too. Caffeine and sugar. Still sugar to some extent, but I'm getting to the point now where I can feel it when I've had nothing but sugar to eat all day -- my body tells me, "Okay, time for some veggies or some protein." And every time that happens, I am amazed at how well my body works. The fact that it knows things like that. And the fact that if I pay attention to those things, my body functions really well.

So here were my friends pumping themselves full of chemicals so they would be able to get through a day, yet they were tired and sore a lot of the time, and here was me just taking care of myself and going through each day with energy and no pain. Interesting. If we take care of our bodies, they function the way they are supposed to. If we introduce foreign substances into our bodies, they function in ways other than they are supposed to.

I'm also not advocating Christian Science, here. There are times when my body doesn't work the way it is supposed to and I have to give it a little nudge to get back on track. But isn't it amazing how the human body has evolved to work so nicely?

Sorry. I'm being a science geek today.

I'm sorry, but low carb foods are just not satisfying. I don't mean naturally occurring low carb foods like vegetables and things; I'm talking about food products manufactured to be low carb versions of our favorite things. Like low carb snack foods.

I was in the grocery store the other day and right next to my beloved Tings on the shelf was a bag labled "Girlfriends Booty." After I stopped laughing, I picked up a bag to have a look. It is a low carb snack food, vegan friendly, made by the same people who make my beloved Tings. I decided to give them a shot. They are made with soy, so there is plenty of protein in them, too. I should have just stuck with my beloved Tings. Yes, Girlfriends Booty is crunchy. That's about all the positive stuff I can say about it. It has very little flavor and the little residue bits that remain in your mouth when you are almost done chewing get kind of pasty. I feel like in order to fully enjoy this snack food, I would have to be saliva-less. Yeah, they are really not satisfying.

I can't wait for this whole low carb craze to end.

I was going to write about this when it happened, but I didn't, so now I'm writing about it after the fact and if it sucks, well, that's why.

I'm on a kind of a kick to improve my physical appearance. Not so much lose weight and start plucking my eyebows or anything like that, but more to stop dressing like a slouch in public. Or at least cut back on dressing like a slouch in public. On on this front, I bought myself the most wonderful pair of trousers in Amsterdam. They are gray (not a huge departure for me there) low rise trousers with a really wide waistband and legs that get wider from the hip on down so by the time they reach the floor, they cover my shoes perfectly. And they are long enough that even when I wear high-heeled boots, they cover my shoes completely. And the fabric is so soft. I love these trousers. The only drawback with these trousers is that they are not lined. Meaning the panty line shows. Pretty badly. With no panty line, they make my butt look great. With a panty line, they make my butt look horrible. I spent probably five minutes in the store checking out my butt to see if I could get away with these trousers. The sales lady even checked out my butt for me in my efforts to see if I could get away with these trousers. And the verdict is that I can, as long as I wear a *gasp* thong.

So I wore these trousers to work on Monday with a *gasp* thong. Yes, that's right, Miss I Want To Be Comfortable At All Times spent an entire day in ass-floss because not only did I go to work on Monday, but I also had class and then drinks with my classmates after class and no time to change clothes in-between. And, as expected, I spent the entire day wanting to pull the underwear out of my butt. But, my ass looked great in those trousers.

Such a sad day when I feel the need to invest in more *gasp* thong underwear.

One of the nicest things about going away is being missed. Everyone wants to have their lack of presence noticed. And mine was. And I thank my friends and co-workers and family for that. It was, in a lot of ways, hard to come home. I'll try not to harp on that for too long. But to come home and be told by my cast that we had a great show because I was back in it and to be welcomed back by my co-workers with huge smiles and to get great hugs from my family and to get to spend quality time with my cat...it's not SO bad to be back in Chicago.

My mom told me that Owen was quiet when she stopped by to visit him. He's been really vocal since I've been back. I think he missed having me to talk to, too. And that makes me feel good.

So wish me luck on my midterm. And wish me luck on my paper. And wish me luck with finding more acting work and with finding someone to produce a full studio release of my album. Because when I'm happy...wait, didn't we determine that I'm boring when I'm happy? Maybe I should rethink this whole "I'm going to do what I want to do with my life" thing. For your sake. You guys make me feel loved and I wouldn't want to bore you to tears for that. I suffer so that you will have fun things to read.

I'm kidding, of course. I'm feeling okay today. In another week or so, I will see my beloved Chicago once again for the beautiful city that it is.

I have to be really distasteful and complain for a minute. And to most of you, this is going to sound like a whiny spoiled brat wishing for things just because she can't have them. But I'm going to complain for a minute anyway.

The thought of going back to work tomorrow is making me physically sick. The thought of spending eight hours in that little office, staring at a computer, when I could be out learning things and experiencing life is...indescribable. I know that there is more to life than wandering around strange cities looking for new things. I know that one has to make money in one way or another, one has to keep track of one's responsibilities. I just find myself wishing that my responsibilities were other than what they are. I don't want to be in paralegal school. I don't want to be learning how to help people who are just trying to screw the system. I want to be in school to improve my artistic abilities. I want to be learning other languages. I want to be broadening my mind, not to be becoming part of the system. God, I sound cliche. I'm sorry about that.

I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday and he was playing devil's advocate to my complaints just because that is what he does. And he said that the majority of the working actors he knows would rather have jobs and act on the side than be working actors because they don't like the roles they are getting and they basically had to sell their souls and artistic integrity in order to get to where they are. He was trying to tell me that I have it good because I have a salaried position with vacation leave and whatnot and am able to do shows on the side. Thing is, when I took this job, I took it to pass the time until "my real life began." But as the time goes flying by, I find myself getting way more ensconced in this job than I ever intended to be and I start wondering if my real life will ever begin, or if I will always have to put it on hold in favor of my responsibilities. I realize that I am being overdramatic, but it is my belief in the fact that my real life will begin at some point that keeps me going and I'm afraid that the day may come when I have to give up that belief and be realistic. Maybe being overdramatic is yet another way of me trying to prove to myself that I'm not realistic yet. I still apologize for it, though. I'm sorry for whining and complaining and seemingly disregarding all of the wonderful things that I have in this temporary life of mine. I am thankful for my family and my friends and the fact that my entire cast missed me so much while I was gone and was so happy to have me back and my home and the fact that I have a job that likes me enough that I was able to take an absolutely amazing trip to Europe for two and a half weeks. I know that I am lucky in so many ways. I just get restless sometimes.

Thanks for reading.

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.

*sigh*

This one was originally written on Tuesday, March 2, 2004 in Munich.

So I've developed a new talent, though I don't know how proud of it I should be or how much I should run around publicizing it. I can find the seedy area of any city in six seconds flat. I'm in Munich with about three hours to kill and seeing as there really isn't anywhere to sit in the Munich train station, I stash my luggage in a locker and decide to go walkabout. For an hour. Two, tops. So I set out into the snow because yes, it is snowing in Munich and I walk approximately a block and a half before I find a sex shop. I guess it makes sense -- were I a horny businessman with a three hour layover in Munich, I might want to spend that three hours looking at naked women, too. But I'm not, so I don't. Silly me, I'm pricing internet cafes. I'm addicted, I'll admit it. I like being in touch with my family and friends when I am thousands of miles away and the signs don't make any sense at first. I must have stood outside the Thai restaurant for ten minutes before some poor employee took pity on me and came outside to help. All I had really been able to decipher was that "reis" is rice and "Thai-rot-curry" must be red curry. Thank god the guy spoke English. Now I'm having some okay Thai food (vegan) in Munich. It only sounds weird when you say it out loud. And it only looks weird when you see the look of gratitude on my face when I hear someone speaking English. I call it the, "Hi, I'm a dumb American" expression. Will the people who see the "Hi, I'm a dumb American" expression recognize me when I'm famous? Because the thing about speaking another language is that you think in that language. Germans and French aren't thinking "Thank you" and the translating. Yes, they are thinking the sentiment, but that sentiment is expressed as "Danke" or "Merci" automatically -- there is no moment of translation. And the same way a virtual hurricane of words is swirling around in my head, they are experiencing the same exact thing with a completely different set of words. And my words sound just as strange to them as theirs do to me. I wish I could hear myself as they do, talking a bluestreak of jibberish.

But I like Munich. The three blocks of it I have seen. It has a good energy. Or maybe it is the snow, making everything peaceful as snow has a tendency to do. Either way, I should come back here someday.

Things That I Like About Europe
a partial list

I like the Euro. No, they are not particularly pretty (as Moby so aptly pointed out, old stone bridges are not sexy), but I like the one and two Euro coins. There is something nice about paying for things with coins. I can't explain it any better than to say I'm a dork.

I like it that it is not automatically expected that once you step on an escalator, you will proceed to walk to the other end of it. In fact, I like it that most people here just plain ride the escalators. They walk fast, sure, but they will take a brief pause in their journey to ride an escalator. There is something pleasant about that.

