I've discovered a new hang-up of mine

But before I get to this incredibly self indulgent post, I just want to point out that though I had some wonderful suggestions for fixing the pants situation, no one agreed with my option of stuffing a kitten in a belt. I'm a little disappointed in my "readership", frankly. Maybe I *will* get ass implant surgery and then buy new pants AND a kitten just to show you guys up. Okay I just reread that last sentence and I'm not really sure where I was going with that.

However, this whole pants discussion, or lack thereof, has really brought to the forefront a really odd fear that recently surfaced for me. Or, more accurately, a pseudo pet peeve I just developed. Okay, so I've lost a little weight since I got back from Boston. Partially because I can now afford to not constantly be surrounded in a layer of fat I produced to keep warm, sort of like a walrus. A dainty walrus. And partially because for awhile there I didn't have anything better to do so I had the fortitude to tweak my eating. For some reason, that section of body mass that I lost made me just enough attractive to men that now they hit on me much more frequently than before. I wasn't really the catch of the litter, so that can be taken with a grain of salt, but it's enough that I've noticed. First of all, every girl/guy likes to be appreciated, but for some reason it really cheese me off that I wasn't pretty enough 15 lbs heavier, but am now acceptable for dating. I've never been one to really parade myself around, despite the effort I make on my appearance, and I'm just weirdly uncomfortable with strangers flirting with me. I don't even know how to respond because it's never happened before. And every time it does happen now, I feel a little surge of annoyance because it makes me feel like I was previously inadequate. It may seem stupid, but I've never been appreciated for my looks and now I'm just skeeved out by the whole deal. Think of it this way, if I'm so pretty now, what was so wrong with me 4 months ago? I look the exact same, I'm just slimmer.

Item 2 that has been really uncomfortable for me lately is older men hitting on me. I have officially reached the age where I am far enough out of college to be fair game for men over 40. I'm really quite young and feel incredibly young, so I'm having difficulty coming to terms with the idea of getting married right now, which is what most 35 and older men seem to want to do. Add that to the fact that I don't even have my own apartment right now and the whole situation strikes me as such a paradox. A man looking to settle down interested in a woman who has a grad school mind set. I'm not *in* grad school, but you get the idea. I still don't think I'll get married until my late 20s, so at this point I hardly know what to do with a 35 year old man who wants to speed up the process of dating to ensure our lasting commitment to one another. The thing I am most committed to right now is finding the food least likely to make my kitten boot on my sheets again. That's my top priority.

Yeeeeeeeeeeah

Sorry bout that. I basically got back from my trip and got a job and kind of fell off the face of the earth. Sooooo... I GOT A JOB!! I'm working in production for a catalog company that my brother worked in IT for years ago. My three primary functions are doing whatever the VP of Production and Design (Masami = awesome) tells me to do and taking care of organizing info on the copy and nonprofits that we feature in the catalog. My two most favorite charities that I've discovered so far are Quail Unlimited and this one, which is just plain awesome, but I will leave you to discover it yourself. Of course, this may all change when they see that I am either a genius or a freaking idiot, but for now I am content.

In other news, my pants don't fit anymore. It would be alright, but they fall down. Like, off of my ass. The logical thing to do would be buy more pants. However, and I think we can all agree on this, that is stupid. The truly logical thing to do would be to try a belt first and then realize the belt is, also, too big for me. So I did that and it was pretty awesome. My pants fell pretty much halfway down my butt the other day when I was helping to stain and move some wood side tables that had come in the mail all jacked up AND were on backorder. Go India. I'm pretty sure that at least 5 of our warehouse workers saw my striped underwear. The guys are really nice and the underroos were festive, so we can all be thankful for small blessings, but in the meantime I'll be taking votes on how to handle the pants situation. These are my top five answers:

1. Gain back the 15 lbs I just spent the last 4 months losing with my patented diet of 2 boxes of cereal a day
2. The gap is roughly the size of a kitten, so I can just stuff one in there to handle things
3. Wear them at midass level and buy underwear displaying sentimental messages ("May your holidays be blessed with love and laughter", "You are the best granddaughter a grandmother could have", etc.)
4. Only wear skirts, but refuse to shave legs
5. Become a gangrened prostitute

I'm not going to bias your vote with my opinion, but I'm pretty sure that I a) just bought some cheerios and b) went on the SPCA website yesterday. You tell me.

Oh my Libya

So I happen to be in Khoms, Libya, which seems to have surprised at least a few of my friends. So, uh, sorry. When I get back post Thanksgiving, I expect to be posting photos of said trip to Tunisia, Libya, and Greece, but for now we will all have to be content with second hand knowledge that I have garnered in my brief stay here.

I confess that I'm somewhat of an idiot when it comes to international activities. Like everyone else, I watch the news at night and get a feel for general large catastrophes, etc, and at some point I took a "History of the Middle East" class, wherein I learned tons of stuff about the Arab/Muslim world and then promptly forgot it. So though I knew that Libya was not on good terms with the US, I was hard pressed to explain why. I'm not really going to get into it here because books have been written on the subject, but for those of you who don't know, Omar Khadafi is and has been, the ruler of Libya since sometime in the 60s. He has written something called "The Green Book", which is a book of philosophies similar to one written by Mao Tze Tung. At any rate, he considers Libya to be one of the few truly democratic nations in the world. Whether or not you agree with this depends on whether or not you live in Libya. I highly suggest you google the man because I certainly don't have time to go into everything, but, like any dictator in history, he has imposed many restrictions and rules on his country. For example, it is illegal to put any other language on signs except for Arabic. Only recently was this lifted for tourist oriented locations only. In fact, in the 80s he made it illegal to teach any foreign language in Libya. As a result, anyone 40 and up is fluent in at least one language in addition to Arabic. Anyone in their 20s and younger is learning it. Anyone in their 30s speaks and reads only Arabic.

Ironically, Khadafi recently decided that tourism is the heart and soul of his country. So overnight the country opened up to the US (in 1997 I think). 2 years ago the sanctions were lifted and now the US has a "liaison office" here, but no embassy. Khadafi is frightened of corrupting the country with foreigners, even though Italy has had oil companies here for decades, but I digress. Turns out Libyans love Americans, loathe America. Big surprise, there. They blame America and the embargo placed on them by the US for the stagnation of their country. Of course, it was Libya's involvement in various international terrorist activities that prompted this embargo, but nobody asked me so I don't say anything. Women here most definitely still where the burka and I was instructed that wearing a t-shirt is fine, as long as I cover myself for the most part. When in Tripoli, I chose to wear jeans and long sleeved shirt, and still got tons and tons of stares, though everyone was polite when I spoke to them.

I'll write more when time permits, but I leave you with this idea: Libya has some of the most breathtaking ruins I have ever seen. North Africa was the Roman bread basket for centuries. There were tons of cities here that flourished because of trade and some that were buried and preserved by sand that have now been excavated. Except for the Coliseum, things I have seen here have smoked the ruins I have seen in other countries. I give you Lepcis Magna: http://www.alnpete.co.uk/lepcis/ Hooooooooly crap. I spent a few hours clambering all over that ruin today and woah. WOAH. I have many photos that I'll put up slowly if I'm not too lazy when I get back to the US. I have seen three amphitheaters already that were breathtaking. THREE. Eat that, Rome.

Imperative!**

This is super important: we need a new name for my craptastic indoor soccer team. Our name is presently "Synergy". Super lame. An example of a good name: "Parental Units". An example of a bad name: "Blue Meanies". And "Synergy". At any rate, I'm fresh out of ideas so I need some help here. Suggest something clever, intimidating, and self-depricating at the same time. Like "Rabid Gopher" or something.

Also:

I WAS A KITTEN!!! AN ADORABLE KITTEN!!!

You Are A: Kitten!

Cute as can be, kittens are playful, mischevious, and ever-curious. Like you, kittens hate getting wet. Kittens are often loving, but are known to scratch or bite when annoyed. These adorable animals are the most popular pets in the United States--37% of American households have at least one cat. Whether it is your gentle purr or your disarming appearance, you make a wonderful kitten.

You were almost a: Pony or a Duck
You are least like a: Chipmunk or a DucklingWhat Cute Animal Are You?

BEST DAY EVER!!! Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!

I'm gonna learn you somethin'

I feel bad for people who have never had the chance to go a State Fair. I feel marginally guilty for people who have had to go to crappy State Fairs, like Nevada or something. It's generally accepted that the best state fairs are all ones that are either Texas or someplace that grows a lot of corn. We can all ask Emily about this one later, but for now I'll just accept it as truth. At any rate, I naturally wanted to attend the Fair this year since I have been in some sort of hellishly cold cess pool for the past 5 years. They have no 1,183 lb pigs up in Boston, let me tell you, let alone a butter statue of Elvis that's as tall as I am. That whole experience has led me to today's post, which is not only about my favorite Fair-induced experiences, but also an attempt to teach those that are less fortunate about the joy that are carnies.

But first things first: I felt surprisingly craptastic this past weekend, so going to the Fair on Sunday was more of a struggle than normal. It's bad enough to have to get up at 9 on a Sunday and debate whether to bring a smaller purse for convenience sake or a larger one to hold all the precious and completely pointless items that I buy (julienne fries, anyone?), but to have to get up and remember to put on pants because your head hurts enough that it's hard to concentrate is an entirely different ballgame. That's not to imply that everyone at the State Fair will be wearing pants. It's not the pure delectable debauchery of the yearly Renaissance Fair full of people wearing outfits that would blind a $2 hooker if she saw them, but there's plenty of people who seem to be confused on how to either wear bras or shirts that fit.

After finally managing to get to the fair, there's always the discussions of what to see first. Fairs are places rife with indecision because you never know quite what you're going to get. There's always sheepdog demonstrations and dogs with frisbees running around. Last year we went to a French Canadian man who swore he had trained his cats perfectly. Imagine my surprise, perfectly trained cats! My cat bites me if I don't pet her belly fast enough, I can't even conceive of a cat that will hop on one paw on command. Naturally, his show was primarily cats running into the crowd the moment they were let out of their cages, much to my delight, but it's a good example on how things that seem so right can go so wrong. However, there are always the staples of the Food and Fiber pavilion and Exhibitions. If you have never had the opportunity to have a man try to convince you to buy the most inane vacuum cleaner in the world, then you are missing out. I have rarely met sellers who are better than those at the Fair. They take products that literally NO ONE in the whole wide world needs and convince you that you will die tomorrow if you don't have them. Sometimes they work as advertised, usually they don't, but there's always a show associated.

