Sunday, February 28, 2010
It's been weird breaking my blogging streak... I got rather used to posting something every day. It was pretty productive of me, even if it was a bit of a time suck. I suppose it's better to dedicate some of that effort towards my novel... but alas. (It looks like the ellipsis take over when I'm lacking sleep.)

I arrived in Seattle on time, even though my plane left Phoenix 45 minutes late. I don't know how planes work. Honestly. It blows my mind. I suppose there's not a speed limit up there, but still. Terrifying. A giant hunk of metal magically hurdling through the sky at hundreds of miles per hour. Bring me rum.

This is Wizardry.

Boyfriend met me at the airport, and the PDA started there at baggage claim. Hooooraaaaay. I told him a few days ago that when I missed him hard, it was like being thirsty. Which is appropriate, given the face that kissing him and having his arms around me after being away from him for weeks feels like a cold glass of water when you're very, very thirsty.

But enough with the mushy stuff. We were both exhausted, and hungry, as neither of us had really gotten any food or sleep in the 24 hours leading up to my arrival. We checked into the hotel, and promptly sought out food. The hotel we usually stay in has roughly two bazillion restaurants nearby, but we settled on a place we hadn't tried yet. Bully for us! Especially since we're creatures of habit. Two spicy, delicious pulled pork sandwiches later, we were back at the hotel, deciding what time to set the alarm for so we knew how much nap we could fit in before Boyfriend had to go to work.

Work was probably the hardest part of the weekend. I got six lovely hours with him, and then BAM! Eight hours of him being away. He called it an appetizer. I told him I wanted to main course. That made me hungry, so I watched Food Network while I ate a peanut butter and banana sandwich. When he finally got back from work, I made a quite spectacular dinner, considering my tools and budget were rather limited (one sauce pan, one skillet, two burners, one Ikea steak knife, no cooking utensils).

Friday night was the first show his band had this weekend. It's at a little bar called Tiger Lounge, and the building totally used to be an old house. There are pinball machines in the basement, and the bar is in the back room. The front rooms have been opened up into one large room with tables and chairs for the pub grub they serve. There's a stage in one corner, zebra print covered speakers, and local art on the walls. It has a local bar/pub/everybody-knows-your-name feel to it. I love it.

The guys were playing second in a show of four bands, so we parked at the bar until it was time to play. Boyfriend got two free drinks since he was playing, so got me a drink with one of his tickets. As we were sipping the finest of the cheap beers, two friendly acquaintances from my last trip recognized me and came up. I got hugs. I felt accomplished. I'd technically lived in Seattle for only a week (and even then, my residency is very loosely defined) and I was getting hugs from two facebook friends.

They're fun to talk to, and fun to be at shows with, since they appreciate live music like I do. They, however, get into it a little more than I do. Maybe because I'm a musician myself, I am a bit of a snob when it comes to watching other bands. These two make me a little sad though, because I know what they do every weekend is what they've been doing since they were teenagers. They're like career band aids. They love a few different bands, and follow them somewhat faithfully. For some reason though, it just rings hollow to me. I don't really know how to go about getting to know them, or if I even want to. Remember that movie with Goldie Hawn and Susan Sarandon, about the groupies that were all grown up? Yeah, most people don't. But I did see it. That's what these women reminded me of. Fun to be around, but still a warning.

I was one of seven people that saw this movie.

After the show the bartender (who reminds me a great deal of my favorite cousin) started giving me free drinks. I started getting free drinks before the guys did, so it was funny. I only had two or three beers, but she gave me some sort of pineapple juice and flavored vodka drink, as well as a shot of whiskey later in the night. I would have been just fine with the whiskey and beer, but the vodka... oh, the vodka. For those of you that don't know me in person, Vodka is my arch nemesis. Vodka lives in an ice castle (very much like the Fortress of Solitude) and plots ways to thwart me. Vodka watches me on monitors and bugs my phone calls, so it can show up on nights I want to have a nice, easy, fun time with my friends. And then he strikes. He swoops in, sneaks some vodka into my stomach, and then laughs maniacally as he poisons me with his subtle strength and ruins my night. Damn you, Vodka! Someday I will exact my revenge!

You bastard.

After the show Boyfriend and I hit Jack in the Box on the way back to the hotel. Sourdough Jacks. Mmmm... how I've missed them living in Tulsa. Then we did lots of things that were amazing and mind blowing and not appropriate to describe in detail, considering half of my followers are related to me. But it was awesome. And we had to sleep for ten hours afterwards.

Saturday we were supposed to meet one of my cousins for sushi, but he got shipped to San Diego for the weekend at the last minute. We'd been looking forward to sushi all week though, so we went to Freemont and loaded up. Spider Rolls, god. So, so tasty. Then he walked me around the neighborhood and showed me the Troll under the bridge. It was spectacular. Someday I wanted something that terrifying/awesome in my yard. The street you have to walk up to get to it is even called 'Troll Ave'. I poked around it for a few minutes, admiring it's general awesomeness and silently scolding myself for forgetting my camera. Then Boyfriend and I kissed for a few minutes in front of the troll. It was spectacular. It was also windy and I had my hair down, so any onlookers would have only seen two Muppets standing quite close to one another, and none of the offensive smooching.

Since I forgot my camera, I drew you a picture.

Walking back down the hill to get back to the car was magical. It was a crisp night, but not too cold. And clear, which is unusual for Seattle (in my limited experience). The stars were visible, and coming down the hill you could clearly see the water and the homes on the other side. It was all trees and twinkling lights and the moon and stars reflected off the water. And I had a boy that's crazy in love with me holding my hand. All in all, the moment was pretty serene. And then we started talking about Zombies. It's what we do.

Sunday was their tour kick off show at a place called The Comet. Boyfriend and I had to park about half a mile away (the closest spot we could find) and hike. Which is pretty much what we had to do the other two times they played at The Comet while I was out there. The show went really well (in fact, a photographer came out just to see the guys and shoot them, then left right after they played) and we sold lots of merch. I came to a rather sad realization, and that's that I don't quite fit in with the crowd that comes to Boyfriend's shows. It's fairly obvious that I'm a goody goody. Everyone there was wearing black, and the only hints of color were red accents on guys' shirts and girls' plaid accessories. I, however, was wearing a bright red shirt, a normal shade of blue jeans (instead of black or very dark blue) and had my hair in pigtails. In my defense, the pigtails were there because of the amount of frizz present that day. Braids were the only way to tame them. But still. I felt like friggin' Pollyanna at a Black Mass.

I'm sure it looked something like this.

Afterwards we got our standard post show meal of hot dogs with cream cheese (so good, trust me!), then headed back to the hotel to enjoy a bed and warmth and indoor plumbing for the last few days we were guaranteed to have it.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
I suppose this blog really needs to start off last night.

When I went downstairs The Bestest and I stayed up for two hours giggling before sleep finally claimed us. I slept rather restlessly, and woke up four hours later to check my bags one more time, put on my face paint and get dressed. When everything was all set I serenaded The Bestest with the chorus of "His Cheeseburger", gave her one last hug, and headed upstairs.

My mom had a dentist appointment at 8:00, and my flight left at 8:50. My brother had to take me to the airport because my dad had to drive mom. So our goodbyes were at the house, rather than the airport. Probably for the best, since I was wearing liquid eyeliner and it could have turned ugly very quickly.

Oh, and the thing I forgot? To print off my boarding pass. So on a plane that holds 137 passengers, I was #145.

I grabbed a bagel and a cup of coffee once I was through security, and hurried to my gate. It was packed. I began to freak out a bit at this point, since I knew that I might be bumped. The next flight out to Seattle would have put me there at 8:00, and Boyfriend has to be at work at 10:00. This would have given us the car ride and maybe a ten minute make out session, if traffic allowed. No bueno. And it may seem like silly motivation when I could have made $350ish in Southwest credits (which would have paid for our airfare for our November trip to OK) I didn't want to give up those extra five hours. So Darling, know that time with you is worth more than $70 an hour.