I like it that no matter the weather, people will be outside walking around and riding bicycles.

I like it that everything is so close by, rendering automobiles almost completely unnecessary.

I like it that the public transportation systems are clean and have a bazillion maps everywhere to make sure you know where you're going and what the streets are going to look like when you get there.

I like it that you can say thank you to someone in one language and they will say you're welcome in another.

I like it that the little mom and pop type specialty stores have not all been put out of business by megastores. There is a store in Paris that sells mustards. A few related things as well, but it is a mustard store. And people go there with the specific intention of buying mustard. They go elsewhere to get the hot dogs and a third place to get the buns. Sure, it seems cumbersome, but when you realize that all three stores are within a half a block of one another, the quaintness wins out and you start to dig the idea of a store that just sells mustard.

I like it that the tea I have been drinking most of the time has been in loose form.

I'm sure there are more things I should be putting on this list, but they're not coming to mind right now. I have really enjoyed my time in Europe. I will be sad to go home tomorrow, as much as I want to see Owen. And as much as I'm starting to feel like it's time to get back to being "productive." I will miss the energy here. I will miss the little quirky things. And I hope I don't forget how to see the little things all around me for the first time every time I see them.

Originally written on Tuesday, March 2, 2004 while on the train between Paris and Munich.

Man, it feels good to be out of Paris. I can’t even tell you what it was about Paris that I didn’t really like, but it wasn’t my city. I met a couple of really nice people when I went out dancing on Sunday night and I thank them for talking to me and dancing with me. But for the most part, I felt like everyone was looking at me like I’m a dirty American. Which was probably all in my head, but still, that’s not a very fun way to spend three days, afraid to speak your own language because it will give you away as an uncultured snob.

I would like to put in here that I did not encounter anyone who was outwardly rude to me. And when I tried to speak French to them, they were patient with me and when I ran into someone who didn’t speak English, they would usually point me in the direction of someone who did. I don’t have anything against Parisians. I don’t have anything against Paris. It just wasn’t for me.

So now I’m on a train to Munich. I’m sure for most of the people on this train, Munich is the destination and they are all sitting here, looking for ways to pass the time until they get there. For me, I’m loving looking out the windows, watching the landscape scroll by. I decided to take full advantage of my first class Eurail pass and ride first class and it is nice up here. There is a place for me to plug in my laptop so I can listen to music the whole time without worry. The cabin I am in is climate controlled, so I can make it as warm in here as I want. And since the train isn’t that full (at least not up here), I have this whole six-seat cabin to myself. Which means I probably won’t meet any new, interesting, fascinating people while I am on this train, but I kind of like this. I could even pull out my guitar and play for a while if I want. And I don’t have to use my headphones to listen to music. Yeah, other people might join me in this cabin at one of the stops along the way, but for now, I can rest, relax, and recollect myself. Get the Paris out of my system.

Apparently a lot of people move to Europe, are unhappy here, and move back within a year, if that, and they see it as a failure that they couldn’t make it in Europe. They feel unsophisticated or uncultured or something. And had I not had a long discussion with my friend outside Amsterdam about this very topic, I might be inclined to feel the same way about my fantastic failure in Paris. But in all truth, it wasn’t a failure. I didn’t fail. The same way I know I would be unhappy living in Los Angeles or Omaha, I know I would be unhappy living in Paris. The energy just wasn’t for me. Doesn’t mean I don’t like Europe – I quite enjoyed London and ‘s-Hertogenbosch. I’m interested to see what the energy is going to be like in the German cities I’m passing through. I won’t get to really know any of these cities since I’m not staying long (perhaps just long enough to play “Hamburg” in Hamburg), I think I’ll at least get to feel enough of them to know whether or not I want to go back. With someone.

I’m annoyed that my German friend finked out on me. It’s irritating to be invited to someone’s house and then have them not be there. I don’t think I’m asking too much here or being overly sensitive. When I invite someone to come stay with me, I either make sure I will be there or that they have a set of keys so they can come and go as they please. But maybe that’s just me.

I am a little bit curious now to go to Toulouse and dance. I’ve heard wonderful things about the dancing there, and from what I saw of the Toulouse dancers in London, I think I could have fun there.

Maybe that’s why I’m so tired and ready to go home – I already figured out that my life isn’t really worth living if I can’t share it with someone. I did the month in Australia by myself thing. And here I am alone in Europe. But I will get to share at least some of my adventures with my family and friends through pictures and stories and whatnot. So that’s a good thing. But I was fantasizing last night as I was trying to fall asleep that Owen was crawling around on the bed with me. I can’t wait to see him. Admittedly, I can't wait to show people my pictures and tell them my stories. Though I don’t know how many real stories I have to tell. At least not very interesting ones.

I'm going to be posting a couple of tidbits out of order here. This one was originally written on Saturday, February 28, 2004, while I was on the train to Paris.

It’s not really all that different. It is very easy to get caught up in the whole “I’m in a foreign country where everything is different” thing, but it’s really not true. Yes, there are differences between different countries. But just about everywhere you go, you will find people getting a coffee on their way to work. You will find children playing, making snowmen, kicking a ball around. You will find people dressing in such a way as to make themselves attractive to potential partners. You will find people listening to music and making art. So yes, I just spent three days in Holland, not speaking a lick of Dutch, but it’s really not all that hard to figure out. Wherever you go, there will be signs to point you in the correct direction. Hand signals always work. Smiles are always appreciated.

I’m on a train from Amsterdam to Paris. It sounds so exotic, but in all truth, if I didn’t feel so darn relaxed, I could be taking a train to Wisconsin. There are trees and snow and train tracks and power lines and cities and towns. The only real difference is that the graffiti is in another language, and the announcements on the train are first in Dutch, then French, then English. All of the passengers still have their stuff that they hope nobody takes away from them. There are still buildings with smoke stacks and churches and schools and parks. There are still people walking down the street holding the hands of their loved ones. One thing that I really liked in Amsterdam was a small memorial on one of the canals dedicated to everyone who has been persecuted for his or her sexual preferences. I didn’t get a picture of it – it was just a little triangular outcropping into the water, like a mini pier that a lot of people had put flowers on, but I thought it was really nice.

I’m really loving being in Europe. The people are friendly and accommodating. And the little oddities that let me know I’m not in the land of my birth are cute and fun and totally things that I could live with. Like stores closing at 5 or 6 pm. You just learn to work around those things.

I think the next step for me, though, would be to figure out a way to work here temporarily because visiting a place on vacation and actually living there are two totally different things. But the outdoor market in ‘s-Hertogenbosch was great – when was the last time you had farm fresh carrots? Yeah, me too. And the Fuji apples…amazing. The food everywhere has been wonderful. And if I have to make due with Kleenex for a day because I have run out of toilet paper, so be it, you know? I do that at home sometimes anyway, just because I’m too lazy to go to the store.

I just really like it here. Colin Hay’s “Waiting for My Real Life to Begin” has been running through my head almost non-stop since I got here. Almost like I’m headed in the right direction for that to happen. I know it’s still a long way off and I’m still waiting for it, though not completely passively.

Paris observations:

Parisian soy milk is VERY sweet.

Parisian men think I'm hot.

Despite these two things, Paris is not my city. I'm ready to leave here.

I do think it is kind of funny, though, to think about Napoleon living in the Palace du Louvre, mostly because he was so small and angry and it is so big and beautiful. Honestly, if you get the chance to go to Paris for a day, take it and spend that day at the Louvre. Even if you're not all that big on art, go for the architecture inside the palace. I think I spent as much time in there looking at the ceilings as I did looking at the artwork.

But yeah, I'm getting tired and ready to go home. Tomorrow and the next day, I will spend approximately 29 hours on trains "seeing" Germany. I put seeing in quotes because I'm not really sstopping to spend time anywhere -- I'm just taking trains all over the place. Don't want to waste my Eurail pass, after all. And then back to my friend's place outside Amsterdam to relax for a day before I go home. It will be good to see Owen again. It will be good to hug my family and friends. It will be fun to do Floss!. I've had a wonderful little sojourn to the green world and I'm ready to go home now.

I wrote this this afternoon in the Louvre.