I personally enjoy going through the Livestock because I hella love pygmy goats. Did I see any pygmy goats this year? No. Did I see a 1,183 lb pig that had testicles that weighed, and I am not kidding about this, about 15 lbs apiece? Yes. Was it uncomfortably awesome? Sort of. The ranchers and their children in the Livestock Pavilion are really sort of a world of their own. It reminds me that, despite living most likely 3 hours or less from most of these people, I have really managed to live a world apart. I have been to many a ranch, seen a calf being born, rode plenty of horses, and cried when forced to camp, but I do not shovel manure and get kicked by cows on a regular basis because my parents tell me to.

Finally, we headed over to the Midway, the bastion of Carnyville, ie the Midway. Carnies are a breed unto themselves. I personally believe that you don't get the proper carny experience at something as posh as the Texas State Fair. The real trick is to find a little fair out in East Jesus and talk to the guys missing eyes and legs who drink while they operate rides and leer at 15 year old girls. Those are the real carnies and must be respectfully avoided if you don't want to get molested and/or die. However, there are mild carnies running around the Fair in Dallas and are usually a sight to behold. Of course we went to go see the two headed albino python, both heads of which were tasting the air with their tongues and, apparently, both heads eat, though only one head was really leading the other. Ew. I named him Boris. At some point the State Fair became too good for bearded ladies and misshapen people, which saddens me to no end, but there was a Sting Ray exhibit to, you know, learn. I also managed to go on a ride that pretty much ruined my chances of ever having children since it shook my womb like a baby-making maraca.

However, my personal highlight of the day was paying $10 to go through the State Fair haunted house. Despite loving horror films, I'm not really a huge haunted house fan. I was a little put off by the whole situation and have burned into abject fear before, but I figured if they let 10 year olds in, I could handle it. Little did I know. Apparently, the State Fair employs primarily pre-pubescent boys for their haunted house and, I'm not going to lie, I'm not really frightened by cracking voices telling me that I'm going to be gutted. By what? Your Xbox? At some point one of them definitely lunged at me and I yelled, "DON'T TOUCH ME, CARNY!!!" which I feel a little bad about in retrospect. I also told some shirtless 14 year old at the end that he should be wearing clothes and that his mother wouldn't be pleased. I did, however, enjoy all of the glow-in-the-dark paint on the walls that said nothing even remotely frightening. They could have drawn teddy bears and that would have freaked me out more. I wonder if this means that I'm jaded. Also, Fair food, not so good for the diet.

It's official

Nicholas Cage is goddamn crazy. Turns out, he has more ability to screw up his child pre-puberty than anyone I have ever come in contact with. He named his son Kal-el. Don't know who Kal-el is? Let me explain. Kal-el is the name that Superman's alien parents gave him. It's what he's called when he's in his "Fortress of Solitude" and being yelled at by Jor-el, his ornery father that lives in a quartz. Uh huh.

Okay, I love Superman. Not as much as Batman or Wolverine (mmmm Hugh Jackman - wow I'm a dork), but I love Superman/Clark Kent enough to accept that there are nerds big enough out there to name themselves that as they live in their constant Dungeons and Dragons fantasy. But I feel that this situation begs the question, "Why in God's name would you want to screw your kid up that much?" I realize that there has been discussions from my own mouth that involved thinking of names in order to give my future children complexes, but I don't think anything I came up with will have the same impact as this Kal-el Coppola Cage. Ironically, the Superman movie that Nicholas/Nicolas was supposed to do with Tim Burton was ultimately canceled back in the day because it sucked monkey balls, according to IMDB. It's like Nicholas Cage forever wants to live out his failures through his son. A noble effort, but when he tries to beat the stupid out of baby Kal-el because he didn't land that movie roll and DIDN'T I TELL YOU NOT TO WEAR THOSE PANTS TO AN AUDITION EVER!!! YOUR READING OF THIS MONOLOGUE SUCKS!! YOU WILL NEVER SUCCEED IN LIFE AND WILL FOREVER LIVE IN THE SHADOW OF YOUR RELATIVES!!!. I feel that Child Services might have something to say. On the other hand, it IS Nicholas Cage, so he could just crush Child Services with his Oscar. That's what I would do. Didn't he get an Oscar? Was that before or after Con Air?

I dream of banks

I'm pretty sure I've gone a little insane lately. I base this mostly upon the fact that just this morning I found myself giggling at information I'm researching on banks. GIGGLING. At BANKS. It's unnatural. At any rate, for my internship I've been doing a lot of bank related projects because one of the clients that my supervisor works with is a local bank. Turns out that what banks are realizing is that the younger generations tend to be much less loyal. This is a problem with banks because less loyalty means less dinero. The latest bank "trend", if you will, is to become more retail-like because the theory is that if people enjoy just walking into the lobby more, then they will be more likely to stay with one particular bank. I'm not going to lie, there's validity in the idea. People have a tendency to shop at stores where they like the layout more. Maybe because they're more comfortable there, maybe because they're shallow bitches like me, I don't know. What this ultimately means is that banks are become more brand and less product (look at me with the advertising lingo). In layman's/my terms, this means that banks are trying to create an image that people recognize and identify with. As a result, a lot of banks are revamping their images. Bank of American has done it, Washington Mutual even has a patent for their branch design, and Umpqua Bank (uuuuuuuuuuumpqua) has its own coffee brand and gives away "Umpqua chocolate" with every receipt. Seems stupid but I like chocolate, so whatever.

However, in what I consider the whole coup de grace in this situation, the new step for many of the banks is to reinvent their image even in their name. Yes, they are removing the word "Bank" from their name because they want to be considered a "financial destination and community center". Lame. But let's consider this more closely: JP Morgan & Chase is changing its name to just Chase. Okay. Harris Bank is changing its name to just Harris. You know what, that's just dumb. I have a cousin named Harris. The last time he visited me, he ran head-first into the banister and was unfazed. I do not want my little cousin Harris conducting my banking for me, end of story. Citibank is now going by Citi. That's just precious. It's al edgy and young now. I can't wait for "Citi" to start spiking its hair and being all angsty and misunderstood. The next step is clearly to call it C. Biti and then just Biti because the C. comes between it and its fans. I'm just saying. I want my freaking Umpqua coffee.

I kick ass at getting hit in the face

So I did finally join a rec soccer team and it RULES! RULES, I TELL YOU!!! There is only one real downside, which is not exactly a downside, but something to be wary of if you value your life. The soccer team is coed, which is fine, but the menfolk don't tend to hold back. I mean, no one is violent and I don't really hold back either, but when someone outweighs me by 50 lbs and is half a foot taller, there's only so much I can do. I'm pretty sure I damaged my left foot and I have a wicked bruise on my right thigh, but it's also kind of exciting to be, you know, injured again. On the other hand, I would also assume that I'm the envy of every man there. I shall explain why. During one of my patented defense techniques that involves a lot of running and "excuse me"s, I kind of tripped over this one chick. Admittedly, it wasn't just my fault. The bitch definitely got in the way. In order to catch myself, I ended up putting out a hand and pretty much full on grabbed her right breast. Which led me and leads me to ruminate on why stuff like this always happens to me. It wasn't just a passing glance either. I was really off balance and took awhile to right myself and ultimately had to press on her breasteses in order to get up. With a quipped "WOAH! We're best friends now!", I ran off to do the same thing to some Eastern European man. By the way, hardcore recreational soccer girls don't have a lot to work with. Quite a shame, that.

In other news, I got an email about volunteering at a low-income apartment complex this weekend helping to move Katrina refugees in. Since I didn't have any better plans, I decided to go and lend a hand. One absurdly cute little boy asked me for "Either a toaster or a pitcher". That's adorable. It's unclear whether he intended to make toast in the pitcher or serve lemonade out of the toaster, but it was hella cute. Alas, there were no toasters. So that afternoon, after all the volunteers left, my mother and I went on a quest to buy toasters from Target and then deliver them to this little kid and the housing office since I knew some of the other people moving in were asking for them. By the by, as purely a side note, SUPER TARGET FREAKING RULES!!! I could not be MORE OBSESSED with it. I DREAM about Super Target. I WOULD BEAR MY CHILDREN IN SUPER TARGET. I would *not*, however, bear my children in the new show "Bones, starring David Boreanaz and some chick. I heard the radio commercial today: not impressed.

At any rate, upon returning to the apartment complex, I am somewhat dismayed to find that the lady who had directed me earlier that day was nowhere to be found. I don't really want to just leave 6 toasters lying around, so I go searching for her. My mother is of the mind that everyone who lives there will know who and where the coordinator lady is. I am of the mind that no, no they won't. So after she questioned some slightly frightening man that sounds like he's from Detroit, she decided to go looking for more possible sources that won't look at her as blankly. My plan of attack is to wait for coordinator lady. While I'm waiting for my mother to come around to my point of view, said Detroit man walks over to me and says:

DM - "Where are you from?"
Me - "I'm sorry?"
DM - "I said where are you from?"
Me - "Errrrrrr...here?"
DM - "I'm from France." <--line
Me - *looks at 'Italia' shirt* "Okay."
DM - "We can be friends?"
Me - "No."

I'm so good natured.

What I'm about to say is going to sound really mean

But bear with me for a moment. I just walked into the kitchen at my work place and received quite a shock. I'm going to semi-predicate this by pointing out that, for whatever reason, every woman at my advertising firm that is within 10 years of my age range is not only super pretty, but also married with 30 children or pregnant with 30 and a Kabbalah birthing pool. Oh, Britney. Anyway, so I'm constantly surrounded by pretty and well coifed people. Welcome to Dallas. But today I walk into the kitchen and there's this woman standing there who is made up and wearing clothes I would never put on, but they're fine for 40 somethings in the work place. She is ugly. Not kind of ugly, mountain bike accident ugly. Freddie Kruger ugly. I was so taken aback that I had to stop myself from letting out a little whimper. It's totally not her fault, either God cursed her at birth or she had a serious burn accident as a child, but it's just bad news. And I give her mad props for taking care of herself despite her face, but wow. I feel so guilty but I just have to tell someone. Also, I'm not really one to judge but wow. It made me realize that while I don't appear to be reeling in the menfolk, I'm not screwed for life either. Of course, this woman is married and probably has a zillion kids, but you get the idea.

Speaking of being made up and well polished, I've made a decision concerning Dallas. I always kind of thought of this city as being fashion savvy. What has become very apparent to me lately is that Dallas is one of the most fashion conscious cities I've ever been in, but not very fashion savvy. That is to say, everyone here, for the most part anyway, is very rich looking. They all have their beautifully expensive shoes, their ostrich skin handbags, and $50 manicures. What they don't have is skinny jeans and gaucho pants. There's not just tons of individuality and everyone is pretty conservative in their clothes, except when they put on their hoochie cowgirl clothes for bars (mmmm leather pants and halter middrifts). Everyone wears sweatpants, but they have to be Prada. Does Prada even make sweatpants? I vote no.