Luckily, there were enough people that volunteered to be bumped, and I had no problem getting on the plane. I got a middle seat between an old lady and a woman with a baby, but at least I was on the plane.

So here I am now, at Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix, waiting out the hour and a half between my flights. From here I'll go to Salt Lake, before heading on to Seattle. It feels weird to be in my home town, in an airpory I know so well. Strangely, Phoenix doesn't really seem like home anymore. Tulsa does.

Right now, I'm facebook chatting with Boyfriend, who's inexplicably awake. Actually, it's pretty easy to explain. I couldn't sleep well last night either. I feel like a six year old on Christmas Eve.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Today was my last day in Tulsa.

Last visit with my student, which was fabulously fun. Last time getting my hair done (cause I totally won't be able to afford it for a few years.) Last time hanging out and eating junk food with my brothers. Last time meeting my friends for burgers and pints. Last sleepover with The Bestest.

My day started with a stop at the Post Office and a favorite pizza by the slice joint. A few days ago I went through my 4,000+ iTunes library and compiled all of the 10 year old friendly dance tunes I had in there. I ended up with a 6 hour playlist. We put it on shuffle, ate greasy pizza, addressed and stamped envelopes to each other, and danced around like maniacs. It was phenomenal.

When I arrived home, my brothers and I watched GhostBusters, and had the giantest, most epic milkshakes ever. Seriously. It was a 44oz. And I drank it in twenty minutes. I was regretting it by the time Sigourney Weaver's all floaty and slutty, but great googily moogily was is delicious. Chunks of fresh strawberries and creamy vanilla ice cream. Mmmmm...

After the movie I went and had my friend do my hair. She's ridiculously talented and gives me a pretty ridiculous discount. And we geek it up with Harry Potter and Zombie talk for most of the time. I got my first professional color (a little less Strawberry Blonde, a little bit closer to my natural sandy) with high lights and low lights, and an ultra-fabulous under color. I have no idea what it's technically called. But I call it under color. And then my inner third grader laughs cause it makes me think of 'underwear'. After it was all washed and dried, she asked if she could flat iron my hair. I told her she'd been playing with my hair for two hours, but if she wanted more, she was welcome. So she flat ironed my hair. It's probably the tamest and straightest it will ever be in my entire life. I am loving every moment of it, and hoping I can stretch it out for two or three days of straight, tamey, non-voluminous goodness.

I ran home and finished my last minute packing, checking and rechecking my list. I have everything I put on it (and I've been adding to this list since September) but I still feel like I'm forgetting something. Since the geeky hairdresser did such a good job with my hair, I decided to dress up after all. Granted, dressing up for me means jeans and gratuitous cleavage. And cute heels. The Bestest and I put on our make up together, while listening to The Fratellis with the volume all the way up. Dancing around the bathroom in our underwear between eyeliner applications.

We got to the pub, and The Bestest informed me that she had invited almost all of our coworkers via mass text. I was expecting only about ten people to show up. We requested a table for twenty, but had to get more chairs as everyone arrived. I knew that I was well liked at work, but I didn't realize people actually liked me. It's one thing to get along with everyone you work with, but another to spend time socializing together outside of work. I would occasionally head out for a drink if a big group was going, but there was really only three or four people I would spend time outside of work with. So to have twenty people show up to my impromptu going away party was incredible. I personally consider myself to be an antisocial bore. The kind of girl that hides behind books and words. Observing but rarely participating. I've said it before, but it bears repeating; I don't know how I got so lucky to have so many awesome friends.

When the pub crowd started to diminish about midnight, I got one last round of hugs from everyone and the promises to keep up with Facebook. The Bestest and I giggled all the way home, taking goofy pictures in the car and laughing about the most banal subjects. Hot cocoa for the Bestest, Coffee for me, and one last Tim Tam Slam before I left.

And now I am at the end of my last day. My mother is the last one awake, and it feels strange to be heading down into my apartment one last time while she's still up. But I need to go downstairs and check over my bags and lists one more time, and see if I can figure out what I've forgotten.

I'm sure I'll remember in Seattle.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Today was spent doing the last minute, hectic cleaning and errand running that usually occupy the day before I leave. Yes, I leave Thursday, not tomorrow. But tomorrow will be spent visiting my student one last time, getting my hair done and then running around wondering what it is I've forgotten. Even with my infamous to-do lists, I always feel like I've forgotten something. Last time what I forgot was the grocery list. Not a big deal, but still. I had forgetten something.

Tonight, however, was the last time I made dinner for my family, and probably the last time I'll make a meal for more than two people for a few months. I love cooking and baking, so to only cook for two people will be a bit of a challenge.

My family is made up of foodies. We use pretty much any excuse we can to make a nice, elaborate meal. This morning (technically early afternoon) when I came upstairs into the house, my dad was in the kitchen. The first thing he asked me was, "Hey, Kiddo. What do you want for dinner tonight? It's probably going to be your last home cooked meal for a while."

It struck me then that it was the last time I'd have dinner with my whole family before I moved out. Sure, Boyfriend and I will be back for a few weeks after tour, and a few weeks in the fall, but it won't be the same. I'll be visiting. So I started thinking about what I wanted to have for dinner, and the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to cook.

The first thing that came to mind was homemade creamed corn. It's something my dad came up with years and years ago, since I loved it, and the family's general consensus was the canned creamed corn was shit. I learned how to make it years and years ago, and it's still one of my favorite things. I mean, it's gravy with corn in it. It doesn't get much better than that.

Then I thought about other sides, I mean, it was a natural progression. Since I was coming to the conclusion that I wanted to make dinner, I've been wanting to make garlic mashed potatoes for a while now. Then I realized how heavy that would be. Rich potatoes, gravy with another starch in it... so needed something green. Grilled asparagus... Grilled zucchini... yessss.

The meat was the last thing. Boyfriend and I both love beef, so that's the usual meat portion of our meals. When I voiced this to my dad (I have a habit of thinking out loud) he offered pork chops with applesauce stuffing. We'd had that a little less than two weeks ago, so I opted out of it. Then I thought of chicken. I'd only made chicken once since I'd gotten back from Seattle, and there was a recipe that had been floating around in my head for a honey mustard chicken.

So yes, I made a ton of scrumdiddlyupmptious food. And we all gorged. It was marvelous.

We watched American Idol, played armchair quarterback and bullied the girls that weren't as good as Angela Martin. Then we put on one of our favorite food porn movies. You know, those movies about restaurants or chefs that show gloriously lit shots of the food being prepared and served, and the actors moaning and rolling their eyes back into their heads when they take the first bite. Yeah. That's the kind of movie we watched. And the kind of dinner we ate. There would be times when everyone would be talking, and suddenly, silence would fall. You could maybe hear the sound of chewing.

Glorious, marvelous night.
Monday, February 22, 2010
No blog today.

I did this instead.

And then this.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Today has been a strange day. Not so much bad, just not great. Or productive. I feel kind of emotionally hung over. Not really physically hung over in an 'I need lots of water, coffee and greasy food' kind of way. More like an, 'I need a hug and to be told I'm pretty even though my eyes are nearly swollen shut and my nose is three times its normal size.'

I simultaneously felt tired and restless, and didn't feel motivated to do much at all. Which, I'm sure, is entirely due to the emotional reeming I accidentally put Boyfriend and myself through. Remember how I mentioned in one of my earliest blogs that I have a tendency to bottle all of my insecurities? All my emotional jiggly bits? They all kind of came flooding out. Thanks, Sailor Jerry. You bastard.

So today I hung out in my pajamas - all day. And had Girl Scout Thin Mint ice cream for breakfast. Hell. Yes.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
So last night I did something which has become a bit of a tradition with my friends and I. It started a few years ago with the Gay Best Friend and I sneaking a small bottle of vodka into the Lindsey Lohan movie "I Know Who Killed Me."