I'm in the Louvre right now and I've just seen the Mona Lisa. And on my way to visit her, I started having all kinds of revelations about art and my opinions of art and what art means to me. Because yes, I can walk along these halls and see the Raphaels and the Michaelangelos and whatnot, and I can appreciate how art changed over the years -- the color pallettes, the subject matter (Christ is the most depicted figure in history, I will bet my shoes on it), the shift towards more realistic work and then away again. And I can say that I like Italian sculpture. But so little of this art truly moves me. Largely because back then, I don't think it was allowed to. Paintings were done for a reason to serve a purpose, not because the artist had something to say. Which is maybe what is so wonderful about the Mona Lisa -- the fact that she has an expression on her face. She's tucked away at the end of a long hallway full of Italian depictions of various religious persons, and she's really not all that big or impressive, yet thousands of people pay millions of dollars to see her and take her picture. And she just sits there, smiling at all of them. I walked in the room and said hello to her. She smiled at me and said, "Aren't they all funny?" I said, "Yeah," and took her picture. "It's okay," she said. "I know you get it." "Thanks," I replied. "See ya later." And I went back down the long hallway full of Italian paintings of various religious persons feeling kind of smug. Because how many people actually get to chat with the Mona Lisa?

Paris now. And so far, I'm not in love with it. Maybe it is because of where I'm staying, maybe it is because I still feel a little strange about the fact that my travel companions have all gone home, maybe it is because thse French keyboards are really strange, maybe it is because the club I tried to go to last night was closed, or maybe it is because on my way home last night, I found the Paris "red light district" completely accidentally. But thus far, I am feeling like Paris is like the icky parts of New York, but without the warmth and good energy that New York has.

But I'm off now to see some art and pretend I'm all pretentious and stuff. Maybe once I get down into different areas of the city, I will feel better about it. In the meantime, I apologize for the short entry, but really, these keyboards are screwy.

You know, you hear the stories about the red light district in Amsterdam and you can't quite believe they are true. So you go to Amsterdam and find yourself wandering around and you see a couple of red lights down one little street, so you decide to walk past and see if the stories are true. And you find that they are. And you are mortified. Not because prostitution is legal. Not because you've never seen anything racy before. Because here is a woman selling herself in a window, like a slab of meat or a Smart Car (which I want very badly, may I add -- the Smart Car, not the woman selling herself in the window). And you think to yourself, yes, this is a sufficient way to make a living, but how sad is it that this woman has chosen this as her profession. Even if she is really good at it, she stands in a window all day until some guy decides that he wants to fuck her. All the men who walk past (and half of the women, probably) without looking twice are rejecting her. What does that do to her ego? Or does one have to abandon one's ego in order to go into that particular line of work in the first place?

I don't mean to judge, and I don't think I am. I don't think any more or less of these women for what they do for a living. And it is entirely possible that they think the same of me -- an actor sending out headshots, not getting responses, every missed audition is a rejection based solely on my physical appearance -- so I'm really not in a position to judge. Maybe it's more of a "I know how hard it is" kind of thing, but I don't really, because I've never been a prostitute. I can always hide behind the "there just wasn't a part in this play for me" excuse. What does she have?

If you happen to find yourself in Holland, looking for a place to eat, might I recommend dropping by 's-Hertogenbosch (Den Bosch) and dining at Taste. Actually, no. I will not recommend dropping by. I will ask that each and every one of you go out of your way to go to Taste and have a meal. This is some of the best food you will ever eat in your life. My friend knows the owner (well enough that we were the last people to leave and we got to have a drink with Amy (the chef) and Matti (the owner) after the place was actually closed) and told them in advance that a vegan was coming for dinner. There was bread with an amazing pesto. There was a tomato, bell pepper soup that was a meal in and of itself. There was a portobello mushroom with potatoes and eggplant. Eggplant is a tricky vegetable and it is hard to get it right. I can guarantee you that people who have hated eggplant in the past would have loved this eggplant. I have no idea what Amy did to it (she does all of the cooking herself in this tiny kitchen), but this was the most amazing eggplant I have ever eaten. I found myself sitting there thinking, "This is just a mushroom, eggplant, and potatoes," but I am going to be fantasizing about this meal for the next month. I can't even tell you how amazing the food was, and to have the chef prepare something especially for me...I am so happy right now. My ominvorous friends had filet minion and seared ahi tuna and lamb and all this food that was giving them orgasms at the table, it was so good. So regardless of your dietary needs (though if you are vegan, you may have to have a special "in"), please go to Taste in 's-Hertogenbosch. Reasonably priced, amazing food, lovely little restaurant. And I can guarantee that you will not regret your time there. You'll just have to take my word on that.

One other thing that I really enjoy about Holland -- the mechanism for flushing the toilets. Yes, I am that big of a dork that I notice these things, but to me, it is pretty cool. I don't know if I have talked about my problems with toilets before, but when I first moved into my own place, my big thing was that I wanted a toilet that worked. I have lived in so many places where you have to jiggle the handle or hold it down for so long in order to get the darn thing to flush, that all I really wanted out of my own place was a toilet that flushed properly every time. Well, in England, I had no such luck. Even in public toilets in England, even in the greatest toilet known to man (or woman in this case as it was a ladies' loo), otherwise known as the ladies' room at the Knight's Templar in London (it used to be a bank vault, but know it looks like Greco-Roman baths or something; it's really spectacular), I kept running into toilets with problems flushing.

So now that I am in Holland, I have to remark about the wonderful flushing mechanisms. When I first saw them, I thought they were those dispensers that you will see in public restrooms from which you can get toilet seat covers. Groovily enough, this is not the case. The flushing mechanisms on the toilets here are large metal buttons on the wall that you just push once and there you go. So simple. So convenient. No handle jiggling or holding down for a certain amount of time. Just a perfect flush time after time after time. Plus, it's really fun to push a large metal button on the wall in order to make the toilet flush.

That's it. Kudos to the Dutch plumbers on a job well done. You can all go back to your normal lives now.

If I could figure out a way to stay here...

We're in Den Bosch now, staying with a friend. I thought London was quaint, but this is so much moreso. We now have access to a shower, an honest to goodness shower! And yes, it is snowing, but I'm all kinds of happy. I had all kinds of things I wanted to write about, but they have all left my mind at the moment, as we are trying to make dinner/drinking plans for the evening. I will have lovely stories to tell when I get back to the States. And millions of fantastic memories for the rest of my life. It feels like I have been away forever, even though it hasn't even been a week yet. And it feels like I am going home tomorrow, even though I have a week to go yet.

It is going to be so hard to go back to work and my normal life...

Day three in London. I can't believe it's only the third day that I've been here. No, I don't know my way around yet (at least not as well as I do in Chicago), but I'm comfortable here. My body is on the right time schedule (though a few more hours of sleep somewhere wouldn't hurt me), certain things are starting to look familiar...I could be very happy here for a very long time. Except I would have to do something about the showering situation -- neither of my hosts has had a working shower, so we've had to take baths. Which isn't terrible, but it is a smidge more time consuming and I can't quite tell if I've rinsed all of the conditioner out of my hair.

But yeah, I like London. I wish it was warmer.

We walked around a lot this morning (guided walking tour as part of the exchange) and we saw the Tower of London and the Globe Theater and the Tate Museum and a whole bunch of other stuff, but those three were my favorites and I'll tell you why.

The Tower of London has a really funky energy about it. You can feel the history that is still very much alive in there. We didn't actually go in it, we just sort of walked around it and heard the story about the ravens and whatnot, but I very much would like to go back and actually go inside. Apparently, they have an exhibit of the torture devices that were used on people way back in the day. Call me sadistic, but that stuff is interesting to me. Much moreso than, say, a maritime museum.

The Globe Theater. I know it's not the real one, and that's fine. But it's Shakespeare's theater. It felt good to just be near it. I think one of my acting goals now is to spend a summer in London in a show at the Globe. Guess I should brush up on my Shakespearean monologues, and fit them with a British accent.

The Tate museum has this installation in it right now that is all just smoke and mirrors and a giant light, but it is fascinating. The mirrors are on the ceiling, so the hall looks twice as tall as it actually is. And the light at one end looks like, well, something out of a Terry Gilliam film. Cool, yet creepy. Everyone was in sepia tones everywhere. And at the far end of the hall, people are lying down on the floor so they can see themselves in the ceiling, making patterns and whatnot. Of course, as a group of lindy hoppers, we had to spell out "Lindy." I got a picture of it. Pretty cool.

So yeah. I dig it here. I feel the need to put on a British accent, but I'm afraid my friends will laugh at me, so I don't.

Oh, and for the sake of those of you who read this blog and mitten's blog, I have to mention our ride home from the dance last night. Picture this: two door hatchback car. Insert into said car three large suitcases, three large backpacks, one large dance bag, one normal sized guitar, and four full sized adults. Then make car drive for forty-five minutes in the middle of the night through the streets of London. Yeah, I was in the backseat and at one point, my left leg had fallen so far asleep that it hurt. We promised the girl in the front that she will feel guilty about riding shotgun that trip for the rest of her life. Not that we'll follow through, but at least it kept us laughing.

Anyway, I should run before my time here expires. I'll update again soon.

I really love London.

Hello.

Just a couple of quick notes from London.