Last but not least, I'm looking to join a community soccer group to get more consistent cardio. You in?

My most favorite part of entry level jobs:

Survey data entry. Let me splain you why: Inevitably, no matter how banal the survey happens to be, you will come across what is truly an amusing answer. To wit, I am creating an Excel spreadsheet that will ultimately tabulate the average of a series of answers about the Dallas Assembly. The Dallas Assembly is a group made up of community leaders, primarily businessmen and women from what I can tell. Basically they attend a seminar once a year or so and every 5 - 6 years, they take a 2 page survey so that they can offer inane feedback, again as far as I can tell. Of course, this means that half of them are probably oil barons who are 80 + with trophy wives. I do so want to become a trophy wife, but that is a story for another time. At any rate, my most favorite answer so far is a rather simplistic one, but somehow sums up the whole experience for me.

How could your experience in The Dallas Assembly be improved?

"Bigger font on name tags"

Bigger font? That's his suggestion? No "more yearly seminars", no "a more diverse ethnic representation", no "hookers and Dr. Daniels". Just "bigger font on name tags". How small could the font possibly be? 12 pt? 9 pt? Maybe the name tags have a small essay on them, I have no idea. But then wouldn't you say "bigger small essay on name tags"? For some reason it just blows my mind that it was the first thing on his mind. For Pete's sake, get a prescription, man! Someone else claimed that the Assembly was weaker because of "political correctness", which, frankly, sounds suspiciously like a healthy degree of racism, if you ask me.

But there is a light at the end of the tunnel. On one of my hour long breaks from my given task, I found this:

WE ARE LOOKING FOR AN UNDISCOVERRED ACTRESS TO PLAY IN A SMALL-MED PART OF OUR DOCUMENTARY OF A CERTAIN COUNRTY STAR, WHICH WILL NOT BE DISCUSSED UNTIL AFTER THE SECOND INTERVIEW. JOB REQUIRES MORE THAN 50 LINES THROUGH OUT THE DOCUMENTARY, WHICH YOU WILL HAVE TO MEMORIZE.

YOU MUST SEND A RESUME OF YOUR SELF AND A PICTURE(S) IS A MUST TO BE CONSIDERED. IF WE ARE INTERESTED WE WILL RESPOND WITH A TIME TO MEET, YOU MISS YOUR TIME AND YOU LOOSE YOUR CHANCE, WE ARE TOO BUSY TO RESCHEDULE.
SORRY NO AGENTS WILL BE ALOUD!!!

* Job location is Dallas area
* Compensation: TBD

Ignoring the fact that I'm looking at a job post for acting, I think my favorite thing about this particular job posting is the automatic distrust it instills in me. Nothing says "future employer" like fear and the desire to kick your interviewer in the knees.

On an entirely different note, my mother has taken the plunge into insanity and got yet another kitten. The little bastard's name is Spencer and he's cute. Oh yes, he's cute. But beneath the mewling and fuzzy exterior that smells vaguely of kitty litter is a conniving, evil being that desires to eat my soul. Yesterday, he climbed up my bare leg like it was a ladder. OF FLESH. Later on he took a flying leap at my chest, a la Aliens, and clambered up to my shoulders using my chest as support. MY CHEST. IT ISN'T SOME KIND OF GODDAMN CLIFF SIMULATION THAT THEY HAVE IN R.E.I. TO CLIMB FOR YOUR HEALTH. IT'S MY FREAKING BREASTS. Needless to say, not amused. I'm trying to make an anagram out of "evil incarnate".

Dammit this office is freezing

For reals, I have decided to never go pantsless in my office anymore. And it's not the good kind of pantsless. Don't get me wrong, I'm a massive fan of refusing to wear pants. Some of you may know the story of the time my father refused to wear a shirt all summer. Which is every summer, by the way. At any rate, one night he even refused to put one on in front of a guest, so to combat this, I threatened to never wear pants in the house when his shirt was off. Needless to say, he wasn't impressed and said "Bring it on". But that's not why I now wear a jacket and pants in my office. The reason I wear the equivalent clothing to a breezy fall day when it is 95 outside is that I work in an igloo. And igloo where people don't give me anything to do and instead I must blog to about 7 people who either read this out of pity or because I'm insane.

A brief choir update: we had another rehearsal and I've decided that the whole experience is some weird sort of torture originated in the Netherlands, those Dutch bastards. Every time I give up all hope and attempt to embrace the crapness whole heartedly, they tune. It's the damndest thing and clearly a mistake, but it happens. I also figured out who the old man was who looked like he was checking me out. Turns out he was, but not in THAT way. Stop it. You're gross. He's the father of a girl I went to high school with and if I had bothered to stare at his face I would have figured that out, but luckily Boston has beat the whole "stare at strangers" thing out of me. You know, the hard way. And I've more or less decided what that choir room smells like: old people. Moth balls and the same preserving fluid that my high school biology class used on those fetal pigs.

Which doesn't really segue to my next point: my dog likes cantaloupe. Nay, loves cantaloupe. I gave him some yesterday to get his little furry ass to stop begging. I admit that the whole concept defies reason somewhat, but in the past when our dogs beg for, oh say, celery, I just give them a piece, they realize their mistake, lose all hope, and then go take a nap. Being fairly sure that the dog wouldn't want cantaloupe because it has neither chocolate nor meat in it, I handed him a little piece and all hell broke loose. He's obsessed now. He's gone into cantaloupe withdrawel. For 5 minutes after I finished it, he stood with his front legs on my knees begging. Normally he's dedicated, but also flighty. I didn't even know he was capable of that level of concentration.

Finally, I am somewhat aghast to discover that I actually do really like the new Mariah Carey, "Shake it off", and that I have CONTINUED to like it for 2 weeks now. Weird.

The inevitable has happened

Serafina, my older kitty, saw Dante's nuts and took her opportunity. It happened at about 9 pm last night. Dante was lolling around being adorable and I was petting his belly. I turned away, but Dante continued to expose his belly, complacent in his joy. Serafina, seeing her chance, reared back and tried to bite off his nuts. Yes, though he is but 4 months old, Sera thought it nigh time he was neutered and went for the family jewels. But I implore you, compatriots, to fear not, for, as is the wont of most men who sense the impending danger to their fruit and berries, Dante reacted with the speed normally attributed to cheetahs on speed.

New Orleans

This might end up being the only post that is even vaguely serious on my blog, which is actually a good thing since it probably means that nothing is bothering me enough to really bring it up. However, in this instance I can't help myself because it's just too close to home. I'm writing as a plea to whomever hasn't already done something for the hurricane survivors to please help out in any way you can. The Red Cross is obviously calling for blood and money more than anything else. I think even $20 from people can really add up. I hate watching the news shows on stuff like this because they're so obviously capitalizing on the anguish of others, so I have been getting all of my news via radio and newspapers and it's heartbreaking. An entire city full of culture, history, and life just destroyed. Lives completely wiped out in an afternoon. From what I hear from survivors, no one really thought it was going to be as bad as the news claimed so they didn't even try to grab their valuables. As a result, the people that did leave usually have literally the clothes on their back and the generosity of those around them.

Right now in Dallas and any other major city in the surrounding states that hasn't been wrecked by water and wind, refugees from New Orleans and some places in Mississippi and Alabama are streaming in. The arenas and convention centers in both Dallas and Houston are being transformed into housing for people who need it. This morning on the radio there was a stream of people who called in asking where they could sign up to house the refugees for up to a year. A year with strangers in their house. It's completely awe inspiring and has really reinstated my faith in my community. One woman even took a loan out on her 401k to give $4,000 to charities helping out. Of course, I'm sure you can get all of this information online or in newspapers. I suppose I was just struck by the fact that the headline in today's San Francisco newspaper was about the Olympics. The freaking OLYMPICS. There are hundreds, possibly THOUSANDS of people dead and dying the fetid waters of one history's greatest cities and they're talking about fucking sports.

This isn't making tons of sense, but I hope and pray that each one of you who hasn't been following this will look into it and decide to contribute. I often believe that giving money to charities can be not a "waste" but not necessarily a benefit either depending on what charity you give to. So often groups of people with good hearts don't have the business savvy it takes to truly use the funds wisely and they through money at a problem. However, that's basically all we can do at this point and, honestly, I trust the Red Cross. They're a corporation, which is what it takes to have the impact that they do. But if you don't like them, I'm sure your favorite charity is around here somewhere helping out. But please PLEASE help out. It's ridiculous how many people have lost their entire lives.

Mason, I trust you're alright but I can't help but worry. Amy, is Joe okay? Anyone else, if I know someone there and was unaware they had moved in the area, can you tell me so that I can start freaking out properly all at once? I promise I'll get over it, I'm just so freaking upset.

Strawberry yogurt cheerios

They're awesome. Try them. They're like eating those Japanese "cookies" that are little angry panda wafers filled with an unidentifiable, vaguely berry flavored frosting. Holy crap so good. And vanilla creme Wheaties. I have no idea why. And it turns out, given the proper motivation, I can really pack them away.

Speaking of which, I got an internship, which surprised my parents to no end since they thought I'd mooch off of them forever. So did I, but things haven't turned out in my favor. So basically what I do all day at work is to wait for someone to give me something to do, read advertising magazines, and act like I have a freaking clue what half the things they say mean. Oh yeah, I'm working at one of Dallas's largest advertising and marketing firms founded by a man named Stan Richards, who turns out to be famous, so that's cool. Wow the keyboard of this Mac sucks. I feel like I might be blogging a lot more now that I have to work and can't spend my entire day watching Judge Joe Brown and trying to get my shoes back from the stupid dog. I think probably the only thing that really annoys me at work right now is that despite the fact that 600+ people work here, we have some hella morons making coffee. It always smells frightening and burned, but today it smelled like meat. MEAT. I don't know where they found beef flavored coffee, but I sure can't figure out why they decided to brew it instead of carving out their olfactory organ.