Last year, the Bestest and I took my mother to see Twilight, as she couldn't wrap her mind around how terrible watching Vampires play baseball was. Also, she didn't believe how Kristen Stewart vomits up her words until she actually saw it. Needless to say, she spent a good portion of the movie trying to stifle her laughs, so not to disturb the 14 year olds who were actually enjoying the movie. I however, did not. I laughed and mocked openly.

Last night we went to see New Moon, Sailor Jerry successfully hidden in my purse. Honestly, it's the only thing that got me through that movie. Twenty minutes in, all we had seen was Deadward and Mary Sue trying desperately to have some on screen chemistry and failing. Oh, and Jacob 'I'm the only decent character in this series' Black trying to smile and flirt his way into the plot. By the time we get to Bella's birthday party, we've been reminded every thirty seconds that Bella is now 18, and therefore older than Edward. And that is bad. Cause women should be inferior to the men in their lives in every possible way, right Stephenie Meyer?

I know it's bad form for aspiring writers to publicly criticize an established writer. I guess what is keeping me safe is that Meyer is not a writer. She's some dime a dozen romance novel reader who went to school to get her MRS degree, and decided to study literature. Then, suddenly she decides to write a book after having a dirty dream about a 17 year old vampire. She doesn't even use the word 'chagrin' correctly, though it's used at least once a chapter. The only reason she got an agent and a publisher so quickly is because they realized what a gold mine they had. They could sell this piece of nonsensical fluff to tweenage girls and voila, easy money. She's the Britney Spears of the publishing industry. I could go on and on about my loathing of Stephenie Meyer, but I won't. I'll leave it to one little paragraph and walk away.

My favorite moment of the movie, however, came when the rum had just made my head start to spin. Bella encounters the werewolves, and runs to her father to warn him that it's not a bear killing hikers. In her painfully strained way of barfing out her lines, Kristen Stewart manages to put forward her most emotion to get out, "They are not bears!"

Clearly, not bears.

For some reason (probably alcohol induced) I found this to be the funniest part of the movie. Other than the horrible CGI. I mean, really, could they have rushed this movie any faster? I've since been running around randomly saying, "They are not bears!" and laughing like a maniac.

The Bestest and I had a great time making fun of the terrible movie, the terrible story, and the terrible acting. But we did spend a good deal of the movie talking and having entirely too much fun. At one point, she leaned over and said, "One of the many reasons I love you is because you ignore my stutter."

I responded with, "That's because you ignore mine, too!"

We both laughed and she said, "Oh, I love us! Let's touch foreheads!" And we did. And we giggled.

And to round out this horribly disjointed blog, I'll close with some of my funnier text messages, and leave out most of the part of the night where I turned into a weeping, insecure shithead and accused Boyfriend of not really loving me. (Yeah, I'm that kind of obnoxious, ridiculous drunk.)

Me: This is a 2fer. I can make fun of mormonns and shitty bampires!
BF: Bampires!? You adorable lush!

My phone has a qwerty keyboard, which I'm still trying to get used to, even though I've had this phone for almost a year. And it makes for some mighty funny drunk typos. My mother, the Bestest and I were discussing the sort of murder Stephenie Meyer deserves to have acted upon her. We decided exsanguination would only be appropriate. And my mother came up with the brilliant idea that it should be by paper cut. One paper cut per page that she's had published.

Me: My teeth are numb, usy can we still stop be by suffer.
Me: One page by paper cut.
BF: What? I have no idea what those mean.
Me: I cant read englisjh!!!!

The other day, Boyfriend posted a link to a comic on my facebook. He just sent it to me because we both enjoy webcomics, but the website had a most serendipitous update between when he sent it and when I read it. It turned out to be an e-card marriage proposal. When I asked Boyfriend if he sent it as a humorous way to tell me he loved me, or if he was actually proposing, (We've discussed the 'somedays' of getting married and raising kids and being old together) he said the comic hadn't updated when he sent it to me, but he was very glad it had. That made me smile.

The closer I get to leaving the nest, the more I'm freaking out. I suppose it's natural, as this is a big step, not only for me as a person, but for our relationship. And we're ridiculously happy now, but we had to travel a very bumpy road to get here. Last night was a drunken flood of insecurities, and he weathered it like a champ (though, as the Bestest said last night, with everything he's put me through in the past, he's got a few years of putting up with me being an insecure bitch before we're close to breaking even.) Still, I don't like being a whiner, and I was a bit mean to him. However, after almost two hours on the phone with him, we sent a few goodnight texts back and forth. Primarily mushy stuff, but this one is funny. Mostly because of the Seussical ring it has to it.

Me: Also... I'm still drunk so drunk i will say, i want you to real propose someday. No comics. With a ring. Not an expensive one. Like, $15 sterling silver one.
BF: Trust me, I'll do something better than a comic.
Me: =) you've no idea that how happy makes me!!!!
BF: I plan on devoting a whole lot of my future to that end!

Good job, Darling, Gold Star.
Friday, February 19, 2010
When I watch TV, I like to make an event out of it. When I was a teenager, Tuesday was vampire night. We watched Buffy and ate steak with garlic toast. I also like themed parties and wearing costumes for absolutely no reason except that I want to. There's something liberating in behaving spontaneously.

There's also something quite enjoyable about doing something so counterproductive that it becomes satirical. Like what I do on Tuesdays now. I've been watching Biggest Loser since it premiered, but have been fanatical (watch it every week, DVRing if necessary) about it since Season 4. I also have the biggest girl crush on Jillian Michaels. That has nothing to do with this blog, but it's totally true.

I even tried out for the Biggest Loser with my brother. We made it past the first audition and got called back, only to be told we weren't really fat enough. Which I guess is a compliment...? Ever since then, I've discovered how much fun it is to eat ridiculously unhealthy food while watching the fatties cry and fall down. Seriously. Try it next Tuesday. Grab a carton of ice cream, a spoon, and your remote control. You will enjoy the show ten times more.

Today, I watched my DVRed Project Runway... while eating Chinese take-out, straight from the carton. Oh, delicious contradiction.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
One week, can you believe it? I move away in one week to live with my fella and tour with his band as their merch girl/band aide/webmistress. I start my adventure in one week!
That means I also leave behind my parents and younger brothers. My younger brothers are pretty cool people, and I'm sure any big sister mentoring they need they can get via text and Facebook. My parents I worry about, though. They're average, middle aged, overweight Americans. Which means they are going to drop dead of diabetes or colon cancer or restless leg syndrome or ED or something, any goddamn minute.

You know, in all of my favorite fantasy stories, when the main character starts their adventure, it's all suddenlike and 'Surprise! Adventure! Wham!' But I got a count down to mine. Although, I suppose the whole getting-back-together-Jane-Austen-happy-ending thing was a bit out of the blue. My first five years with the boyfriend were a Jane Austen novel, which fades away into the ending when the couple is finally happily together. So I guess now I'm starting... a Meg Cabot novel? A Hunter S. Thompson novel? A Kurt Vonnegut novel? Who knows.

All I know is, with everything I have to do in the next week, my life would be waaay easier if it looked like this;

If all it took to get magical woodland creatures to pack all my shit and clean my apartment was letting them see a little peek up my skirt, I would totally do it.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Blog's a little late today. The Bestest and my Oklahomo came over after they got off work. (He's that ridiculously happy sort of gay guy. Being near him lifts your spirits, even if you were having a good day anyway. Always willing to listen, to cheer you up, to make you smile. He's sweetness personified.) We went and grabbed $3 burgers from our favorite pub downtown, and then, on a whim, went and got ice cream. When we came back to my apartment we popped popcorn, smoked hookah and watched 'Juno.' Then had a sleep over. It was like being 12 years old again, but with sex stories being traded and the word 'fuck' being used correctly.

Plenty of fun and funny things happened to me today, but most of them were the type of funnies that exist between close friends. If I tried to explain them, by the time I got around to the entertaining part, it wouldn't be funny anymore.

So instead I will leave you with something funny. Boyfriend and I have yet to actually argue. We've had some serious discussions, but we've so far resolved all of our conflicts with rationality and a good dose of humor. That doesn't keep us from teasing each other about the few disagreements or incompatabilities we do have. For example, I once said, 'nip it in the butt', and Captain Correction was quick to counter. I had to explain that I knew it was 'bud' and not 'butt', but that it was something one of my little brothers had said incorrectly as a child, and it had stuck around as one of my family's idioms.