1. I love it here. It feels very comfortable and homey to me. I could be very happy living here.

2. British currency is much more interesting than American currency.

3. British taxis rule.

4. Number one drawback to London = all of the pubs close at midnight.

But else than that, I'm having a lovely time. My host last night was wonderful, the dancing is great and the national cuisine, since it officially became Indian, has taken a decided turn for the better as far as British cuisine is concerned. From what I've heard. The food we had last night...so good! But it is easy to get around here and the people are friendly enough and so on and so forth. I had a few pithy comments to make earlier, but I have currently forgotten what it was I was going to say, so I'll stop for the moment. Wish me luck finding a place to log on wireless to the web!

I know everybody says, "Don't buy anything here -- wait until you get to Europe to do it," but I couldn't help it. I like having things planned out. I booked a hostel for my stay in Paris. I got a train ticket. I haven't bought anything for my ride back to London yet -- I can do that when I'm there. But I like knowing that I will have somewhere to stay and a way to get there. Plus, this will make sure that I go.

I can't believe that in just over 24 hours, I will be getting on a plane to go to England. And then I'll go to Amsterdam. And then I'll go to Paris. And then I'll go to Hamburg. And I will be spending half of that time traveling alone. I'm scared out of my mind, but in that same way I was before I went to Australia. I know I am going to have an amazing time and I know I'll be fine, no matter what happens. It's just kind of daunting, you know? To know that you will be in a country where you don't speak the language for three days without so much as a friend to dine with or to say, "Wait a minute, are we on the right subway train?" I know I'll be fine. I know that financially, I'll be fine, too. Whatever I don't bring with me, I'll get there. It's just...daunting.

Travel really is simple. All you need is time and money. And for once, I have both. Wish me luck!

So perhaps I sang the praises of Western Medicine too soon. I was under the impression that the medications I was given would dry out my sinuses and moisturize my throat (seeing as my sinuses were overproductive and my throat overdry). It seems that they have, in fact, done the opposite -- dried out my throat and moisturized my sinuses. Seriously, my nose isn't that big -- how can it produce this much phlegm? I'm blowing my nose so much, it's starting to bleed. And last night, I was up half the night coughing so hard, I think I broke my throat and perhaps some blood vessels in my forehead.

Here's hoping the European air does me some good.

And you become aware of a hand on your chest, directly over your heart. It is warm and soft and carries within it the very breath you didn't realize you were holding. And it reaches in slowly and takes your heart and caresses it gently. Somehow it knows where all of the little bruises are hiding and it finds each one. It touches each bruise and kisses it and says without words, "It's okay. I love you." And you feel your heart grow and heal and become something beautiful, something too beautiful to contain within the confines of your own chest. And you realize that your heart is in your own chest, exactly where it should be and there was no hand. It was the sound and the vibration and the melody and the voice that healed your every hurt and filled your soul with so much beauty, your own body feels too small to hold it. So you cry, because it is all you have left to do. And you think with your entire being, "Thank you," because you know that if you were actually to say, "Thank you," to the artist behind the sound and the vibration and the melody and the voice, it would sound trite and false. But you know your spirit has been touched and changed forever and that the best way to show your appreciation for that is simply to allow it to happen.

"Be still my love
Open up your heart and let the light shine in
Don't you understand?
I already have a plan
I'm waiting for my real life to begin."

-- the sound and the vibration and the melody and the voice

The complaints that I have about myself are complaints that I am willing to bet you will never hear another woman say about herself. For instance:

My hair has too much body. I wish it would just hang straight.

My nose is too small. Seriously. I think that's why I have sinusitis -- when my mucus membranes get inflamed and grow, they don't have very far to go in order to cause serious problems. Don't get me wrong, my nose looks fine on my face. But it is, in fact, too small.

I keep finding myself going out with two guys at once. I have two groups of guy friends who I have gotten into the habit of going out with on an almost weekly basis and it just occurred to me that in both situations, it's a group of three friends going out for drinks and I'm the only girl.

Either I was never supposed to be a girl in the first place, or I should just stop complaining, huh?

You've probably gotten the impression from this blog that I'm not necessarily into Western Medicine, yes? Which is perhaps an odd statement coming from someone who works on the administrative end of a hospital and medical center, and from someone who is blown away on a pretty consistent basis by her surgeon friend and another friend who is about to begin her journey to doctorhood. But you know how certain people, after working in a restaurant and seeing how things really work there, vow to never ever ever eat at that restaurant again? Well, it's kind of the same here. I get to sit in on the meetings where patients are identified by their disease or insurance carrier or ability to pay. They're not people, they're numbers and potential income. I sit in on the meetings where the higher-ups mandate things like each doctor has to see four patients an hour and so on and so forth. Its enough to make you sick and start searching for other curative methods.

But today, I must sing the praises of Western medicine in general, my doctor in particular. She is what a doctor should be. She takes the time to explain what's going on and what needs to be done to fix it. She takes the time to talk to her patients and know them as people, not as insurance policies. I went in there with a sore throat and a desire for it to go away by next week or tomorrow if possible. She looked around, asked some questions, and found the problem -- sinusitis. And then she scampered off into the other room to get me some sample medications so I wouldn't have to go get a prescription filled. And yes, she does scamper. She's adorable. I love my doctor and will sing her praises to the end of the earth. Though I probably still won't give up my homeopathy entirely.

I get so torn sometimes about what I am doing with my life and whether or not it is what I really want to be doing with my life. I was reading some cases for school this morning, one of which succeeded in proving that a horse is a bird. Seriously. A guy shot his horse because it broke it's leg and he was sued for shooting it under the Small Birds Act. The argument was that...I can't even tell you. It was ridiculous, but in a weird way, it made sense. It proved that this horse was covered under the Small Birds Act. And I think to myself, it is one day going to be my job to come up with bullshit like this, and to try to sell it to people in perfectly pressed suits in stuffy courtrooms. And I am forced to ask myself, "Is this really what I want to be doing with my life?"

I think the problem with the American judicial system is that it is a common law system. Meaning the more cases are tried, the more laws and rules and regulations we have and therefore, the more people have to work their way around such laws and rules and regulations in order to feel that some sort of justice has been served. I know that other countries are ruled by a series of statutes and whatnot and the whole case law thing doesn't figure in, and in a way, that system doesn't strike me as quite right, either. I think that as times change, it is okay for laws to change, too. Because as I have said a million times before, there is an exception to every rule and every situation should be examined on its own merits. But to live in a system where a man is sued for putting a lame horse out of its misery under the assumption that a horse is a bird and it is illegal to shoot birds...I think that's taking things a smidge too far, don't you?

And then, on the other hand, I have a page on the IMDb. I know it's not really all that exciting, but it's almost like a first step has been taken towards recognizing me as a legit actress. I am in the Internet Movie Database, the website everyone refers to as the ultimate authority on film. If you want to know anything about an actor or a film or a director, you can find it on the IMDb. And I'm on there. It's just kind of bizarre. I mean, there are even discussion boards there so people can discuss me if they want to. I have discussion boards! My own discussion boards. Granted, there's nothing there, but I have discussion boards. How did I get discussion boards? Certainly not by sitting around reading cases that prove that horses are birds.

I can't wait to go to Europe. I need some time away from all of this crap. Though I'll still be doing my homework while I'm there. Though somehow doing homework on a train between Amsterdam and Switzerland doesn't sound so bad.

I know it is really old fashioned, but I love buying CDs. I love going to the store and looking around and making a purchase and unwrapping the discs and reading the liner notes as new and foreign music hits my ears for the first time.

Yesterday, I was going to make the pre- and post- show CDs for my gig on Friday and there are a couple of very specific songs that I wanted to be able to include on them. Songs that make me happy. Songs that make me feel like playing music. And I thought to myself, "I could get those songs on iTunes for a dollar each, or I could go to the store and by the albums." I went to the store and bought the albums. I know, I know, so cost inefficient. but I found myself thinking, "What if there is a song on the album that is even better than the ones that I know? I'll never find it if I only listen to the 30 second preview available on iTunes. And I won't have the lyrics or liner notes in front of me as I listen to these songs, ever." And it is actually a good thing that I went to the store because one of the discs I bought was a special edition 2 disc set with six bonus tracks. And I found a really old disc that I kind of liked two songs on for two dollars, so I got it, too.

I did end up downloading four songs from iTunes, too -- one that is only available through iTunes, and three that I have heard before and I have heard parts of the rest of the albums they are on and I have not been too thrilled with those albums. So here's me, not only being legal about my music aquisitions, but old fashioned and ethical, too. Sweet jebus, I'm a square.

But I like my new CDs.

So apparently, I have a page on the Internet Movie Database website. Seriously. go there and look me up. I feel like I should give them more info and send them a picture to make the site more complete. And because I'm not sure how to deal with this odd tidbit of information other than to treat it like it's no big deal.