So on to my first choir rehearsal last night. To clarify, being in Dallas brings back rather stark memories of my high school experience and, as such, any choir I sing with will seem decent by comparison. Naturally, the choir really isn't that good but they're not horrible either for being a community choir that is all volunteers. I am definitely the next to youngest, with the exception of my future boyfriend, who is actually pretty hot. I imagine that we'll date for a little while and either he will dump me after 1 week or I will dump him after 1 month, so I have that to look forward to. If he's gay we'll probably get married or something until he has a crisis at 35 and proceeds to hit on 20 year old girls at weddings. Other than that, about 80% of the choir is 50 years old or above. Some 70ish man totally checked me out, but I'm pretty sure it's because he couldn't see too well due to his rheumatism and mistook me for his 55 year old piece of sweet, sweet ass. I actually had a moment of bonding with one of the older women, until I told her my name and she chuckled good naturedly, at which point it became fairly obvious that she couldn't hear a word of the conversation. That can only bode well for tuning. At one point, our overly polite conductor asked the sopranos (who SUCK) to try to sing the same F. Mind you, this is not a high note for sopranos. Every soprano I know, even the crappy ones, eat that kind of thing for breakfast. But without practice and when you get older, your voice goes down in pitch and Granny just can't do it anymore. At any rate, when asked to sing a unison, I counted about 9 different notes from 7 sopranos and one bass, which seemed to just sing regardless of who was rehearsing at the time.

As a result, my week has been both adorable and scary. So, scadorabry.

So I didn't exactly blog the VERY next day...

You people are too picky. Part of my reason for waiting was ultimately so that I could take pictures of the new fattitude of my new kitten, but though I have found my camera, there is no wire to connect it to my computer. I'll figure all of that out later and give a brief update re: Meg's life.

Sooooooo I auditioned for a choir today that is affiliated with Southern Methodist University (rockin' the Greek houses, as well as fake tans). This will only be interesting to the people who were in Collegium with me, but when I originally called to set up an audition and the guy asked where I had sung in college, I told him simply Harvard and he totally asked me about Jim. I have no idea whether our former conductor was really famous or if he was just super eccentric, but at least this guy knows who he is. Needless to say, I went in today, paid $6 for parking, sang a few scales, the guy asked me if I could sight read, and now I'm in the choir. Nicely casual but not a good sign.

Anyway, so the wedding. Overall it was a fairly average Catholic wedding. Nice church, most people with covered shoulders and a few skanky ones, all of the Jews and Protestants waiting uncomfortably during the Communion, etc etc. The reception started out around 3:30 or 4 pm, and I made a beeline for the alcohol, anticipating my meeting with said mystery man. I'm not going to lie, I looked pretty cute. Not slutty cute, wedding cute, with some uncomfortably gorgeous shoes. By the by, the word for this afternoon would, indeed, be "uncomfortable".

Moving on, my friends and I attacked the buffet (mmmmm grilled peppers *gargling noises*) and then waited for the fun to begin. The fun never did precisely begin, which I primarily blame on the DJ and my own accursed luck. At some point, Marilyn (mother of the bride) catches me and whisks me over to meet her friend, Darrin. Or Darren. Darin. Daran. Regardless, we'll call him "E. Lee" because my friend Gary said that he looked like he belonged in a Civil War reenactment. So the first thing I notice is that he's not precisely my height. Well he IS my height, just not my gorgeous heels height. My tolerance for this sort of things is usually decent, though I, like any other girl, like to be carried over doorsteps and shielded from the wind, so we're not really onto a good start. The awkwardness is pretty tangible, but again, I'm a trooper so I stick it out.

Our conversation primarily involves him trying to get me something to drink. I don't mind giving him something to do, but honestly, I really wasn't thirsty, I had already had two glasses of wine, and at this point it's 4:45, which is neither happy hour nor even a convenient time for alcoholics to drink, in my personal opinion. Eventually I let him convince me to go to the bar with him, mostly because his crappy little friends do nothing but stare at me. Uncomfortable. I get gingerale because at this point I'm beginning to suspect that he's trying to get me drunk. I am not going to get drunk with a 35 year old man who wants to get married. There's just something off about that situation. However, this was a prime opportunity to hot foot it back to my table o' friends who, like hyenas in the wild, have already sensed which one of us is the sickly antelope that needs to be eaten. My friend Amy was so appalled at my obvious discomfort that she made several efforts merely to take me away from him, including a feigned broken bra strap that I "just [had] to help with".

There's not much to tell about the rest of the early evening, except to say that I spent most of the time trying to subtlely wriggle out his grasp and inviting everyone but him somewhere later that evening. He also put his hands everywhere from my upper thigh to my hips. It was like we were dating, except that we had just met and he creeped me out. And we aren't and never will date. And he kept talking about people's hairstyles and looking aghast every time I said something more offensive than "Oh pickles, I dropped my grilled pepper". And he made me dance when NO ONE was dancing but the BRIDE AND GROOM. NO ONE. I made him sit down after about 20 seconds, though he paid one of the ushers to let us continue dancing. Of course he asked for my number and I gave it to him because I'm a pushover, though I qualified it with a "I don't want to go on a date really". So here's for me being a wuss but an honest wuss. Although I am given hope because my friend Bonnie said that she saw him hitting on someone else in a similar drunken stupor later on. God I need a boyfriend in Dallas. One that my mother's aquaintances would recognize as such and stop telling desperate men that I'm available and super excited to get pregnant or something. *shudder*

As a parting thought, I just tipped my smoothie back too far and, seeing its opportunity, it ran swiftly up my noise so far that there is not only pureed bits of mangos and blackberries in my brain, but there is also an imprint of my nose in the smoothie.

Oh the stories

Buuuuuuuuuut I can't talk about it now. I'm super sleepy and I've had enough liquor to make me want to nap forever. So's I'm agonna blog tomorrow, but suffice to say that A) the kitten escaped my room and found his way to someplace new and freaked out and B) wow gay.

Today's theme is gaucheness... and vocabulary

So this past weekend I went to a party for a friend of mine from high school, Monica, who is getting married on August 20th. Monica and I have an interesting relationship insofar in that I discovered post high school that she really didn't and never had liked me and I had kind of considered us to be friends. I admit that I can be quite a handful at times, so the fact that there's probably legions of people out there who hate my guts is no real surprise, but the shock of finding out her behavior toward me was completely at odds with how she really felt, combined with the fact that she's quite good friends with my good friends, makes it an uneasy relationship all around. Apparently the majority of her dislike for me stems from an incident concerning our mothers, which my mother is completely unaware of. My mom is a super nice lady so I find it doubtful that she would insult someone purposefully and I'm not sure I like people who hold imagined grudges for no reason.

The other irony about all of it is that, ultimately, I still kind of like Monica, though I don't always agree with her approach to life, but hey, potato potahto. And she apparently is completely unfazed by her dislike of me and wonders why I'm so distant. For the record, I don't hide my emotions well. Though I try to be tactful, I don't have a good poker face and it's definitely gotten me in trouble. Anyway, at this point all conversations with Monica and her mother tend to be pretty uncomfortable, though I am genuinely happy that she's getting married because I love weddings.

So back to the party. I show up to this bar in Dallas that has definitely burned me before. The last time I parked near there, my car got towed and taken to the one of the less savory parts of town. At the tow site, they have a bulletproof pane of glass for the receptionist and rottweilers behind 9 foot rusty fences made out of scrap metal. AND it's 40 minutes from my house, albeit 15 minutes from the bar. But it was suggested to me by the tow truck site lady that I go nowhere near that part of town after dark and I believed her, but I digress. So I show up to this bar with my friend Bonnie and her beau Alan and we scamper upstairs, where I am accosted by Monica's mother, Marilyn, who informs me that a male friend of hers saw me at a play that we all went to together and now just "has to meet [me]". Mind you, he was at that improv performance in order to ogle another girl that just happens to have a boyfriend, but I won't split hairs. So she tells me that he thinks that I'm super hot and I vaguely remember a guy sitting next to her that I thought was pretty cute though a little short for me. There are exceptions but I tend to like my menfolk a couple of inches taller than me to accommodate my heel wearing escapades. THEN I'm informed that he's an opera singer, 35 (I swear I thought he was 19 at the time), and, in the words of Marilyn, "challenging". Hmmmm...challenging.... That could mean, well, challenging. OR it could mean "an asshole".

What does one say to this information, I wonder. It's hard to tell. The polite thing to do is to squeal with glee, but as I've just said, I don't have a good poker face. So I compromised and had a general visage of disbelief as I made appreciative noises at her matchmaking skills. Mind you, if I get married to this guy, I'm totally going to eat these words someday. Somehow I'm not too worried about the possibility. But this does prove my theory that everyone I know is getting married to set me up. So that's cool. But, the coup de grace:

Marilyn: So you just have to show up looking extremely hot at the wedding.
Me: Um, I'll try my best.
Marilyn: You should wear a push-up bra or something.
Me: ... I think I need a beer.

So yet again, someone is staring and JUDGING my chest. Not only that, my somebody's MOTHER. And this time it hella can't be blamed on me because I haven't spoken to Marilyn in years. You know what World, suck it. They're this size. Shit happens. I have lovely and proportional legs that because of all the stupid weight lifting I've been doing are actually quite muscular so why don't you leave my poor breasts the hell alone and center on something else. I also have a sparkling personality.

And awkward.

Oh snots I drank too much juice

I also saw the movie The Piano today, which, for those of you who don't know, is a movie about a mute woman (Holly Hunter) during colonial times who marries Sam Neill (old, but hot), has a daughter (Anna Paquin - but where's Wolverine?), and a man she falls in love with (Harvey Keitel). It was a quiet but very good movie. I will, however, warn all potential viewers about something that the movie execs definitely failed to mention pre film. Harvey Keitel is naked in the movie. And I don't mean like, "Oh heck, where's my shirt and socks" naked but nekkid. Like, wedding tackle nekkid. Family jewels nekkid. Nut and berries nekkid. At any rate, it certainly threw me for a loop and I have to say that that's all I can pretty much remember about the film right now. I saw Harvey Keitel super nude, in all of his wrinkly glory.

However, this is not the point of this post. I wanted to go ahead and write out for all of those too lazy to read the comments the names I received as possibilities for my impending kitty. There is also a new photo right cheeyah:



Incidentally, awesome.

Okay, so here we go in no particular order:

1. Puddles - not a good start
2. Batista - Middle name here I come.
3. Guyver - Hooray!!
4. Snugglepuss - *throaty boy laugh*
5. Pig or Pudu - What the hell is a pudu? I bet it's adorable.
6. Fibonacci - 6th grade! Gross!
7. Jeff Grossman - Hmmm... might love it a wee tad TOO much if I named it that.
8. Angelo part Deux - it's a rather sad story for Angelo the First, in case anyone wants to hear it.
9. Wysiwyg - I can pronounce, but I doubt you can.
10. Bill - but what if I marry a Bill? Would I then have to choose whom I loved best??
11. Gato Merron - the suggestion of the breeder. For those of you who don't know, it means "Brown Cat" in Spanish. If I'm going to go with that, I might as well capitulate to my mother who suggested:
12. Cocoa

At any rate, your suggestions are highly appreciated, but since I can't bear the thought of my departed fish and I probably shouldn't be yelling "Snugglepuss" loudly at the neighbors, I think I'm going to think of some random Renaissance artist and leave it at that.