There is one counter argument he can use on me, when it comes to matters of taste, that pretty much ends all of our petty disagreements. So this is the text message discussion we had today:

Don't worry, we use our big boy words, not our fists.

So... the cat's out of the bag. I like Hanson. And he rubs it in my face whenever I make fun of something he likes. Touche, Boyfriend.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Today I broke the news to the little girl I mentor. I was going to do it last Thursday, but I was a turd and told the school's secretary to tell her I was sick. I thought maybe I could postpone it one more day. Unfortunately, they had Friday and Monday off, so today was the first day I could see here again since I acted like this:

Get it?

When I got to the school today, one of the other mentors was already there, so I didn't want to pull out the gift I had for her (a $3 box of chocolates and a Valentine's card) in front of the other student. We're allowed to get them gifts under $10. And, since it's me, I do this about once a month. It might be a Subway picnic, or a Tinkerbell scrunchie. Either way, I'm fairly sure I give her little gifts too often. So instead of getting the bad news out of the way, I had to wait until the last ten minutes to break the news to her. We've been working lately on her US geography, so while we were filling out the states and the capitals, I kept pointing to Seattle and Phoenix, mentioning my recent trips there. I have been on two, two week trips in the last three months, so she's had a little taste of what it's like to not have me visit every week.

While she was eating her lunch and I was trying to remember whether Bismarck was the capital of North or South Dakota, she wandered over and looked in the locket around around my neck, asking me who the pictures were. My Godmother (who was very much like a grandmother to me) passed away in September. I got one last visit with her in July. During one of the quiet, rainy afternoons we spent with her, she pulled me aside from the family, and slowly lead me down the hall to her room. I can still feel the soft frailty of her skin as she held onto my hand and arm to steady her on the walk. When we got there, she picked up an Italian alabaster jewelry box, and handed it to me. We sat on the edge of her bed and she explained each piece she was giving to me. One of those was the locket I wear almost every day. She had it as a teenager, and it has pictures of her parents in there. I've left those pictures in. They're not as important to me as they are to her, but they were important to her, and that's what matters.

I didn't explain this all to her today. Rather than say, they're my Godmother's parents, and since she was my first cousin twice removed, they're my great-great aunt and uncle, I simply said, "They're my grandmother's parents."

"So your..." she rolled her eyes up as she thought for a moment, "Great grandma and grandpa?" She closed the locket, and as she walked back around the little table to her lunch said, "If I ever get a locket, I'm going to put pictures of you and me in it."

And knife. To the heart. Again.

When we finally got some time alone, I pulled the chocolates and the card out of my purse. As I was pulling them out, I said, "I have bad news." Which in retrospect was probably not the best way to do it. I saw on her face a mixture of 'Ooh, presents!' and 'Bad news?'. It must have been a bit like saying "We're going to Disneyland! Cause your mom died and she had a good insurance policy!"

"I love you! I'm leaving."
"I also killed your puppy."

Then I broke the news, "I'm moving away. To Seattle."

"What? Nooo!" she said. (maybe I'm being a little melodramatic with the exclamation point, but she did draw out the 'no.')

"I know," I said, "I'm sorry. But I won't be gone forever." At this point I handed her the card and the chocolates. I explained the visits I had planned for April and May, and promised that we would do our annual spring picnic. I told her we would exchange letters, and I could call her once a week if she'd like. By the end of our hour long lunch meeting, she didn't seem crushed. Thank god. I dropped her off at her classroom, and she hugged me tightly.

I went back out to my car, and though I knew better, totally listened to Taylor Swift's 'The Best Day' and got misty eyed. That's the second time in two weeks this little ten year old girl has indirectly made me cry! Stupid cute little blond countrified adorable shithead! Making me care so much about you! Damn it! And then I realized, yes, I'm going to miss her, but I was feeling the hurt from the wrong way. I was upset because I was leaving. I was upset because I was going to hurt her. I wasn't thinking about the actual hurt she might feel. I was only thinking about myself. I totally suck.

And just as I had this little self-centered epiphany, this line came on;
"God smiles on my little brother,
Inside and out, he's better than I am."
And then I really lost it. Lip quivering, sucky-gaspy air breaths, lost it. While I was driving. Because that made me think of my younger brother, who yes, can be hot headed and selfish sometimes, but he's also very young and for the most part, is probably the best human bean I am privileged to know. And I'm not going to get to hang out with him every day. And my youngest brother, though his presence is a quieter and more subtle, is just as awesome.

So with the combination of guilt-of-wrong-sided guilt over my student, and the realization that I'm done watching my brothers grow up close and personal, kinda sucker punched me today. All while I was running errands. I still had to go into the bank and take care of some paperwork. Then I had to go to the post office. And I'm not a subtle crier. That's one of the reasons I don't cry very often. I turn red. And I swell. It's not pretty.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Weeper.

The cute cry is what happens when I watch Grey's Anatomy. The middle is what I was doing in the car. This never ends well. The third is what I look like the day after I cry. Eyes swollen shut, nose three times its usual size, lips looking like Goldie Hawn's. It's usually easier to say, "Yes, I was in a bar fight."

But I cried like that in the car. Not for very long, though. I had to suck it up and finish my errands. I realized though, as I quickly internalized my feelings and stuffed them into the deep, dark place I store my twisty thinks, that somewhere between 10 and 24 I lost a lot of what makes children awesome. I suppose it's only natural, but I've decided I want to try and get it back. I'm not entirely sure what it is, maybe naivety? Innocence? I hope not. Some of those things you just can't get back. Maybe it's hope. Hope that great things will stay great, and that bad things will pass quickly.

Surely, I haven't lost hope, have I? Wow, this blog just went from contemplative to super depressing. I don't like it anymore. I'm hopeful! I'm childlike in all the best ways! I'm a positive person! I'm happy! Look at this:

There. Now I feel more awesome.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Wow, that went so fast.

Is this how it happened to be that one day, I was 14, in a band and in possession of knowledge of everything, and suddenly I'm 24, writing away and thirsty for knowledge, and moving halfway across the country? Time really does fly. It's ridiculous.

Fortunately, I've accomplished a couple of the things on my list. Unfortunately, I haven't done a lot of those things, and I'm starting to think I may not have time to. Today I started freaking out about getting ready for tour. I need to go buy a good hoodie. One that will not take up too much space, but will keep me warm, so I don't have to bring my bulky coat. I need to clean up my living room and my bedroom, so that it'll be crashable when we're back here in April.

One of my uncles said once that a year crawls by when you're six years old, because it's 1/6th of your life, and it flies when you're thirty, because it's 1/30th. That makes a helluva lotta sense. That also makes me terrified of being fifty. Or eighty. Oh, god.

I need to find and befriend a vampire.

Fuck you Stephenie Meyer, you hack. I'd rather get old and die than sparkle for eternity. Even if it means I have to break a ten year old's heart, clean my apartment, build a website, pack my life up to move, and various other insurmountable activities in the next ten days.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
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Saturday, February 13, 2010
If you are going to be a part of my life, there are three things you should know about me.

1. I blog. You are not safe, you never will be. If you ask me not to blog about you or something pertaining to you, it would be a good idea to bet money on the fact that I will most definitely blog about you. Just ask Boyfriend before he was my boyfriend. He's seen the brutally honest blogging side of me. My words are my weapons, since I no longer punch boys in the face when they cross me. And not just boys, everyone. Although, if you ask me not to blog, and offer your nose up for sacrifice instead... well. We might be able to work something out.

2. I dance. It's not like I grew up taking ballet, tap and jazz (just ballet, actually). I don't choreograph my own dances to artistically express my emotions. No, I use dancing to express just plain ol' emotions. Right there, right when I'm having them. Usually happiness, excitement or anxiety. Or the need to pee. I'm one of those people that is constantly tapping my fingers and feet, so when I have too much emotion I have to vent it somehow. Serious emotions are put into word form. Lighter emotions are put into booty shaking form.