I know I am not the first person to say this, but you can't help who you are going to love. And you shouldn't have to. This is the number one most important thing that I learned from fucknut. He was totally not the right person for me to love, nor the kind of person I should love. But I couldn't help it, so I did it. I just loved him. And I learned a lot from that. So to hear someone say that he or she would cut him or herself off from loving someone because of what his or her family would say or what society might say...it breaks my heart. When you love someone, that person becomes your family. Not necessarily your family through blood, but your family through spirit, which I hate to say, is more powerful. Perhaps more important. And there are those with whom you are family through blood who you are not family with through spirit and it is usually those people who we try to please by doing things contrary to our own nature. Love isn't about making outsiders happy. It is about being happy with yourself and some other person and with the two of you together, regardless of what the outsiders say.

So does it matter that I love someone a thousand miles away? No. What matters is that I loved. What matters is that I had that feeling again. That instantaneous, "Wow. I need to know him," moment that I thought I would never have again. Because it means that fucknut is not the only one for me. It means that someone more suitable is out there somewhere, and he will come with that electricity, too. It's probably not this most recent encounter, and I may not meet my actual partner until I'm fifty. But he is out there. I've felt it twice already; I'm sure I'll feel it again someday when the timing is right. And when that moment comes, I'm not going to "should" myself out of it. I hope he doesn't, either.

A while ago, I posted a list of traits I would like to find in a partner so that I could read them regularly and try to manifest such a partner. I have a couple more things I would like to add to the list. Things that should be elementary, but I am realizing I need to add to the list so that I focus on them, too.

I would like to be with a guy who is geographically accessible.
I would like to be with a guy who doesn't already have a girlfriend.
I would like to be with a guy who loves Owen.

That's it for now. I'm sure I'll come up with more later.

My heart hurts.

I got my host assignment today for the London Lindy Exchange. This means it's really happening. I'm really going to Europe in just under two weeks. Wow. Yay!

I have to say that the knowledge that I am going to Europe in a couple of weeks made it a lot easier to say goodbye to my friends last night and today. Because I know I will see them again soon. They really are wonderful people and I love them very much. I hope they know that.

My stepmother's mother is not doing well. She is not a woman I know very well since my stepmother didn't become my stepmother until I was about 20 or 21, but the from few times I have seen her, I can tell that she is a good woman. And essentially, her heart is on the way out. She was taking blood pressure medication for years which started taking it's toll on some of her other organs, so they switched her medications and the new ones aren't working very well or some such thing. Basically, the options are to keep her on this medication that will send her into some very painful kidney failure or something like that, or to wean her off of it which will wear her heart out a little bit faster. They have decided to go for option #2 as it will be the less painful way for her to go.

I can't help but think that this is a really odd situation. Nobody is upset about the fact that she is dying and that't not the odd part -- she is 88 years old; this has been coming for a while. But to know that your heart is going to give out within, say, the next month, is a very strange bit of knowledge. She's not scared. She's ready to go. And when she does, she'll just fall asleep and not wake up, so it will be peaceful. How would you feel if you knew you were going to die a very peaceful death in the next month? She is alert and coherent and very aware of everything going on around her. I truly wish she was documenting this experience in one way or another. Keeping track of the physical feelings and their associated emotions. Is there ever a little moment of panic? What does it feel like to have your heart slow down and then just stop? I wish I could know these things, if for no other reason, so that in the future, I could comfort someone else in a strange position. Because yes, it is sad for us that she is dying, but what an amazing experience. She is getting a chance that I'm not sure many people get and I hope she is fully aware of and able to enjoy the whole thing.

Man, does that sound weird. Well, I told you it was an odd situation.

Here's a weird one for you. I've been enjoying being a girl as of late. What does that mean, you may be asking. Well, most noticably, it means I've been wearing slightly more girly clothing. Not to say I'm wearing pink ruffles all the time, but pants that fit and cute tops. Things that accentuate my figure (of which, I'm kind of proud right now -- I like the way I look). And I think I'm okay with my need to do girly things every now and again. Like rock out on sappy love songs. Or feel completely irrational emotions for brief periods of time. That kind of thing. It's not a huge change, but it is a change for me and I'm kind of enjoying it. That's all.

I have discovered the next generation of crack cocaine and it's name is Tings.

Seriously, have you had Tings? They are the vegan equivalent of Cheetos and oh so yummy. I have to stop buying them or my whole work-out-get-fit thing will be right out the window.

Oh, and a question for you. Why is it that I am only attractive to men who live very far away?

I actually have more to bitch about on this topic, but I have some work to do and I think I should go do it while I'm still on a sort of caffeine high from last night. Normally, I don't drink caffeine. I've cut a lot of the sugar out of my diet, too (except for the last couple of days, but even then, I haven't been going overboard). But yesterday, after getting very little sleep the night before and waking up feeling like total ass, by break time from class (7:35pm), I was hurting, so I had a soda. Man, it's amazing how not taking a drug for a really long time will make it have an impact on you again. I was hyper all night. I had a great night of dancing and a really good conversation with my German friend. And I think I'm still kind of buzzing from it, so I'm going to get my filing done while I still can. I'll bitch about boys later.

It was just a breast. It was a publicity stunt to promote album sales. It was not the end of the American system of morality (and yes, I am aware of the oxymoronic nature of that phrase). Get over it.

This is yet another reason why I love listening to WXRT in the mornings: yesterday morning, the morning show guy was talking about the whole incident and followed up his commentary by playing "One Headlight" by the Wallflowers. This morning, he said something to the effect of, "It was a publicity stunt. And it's a good thing we're not letting her get away with it." I love WXRT.

I don't think there is anything wrong with loving someone who can't/won't/doesn't love you back, as long as you don't let your love for that person consume you.

I have a lot of little random tidbits on my mind today, so please bear with me.

It struck me the other day as I was reading some Oscar Wilde on the train on my way in to work that reading poetry for the sake of reading poetry when you are no longer in a high school or college is a little bit odd. I got to the end of a nice, epic poem about a man who is hanged for killing his wife/girlfriend/lover-type person and I wanted to discuss it with someone. Examine the ryhme scheme and themes and repetitions and the importance of usage of certain words and so on and so forth. And I looked around the train and was smacked in the face by a very large grouper, telling me that nobody else on the train had probably ever read that same poem. Or even heard of it.

I don't know. Somehow reading poetry is different than reading prose, I think. Just like plays are not meant to be read, they are meant to be performed, I think poems are meant to be analyzed and studied in large groups. Poems are not a solitary art form, at least not for the audience. And after I had been hit by the grouper, I couldn't focus on the second poem in the book.

I'm sore all over. And I probably shouldn't have had that last shot of vodka last night. Especially considering I won't go to bed until probably 2am again, but it was all worth it. Completely worth it.

I am feeling better about myself again. I took a lot of the workshop this weekend as a lead, which, funnily enough, made me more confident about my own follow. As I was going around the room, I was kind of shocked at the number of women who weren't getting the whole "only follow what you are given" thing, and by how many women don't understand the concept of being responsible for their own weight. My right arm was getting tired from trying to hold all of these women up and forward so that I could move them in the first place, and then having to pick them up and move them. There were so many who would break their form or purposely not follow a lead or something. And I always find myself torn in a workshop setting between calling them on it and keeping my mouth shut and altering my lead. I usually opt for altering my lead, and I'll tell you why. I'm not the instructor. I always ask my follow how things feel to her to see if there are any adjustments I can make to ensure that my lead can be made clear to anyone. I want feedback. There are a lot of women who don't. And there are a lot of women who are unreceptive to such commentary. Hell, there were a couple of women in the rotation over the weekend who made it very clear that they did not want to be dancing with another woman in the first place (which was surprising to me because I thought we all got over that about three years ago). So how will those women take it when I say to them, "I need you to line your heart up with mine and put your weight forward, or at the very least in a neutral place so that I can move it forward or backwards as necessary. If I let go of you, you should not lose your balance. And when I start bouncing, using my whole body to make yours move up and down, you should start bouncing, too. I'm not doing the choreography right now; I'm just kind of screwing around with you to see what it takes to make you move. Then I can figure out how to do the choreography with you, but until I can make you move your feet without breaking your frame at your hips, I can't do the fun suspended frame stuff on my end." And the really sad part about it is that some of these women are instructors themselves. And some of them have taken private lessons with some of the best instructors out there and they still have no concept of frame. I'm sorry, but ultimatley, when I'm leading, and I step up to my partner, I would like to feel her frame in her shoulders even though I'm not touching them. I would like to lead someone with strong fingers and strong wrists and strong forearms and strong biceps and a strong heart and strong abs and strong hips and strong knees and strong toes. By "strong" I don't mean "muscle-bound thug." I just mean I want my follow to know where her body is, what her body is doing, and how to best communicate through her body with me. Is that too much to ask?