Bernini with your coffee, anyone?

KITTY!!!

My most important news of late is that I get to HAVE A NEW KITTY for my birfday. This one might even not bite me everyday, but to be honest, I'm not really holding my breath. I think this yearning was brought on not so much by my friends' assumptions that I will someday turn into a crazy cat lady, but moreso because I don't have a job. "But Meg," you say, "You graduated from college and everything? Why no job?" To which I reply, "I have no marketable skills. Kiss it." No really, I think I have job leprosy. Except when it comes to admin jobs. Administrative people freaking love the idea of me. Unfortunately, I've never been a good liar, so when they ask me what I want to be doing in 10 years and I reply, in the nicest manner possible, "not this", there's usually some kind of awkward silence. It's pretty cool.

Moving on, so I am getting a kitten. Namely, this kitten:



Hmm. He looks a wee tad demonic. Ah well. Beggars can't be choosers. My brother thinks that I'm just getting a kitten because I'm bored. Again, I say, suck it. I should have been a debater in high school. So now we must all think of a name. I'm pretty sure I'm going to call him either Dante or Micheangelo to keep with my angelically Italian theme. Serafina doesn't precisely live up to her namesake, but she does enjoy biting my ankles and sitting in shoeboxes, so that's pretty awesome.

At any rate, I have already had the suggestions "Puddle", "Batista", and "He looks stoned to me". So fire away. I'm all ears.

I sing ye praises, oh Guyver

I haven't seen a bad movie this awesome in awhile. It had it all. Monster costumes that were highly reminiscent of the same work in all 3 of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Mark Hamill (I believe I got his name wrong in the previous post), and Asian fetishes.

Seriously, the love interest for the rather all American Kansas city boy is someone who is supposed to be Japanese, but I'm pretty sure that she's Chinese or, in some strange world, Korean. Either way, the protagonist clearly watches a ton of Anime and wants her pretty bad for the duration of the hour and a half movie. The girl's dad turns into a giant monster fish at the beginning of the movie while he's fleeing some corporation's other giant fish-esque monsters, except the chick monster is hairy, which I don't really get. Anyway, so the old supposedly Japanese dude dies and his daughter is all sad and Sean, the protagonist Asian lover, is all sad because he was so going to make a move on Miski, the Chinese/Korean/Japanese girl. He sort of comes across this weird alien artifact while he is clearly spying on her. Incidentally, the artifact is hidden....hold on, there's a steamy love scene on TV.

Okay then, false alarm. Anyway, the artifact that Sean finds is hidden in a lunch box. So of course the fish mutants kidnap Miski and Mark Hamill plays some random FBI agent that also turns into a bug mutant at the end and dies, but more importantly, Sean turns into this alien suit thing and kicks some ass. Right before they RIP OUT HIS BRAIN. So that was awkward. But he regenerates by first making tentacley eyeball juice love to Miski's hand, right before she freaks out and throws him into some monster's mouth. Then Sean pops outta that dude just like Athena, ready to steal cities from Poseidon. The end is super awesome because not only is Miski held hostage *with a handkerchief*, but the final boss looks like Skeletor had a love child with a Jackalope. An ugly Jackalope.

Well, the moral of this hasty posting is that you people hella have to go out and rent the Guyver. If I ever buy it, I'll be sure to pass it along, but it's pretty key. Ooh! Also, at the end, when Sean morphs back into stupid crappy Sean from his Guyver cool form, he, naturally, shows up buck naked in front of Miski, who looks suspiciously like she's seen it all before. I mean, the boy is as bare as God pushed him into this world, EXCEPT that he's wearing sneakers and socks. Ingenious.

My week in verse

Actually, that's an outright lie. Instead I will use two lists, one good things that have happened to me and one of bad, and a simple numbering system, which I personally always thought worked better for poetry anyway.

Inferno

1. I woke up today to several things. Serafina had burrowed her way to between my feet and was mewing angrily everytime I moved. But, more importantly, my mother had called and left a message saying, "He didn't do it." Referring, naturally, to her 1 year old puppy that poos in my room pretty much every other day. I found out later that she was joking; though, ironically, I also found out that he had eaten two shoes of mine, one an expensive suede wedge, but I think the damage can be hidden, and one from a pair by Coach of wooden mules that, for the menfolk out there, look a little bit like this, but more summery with a wooden sole. I handed them to my mother in an "I told you so" fashion, and she estimates that she can sand them down. The fact that the dog almost ruined two pairs of shoes is bad, the image of my mother with an industrial sander is adorable.

2. I ate enough roasted potatos in one day to make a petite ox ill.

3. The sixth Harry Potter. I won't ruin it for others, but What the fuck, J.K.? What the fuck?

4. I spent an entire week watching Jeopardy hoping that the asshole that's the current champion will lose, with my hopes built up during one particular game by some dude that looks like John Malkovich, only to have them dashed in Final Jeopardy. It burns.

5. I decided I kind of like Mariah Carey's song "We Belong Together".

Paradiso

1. I realized that I hate Mariah Carey's song "We Belong Together".

2. I effectively convinced my mother to look online at kittens since I'm gunning to get a Havana Brown for my birthday.

3. I got to see the movies Ladyhawk, From Dusk Till Dawn, and I'm about to watch The Guyver. The best bad movie of all time starring none other than Mark Hamilton. Run, don't walk, to the video store.

4. I also ate almost an entire box of Honey Bunches of Oats (Strawberry edition) in under 4 days. Screw protein.

5. My mom's new hairstylist gave her a hair cut that resembles that of my 4th grade Texas history teacher. So cute. I made her wash it immediately.

Alrighty then.

Manly accessories are hard to find

So Richard and I decided to go shopping whilst he was in town over July 4th. Shopping for what you ask? And I will tell you: manly accessories. What does that mean, one wonders. I have no idea and neither does Richard. He's like an artist, the mall is his palette, his style is his canvas, and I'm a snotty critic that couldn't get a real job as an artist because I have no definable talent and smoke a pack a day. We perused the Galleria at what I considered to be the gayest shops I could find, but there were no bracelets or manly jewelry available. We even shopped at Kenneth Cole for a murse, but they must have been out or something. (I wonder where Oliver got his...) Finally, we ended up at Hot Topic, a store geared toward angsty, unloved teenagers. I felt a little out of place since I wasn't 13 anymore, but tried to fit into the vibe by cursing anything too mainstream and instead joining their national chain of rebellion. At any rate, they had a Slipknot sweatband, as well as one with hearts, which was my personal favorite. Richard also wanted to get a chain wallet, which I vetoed before he could get the phrase properly out of his mouth. I almost capitulated though when we found one with a squirrel on it that said "Beware the wrath of my nuts!" Those angry squirrels... I think in the end he decided just to get a tattoo, but I wanted to get a Grumpy Bear doll. So cuddly and angry. *giggle*

Speaking of shopping, a few days ago I went to an outlet mall in the Dallas area, which is full of nice stores. They even have an Adidas outlet, whose shoes I lurve, so I was particularly happy to see that there. I scampered in with a gleeful laugh and chose some items that are very sport trendy AND massively on sale. After gathering all of my little treasures together, I proceeded up to the front register and, naturally, got the most proficient register person they had. The conversation, though short, was priceless and went as follows:

boyman: "How are you today, ma'am?"
me: "Just fine."
*noticing that he has forgotten to ring up a jacket, I push it toward him*
me: "I think you left this out"
bm: "Oh...JK!"
me: *pause while I consider saying nothing* "What?"
bm: "What?"
me: "Really? JK? Like just kidding?"
bm: "Uhhh yeah." ~sing songy voice~ "Just kidding!"
me: "You need to IM less."
bm: "What?"
me: "Less IM, more real world."
bm: "Uhhh have a nice day."

God I am only 1 year out of college and I already hate high schoolers. In other news, I watched Catwoman today and wasn't nearly as disappointed as I could have been. As I told Khris, after seeing Elektra, nothing really seems that bad. It's like the world of cinema is outer space and some stars are simply brighter than others. And Elektra is a black hole, sucking out all of the life and joy you have ever garnered from film before. And those of you who can identify my accidental pun shall be well rewarded with the promise that I will *never* make you watch that movie. Needless to say, Beck was displeased because he thinks I tricked him into seeing a chick flick. Beck, no one said it wasn't going to BE a chick flick. And you should be happy I let you gaze upon Benjamin Bratt for that time. *gargling noises*

I want my mother to come back from Mexico

Namely because normally the dogs are her responsibility because, let's face it, they love her best and that's cool with me. Also, the puppy has been licking one of the legs of the chair in her office for about 10 minutes. That's gross and more than a little weird. I've also been on poo brigade all weekend because the puppy isn't fully trained, despite being a year old. He knows not to poo in the house in front of us, but that's not especially helpful when he goes ahead and does it anyway when we're not watching. Little bastard. He also has some aversion to grass. It's like hot lava for his little delicate paws and while I stand out in the middle of the yard calling to him, he kinda just looks at me askance and sits down on the driveway to avoid the lawn.

In other news, today is July 4th, but I went to an unprecedented display of fireworks last evening. I say unprecedented because July 4th is not really my holiday. I can't precisely see what all the fuss is about and I refuse to do battle with some random hicks just to see some fireworks. My friend Tony had a little "reception" at his airplane hanger at the Addison Airport, so me and some other people all scampered down there and had daiquiris and really spicy queso and waited for 2.5 hours to watch fireworks. We then waited another hour for the fireworks and then traffic. All in all it was more fun than I expected, mostly because of the people. I remained unimpressed by the bright lights, except when I was positive they were going to light us all on fire. I promised Gary $25 for each individual time he was engulfed in flames due to a firework, but despite their proximity (they set them off in the middle of the airport and they explode directly overhead), the wind blew most of the singey bits away. Cool. Also, *someone* tried to untie my halter top. Not cool. It comes off when you do that, guys. And if *someone* tickles me again, I'm going to hit him in the kidney and then kick him in the shins for good measure. Okay then.