3. I effing love cranberry sauce. No joke. It's ridiculous. Between October and March (Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter) when cranberry sauce is readily available, I load up. Like squirrels and nuts. I gather cans for summer survival. I bought them in bulk at Sam's club this year. Once in high school I took a can of cranberry sauce, a spoon and a can opener for my lunch. When I was three years old, my parents put a can of cranberry sauce out for Thanksgiving. A few minutes later, the dish was empty. My mother put another one out. Minutes after that, the dish was empty. Both parents had put a can out, and so realized that something was amiss. They realized that the cranberry sauce and I were missing at the same time. They found me sitting under the table (thanks formal dinners with long table cloths!) holding the can-shaped deliciousness in my hands, eating and giggling like the anti-oxidant gobbling maniac I am.

My Presscioussss...

So naturally, the latter two are combined with the infamous 'Cranberry Sauce Dance.' Seriously. My family expects it. Sometimes they will see me doing another dance, and say, "Why are you doing the Cranberry Sauce Dance?" and I will have to correct them. You see, everything that makes me happy has a different dance. There's an 'I can't wait to see my boyfriend' dance. There's an 'I'm so excited to see this movie' dance. There's an 'I just got paid' dance. There are at least three different dances celebrating gravy. The other day I discovered the 'Someone I don't know reads, comments and follows my blog!' dance. I like that one. In fact, if I get ten followers I don't know, I'll post a video montage of my various dances.

Now it is time to combine all three of the things you now know about me.

Yesterday my family went out to dinner and the movies. We went to our favorite Chinese buffet. I don't know what it's really called, since we refer to it as 'Tiny Asian Whoville', because of the fountain in front of the restaurant. The fountain looks like a steep, rocky mountain, and has tiny little huts all over it. A few of the huts even have tiny little people. As part of Neapolitan, I've terrorized Tiny Asian Whoville. (Someday I will blog about Neapolitan.)

After dinner we went to see the Percy Jackson movie. Because my brother came straight to the restaurant from work, we took two cars. I was behind my brother's van, and as he drove down an aisle in the parking lot, looking for a space, I followed. Just as he drove past, a car started to back out. So I got the space. It was a good one, too. Center aisle, close to the door. It was awesome. Not very many frozen puddles or patches of ice between the space and the door... it made me happy. So happy I danced.

And my youngest brother said from the back seat, "Did you just do the Cranberry Sauce Dance?"

I was horribly offended. "No!" I exclaimed, sounding horribly offended. "That was the 'I'm having a good day because someone I don't know started following my blog, my belly is full of Chinese food and I just got a good parking space' Dance!"

I have decided to post a little diagram of said dance. Since you're usually sitting in your car when you get a good parking space, you have a rather limited range of motion for your lower half. Wiggle hips back and forth in your seat, just slightly. Most of the dance is done with your upper body. Raise your arms until your upper arm is perpendicular to your torso, then bend your arms at a ninety degree angle. Make fists. Move your arms up and down like pistons. With the hip wiggling and the double fist pumping, there may be a little shoulder wiggling. That's okay. It just shows that you're extra happy. If the dumplings were good at the restaurant, it's perfectly acceptable.

Stick Lori scores 9/10 points, cause she doesn't have boobs.

And so you can understand how (justifiably) appalled I was that my brother confused it for the renowned Cranberry Sauce Dance, I will explain it here. The difficulty level is infinitely higher for this dance. If there was a point system for my dancing, the above dance would be 10. For the CSD, it would be 10 million times penguin-lemurs. You start by bending forward, sticking your booty out behind you. Lower your head, in an attempt to hold on to some dignity by hiding your sheer happiness because you are about to eat Cranberry Sauce. Lots of Cranberry Sauce. Then you move your butt back and forth in a half circle sort of motion. Almost like the Twist, but not the Twist. Also, try to wiggle just your butt, and not your entire body. Next are the shoulders. Depending on what type of Cranberry Sauce you're about to consume (Ocean Spray vs. Not Ocean Spray), your shoulders can either move in a little S-curve (for Not Ocean Spray) or the more difficult figure 8. The arms are probably what confused my brother. Bend your arms at the elbows and make fists, but instead of punching the air, you make little circular motions with your fists. One fist goes clockwise, the other counter-clockwise. The elbows also get in on the action. Move them in and out away from your body. Almost like flapping wings. Almost.

The most difficult part of the CSD is the feet. Your feet are spaced a little more than shoulder width apart, and you bend your knees when you stick your butt out. The feet however, carry on the tradition of left/right opposition that carries through the dance. The left foot keeps the weight on the heel, and moves the toes back and forth like the Mashed Potato. The right foot puts the weight on the ball of the foot, and moves the heel (and sometimes the knee) back and forth, not unlike the Twist. Feel free to switch the roles of the feet, should you celebrate Cranberry Sauce consumption long enough that the right leg grows fatigued.

This is the easy version.
I tried to explain this to my family, but I knew I would become flustered. Instead, I demonstrated it in the lobby, while we were waiting for the theater to be cleaned. When I finished a joyful round of the CSD (even though I would not be eating Cranberry Sauce) I looked up and realized a great many of the fellow movie-goers were watching me. So was the staff.

Oh, bother.
Friday, February 12, 2010
No blog today. I spent too much time doing other stuff like sleeping and eating massive amounts of Chinese food and dancing randomly in the middle of a movie theater lobby.

Instead I will just make you smile. This is what my 82 year old Grandmother's pool looks like:

See something other than Dong. I dare you.

I'm not pulling your leg. Oh, and two of my Aunts live with her. So three older ladies, two little dogs, and dong pool. Seriously, it's like (Jane Austen's Emma x Hilarious) + Porn = Childhood Summer Memories.

Thursday, February 11, 2010
In yesterday's blog I said, "...and kissed me properly. The way I deserve to be kissed." And it made me start reminiscing about the last kiss I had, at the airport. The best kiss I've ever had. The first kiss I ever had. All I've been doing since then is thinking about kissing; how much I love it, how it's pretty much the greatest thing ever, how I won't be kissed for another two weeks. So I thought, "Ah ha! That's what I'll blog about, since I don't want to blog about what's really bothering me today."

The first kiss I remember was when I was three years old. I don't count this, since he was still in diapers. He's my best friend's little brother. He's a year and a half younger than me. I remember the day very plainly. It was one of those rare, early summer days in Arizona. The gutters were full of warm water and perfect for splashing in. We were playing in the rain, splashing and running, and I was carrying a little red umbrella. We sat down on the curb, our toes squishing the muck in the gutter, and we kissed. Someone ran inside and grabbed a camera. That picture was passed around both families. I wonder if it's on facebook yet...

What I would love to consider my first kiss happened in first grade. When I was in preschool, there were two Jeffs in my class. I had a crush on blond Jeff. I don't really remember not-blond Jeff. I was four. Blond Jeff's mom was our teacher, and halfway through the school year, they moved away to Hawaii. I believe it was because his dad was in the Navy. Regardless, blond Jeff became Pineapple Jeff in my mind. Well into my first grade school year, Pineapple Jeff moved back to Arizona. I still remember which house was his on Pepper street. While he was away in Hawaii, Jeff had managed to skip a grade, and was a second grader. I remember he came over to me one day on the uneven bars, and waited for me to finish my turns. He asked if I wanted to go to the swings. At my school, that meant a boy liked you. Especially since he asked me while I was on the bars. The swings were on the other side of the playground, so we walked all the way across the field together. The next day, we met up at lunch recess and played together again. This continued for a week or two, and soon all of our classmates were teasing us. We argued that we weren't boyfriend and girlfriend, but playground politics dictated that we were. One day, while I was playing on the slide, he came over to me with a very determined look on his face. He grabbed me by the wrist and we ran across the football field. He dragged me behind one of the second grade portables, placed his hands firmly on my shoulders, and pressed me against the wall. He kissed me quickly the first time. When I didn't run away, he puckered up his lips again, and put them against mine. I didn't know what to do, but I had seen plenty of movies. So I just held my lips there against his, my eyes clenched and lips pursed, and didn't move. When he pulled away, he looked surprised. He stood there for a moment, then sprinted away. He didn't talk to me for the rest of the week. When he finally did play with me again after lunch on Monday, he told me he was moving away again. I don't know where Pineapple Jeff is now, but I sometimes remember my first cinematic moment, and wonder if he's still as pretty as he was in elementary school. Probably not. If I could remember his last name, I'd track him down, and give him an earful. He would be a lot easier to find on facebook if his name was actually Pineapple Jeff. He helped create my social retardation, making me expect everything to be whimsical and perfect, like my first kiss there against the wall. Damn that little second grade Casanova.
There are mushrooms growing on his cargo pants. What a tool.