When we were first learning to lindy hop, a lot of us developed this bad habit called the "tick-tock." On the one-two, we would bounce our lead hand first to the left and then to the right as we would draw our partner in to us. I remember going to a workshop wherein we were lambasted for this practice because if your hands are doing the talking, your follow's heart can't hear what yours is trying to say. That probably only makes sense to the other dancers out there, but it is the only real analogy I can come up with. If my follow's frame is weak at any point, be it as seemingly insignificant as the tip of her index finger, my job as the lead is going to be a bigger challenge than it would be if my follow's frame was strong all around. Dig?

That being said, I know I'm not a perfect follow. I know there are times when I depend on my partner too much. I know there are times when I don't listen to what he is telling me to do. And I know there are times when my frame slips. And I will be the first to admit that I have no style. I try hard to fix those things, but at least I'm conscious of them, you know? I would almost like to go back to every woman who I danced with over the weekend and say to them, "Okay, here's what I need you to do as a follow. And if you can do all of these things, you will be able to follow any lead doing anything." But I missed my chance. I should learn to speak up more in workshops.

I'm still a good, intelligent, talented person, right?

I love learning things from good, intelligent, talented people, but it makes me temporarily feel worthless. I'll be okay in a couple of days.

I want more. I know I shouldn't. I know that not only is it distasteful, it is one of the seven deadly sins (when did Kitty become religious, you are asking yourself? As soon as I figure that one out, I'll let you know), but I can't help it. I want more. I know I'm capable of more. I know I could handle more. What I have trouble with is seeing more right in front of my face and not being able to have it or knowing it will disappear soon. So I harden my heart against the possible hurt. Not the best coping strategy, I know, but what else can I do? Sit and wish for more. And do everything I can to ensure that one day, I will have more.

Okay, so enough with the cold already. It has penetrated my home and my car and my place of business and that's taking it too far. I should not have to wear two shirts and my arm warmers and flannel pants and socks to bed under four blankets and flannel sheets in order to stay kind of warm enough. My poor houseguest. I hope he stays warm enough while he's at my house. Poor Owen's fur is cool to the touch. I hope he hangs out under blankets or by the radiators today.

You know, I hate to write a blog like this, but I kind of feel it necessary. I really feel for fucknut and people like fucknut. People who only seem to be able to find the bad things in life and the bad people. Because from personal experience, I have to say it's pretty easy to meet good people. People worth knowing. People who simply won't fuck you over. They're not that hard to find and once you do find them, they're not that hard to get to know or to hang onto. I really feel for people who can't seem to find a good friend, or even someone to hang out with who won't screw up their lives.

That's pretty much it. It's easy to find good people. And it's hard to understand people who either don't find them or don't recognize them when they do find them. I hope those people wake up one day and see what's right in front of their faces.

I would not survive as a homeless person. I don't understand the mindset of a homeless person. What gets you through a day? Are you trying to find ways to get money? Are you trying to eat? Is it all just about staying warm so you can live long enough to see tomorrow? And what's so great about tomorrow if all it means is that you are going to smell worse and some of the garbage you are carrying around with you will be beyond the point where it holds any sort of value?

There was a homeless man on the train this morning with a bag full of garbage. The bag was partially open and it reeked to high heaven. So much so, that most people would only stay on that car for one stop. I rode as far as I had to, sitting in the seat behind the garbage with my scarf over my nose because it smelled so bad. And I couldn't see what, if anything, in the bag would have been of any value. All I could see were some Gatorade bottles with a brown fluid in them. But this man was standing guard by his bag of garbage as if his life depended on it. Part of me wanted to give him my lunch. Part of me wanted to talk to him and find out his story. But I did neither as I'm sure either would have been an insult to him. I felt very...I dunno...worthless maybe, in my long coat and scarf and hat and gloves reading my book. Like he's the one with his priorities straight -- his number one concern is with survival, whereas I couldn't stop thinking about physical appearance and smell, trivial things. And where was he headed with his bag of garbage?

I don't know. It was somehow humbling to see that man on the train. He wasn't asking for anything. He had a plan. I wish I knew what the plan was, because I know there is no way I would survive if I had to come up with something similar.

I've been on this dried fruit kick as of late and I'm thinking it needs to end very soon. As in now. Because as tasty as dried fruit is, the sulphur is wreaking havoc on my digestive system. And I have a houseguest arriving in two days. No more dried fruit for me until he's gone.

I want snowshoes. Just because I think it would be fun to trek into work on a inch of snow wearing snowshoes.

Don't even try to tell me that's not a funny image.

I went shopping last night and came to a realization. I am never again going to buy clothing in a mall type setting. Why? Because the stores in mall type settings carry clothing to make us look how we wish we looked, whereas independent (though sometimes chain) stores carry clothing to accentuate how we do look. Lemme 'splain.

I went to a mall over the weekend and tried on some clothes. I had an idea in my head for what I wanted the outfit to look like, but when I got there and tried it on, it looked nothing like the picture in my head. Now, I'm not a big girl. Ask anyone. I do have big hips (though I do believe I have lost an inch off my hips since I started working out agan), but I'm not a big girl. I had to put on an extra large t-shirt in order to have it fit over my breasts. They're not that big! And I had to grab an extra large skirt to have it fit over my hips, which of course meant it was hanging open at the waist in the back (you all know what I'm talking about, here, girls). And I found myself thinking, "What do really large people buy if I have to buy the extra large?"

I remember the days when I would squeeze myself into jeans that were too tight, hoping nobody would notice the stomach bulge that created. I remember the years I spent walking around holding my breath so my stomach would look flatter. I'm tired of all of that. I want pants that don't ride up and that I can zip without the help of pliers. I want shirts that allow me to breathe. I want shoes that have some cushioning in them so I can wear them all day and still be active. Is that to much to ask?

According to the malls, yes.

But walk into a non-mall store. Not all of them, mind you, but some of them. Typically the ones that aren't branches of stores you would find in a mall. And you will find clothing made for women who are shaped like women. Medium-sized t-shirts for medium-sized women with medium-sized boobs and medium-sized waists. Pants and skirts that fit in the waist and hips without bulging or requiring a belt to cinch the waist shut. I walked into a funky, semi-vintage store in downtown Chicago yesterday and just about everything I tried on fit me. It was a matter of what was the most flattering, what fit with the image I wanted to portray. The t-shirt I ended up buying, I didn't even try on, but I knew it would fit because the tag said "Medium." I love that feeling.

So thank you to non-mall stores for making clothing that the rest of us can actually wear and be comfortable in. And I'm sorry, mall stores, but you have lost yourself a customer. Because I don't want to look like you think I should. I want to look like the picture in my head.

My Bostonian female friend posted a link to this article in her blog today. I have to agree with her that it is worth reading. It goes back to that whole, "there is always an exception" thing I believe in so strongly, but it says it much better than I ever could.

I love Meryl Streep.

I know, I know, it's Golden Globes night so Kitty gets all weepy about what her career could be if the people I have worked with would just finish up the products. It's distasteful and I can't help it and I apologize for it. But I see these people's dreams coming true in so many cases and I want that, too. I want people to call me for roles instead of having to go audition. I want to make a living from acting. I don't think that's too much to ask.

Though in the category of "steps in a positive direction," I should be getting a copy of Dancing with Gaia in about three weeks. And last time I talked to the director, she said she hoped to have Leftover Voices done by the end of February. And, Mix Tape was invited to be screened at a festival in San Francisco. And I'm doing my first musical concert in a couple of weeks. So things are still moving. Slowly, but they are still moving. And one day, I'll get to go up on stage and forget to thank my agent.

I love the great big fat snowflakes that just kind of swirl around in the air for hours, making it look almost blizzardy outside, but they never really land so there isn't any real accumulation to deal with.

Not being able to sleep sucks.

You know, I really truly believe that if you sincerely believe that everything will work out okay, it will.

My car was giving me trouble earlier in the week, so I had it towed out to a dealership (it's still under warranty) so they could take a look at it. Turns out, there was a faulty oil filter on it that was pumping air into my engine instead of oil, or some such thing. Which of course, is not under warranty, but that's beside the point. The dealership is out in the 'burbs and I had to figure out a way to get there to pick up my car.