Which brings me to an interesting conversation I had with Thomas, who is the sibling of my friend Amy. We were talking about wolphins, the product of a really horny dolphin and a really drunk orca. Ironically, orcas are in fact dolphins, as opposed to whales, so I wonder what genius thought that up. At any rate, I was prompted to ask the question of how the orca gets drunk enough to sleep with the prostitute of the seas. So, upon remunerating on what it would take to "set the mood", I came up with wine, Marvin Gaye, a really big bubble bath, a fireplace, oysters, and chocolate. Thomas came up with Barry Manilow and beer. And that, my friends, is the inherent difference between men and women. When I looked at him askance and said "Really?", his response was, "Well where would you even find that much bubble bath. Mine makes more sense." Sigh.

Ooh la la

So I haven't posted in, oh say, forever. Kinda because when my time to post rolled around last week, the cat I've had and revered since childhood was put to sleep and that was the most scarring two days of my entire life and I wasn't even at home to witness it. So that pretty much sucked and now I refuse to love any other cat, which is going to be weird because that cat I've had for 2 years now is at home waiting for me. It's weird to have something that isn't just a pet that one loves, but is also kind of a last vestige of childhood go away. Now that I've graduated from college and am more or less working, my family has moved, my beloved pets have died, and now I'm moving back home. It's kind of odd because I suspect there will be a very different dynamic in the family. But that's a longer story for another time I suppose.

In other news, I've spent most of this and last week packing and saying my goodbyes. Last Friday I had the dress rehearsal for the Boston Camerata concert. That was also the day that Hobie was put to sleep, so at dinner Oliver shared a bottle of wine with me. And by shared I mean that we couldn't finish it and pawned it off on Alex and Brooke so that he and I would still be able to walk home. We then went back to my apartment in theory to watch the Grudge, which I seem to have misplaced, and watched instead Elektra. I'm not kidding when I say that it was the worst movie I've seen in a long time. Daredevil was at the very least coherent and enjoyable, though not a cinemagraphic masterpiece. Elektra, on the other hand, had gorgeous cinematography, but it didn't matter because the dialogue and storyline were so contrite and stupid that it was hard to focus on the pretty pictures. After it finished we all kind of sat in stunned silence for a few minutes trying to figure out where our last two hours went. Yeah. Not pretty.

Saturday was the actual day of the concert and it was fairly awesome. Better than I expected, not just Medieval music, but humorous moments as well. Although I would argue that all in all it was really well put together, the "tech" rehearsal before the actual performance was like pulling teeth and I was pretty confused by the end of it. One of the singers is married to the director Joel Cohen, so there was a goodly amount of arguing between the two of them that probably wouldn't have happened with another singer. Also, his wife was so absurdly anal that I can't really conceive of where her mind was. She kept suggesting things that, twould it been me, I would have completely thrown by the wayside in the interest of time. But, as I said, the concert turned out well and there was cake afterward though we didn't stay for any. At least we got free cheese.

Other than that there's not a whole lot going on besides the general packing. Because I've been busy and/or sleeping for most of this week, no crazy people have had the time to accost me, though there were a few moments on the T when I could see the gleam in someone's eye. That's what ipods are for. Also, Emily sent me an article today that basically states that emoticons are the harbinger of the Apocalypse. Yes. Yes they are.

I just ate half a cake and I'm going back for more

So yesterday morning I hop on the bus for my morning commute and am sitting in the surliest manner I can muster in my sleep deprived state, when we pull over to let on about thirty 10 year olds. Typically in the morning there is a deathly silence on my morning bus. Except that one time when the crazy lady yelled at every bus that was not the one she wanted. That was awesome. At any rate, the noise level in the bus immediately skyrocketed, which was okay with me since my brain hadn't woken up yet anyway. After about 5 minutes I begin to pay attention to the little scamp sharing a seat with me who is talking to his buddy in front of him. Basically, the kid is talking about astronomy, white dwarf stars, galaxies, the sun, etc. It's sorta cute even though he's just a little know-it-all trying to impress his slighty dumber friend. Eventually he left off of talking about the history of the sun ("It's, um, 10 BILLION years old") and began to recite the diameter of all the planets, which was not so cute. Before he switched to then reciting the difference in the diameters of different planets, I noticed that switched from using miles to kilometers but the proportions were the same. I also noticed that his slighty stupider friend did not notice. Oh the follies of youth.

Oooooooooh, just now I was reading some correspondance that I suppose I shouldn't have really been looking at. Except that you really do have to read the longer letters because sometimes they're requesting stuff and whatnot. It's such a catch 22 working in admissions, you're not supposed to look at anybody's information because that would be violating their privacy more than it already is. But if the processors don't weed out from the mail what really does need to garner attention, than nobody's requests would be fulfilled. So you'll have to forgive me that I retell part of it here. Somehow I don't think that the girl who wrote this letter is going to be reading my blog. Call it a hunch.

Anyway, it was basically a request for reconsideration followed by what she considered to be convincing evidence that she really wants to be a lawyer: namely, a contract with her boyfriend. In my personal opinion, this kind of "contract" lends itself to all kinds of wrong. And so it did. This girl, let's call her, oh say, Kristen, wrote a contract to her boyfriend we'll call Peanut. No really, Kristen and Peanut's contract. I hope that's either a pet name or that he hates his parents. At any rate, her "contract", which she *submitted to Harvard Law School*, includes such gems as requesting that Peanut not smoke or go to Atlantic City, having Peanut try harder to get an erection and orgasm so as to protect the delicate fragility of Kristen's ego, have Peanut practice a religion because otherwise his soul will be damned and Kristen will be sad, requested that Peanut not talk to, kiss, or hug other girls, have Peanut stop judging Kristen for not wanting to be a girlie girl, etc. Also, I'm pretty sure Peanut cheated on Kristen and calls her primarily for booty calls. And he also appears to cancel dates for card games. I don't want to break Kristen's heart, but I'm not sure that a "contract" of demands is really what's going to save the relationship. Sort of like calling him Peanut in a contract that you send to a bunch of law schools.

Speaking of relationships doomed for failure, I think that Tara got married to set me up on a date. I'm flattered and her friends are hot, but somehow the fact that they live in different states makes me not really want to be as smexy as possible around them. Although I had a fun time subtlely flirting with them. It was like my own little project for the wedding. That and learning how not to hate life when I was hung over. And I ended up having at least 5 new dandies of a bruise on my person from various and asundry stupid crap I did like falling off of a boat and running into a brick wall. Also, as a total nonsequitor, Caroline's cat, which I am taking care of now, totally watched me shower yesterday. Creeeeeepy. That's a bad mew!!

Grammar is for wusses

Oh the stories I have to tell. Alas, I feel that many of them won't be very funny since you kinda had to be there, but I'll try to relate what I find most amusing from the past week or so. I am at present home for the long awaited wedding of my friend Tara to beau Tracey. My first action when I got back was to go purchase a properly unsavory gift for her. Instead of putting thought into what could be a lovely wedding gift, I opted to go to a few "novelty stores" and pick out some classy gifts such as pink furry handcuffs, classic porn (we fast forwarded through Debbie Does Dallas - four words: ew and more ew), a "lover's kit", and, naturally, a vibrator shaped like a rubber duckie. Of course, all of this violates my preferred wall that I keep in place in terms of the sex life of my friends. Don't. Want. To. Know. But, hey, I got into the spirit of things. For her actual party we went out to Jen's lakehouse, swam around, got lake water in my bacteria infested retinas, managed to avoid tossing each other off of the sea doos, made dinner, and then got smashed on sangria and some horribly sketchy margaritas. The obligatory penis cake was made and presented, as well as penis gummies and a lollicock. It's kind of like Christmas, but with a very staunch emphasis on "penis". And with only women. And bad porn. Okay so it's not like Christmas. Shut up.

In more unexciting news, we went by DQ twice, once on the way there wherein I received a jar of pickles that just happened to be surrounded by a burger. On the way back I asked Jen to order me just a burger with ketchup to avoid the horror of the pickle incident.

Meg: Hey, don't get any pickles this time. If I eat one more I'll puke.
Jen: Hi, I'd like to order a burger with ketchup and extra pickles.
Meg: Uhhhh...
Jen: A lot of extra pickles. Like, really, a ton of pickles.
*punches Jen in the arm repeatedly admist laughter from the backseat*
Meg: God I hate you people.

Then when I got home I slept and told my parents about watching porn, which was met with much awkward silence. There will be more about Tara's wedding and the general festivities, but I wanted to take this moment to rehash some important correspondance that I received at HLS late last week. I was reading more letters from high schoolers and below that just kinda want info from the law school, paraphanalia, etc. One of my favorite sentences was, "I am interested in your school because I am very persuaded to making it there, because I want the best education." I have no idea what that means. None. Zero. But, my favorite letter of all time is what I shall close with below. I have copied it verbatim from the letter we received, except for not including his last name. It is truly amazing. Clearly, the poor boy is foreign, but really? THAT foreign?

To Whom it May Concern:

I, Bobby want to be in your law school. If you may let me in your school I will respect my peers and be willingly to learn. Please, if you may send me back some information about your school like the population you have. I want to see some of brochures if you can send them.
Can if you may see that I really want to participate in your school? Why the school is have different parts like a law school and than a medical part? Can you tell me why that has happened? Oh yeah, also, can you send me some catalogs and an enrollment application, so then I then might come here to visit or I might can come in your school and be in your school. I heard that I you have to have a lot of money to come to school?
Thank you, Bobby N.

Ooh *sucking noise* that's awkward

My cat has gotten so ridiculously fat that she's now officially ball shaped. Earlier today she was too lazy to get off of the remote control she was sitting on, so instead I kinda rolled her off of it. And I gotta say, boy howdy do I love her all the more because of it. I have a yen for fat things. For some reason, roly poly babies and animals get me all snuggle-cited. The other day I spent 2 hours looking on the SPCA and Operation Kindness websites trying to find a suitably adorable puppy that I could adopt and make my parents cry about it a little since they're kind enough to let me move back in with them for a bit. I eventually pried my salivating self away from the adorability and tried to imagine things I hate like hippies until the post puppy glow died.

Other than that not tons has been going on. I have applied for a job in Dallas and intend to do so many more times. The job search is so.....vast. Even if I know what I want, I need to know names of companies in order to find anything on Monster or Craigslist quickly or not sheer luck. And if I get one more email from an insurance company that offers me employment, I'm going to insure THEM.