The kiss I should probably consider my first happened early in my tween years. I don't remember the poor kid's name, but I remember the circumstances. He was the youngest of three kids. His mother was dating my trashy, trailer-parky cousin, Little Tony. I kid you not. I am Italian, and one of my trashy cousins answers to 'Little Tony'. Har, har. My grandmother and Aunt had just built a swimming pool in their backyard. In Arizona, that was pretty much the best scenario for us kids during the summer. All the swimming we wanted, with normal levels of chlorine and far less urine. Little Tony brought his super sweet but skanky girlfriend and her three kids over a few times that summer, and I noticed that the youngest was starting to get sweet on me. I didn't like him at all, and did my best to discourage him. One day while we were swimming, he challenged me to a breath holding contest. I had just learned how to keep my nose plugged under water without pinching it with my fingers (it took me a while to learn the trick after I had my tonsils out) and so readily participated. We agreed that we would keep our eyes open so that we could make sure the other wasn't cheating. Almost as soon as we got underwater, he put his hands on my shoulders (a running theme, I notice) and tried to plant a kiss on me. I started to swim up, but he was holding me under pretty tightly, and he ended up kissing the corner of my mouth and my cheek instead. I reflexively panicked, and got water up my nose. We both surfaced, sputtering and coughing. The coughing was all me, actually. He didn't say anything for a moment, didn't even ask if I was all right, but as soon as I was sure I was not going to drown, I turned and looked at him. His facial expression was a mix of concern and fear. It should have been. I punched him in the nose.

Luckily, his siblings didn't see this, and all of the adults were inside. He wailed, grabbed his face, and scrambled out of the pool. He didn't even bother to shout a rhetoric, 'What was that for?' He knew. I was nervous about going inside after that, but knew it would look suspicious if I didn't. I grabbed a towel and headed inside. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a wad of paper towels soaked in bright red blood held to his face. I'd broken his nose. We exchanged looks again, and I was sure I was about to get grounded for the rest of my natural life. Both his mother and mine were standing next to him. My mom asked me what happened, and I just kind of stammered and looked back at Broken Nose Boy (I want to say Justin, but I know that's not right.) He pulled the paper towels away from his face and said, "I was swimming with my eyes closed and swam into the wall." I made an excuse to get out of the kitchen, practically ran to the bathroom, and burst into tears. I instantly felt terrible, and guilty, and foolish. I think this is the moment that boys stopped being put into one of three categories (family, crushes, and grossness), and became just as individualized in my eyes as the girls in my little ten year old social circle. Not only had this guy felt the sting of rejection, but he lied to both of our moms, possibly risking being reprimanded for his recklessness, to keep me from getting in trouble. Either this was the nicest guy ever, or he really had a crush on me. I haven't punched anyone since.
The kiss that was my first real kiss, as it was post-pubescent and intentional, happened when I was seventeen. I had graduated High School a year before, I had been in college since January, and I had a tattoo. All of this, and I had never been kissed. I hated myself for it. I was finally beginning to feel the pangs of my social retardation. I was 'courting' a guy from my college classes. We hung out two or three nights every weekend, flirted constantly and teased each other with our words, our body language, and sometimes even our bodies. I was seventeen. He was twenty-seven. We had a party at our timeshare, since my parents had to use the time at the hotel or lose it. I had invited quite a few friends, and we all hung out. That night, however, the old man was running cold. It pissed me off. (On a side note, he was one year older than my boyfriend is right now, and I was sevenfreakingteen. Gross. What was I thinking?) A few people outside of my core group of friends had come over for the party as well. Including my best friend's older sister and younger brother. You remember him. The little boy in the rain. He was now the sometimes drummer for the band I was in, and he was notorious for his man-sluttiness. He had tried to get my cousin (and bass player) to make out with him only a few weeks ago. The older sister, my gay best friend (this was pre-gay-outing for him), me, and Drummerboy all stayed the night at the hotel. It wasn't planned that way, it just happened. As I was sandwiched between a friend I thought was straight (but wasn't) and a friend I thought would never want to do anything with me (he did), trying to fall asleep, I felt a hand on my hip. I opened my eyes to see that Drummerboy was uncomfortably close. Then he did the douchiest, lamest thing possible for a 15 year old boy to do. He made a kissy face, puckering his lips, pecking the air between us a few times and closing his eyes lazily. I'm sure he thought he was being suave. I thought he was acting like an idiot. But he was a boy, and he was willing to kiss me. I thought, "What the hell? Might as well get it over with." and I kissed him. About five seconds in I realized that it was a terrible mistake. Not because I didn't have any feelings for him and was using him, not because it might make my best friend angry at me, not because it might make band practice weird, but because he was a terrible kisser. About five seconds after that, his spit was on my forehead. I don't know what kind of crazy, magically teleporting saliva Drummerboy has in his mouth, but it weirded me out. Though I knew I was late to the game, I was pretty sure I was awesome at it, and that Drummerboy was definitely not. Years later, one of my boyfriends would tell me I was a good enough kisser to compete in the Kissing Olympics, win gold, and go on to have a professional career with lucrative product endorsements. A week after the terrible forehead spit kiss, I somehow wound up playing the longest, kinkiest, dirtiest game of Spin the Bottle. I ended up kissing my gay (still pre-gay) best friend, two good girlfriends, and the aforementioned old man. The gay friend was the only good kisser. Even with all that chemistry the old man and I had, our kisses were just regular old kisses. Borderline boring, even.
There are two kisses I consider the best kisses I have ever had. Both were with Boyfriend. The first was our first kiss together. We had been hanging out all night, business as usual. Boyfriend, the Gay Best Friend (now post gay, and also responsible for introducing Boyfriend and I) and I had spent the night hanging out, skinny dipping, and having a few beers. Boyfriend's best friend and the Gay Best Friend's boyfriend (confused yet?) had already crashed and gone to sleep. The three of us remaining were watching Kill Bill. As the sun was coming up, the Gay Best Friend went to bed, and as he rounded the corner into the hallway, he turned around and dramatically pointed a finger at us. He said, "If you two don't just kiss, and get it over with, and clear all this sexual tension, you're not allowed back in my house." Then he went into his bedroom, and I didn't see him again until our next hang out, where I thanked him profusely for what he provoked.

Like this, but with a hot gay man instead of a monkey.

Boyfriend and I laughed nervously, but kept watching Kill Bill. We were snuggling under a blanket together, but after the GBF's threat of party house eviction, we had both remained motionless. I kept watching the clock nervously. I knew I had to leave soon and get my parents' car back to them, but I didn't want to leave Boyfriend's side. I finally had my perfect opportunity to finally kiss him. It was June. We'd met in September. It had been nine torment filled months of sexual tension and amazing chemistry, with a couple of near kisses in November and December. Earlier in the night we had joked about having our hair pulled, and I had broadcast to the sausage fest that was my social life that I like having my hair pulled, being bitten, etc. and TMI. When the movie ended, and I knew I was going to have to drive far above the legal speed limit to make it home in time, I turned to Boyfriend. With a torso full of fluttery insects, I jokingly put my hand in his long hair and asked, "So do you like having your hair pulled?" But as I turned my face towards him, he leaned in towards me, sliding his hand into my hair, his thumb stroking my cheek. He kissed me eagerly, enthusiastically. He kissed me like I was Disneyland, and he was nine years old, and had been waiting through the entire school year for his summertime visit. The early morning sunlight made the living room look like a movie set. Everything was golden. I heard violins. When we finally parted, we rested our foreheads against each other for a moment. I don't know about him, but I was dizzy. My head was spinning. I felt light headed and out of breath and validated. I took a slow breath to steady myself while he moved his thumb gently across my cheek and kissed me again. It was probably one of the most amazing moments of my life.

