Maybe he's not, but I'll bet he is

I'm back on hulu, watching movies from the '80s. Tonight's selection: "Fatal Attraction", although I'm guessing I won't watch the whole thing. I've seen the last part enough times (spoiler alert: the bunny dies), but can't remember seeing the beginning, how and why they hook up, etc. Anyway, as I start the movie, I realize that Michael Douglas almost always plays the guy who is, well, a tool. Sure, he's an actor, so that doesn't mean he is a tool, but, come on, do you always have to play that guy?

But think about it. The guy in "Fatal Attraction." The husband in "War of the Roses." The director in "A Chorus Line." Heck, he won an Oscar for the ultimate tool: Gordon Gekko in "Wall Street." And if he'd shown a lot of range in other projects, I'd say he's probably a really great actor, but he's always. a. tool. I'm just suspicious.

Yeah, it's not too deep today -- I'm in a really bad mood. It's about stupid things; I'm sure you won't be interested. 

And for those of you keeping track: the Martha trip got cancelled. So at least that's a relief.

Martha Stewart hates me

My sister is a big fan of Rachel Ray and Martha Stewart. So, a few months back, she writes to get tickets to the taping of a show, and she waits. This Friday she hears from Martha (well, not directly): she's got tickets to the January 27 show. Yay for her! So, like the good sister she is, she asks if I want to go. Actually, that's not strong enough -- she really wants me to go with her and Mom, sort of a girls' trip to New York.

The problem is about 10-fold. It's really a terrible time: we're trying to get the house ready to sell (and still have a ton, a ton of cleaning and rearranging to do), work is nuts, I have no vacation time, we're thinking of moving the cat down the weekend before, I have the first meeting of my bookclub that night (and I really wasn't planning to read "The Monk" just for fun.) I just feel like I really can't do it.

However, I also feel like I'm always letting my sister down. Last week I asked her to make me some window treatments in a hurry, and, no questions, she's on it. She's sent me some fabric samples, she's got ideas, and I'm sure they will be ready in a couple of weeks, in time for when the house goes on the market. She wants me to go see "Martha" with her -- sorry, no can do.

The worst thing is that my sister will be absolutely understanding about the whole thing. No guilt trip, nothing. It's just unfair. I could never be that nice. So, I'm trying to figure out if there's anyway I can do this, but it just makes me tired to think about it.

I blame Martha.

Sexy talk

Yesterday's Oprah (shut up, you're just jealous) was one of those "your best life" episodes and the topic was sex. In all fairness, I didn't see the whole show (but I did read about it later on-line), but I do have a bit of a problem with the approach. The basic theme was that men want it and ladies, not so much. And, ladies, you need to step up to the plate.

I have a couple of issues with this. The first is the assumption that men always want sex and women are the ones doing the pushing away. Assuming that it's natural and part of life, then we should both have desires. Of course, everyone has different levels of interest, sometimes the boy will have a higher drive and sometimes it'll be the girl. So either Oprah has found a bunch of women who just aren't that interested in sex, which is certainly possible, or maybe there are other factors. Like, maybe women have to deal with more, like housework, kids, etc. Just saying. (or, maybe, she says in a very tiny voice, he's just not very good at it.)

But I do think there are women who have the drive and the man is less interested. In some ways, this is more of a social issues, as the assumption is that, if the woman wants sex, it shouldn't be a problem. And, sorry Oprah, you dropped the ball on that issue.

Another issue I have is the advice that the woman has to be the one to step it up. If the man wants more sex than he is getting, well, ladies, what are you going to do about it? Clearly, it is your issue, not his. What if the woman is perfectly happy with the amount of sex she is getting? Why does she have to alter her behavior? And what about a few lessons for the boys, so that they could maybe make it worth her while?

The follow-up question is, what to do if drives are different? I mean, I hate housework, so we hired someone to clean the house. I'm just saying.

Protection

Today someone asked me if I had ever had my heart broken. (I know it sounds weird -- how does something like that come up in a conversation, but it was actually fine.) I said that of course I had had my heart broken. And I think I have. At least a little bit. But maybe only a little bit.

I've been thinking about the times I'd say that my heart was broken. First of all, I can't think of a time I was really heartbroken after the age of about 18. When I think of the boys who broke my heart, even a little bit, I think of the crush I had my sophomore year of high school or the guy who dumped me for my best friend. And when I think of being heartbroken, I think of moments, not periods in my live. I remember feeling bad for a day, maybe a few, but not much more than that. Weeks of heartbreak, well, that's never happened to me. 

Was it really heartbreak?

It all comes back to that control issue I have. Of course it does; I'm not an idiot. The boyfriends I chose, they gave me a lot of the control in the relationship. It's so much easier when I'm in charge of where things are going. To have the upper hand. It was also easier to keep people at a bit of a distance. 

I sometimes wonder what it would have been like just to throw myself completely into a relationship. Would have it been wonderful? Would it have been exciting and fantastic and life-altering? Would it have destroyed me when it ended? Would I have ever stopped crying?

Would it have broken my heart?