I went to the handy dandy CTA website and used the trip planner to find out that I could take a train and a bus to my destination. I left work, got on the train, got off at my desired stop and could not find the bus I wanted. Not even a sign for the bus I wanted. And it was getting cold outside. So I decided to walk over to a major street and look for a cab. No such luck -- cabs don't really hang out in the 'burbs. So I kept walking. My legs got numb. I could feel the phlegm crystallizing in my nose. It was not really a pleasant experience, but I did some mental cheerleading and reminded myself of all of the calories my body must be burning in order to keep the blood flowing and I kept going. After about a mile, there was a gas station where I decided to stop and warm up for a minute. While I was waiting for the clerk to finish helping a customer so I could ask her if she had a guestimate for how much farther I had to go, I noticed a little map, so I picked it up to examine it for myself. As it just so happened, the station mechanic was just leaving work and he noticed my fascination with the map and asked if I needed help. I told him I was trying to figure out how much farther I had to go. He started giving me directions and asked, "Is this your car right here?" I replied, "I'm walking." He looked at me kind of aghast and said he would give me a ride. I know, I know, I shouldn't have gotten into a car with a strange man, but it was really fuckin' cold outside. And I only had about a mile to go. And he seemed like a nice guy. So I accepted. He drove me to the dealership, saying all the while, "I just hate to see people cold."

So a great big thank you to Eric who works at the Shell station in Park Ridge. You got me to the dealership in time to get my car before the service department closed.

Meaning I got to meet Mr. Hottie Mechanic. He probably could have sold me a new car right then and there and I would have gone for it. *sigh*

So yeah, I have a lot of faith in humanity right now. Partially because of the Avon Walk and the incredible amount of support I am getting for/from it. Partially from a couple of strangers helping me out for no good reason. And partially because I think I want to have faith in humanity, so I am finding reasons to do so. I wish I could impart this lesson to some people -- if you believe bad things will happen to you, they will; if you believe good things will happen to you, they will. So believe in good things. It's as simple as deciding to do so.

I got into a kind of interesting conversation with a couple of friends the other night about relationships. They both qualify themselves as persons who friends/partners try to fix and I guess I would qualify myself as a person who other people want to fix them. I could be wrong in my assumption, but I am the one that people come to for advice or a sympathetic ear or whatever. I am perfectly happy to give solicited advice. Sometimes I get ahead of myself and give unsolicited advice, but I usually apologize for that and tell the recipient that it is perfectly acceptable to tell me to fuck off. Because truth be told, I don't want to fix people. I am more than happy to help them fix themselves, but I don't want to fix anyone. What I love about the people around me is that they are real people with real problems and real thoughts and real dreams. Who am I to try to take any of that away from them? At the mention of this point of view, the people I was talking to asked if I would give all of their past lovers a seminar on how to not fix people.

Which brings me to my expectations of a relationship, be it romantic or otherwise, and for the sake of this blog, I am going to refer to both parties in one of these relationships as "friends." Because ultimately, your lover should be your friend, too, right? So anyway.

A friend is someone you can talk to. About anything -- good, bad, funny, politically incorrect, anything. And that friend will listen and offer (as appropriate) a sympathetic ear, a chortle, a hug, advice, a differing opinion, or some other reaction that suits the situation. A good friend will not judge his or her friend based on what is discussed in these conversations. And by "not judge," I don't mean "not form an opinion," but say you have a friend who went out one night and tried cocaine. A good friend will listen to the story and not write off the other friend as being a bad person for one experience. A good friend will keep in mind the whole person and the entire history that the two have shared and formulate an opinion based on that. Does that make sense?

I guess what I am trying to say to my friends is that I will not love you less if you call me up after you've had a bad day and you just need someone to talk to. I want to know about those things. I want to know if you were hospitalized. I want to know if you got a new job. I want to know if your baby is talking yet. Because you are my friend and I love you and I want to share in your life and let you share in mine. That's what being a friend is all about.

Or at least that is what it is all about to me, as an INTJ. If you buy into that crap.

I have to admit, I didn't watch the State of the Union address last night. It's probably better that I didn't, seeing as watching our current President speak always makes me want to vomit. But I did read a transcript of the speech right now and all I can really say is that I really, truly hope that he is not re-elected.

To the casual observer, it might look like a good speech. It might look like our country is doing well. He talks about economic growth and the creation of jobs and healthcare and education improvements. But if you look at his record in office for the last three years, you see that none of those things has been a priority for him. It's kind of like taking a small child wth bright hopes for the future, beating him to within an inch of his life, and then bragging about the fact that you remembered to put Neosporin on his band-aids to help him heal faster.

Yes, he mentions a couple of things that have nice, PC-sounding names that are supposed to help our country get out of the hole it is now in. Things like "Jobs in the 21st Century" and the "Leave No Child Behind Act" and stuff. But he didn't fund his own Leave No Child Behind Act in the first place. Now he's talking about increasing their funding. Which would be a lot more impressive if he hadn't cut it in the first place, you know? There is nothing in Bush's track record as President to prove to us that he will keep his word. I almost laughed out loud when he mentioned cutting our dependence on foreign energy sources. You know how he plans to do that? By destroying American wildlife preserves and national parks and forests.

His speech writers have the lingo down. They know this is an election year, so he has to hit all of the key points and try to make everyone believe that he is capable of running our country. Please, when you go to the polls in November, remember the fact that he has proven to us through actions, not words, over the past three years that he is not capable of running this country. He's not a hero because he remembered the Neosporin. He should be ousted for beating the kid in the first place.

So Kerry won the Iowa caucuses. Groovy. I think I could get behind him. And it helps narrow down my political research.

I'm ashamed to admit it, but I watched "Average Joe" tonight. For those of you with better taste than 95% of the television executives out there, "Average Joe" involves a particuarly lovely lady trying to choose a suitor from a group of average men. Average looking, average intelligence, average occupations. I think what they are trying to prove or disprove on this show is how much physical appearance matters in romantic relationships. Whatever. On tonight's episode, at the very end of it, they brought in eight guys with six packs and excellent fashion sense. And all eight of these new suitors were talking smack before they arrived at the house saying things like, "These guys are in for the shock of their lives." I must express my disgust.

First of all, I will bet you a million dollars every one of the average guys has been in a situation before where they were chatting up a beautiful woman and some really hot guy came along and started chatting her up, too. This is not unfamiliar territory for the less than stellar.

Secondly, I don't know about the particular lady on that show, but men with attitudes like that and six packs are very unattractive to me. I'm not diggin' on guys who feel the need to belittle every other person who doesn't spend seventeen hours a day in the gym. And, to be perfectly honest, I'm intimidated by physically attractive men. Men who even other men will admit are hot. I'm not painful to look at, but I know I'm not drop dead gorgeous -- what on earth would a really hot guy want with me? I don't want to spend tons of time with someone around whom I'm always on edge. I would much rather be with someone around whom I am comfortable. Then I get to be me. Simple as that.

So yeah, if I was the girl on that show, things would not change in the least. I would find myself skeptical of everything the hot guys would say to me. Does this mean I am prejudiced against really hot people? Maybe. Is this something I should work on? Probably. Would this make me an interesting candidate for this particular reality dating show? Probably. Am I going to apply for this particular reality dating show? No. So does any of this matter? Not in the least.

So I decided to put together another blog to document my training efforts and fundraising efforts and whatnot for the Avon Walk so you don't have to read about it unless you want to. Or, if you are only interested in reading about that stuff, you don't have to muck about through the rest of my brain droppings to find what you're looking for. The new blog can be found at http://mkavonwalk.blogspot.com. I've put a link to it over on the side, too. Gasp! A link that has a proper name! Yeah, so have fun poking around over there. As I start training and stuff, I may even upgrade so I can post pictures of my blisters and stuff. Yay blisters.

I hate to say this because it's all sappy and everything, but I have to say this, too, because I don't want to forget it.

I am consistently amazed at the generosity of the people around me. I thought when I signed up to do this Avon Walk that it would be hard for me to raise the money to participate and whatnot and I am finding exactly the opposite to be the case. Everyone I have talked to knows someone who has or had breast cancer and they are thrilled to help out. They are thanking me for doing this. People I've never met face to face are pitching in money that they may not really be able to afford, just to help out. Because this cause means something to them. And because it means something to me, I get all misty-eyed when I get an e-mail saying I have received another donation. Yes, I'm a dork. But this whole experience is renewing my faith in humans in general. We're not all bad. We're not all selfish. We're not all out to screw each other over. There are a lot of really good, generous, passionate people out there and the knowledge of that fact makes me happier than I could ever tell you.

I'm so excited to do this walk. I'm so in love with the people making donations. Thank you, guys. I can't say it better than that. Thank you.

So how come people in movies never screw up what they are saying? Or if they do, it is a intentional flub and a big deal is made out of it? Seriously. Think about it. You see all these movie out-takes wherein people mess up a line or something and they have to do it over. But in real life, things come out wrong all the time. For example, I was in a meeting yesterday and I was asked about a deadline. I tried to say, "November 17th," but it came out more like, "Nizmemver 17th." Everyone in there knew what I was saying. Nobody laughed. I didn't fumble and try to correct myself; the meeting just went on as if I had been able to pronounce "November." So how come they always feel the need to correct that in movies?