In Boston I have a lot of friends that are not really good friends, but could be. As in, I feel a connection with them, either because we like the same stuff or talking is just easy or they have the same sense of humor, whatever. However, I feel that after I move away that will more or less drift away until it's kinda not there anymore. I've been trying to decide whether or not I should care. I would say definitely yes, but on the other hand, if I keep mooning over lost chances I'll drive myself crazy. I have one friend who insists that she has a "friend quota". I don't think that these things exist because inevitably you can't possibly get along that well with that many people, and even if you do you have to wonder what they're really like. An example, I have a friend here in Boston that I continually try to get close to via the Meg plan of attack wherein I basically am way too blunt for my own good. I didn't say it was a *good* plan.

I'm impatient by nature so I tend to try to force friendship trust when I decide I really like and respect someone. It actually really doesn't happen all that often, but it works really well when the other person wants the same trust that I do. For all of my girlfriends this more or less happened, but it was also a mutual action. I find that I want the same trust with male friends of mine and it never happens because of the awkwardness of possible attraction. Even if we've established that nothing romantic is a possibility, there's still a hesitation. I have to wonder if it's a personality thing specific to certain people or if I just get it or something. I've had the same reservations, but I tend to ignore them until they come up or I go ahead and establish something. I'm not saying this doesn't cause problems, but come on people, isn't life too short to let sexuality come in between a possible good friendship?

And while I'm on the subject of friends, a quick recap of the weekend. Friday was another missed opportunity as far as bonding is concerned, but I did get to go see Joel at Abe's performance. It was really pretty cool and I'm happy I went even if I'm too poor for a $10 cover. Today was laid back and then Em and I went to the boyses concert which had WAY too much Morley, the bastard child of English renaissance composition. After Emily and I relived our teenage years by doing each other's hair and makeup, we took our obscenely hot selves over to Andy's for a prom party. I was upset because I realized when I showed that I had neither enough sleeve volume, nor enough bling to be considered promish. I mean, I put on so much sparkle that I could have lit a darkened cave with the luminescence of my face, but it didn't compare to rhinestones. Another time, perhaps.

Tonight, Denis YUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!! Oh my crap I'm so excited I could burst. Coolest man ever. Yeah, not you or your friend. Only Denis. I joke a lot about wanting to marry people, but if Denis offered I would pass out with joy and surprise. Like a possum. *gargly noises*

Best work application ever

I am at present online applying for a job for July at an overly respectable retailor in Dallas. This is all part of my never ending quest to not be forced to work in administration for the rest of my paltry life. Firstly, I would like to point out that cats are no good for filling out applications online. Serafina (yes, she has a name) has finally moved on to bigger and better things like biting my ankles, but I doubt this boon can last. It's hard to know who you're putting down as your reference when a fat kitty is sitting in front of the screen.

Anyway, I'll tell briefly about my weekend at the end of this post, but I just have to get off my chest how funny this application is. At the beginning of it all, you tell them where you want to work and then there's a series of questions they ask, java style. So I say "Dallas, TX" since that is where I will be living. One of the first questions they ask me is "Is the job you're applying for in Maryland?" Oooooookay. I hit "no" and move on. Then they ask typical questions such as "Have you ever been convicted of a felony?" etc. and then "Is the job you're applying for in Maine?" Uhhhhhh. No. What? I'm beginning to wonder if they're going to move through all the states when the test switches forums to what appears to be a personality test. Most of the questions were "Are you talkative", "Do you play well with others", "Are you a lazy bum that will inevitably start playing solitaire on the computer the second we turn our backs" and so on. And, most recently, "It is maddening when the courts let guilty criminals go free". I have no idea why that is on an application to work retail sales. Wow. Also, "There's no use having close friends, they always let you down". If I didn't know better, I'd say I was being psycho-analyzed whilst attempting to apply to a freaking department store. I'm selling pants, people, not working in a psychiatric ward. "People are often mean to you". Sup, four eyes?

Well we'll see how the job search goes in general. I figure it can't hurt to apply someplace prestigious like a law firm. Oh wait, I'm not doing that. Actually, one of the jobs I looked at today said that it requires "a strong sense of urgency". Hello, Ma'am, we'd like to offer you avon makeup NOW NOW NOW!!! YOU'RE GOING TO DIE IN THE NEXT 10 MINUTES!!! THE GOVERNMENT WILL STEAL YOUR MONEY AND YOUR CHILDREN WILL EAT CATFOOD UNTIL THEY STARVE WHEN THEIR FATHER CAN'T PROVIDE FOR THEM!!! How much can I put you down for?

Moving on, my weekend was generally quite fun. Just your normal concerts, parties, hanging out with my fake hubby Jeff. Turns out Alex is now jealous that I have chosen another gay man over him, to which I respond, A) I said I was going to marry Jeff when he was straight and it was an option and B) Alex, when you said you wanted to fake marry me last week, you then subsequently totally spurned our love in public. Lame. Saturday was too much drinking and activities that led to very odd dreams. Basically, the dream was multifaceted and long and so weird that I don't really feel at leisure to explain it, but what got me is that for part of it I was more or less leading on two guys. One that resembles very closely someone I actually know and the other who doesn't exist but was super hot. I occasionally have dreams that I would say downright confuse me. It's like I have decided either on a relationship status (read here: friendship) I have or feelings I do or don't have for other people and then I have a dream where I'm either dating them or they're in love with me. I wake up, get a little freaked out, and then, you know, go back to sleep. I lurve to sleep.

Batista's ex-girlfriend is a beeyotch.

Happy now, Grumpy Pants? For the record, she might be, but she's also a snotty selfish douche that shouldn't be mooned over.

Okay then. SPEAKING of mooning things, I had a little "adventure" today. I'm not really sure why all the weird stuff happens to me, I just know that it does. So yesterday post work at HLS, I decide to change into my workout clothes pre walking to the gym. There's the Shangri-La of bathrooms on the first floor so I scampered down there. It's HUGE and marble and there's even a cute little settee with a nice screen in front of it in the corner. So I wander in around 5:05, there are no students around and no one really works on the first floor, so I'm all alone. I put my belongings on the bench and begin to change fairly rapidly but without ever really taking any clothes off. It's a trick you learn as a woman in large dressing rooms. I mean, some womens just walk around buck naked, but I loves me some clothes so I tend to kind of pile things on and then take off my original outfit so I'm only wearing one. It kind of reminds me of Cistercian prom, but that's a different story. Anywhom, I'mm there alone when I realize that my gym shorts are the pair that really aren't meant to be worn with yet another pair of underwear since they already have their own built in. I consider this predicament for a moment and then decide "What the hey! No one's been in here for 10 minutes and I'm kind of hidden behind a screen!" For the record, the screen is definitely enough to cover you if no one's looking kinda, but it's not the most concealing article of furniture I've ever seen. Moving on, the very *second* I drop trow, someone walks in the door. She glances, I panic, almost fall over, I can't get my foot through the hole, you get the picture. Whoever it was probably saw my booty, but we'll never know because I ran the second I actually managed to put them on. Kind of like the time I was changing in my room sophomore year and glanced out the window and saw someone STARING STRAIGHT AT ME. Or like the time freshman year when I was living in the yard and changing and classes let out and I fell over trying to put on jeans and revealed my underwear to hundreds of people. The stories go on.

Other than that, SOMEONE who lives in my apartment and is not a mew needs to get over his ex girlfriend. I think we can all agree that she's a bitch, she's not half as cute as I am, he was the attractive one in the relationship anyway, and that he has enough problems without the stress anyway. But he did ask me to put out a small plea for someone to come over and makeout with his hotness so that he can call his ex and tell her. I told him that I wouldn't and Kitty isn't allowed, so we're turning to other sources. Richard, go out and peruse the ladies of Boston and report back to me. I will invent a questionnaire.

Noreen, Nermal is the most awesomest name for a mew mew ever. Liz, we are not going to talk about oozing anymore. Ew. Amy, I think pea soup green is a great color. Em, why aren't we watching Deep Blue Sea?

EXTREEEEEEEEEEME

I have not posted in a little bit and normally I would apologize to those of you who care, but I sense that only Liz really seems to care. In fact, she makes me feel downright guilty sometimes, but right now she's so focused on the LSAT that it appears that I have gone by the wayside. *sob* On the other hand, I can now post at my leisure. Take THAT, friends!!! Wait...

Anyway, I have officially started working at the Perkins Center for Deaf/Blind Children. This means that they are deaf AND blind, which must SUCK. On the other hand, they're super cute so they have that working for them. It's all for the better that I don't know sign language, or I would teach them key ways to get around in the world, like how to sucker your parents into buying you stuff and how to look so amazingly adorable that no one can resist your requests, etc. I can't wait to corrupt my own children someday. This reminds me of the time when I turned 21 and I was super excited cause I could start buying alcohol for minors. This didn't really pan out since I wasn't an elementary school teacher or anything, so instead I bought my parents wine n' stuff with Daddy's hard earned money, which was almost as satisfying. I also wanted to buy cigarettes for an angsty 14 year old or something when I turned 18 but I forgot and instead I called a psychic hotline and was told that my husband beat me. I was surprised since I wasn't married, which I told the girl about 20 times. Boy they sure are smart. THEN when I was in a play in college I had to buy cigarettes for a part and I was very excited because I had never purchased any before. I even smoked about 1/4th of one and tried to act cool because my life long dream is to be in an after school special, but a) it hurt my eyeballs and b) I thought I was going to set something on fire so I stamped it out, threw it in a puddle and waited for it to rain to make sure nothing went wrong. I CAN be a bad influence, I just need practice.

At any rate, the actual point of this post is to talk about my newfound interest in Animal Planet. I've always kind of enjoyed the channel because they inevitably show kittens falling all over each other, but I recently found a show called EXTREME Animals that more or less chooses a theme and goes with it. Like EXTREME Animal baby making, or whatever they called it. Bunnies were only #6 on the list (there's always a top 10 or something), and in the top 5 was a spider that is being eaten by his mate while he's getting her preggers (that is dedication, but not so surprising either), a frog that gives birth to its babies OUT OF ITS BACK, a tapeworm (it was #1 but I couldn't watch cause it's gross), and, my personal favorite, the armadillo, which can delay pregnancy up to *3 years*. 3 freaking years that the lady armadillo can wait until she springs it on some long lost boyfriend. Nice. I also saw a different EXTREME Animals that was "Odd Couples". They showed a bunch of weird stuff, though common in the animal world, like a frog and a spider that are best friends and a shark that has a parasite attached to its eye (mmmm eyeball juice), but there was an adorable segment that showed a grizzly bear that had made friends with a kitty. Apparently, one day the kitty pranced up to the giant pile of possible kitty meat that the bear was munching on in a state park and started to snarf some of the bear's meal. Instead of eating the kitty, the bear decided it needed a pet. So the little mew now sleeps under the bear's chin and follows it around and generally is snuggletastic and in return the bear gets to learn responsibility and doesn't eat it. Nature sure is swell. On the top 10 countdown of all time, the number 1 most EXTREME animal was some sort of miscroscopic bug. I was displeased.