The other top kiss of his, came the night (two years later) that he finally admitted he loved me. We spent the whole night talking and trying to strategize getting officially together (he had a girlfriend at the time, but that's another story... one so long that I'm devoting an entire novel and its sequel to it), and most of it was spent just sitting and being stunned that we had finally said in plain words what was so painfully obvious. The sky was lightening, and we knew we had to eventually part. Even though the word love had been thrown about, we hadn't touched any more beyond the occasional knee bump, or arm graze. We were sitting in a car, and our arms were on the center arm rest, millimeters away from touching. During a quiet moment in the conversation, I extended my little finger and put it over his. He grabbed my hand with both of his and interlaced our fingers, squeezing tightly. After a few more minutes of talking, we fell silent again, and he said, "I'm trying to figure out if we should kiss."

I looked up and met his eyes, only to find them pleading. It was surreal. It was like a scene out of a movie. Again. I couldn't believe it. "I... hold hands with my platonic friends... at scary movies..."

"What about the shoulders? The leaning...?" he asked.

"It's a pretty fine line..." I said, and squeezed his hand. I was running out of excuses and we both knew it. It was ridiculous to postpone it anyway. We both wanted to kiss, we needed to, we should. He told me he was in love with me and always had been. Why the hell hadn't we kissed in almost two years!? "Your hat's in the way," I said, and pushed it up off his forehead. He sighed heavily and leaned in and kissed me. He did that face cradling thing again. After about thirty seconds of the most emotionally packed kissing I've ever experienced, he pulled away, and put his forehead on my shoulder.

"I'm dizzy," he said breathlessly. Even though kissing is (almost!) a daily occurrence for us now, every once and a while, there's one that makes my breath catch and my head sway. Gold Star, Darling!

Lori + Stu = Awesome. It's MATH.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Today was a Do-Nothing Day, as my parents call them.

I call them, 'Do-Nothing-but-Miss-My-Boyfriend' days. I have them quite frequently. I know I'm turning into one of those 'My Boyfriend this, and my Boyfriend that,' kind of girls, but this is still new and shiny for me. Missing him is what makes me talk so much about him, and I miss him pretty thoroughly. It's quite understandable, though. When we lived in the same state and before we had acknowledged our romantic feelings for each other, we would spend four or five nights a week together, often starting the hanging out at eight or nine, and not parting until sunrise. We occupied as much time as a full time job would have. Sometimes more.

So now that we're completely open with each other and together, it feels rather strange to be apart from him. Especially since all of our time together has been total immersion. The only time we've spent apart when we've been in the same state is while one of us is at work. So you can understand the sense of longing and loss I feel when I'm away from him sometimes.

At Christmas time I said, "I think I know part of the reason I love you so much. Spending time with you is like being alone. I feel just as free and comfortable as I do by myself."

"Exactly," Boyfriend said, playing with the little tear in the knee of my pajama pants. "It's like all the good parts of alone time, with the benefits of a sexy friend accompanying you." (It should be noted that the tone of his voice, his body language, and the way he looked at me when he said 'sexy friend' left no doubt in my mind that he meant I was the sexy friend, not him. He's rather good at telling me I'm sexy or beautiful or clever or brilliant, right when I need to hear it most. Good job tending to my low self-esteem, Darling! Gold star!)

And it really is like that. I used to find it hokey whenever someone would talk about how lucky they were to be in love with their best friend. I totally get it now. I feel completely at ease around him, more so than anyone else. I didn't realize I felt stressed and anxious almost all of the time, until I was around him and just finally let myself relax. We're so in tune with each other that we literally finish each other's sandwiches. He told me one of the last days in Seattle, "It really is creepy how you always say exactly what I'm thinking." I just giggled and he elaborated, "And by creepy I mean awesome." and kissed me properly. The way I deserve to be kissed.

So after all of our visits, I feel this weird sense of incompletion. Like my intellect is hungover. I have trouble thinking or finding the energy to do much of anything. It's not even mental laziness, it's actual physical laziness. It would make for an interesting experiment, but I'd be willing to bet I couldn't run as far on a treadmill, or lift heavy boxes on days I miss him so hard it hurts, compared to days when I'm around him. It's really weird, and completely unfeministic of me, but true nonetheless. On days like today, all I can do is think about him. I get distracted whenever I try to focus on anything else. I'm not really hungry, or sleepy, I just am.

Here's what I should have done today;
-Cleaned the litterbox
-Cleaned my bathroom
-Unpacked/packed a box
-Practiced my guitar
-Worked on the band's website
-Written 500 words on my novel
-Eaten vegetables
-Called my favorite Aunt, since she just got out of the hospital
-Written a real blog

Here's what I did instead;
-Stayed in bed for four hours
-Ate a bunch of cookies
-Went to the bank
-Went to the post office
-Ate a Hot Pocket
-Watched Masterpiece Theater with my dad
-Got back in bed
-Played Mah Jong
-Haunted Facebook
-Wrote a completely useless blog
-And drew this useless MS paint picture;

This is what I looked like for most of the day.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Tonight was open mic night. I finally did it. I bit the bullet and performed three original songs without any friends on stage with me. Just me, my guitar and my debilitating nerves. I arrived at about quarter to eight, when the show started at eight. The place was packed. I looked around and all I saw were square rimmed glasses and acoustic guitar cases. There were twenty slots for the night, and nine were already filled. By the time I found a pen (I'd left my purse at home) and put my name on the list, I was thirteenth.

After that it was coffee time. Black coffee, shot of espresso. Cause that will soothe my quivering hands and nerves. Riiight. The very first performer was a girl about my age, maybe a little bit younger, singing with her acoustic. She was ridiculously good. Very reminiscent of Ingrid Michaelson. She was wearing all black; calf height boots, tights, very short shorts, a tight shirt and a vest. And a grey fedora. Did I mention it was in the low twenties tonight?

As I waited for some of my friends to arrive, I did what I always do; people watched and eavesdropped. Shut up. You do it, too. It's fun. (Remind me sometime to tell you about the lady who eavesdropped on me at Shades the other night with Abbi.) As I looked around the room, I noticed that I was the only legitimate person in the room. I was the only person wearing what I was wearing because it was clean and comfortable and warm. I was the only person without an accessory that was for appearances and not function.

A young family came in just then. The father had long blonde hair that was pulled into a ponytail. He was wearing a button down shirt with the top button undone, and a loosened tie. He had on a long trench coat that even I have to admit was pretty sweet looking. His girlfriend/wife/partner had dreadlocks held away from her face with a scarf, a few hemp necklaces, and a long, wispy skirt. I don't remember what kind of coat she was wearing. Obviously, hippies are impervious to the cold weather. It's part of their supernatural skill set. Their daughter looked to be about two. Big enough to run around on her own, curious about everything, but still without a basic grasp of speech, which resulted simply in screeching at the top of her lungs as she ran the length of the coffee house. Repeatedly.

The rest of the crowd was some variation of Hipster. If they sold PBR instead of coffee, they would've run out. The majority of the men in the room had more hair product in use than the women. Everyone without dreads had flat ironed their hair for a few hours before coming down. Unless, of course, they were one of the few people wearing both a sweater cap and a hood. Inside. At least half of the people were wearing narrow, rectangular glasses with a thick black frame. (With the exception of course, of the little metro boi who was wearing glasses so over sized they made Elton John's glasses look appropriately proportioned.) It was like a sea of emo kids had discovered color and decided they hated capitalism. Except for American Apparel.