One notable exception: documentaries/mockumentaries. In Dancing with Gaia, one woman (leaving in a huff) is trying to explain that she will do another woman a favor free of charge and she says, "It will be gratuitous." It's funny. It's sincere. It's an honest mistake. I'd like to see more of that in movies.

Thank you.

Okay, so like most people I know, I am currently working my way out of debt. I have two big things to pay off -- my car and my credit card. I am half-way through with the payments on my car -- only 24 of those puppies to go. And I had gotten a loan to pay off the credit card debt and I am down to only 15 payments to go on that loan. The end is near! Just over a year and I will actually be able to start saving money! What a concept, huh? To not have to scrimp for the week before payday. To be able to buy new socks whenever I want instead of having to wait for a good month. Ah, such a good feeling it will be to not owe anyone any money anymore. Yes, I still have over a year of this scrimping business to go, but it's just one more year. It's almost over. I can do it! And man, am I looking forward to being done with it.

It is 2004.

That just kind of hit me. Two thousand four. It was five years ago that the whole Y2K scare was going on and people were stocking up on toilet paper and bottled water. It was almost six years ago that I graduated from college. The movie 2001 is now referring to the past. The "present" in Twelve Monkeys is now the past. Two thousand four.

Yes, I know I'm a dork. I'm just amazed sometimes at how time passes when a million things seem to be changing, but nothing is ever really different, you know? Probably not. I'll shut up now.

Okay, I'm going to bitch about the swing scene for a moment because there is a discussion going on about what people want out of the scene and I know that if I write this stuff there, I will be lambasted for it. So I'm going to put it here where nobody can publicly respond to it. So there.

What do I want out of the swing scene? I want to be inspired. That is why I started dancing in the first place. I used to watch movies as a kid where people would just meet each other on the dance floor and create this wonderful, beautiful thing together and then go back to their normal lives and it was so magical. And I remember when I first got the chance to go out and see swing dancing in clubs, I was in awe of everyone else out there. In awe, but determined that I could do it, too, and that one day, I would have a partner who I could just meet on the floor to create something magical for three minutes.

So I danced my ass off for years. I was in a professional performance troupe, I competed with another troupe, I was on TV, I was in movies, I was in parades, I danced six and seven nights a week and hardly sat out a song. I watched competitions and determined that I wanted to dance with those people one day. And that day came and I had an opportunity to dance with those people and I set my sights higher and higher. Granted, I am not good at asking people to dance, and the higher the skill level of my partner, the more it freaks me out to ask him to dance. But the ones where it has really really mattered to me, I have asked them to dance.

But I started to notice something strange. Dancers of a certain level tend to only dance with other dancers who they feel are of the same level. I have been outwardly and rudely turned down by dancers of a certain level who then went on to dance the same song with someone else (read: major dancing etiquette faux pas). Or, on the few occasions when a dancer of a certain level has agreed to dance with me, he has spent the majority of the dance scanning the rest of the floor to see who else he could be dancing with, looking extremely bored and put out, and not paying the slightest bit of attention to what I am doing as a follow. I might as well be a coat rack on wheels. Call me a defeatist, but I stopped asking certain dancers or dancers of a certain level to dance with me because I knew I wouldn't enjoy it. I wouldn't be inspired. I would be made to feel like crap, even though I knew I could hold my own.

Now, here is where the problem comes in. When I go out dancing, I want to be inspired. I want to be challenged. Not necessarily in every dance, but I want to be able to have fun, too. Meaning that while I am not at all opposed to dancing with new dancers, I don't want to spend my entire evening fighting to keep my arm in it's socket, reading my partner's lips as he counts out the rhythm, and having any of my sad, pathetic attempts at styling be squashed because my partner doesn't have the concept of the dance as a conversation yet. I'm not saying these people should stop dancing. I'm saying these people should keep practicing and improving their skills. And I'm saying I can only take a certain number of these dances in a night. If that makes me a snob, then fine, I'm a snob. I've put close to five years into the swing scene, working on my skills, fundraising, helping out wherever I could. You just get to a certain point where you need a really good dance, you know?

And then throw into the mix the fact that I went back to school and it means I haven't been going out dancing much lately. Which means I have experienced yet another interesting phenomenon since I have gone out dancing a few times recently -- I am not asked to dance. At all. By anyone except maybe my one friend who always goofs off with me on the dance floor. That's it. Out of a scene of probably sixty or seventy people, if my one friend isn't there, I won't be dancing that night.

Yes, I could ask people to dance, and when I went out on Sunday night, I did ask people to dance. But I also took the time to watch people dancing and I found something really interesting. Nobody looked like they were having any fun. Nobody looked like they were inspired, either by the music, or their partner, or by the dance in general. It was bizarre. I felt the desire to dance, but there was only one guy there who looked like he would be fun to dance with -- so I asked him and we had a pretty good dance. Nothing to write home about, but still fun. Pretty much the rest of the floor was people with blank expressions all doing the same moves as everybody else, but maybe in a different order.

Why is this? Is it because dancers in similar situations as myself have given up and stopped going out dancing? Is it because old school dancers aren't newbie-friendly enough? Is it because the venues are too remote or the music not to our tastes? Is it because of the teachers we do or don't have in Chicago? Is it because of the laid-back attitude that Chicago dancers in general have adopted that prevents them from pushing themselves farther in the dance and makes every dance routine? Is it just me? I don't know, but it kind of makes me sad. I loved dancing. I loved dancing with my friends. I loved dancing with people I had never met before, yet somehow I felt as if I had known them for years after three minutes on the floor.

So what do I want from the swing scene? I want to be inspired. I want to look out on a crowded dance floor and think to myself, "Wow, I wish I could do that." I want to know that if I ask someone to dance, he will not only accept, but at least pretend to enjoy himself and/or pay attention to the dance for the three minutes we're on the floor together. I want people to ask me to dance and to not be afraid to just kind of go nuts. I want to look out on a crowded dance floor and see people dancing with the music that is being played, not just to the music.

I know, it's a tall order. But someone asked what we want, so that's what I want.

When I signed up to do the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer, I was all scared that I wouldn't be able to raise the $1800 necessary to participate and that people would yell at me for hassling them to donate money and stuff like that. What I didn't expect was all the support I am getting from both likely and unlikely sources. I didn't expect the people donating on my behalf to thank me for doing this. I didn't expect half-strangers to stop me in coffee shops and wish me luck and share their stories with me. I didn't expect a room full of applause when I mentioned at the open mic last night that I was participating in the Walk. It is stunning and overwhelming and really really wonderful. This is something I'm doing because I want to. And there are tons of people out there ready, willing and able to help me, be it through words of encouragement or participation in fundraising events or through straight monetary donations. I never expected to feel so much love from other people for doing this. I'm only five days into it and I'm learning things about myself and the community in which I live. It is incredible. Thank you, guys. Already this Walk is one of the best things I have ever done and I've hardly taken my first step.

The thing that really irritates me about politics is how stubborn people get when they talk about it. Especially in this country -- if you're a Democrat, you're a Democrat; if you're a Republican, you're a Republican; if you are anything else, nobody wants to listen to what you have to say anyway.

With the impending election, we have a lot of Democrats running around trying to illustrate just how horrible Bush has been as a President. And in response, we have a lot of Republicans running around saying, "You're a bunch of crazy ass liberals. The economy is getting better. And Clinton wasn't all that great, either." Yes, I have a tendency to lean towards the Democratic side of things -- I can't help that. I don't like what has happened to my country in the past three years. But there are times when I just want to say, "Look, here's what's going on. Forget about Clinton -- the 2004 election is not about whether Clinton was a better president than Bush. Take a good, honest look at our economy -- yes, it is doing better than it was six months ago, but it is still much, much worse than it could/should be. And now, with the statements made by Mr. O'Neill (one of Bush's former cabinet members) saying that Bush had it in for Hussein from the moment he stepped into office and that there was never any evidence of weapons of mass destruction, how much more proof do you need?" I guess it could be argued that O'Neill has it in for Bush for one reason or another so he is making these statements to spite the shrub, but think for a moment about the implications if his statements are true. It means we have a liar in the White House. Simple as that. The current most powerful man in the world lied to both houses of Congress and the American people -- something that should be grounds for impeachment. I'm not saying other presidents throughout history haven't lied about one thing or another. But Bush's lies have led to hundreds of American soldiers losing their lives needlessly. Bush's lies have lost millions of American jobs. Bush's lies have weakened the American dollar in the global marketplace. These may not seem like such colossal problems as previous generations have had to face, but when you think about the fact that they all could have been avoided if a) Bush hadn't lied or b) the man the majority of the country wanted to be president had actually gotten to serve his elected term, they seem to carry a little more weight.

So I guess in my mind, the only question left, then, when talking about the election in November should be, "Do you want a liar in the White House?" I'd have to say no. And yes, I hate my own stubbornness on this issue, but in this case, I can't help it.