EXTREEEEEEEEME!!!

K.

Trekkie part 4

So this past week was just chock full of filing, filing, and more filing. I got back from home on Tuesday, had Wednesday to workout n' stuff, and then scampered back to HLS on Thursday and Friday. Now, I presently work part time in two different jobs. I work for HLS still as a general office assistant and I am going to start working at the Perkins School for the Blind on Tuesday. It's basically 5 hours 2 days a week, which is not ideal since I'd really rather work the *whole* week and stop having my parents pay for groceries, but I'll take what I can get. Turns out I'm not the only one that thinks getting a job in Boston is hard. Moving on, so now I only work 2 days at HLS, this past Thursday and Friday and the Monday and Tuesday preceeding that. So I've been out of the office for about a week. I return on Thursday and there must be over 1,000 applications for me to file. Just sitting there in alphabetical piles. Not all one alphabet, mind you, but maybe 15 different 100 count ones. At least 100. *sigh* Not that I expected anyone to do any of it, since I suspect that when they DO have the time to file, they just push papers around looking like they're doing something. Mind you, I definitely don't blame them and it's a little hypocritical for me to complain since this is what I signed up for, but YIKES.

Anywhom, Friday was also a red-letter day. Oliver came to pick me up from work so that we could go have lunch together, which we manage to do once a week more or less. As he approached me from 50 ft away on the Law School campus, I gleefully pointed and yelled out "Muuuuuuuuuurse!!!!" in the most sing-songy voice I can manage. Then we proceeded to go to one of my favorite lunch spots, not only for its high quality food but also cheap nature, Campo di Fiori in the Square. I love that place. So awesome. And ruined forever. Of course Trekkie was there. Why would he eat anywhere else? Millions of places to eat in the Square and he happens to be getting his food TO GO at the same time I waltz in with Oliver. I stop dead about 15 ft away and say in a strangled voice to Ov, "Arghhhhh!!! Ponytail!!!!!!" Oliver moves his murse aside to put his arm around me in a most cavalier and boyfriend-like fashion, considering he hates it when I tell him he has a murse. Murse!

Anyway, we siddle up to the window, and I specifically refuse to look anywhere but at the nice Brazilian lady gathering my iced tea together, but that doesn't last very long since Trekkie has to retrieve his food about 10 inches from where I'm standing. I need to have a discussion with my parents about teaching me in my childhood not to be rude. And I'm going to preface my interaction with the Trekkie with an explanation of my mood. I was tired. Hella tired. I had filed for 2 days straight and it really wasn't getting anymore interesting. My break consisted of entering data in Excel because I was that heinously bored. I was not in the correct mood to have an awkward conversation. So I didn't:

"Hey, Meg!"
"Hi."
*awkward pause*
"I see you have a sandwich."
"Yeah it's one of two cheapest places I can eat in the Square."
".... Okay."
"Yeah I like it."
"..."
*30 seconds of awkward silence*
"Oliver and I are going to eat here. I see you have food to go."
"Yeah I have errands."
"...."
"See you on the walk home."
"What?"

HELLO CREEPY!!!! See you on the walk home?!??! See you as I watch you sleep from outside your bedroom window wearing nothing but a trashbag, a tophat, and some socks??? Even Oliver, who admits himself that he's not the most perceptive chap on the block, said it was the most awkward social interaction he has ever been privy to. So now I have proof from a friend that I'm totally right about this guy and, additionally, that I have the worst luck possible. Literally, the absolute worst.

In another news, many of my out-of-town college friends are coming into town this weekend to see the Brahms Requiem. I'm really excited and not very happy at the same time. I began to get the vibe a long time ago that I didn't particularly gel at the larger group social gatherings, although people have been perfectly nice about it. I would say that it's my own insecurities rearing their ugly heads, but too many things have been brought to my attention at one point or another of how I've messed up. My immediate reaction is to not leave my apartment this weekend except for the concert, which you would have to use tasers to keep me away from. Hooray for low self-esteem! *cough* We shall see about that whole going out thing. Mayhap a Deep Blue Sea marathon? Honestly, do super intelligent sharks ever get old? I think not. Does playing fetch with Kitty and my half eaten necklace? Yes.

I so very didn't want to exercise today

But I hads me an assppointment, so I went. I arrive at noonish and notice that my trainer is cheating on me with some dude who is not even half as adorable as I am in my stripey yoga pants. Can't he coordinate?? At any rate, the first thing out of Babs's mouth is "You're killing me". I got the time wrong. Again. My response was "Best. Client. Ever." To which he miggled, or man-giggled for those who can't follow the lingo. Anyway, Emily showed up and after talking and not working out, we observed some dude who lifts a couple of reps, moves on to a new machine, then reads his newspaper for, oh say, 10 minutes. After 25 minutes of weight lifting wherein I did more reps than he probably does in a *year*, he began to make phone calls on his cellphone. Which leads me to ponder, WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING?!?! You pay for a membership to go to a gym and then read the Sunday paper and do a little business. Wow. Em was horrified when she learned that her last machine she had to use was the very same one he had set up shop on about 15 minutes prior. She siddled over and asked if she could, "Slide into his routine". Maybe there's time in between the financial section and sports. Emily also listens to reggae when she lifts weights and, apparently, her ability to focus on exercising is entirely dependent on what's playing on her ipod. Too slow and she can't workout. So cute.

Also, I forgot to write about my guilty pleasure whilst I was home this weekend. On Sunday night they were showing America's Top 40 Live with Ryan Seacrest, who probably dies a little inside each day from being such a tool. Of course I watched it. I'm fascinated by Justin McCartney and his mismatched eyebrows and actual hair. Does he color them? Are they just filled in by an overzealous makeup artist? The world may never know. At any rate, turns out that both he and Hoobastank SUCK live. Honestly. They have probably sung their popular song about 70 MILLION times and they still blow. Wow. Learn to sing your 5 notes in tune, guys. Not that complicated. And Akon, my heart of hearts, also had a little performance. I am seriously the only person I know who likes his song and I'm smitten. He came onstage in his little button-up blue shirt and his little pair of jeans and he held hands with people in the audience and was generally adorable and seemed very down to earth. He will have my babies. Or something like that.

Anyway, two last things and then I have to skeedaddle because my cat is caught in the hamper again. Oh, Kitty. You shall never learn. First of all, yet another scary scary website from my brother: http://www.wayofthemaster.com/. Go to the highspeed version. Growing Pants, anyone? *Yikes*. Secondly, when I arrived home last night, I walked in the kitchen and there was an unopened can of catfood in Mew's bowl. Apparently Richard is trying to train her to open cans. He says it was a joke, but I know from other sources that he had his own little struggle with opening the catfood. Nice.

Bloggity blog blog

So this weekend I saw a clip on the Daily Show that basically said Harvard was using money for maroon blazers and Lord Fauntleroy training. Awesome. And I'm going to go ahead and warn everyone who reads this that this particular "episode" is going to be a little more rehashing as I attempt to remember what made my brief stay in Dallas interesting. Em says she's interested, but I'm pretty sure she's just being nice. Anywomb, I'm going to try to go about this backward since I remember things best that way.

First of all, my Aunt Pat and my Great-aunt Harriet were in town this weekend, which I did not anticipate. Harriet is hilarious but I'm not sure she means to be. Just the other day she picked up a huge gray cat that my parents own that tends to bite off faces and showed us triumphantly through the window as he struggled in vain to be free. Both Pat and Harriet left today, which was a shame since I don't see them as often as I'd like. I also had a doctor's appointment today to which a certain friend said, "Yeah I need to go see the doctor so's she can dig around in my hoohaw." Really? 'Dig around'? Really? I suggest maybe 'prod' or 'scavenge' would be a better word. But not 'dig around'. At any rate, I won't go into any details, but suffice to say that with a nurse and the doctor, a routine checkup becomes somewhat of a crowd. I'm really more of a one-on-one person. Other than that I just worked out today with my mother's trainer Brent. He giggled about the trekkie story. Seriously, giggled. I also taught my father the word "fugly" today. I feel as if I've accomplished something.

Sooooooo over the weekend my brother, Noreen, and I all went to the Galleria and ate at this amazing sandwich place called Which Wich where they toast the sandwich for, oh say, FOREVER. It was hella worth it though. And the two of them tossed a bouncy ball at me when I was in the dressing room at Old Navy. Mature. On Saturday I gots my roots dyed the same color. I know, I know, after all of that thought and I look the freaking same. Lame. But I *do* have highlights for that summer sassiness we all want so much. Besides yet again having the best meal of my life at the Olive Garden, I also saw The Amityville Horror. Big. Mistake. First of all, I have seen the original. It's a lot of James Brolin and Margo Kidder running around before she went crazy. Nothing happens. There's kind of a reference to a hell hole at the end, the walls bleed, blah blah blah, and everyone escapes. Anticlimactic. Unfortunately, this one was updated to the times with hella creepy ghosts, things moving, a dog dying, and the ubiquitous Indian burial ground. I mean, at least they gave a reason for the house being haunted, but honestly, really guys? For the remainder of the evening I warned people about the Indian burial ground next to Bath and Body Works in the mall and in the backseat of my car. I know that when I torture Native American tribes in the trunk of my mom's Acura, I tend to make sure that I desecrate their remains before getting rid of them and then promptly building a house in the backseat where there's no seat warmers.

Anyway, Friday was my reunion, which was fun and awkward all at the same time. My outfit was perfect and I spat upon all of the other people there who were not dressed as pseudo trendy as I was. Cause, you know, you can't look like you're trying too hard. Yeah.... AND we saw Kung-fu Hustle, THE BEST MOVIE OF ALL TIME that night. Seriously, it almost beats out my love for Deep Blue Sea, though nothing will take the place of intelligent sharks that can turn on ovens and change sizes. Beautiful. Thursday was uneventful except that my mom and I went to a panel of speakers from my high school and since she's 5'4", she managed to get plastered on something in between 2 and 4 glasses of wine that night. I only saw her toss back 2, but who knows what she was doing when I wasn't paying attention? It led to awesome moments like when she turned to me in the silent auditorium when a speaker was answering a question and said things like "That's just like you, Sweetpea!!!" "Shhhhhh!!! Arghhhhhhhh... What's the matter with you?!?!?!"

I'll miss my family, especially when the new puppy poos in my bathroom TWICE IN ONE DAY. Noone in this freaking house is a disciplinarian.