This is modesty.

Looking at the crowd made me think of that old 'Guess Who?' game I played as a kid. Everyone had one or two distinct details, but for the most part they all looked the same. I saw a stand up comic on TV a while back (long enough that I can't remember his name) talking about playing 'Guess Who?'. He mentioned how terrible it was if you drew one of the black people as your person of interest, since there were usually only three black people on the little flippy cards. You were pretty much screwed if the person you were playing against asked about race. Tonight was no different. In a crowd of about fifty people, only four were not white. I sent a text to my boyfriend telling him I wanted to take a picture of everyone in the room, and turn it into 'Guess Who?'

And it totally would have worked, too. I can just imagine how a game of Hipster Guess Who? would've sounded. For this example, I'll use Abbi, because she and I are quite funny when in close proximity;
Abbi- "Is your subject male?"
Me- "Uh..."
Abbi- "Well?"
Me- "I can't really tell if it's male or female."
Abbi- "Um...."
Me- "I'm gonna go off the name. I think it's a dude."
Abbi- "It's not a lesbian name?"
Me- "Are you crazy? Lesbians aren't hipsters! All hipsters want to bang dudes."
Abbi- "True."
Me- "Does yours have dreadlocks?"
Abbi- "Yes. Does yours have stereotypical, pseudo-intellectual, narrow, black frame glasses that are supposed to convey how superior your hipster's personality, acumen and fashion sense are?" Me- "...yes. (blink, blink) Does yours?"
Abbi- "No. Has your hipster used half a pound of hair wax to carefully sculpt his hair in an unkempt manner?"
Me- "I don't like this game any more."
Abbi- "Does that mean yes?"
Me- "....yes."
Abbi- "It's Darius!"
Me- "Damn it!"

Darius, the tentative albino rhino.

Josh was the first friend to show, and he kept me company for the better part of an hour until Abbi, Laura and Nina got there, bringing the total of non-whites in the building to six. There was still plenty of time to burn before it was my turn (twelve people, ten minutes each... do the math) so I got another cup of coffee and everyone else grabbed a drink and a snack. I was far too nervous to eat anything.

While we were sitting through the other musicians (some were good, some were not), the man sitting next to me started up a conversation. He was probably the oldest person that played, and during our conversation mentioned that he had spent time in Vietnam. He was eccentric to say the very least. He was dressed rather nicely, but in a way that made him blend in with the rest of the crowd. He was wearing an old fedora with a torn piece of a patriotic bandanna safety pinned to the front. He smelled like melted butter and spoke so softly I couldn't hear his crazy ramblings half the time. He introduced himself to me three separate times... pretty much every time I tried to politely ignore him and spend time with my friends. His name is John, and he was playing tenth. When he found out I was playing thirteenth, he stopped talking for a moment and looked at me, sizing me up. Then simply said, "You're brave."

"Thank you," I said.

He elaborated, "Getting up in front of all these people, you're brave." It wasn't anything I hadn't done before, but it had been a while, and I would be alone. I thanked him again, and tried not to let his assessment of my bravery make my stage fright worse. "I'm going to stay around and listen to you," he added. I thanked him a third time.

When it was finally time for me to get up, the manager asked me if I had played there before. "I've played open mics before, just not here."

He smiled mischievously and said into the mic, "We have another Gypsy virgin!" and everyone applauded. At least I was the fourth person that he did that to. I was nervous enough as it was, but then the bad jokes came out.

Once I got situated on the stool in front of the microphone, I said, "I haven't done this in a few years, so be kind.... and if this was a more private situation I'd say the same thing. Either way it'll be over in ten minutes." And crickets. That was probably the most taxing part of being in front of fifty people I didn't know. "Aw, that was a bad joke. I'll just sing now."

During the first song I only flubbed one chord, which is pretty effin awesome, considering how badly my hands were shaking. Remember that little two year old that was running back and forth? Her weather resistant hippie mother had let her carry the tall glass tumbler their chocolate milk had been in. I'll give you three guesses as to how this ends.

Needless to say, though Josh was recording me, the video probably won't be posted. Josh and Nina told me it was all screaming toddler, shattering glass, and then people sweeping it up. Good thing I'm going again next Tuesday.

When I sat back down John the melted butter man congratulated me on performing, and told me that he liked my little set. He then asked if I'd be interested in maybe collaborating. Me singing and strumming up front, him playing lead behind me. As I'm painfully polite, I used the excuse of moving two thousand miles away two weeks from now to decline. And not the fact that he was a slightly creepy, but probably harmless, crazy mumbler.

I don't remember exactly what he asked me next, as this was about the time I was coming down from my adrenaline high, but whatever he asked, and whatever my answer, he ended up smiling serenely at me and saying, "You just exude courage and intelligence. I can tell just by looking at you. And you seem so calm and composed. That's why you have so many friends." He motioned towards the little group of four in front of me, and I tried to use this as an opportunity to get out of the conversation.

You would never guess it, but I'm actually painfully shy. I hate talking to people I don't know. It surprises me to no end that I have as many friends as I do. Most of the time I feel like I don't deserve them because I'm terrible at socializing. Both in person and from a distance.

My little ploy didn't work, and a moment later, Butterman was tapping me on the shoulder. "I'm sorry to keep bothering you, but can I ask you a question?" He looked like he struggling with the nerve to ask it. And by that, I mean it looked like he might burp at any moment. Instead, words came out, "Are you a Christian?"

I should have known. It's Oklahoma, after all. I paused for a moment, but answered, "Yes. Though I don't go to church. I can't find a church that isn't full of hypocrites."

He smiled at this and said, "There isn't one. But I knew you were a Christian. He told me to ask you. I said, 'It's none of my business' but He insisted." He gestured towards his own head at this point, so I don't know if he can hear God, or if his hat talks to him a la Harry Potter. Whoever it was telling him to ask me questions, Butterman listens to him. That's a little unnerving. He continued to talk for a little bit, but for the most part, I don't remember. Honestly, I was texting the boyfriend and was only nodding politely whenever there was a lull in Butterman's mumbling. It was also rather difficult to hear over the 'music'. Do you remember the screeching toddler's dad with the carefully disheveled appearance? He was playing, and though all he had was an acoustic guitar to accompany him, his singing sounded like a cross between Tiny Tim and this cat. Then Butterman pointed to Josh and asked, "Is this your boyfriend?"

"No," I said. "My boyfriend lives in Seattle. This is my boyfriend." I pointed to my phone. The man nodded.

"That's why you're moving." I nodded. "Is your boyfriend a Christian, too?"

"No," I said. I decided to spare the old man's nerves, and told him Stu was an Atheist. He appraised me for a moment, just nodding slightly the whole time, as if agreeing to something someone was saying. It was probably his hat. "He likes you because you calm him down. Compassion just radiates from your eyes. That's why he likes you." I thanked him again, but he continued. "Someday you'll lead him to Jesus, don't worry. Someday you'll lead a lot of people to Jesus."

They are my source of power.

I thanked him one more time, and then pretended that Abbi had said something to me, so that I could find a way to get out of the Jesus speak. I wouldn't have found the conversation memorable, except that this John-that-smells-like-Butter man is the second person to tell me I was going to 'lead a lot of people to Jesus.' The same freaking words.

Maybe someday I will start my own brand of tequila and call it 'Jesus'. And I'll be in charge of marketing, too, as well as the President of 'Jesus Tequila, inc.' And it'll have a slogan like, "Jesus Tequila; Get a taste of Salvation!" or "Jesus Tequila; Tests your faith more than dinosaurs."

That settles it. I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna start my own brand of tequila. And I will have Jesus and dinosaurs on the label. It'll be amazing.

About Me

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Seattle, United States
During this course of study, you will come to learn much about the strange eating, sleeping and mating habits of the Instrospective Lori under stress. We will observe as she moves halfway across the country to start a life with her own Captain Wentworth, takes a year off of work to pursue a writing career, and incessantly references Jane Austen.
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