What a girl wants

I was thinking about winning the lottery. Yes, this is a realistic concern, especially since the odds are clearly in my favor and I don't actually buy lottery tickets. This does not prevent me from think about what I would do with the winnings. And I realized I was absolutely stumped. If I won the lottery, I really don't know what I would do. I might quit my job, but, then again, I'm not sure what else I would do. I might move, but I don't know where I would want to live. Would I travel? I suppose, but there's a limit to how much I would want to travel. I also like to be home, although right now I have too many and not enough homes.

The question is: should I know (or at least have an idea) of what I would do if I won the lottery? Of course, as it's not realistic, it's somewhat a waste of time to dream about having millions. But I actually think it's a good idea to consider what you would do if you won the lottery, because it helps you decide what is important to you. If you would travel if you had a million dollars, but you're not traveling now, well, maybe you need to be rethinking what you're doing with your time and money now. And if you would quit your job the second you won the lottery, maybe you need a new job. I know it's not realistic to just up and quit your job, but maybe you should be taking steps to change your job.

It concerns me that I don't know what I would do if money, time, resources, etc., were not concerns. Right now, at this point in my life, I don't know what I want. And if I don't know what I want, I don't know what steps I should be taking. I guess I always figure I should be working towards something, and I'm not sure what it should be these days. It's been a while since I've had some sort of goal to reach for.

However, it may good for me to just be for a while.

Flashback time!

Hulu has all of these free movies and today I'm watching "St. Elmo's Fire." First off, it's awesomely dated. First scene, Andrew McCarthy is not only smoking inside, he's smoking in a hospital! Ha! The shoulder pads, the high-waisted jeans, the saxophone! God, I miss the '80s.

I'm embarrassed to say that when I first saw this movie, I thought the characters were so cool and interesting. Okay, Demi Moore and Rob Lowe play messes, but the rest of them seemed cool to me, still in college in Toledo, Ohio. But watching it now, they're all such assholes. Mare Winningham is the only one who seems to be at least a tiny bit un-asshole, but they all kind of make fun of her. She's fat, she's dating the wrong guy, she's getting money from her dad. And friends are the perfect ones to point that out to her. Friends who are cheating on their mates, drinking too much, stalking, calling each other in the middle of the night, doing and selling drugs. Yes, please give me shit about wearing a girdle. Jerks.

No image today. Blogger won't let me upload. Try to be strong.

Falling in love

As I dive into the house hunt, I wonder if I should approach this logically or if I should hope to fall in love. I have a list of things I want in a house: a certain number of bedrooms, fireplace, nice yard, etc., but I know that this list isn't the whole story. I've seen houses that, on paper, have everything I would want in a house. And, yet, they did nothing for me. I want a house that is cozy and wonderful and welcoming. I want a house that is beautiful and makes me sigh, "now that's home!" 

I know that a big part of it is what I will do to a house. That I shouldn't put too much on the feeling I get when I walk in, because it will be totally different once our stuff is in the house. The scientist in me has this checklist and, if a house hits those points, I should at least consider it. That I should think about that house for a while. But then I walk in and I'm totally that asshole who makes a judgment in about 20 seconds.

It's not like I don't think I could change a house. Every house I walk into, I have a million ideas of things I could do to it. Redo this, paint this, take out that wall. I just know that we get lazy once we move in. I guess there's a part of me that thinks that if a house has that cozy, wonderful feeling already, maybe we can hold onto it for when we move in.

So, I guess I'm hoping to fall in love, but fall in love with something that works on paper. Yeah, I'm trying to bring logic into my love life. Again.

Gifts

I did a lot of driving over the holidays and listened to a bunch of music on my ipod. Listening to all that music, I realized that a lot of the music I listen to is the result of a recommendation from a friend. Because I am kind of sentimental, I like to think that that person gave me that music as a gift.

In college, Tom gave me Elvis Costello. Before Tom, the only song I knew by Elvis was "Peace, Love, and Understanding" and, frankly, it just didn't do it for me. One day when I was about to go on a road trip and he handed me a tape of "My Aim Is True." "Just listen to the first song. If you're not hooked, eject the tape and move on." I was hooked by "...why, why, why, why." 

Robert gave me "The Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking," Pete gave me Dire Straits, Cliff gave me The Who and Dead Milkman, Dave gave me Iggy Pop, Slick gave me Ted Nugent and an appreciation for anything with an awesome drum track. Chuckie gave me early rap music, Jim gave me "Come a Little Bit Closer" and "Stay Awake." It's not just friends; my family got me hooked on all sorts of stuff. One of the first gifts I got was when Pops gave me The Beatles. Lu gave me Kiss, Nana gave me Ray Charles, Patsy Cline, and old country music, Andrea gave me They Might Be Giants, Mom gave me musicals, and Scott gave me PJ Harvey, Tom Waits, and Camper Van Beethoven.

A big part of the joy I get from listening to music is remembering who gave it to me. In fact, most of my music is a gift from someone and I am thankful. But Liz Phair is mine.

This changes everything!

I was trying to explain to Mr. Higgy Piggie why it's important to have clean, organized closets when we show the house. The obvious answer is that if it looks like you don't have enough space for your stuff, future owner thinks they won't have enough space for their stuff. But, for a lot of women (myself included) I think there's also the idea of the "magic solution." That, no matter how disorganized you are, if you find the right calendar, purse, closet organization system, BOOM! you'll be organized. It never works. But, subconsciously, I believe that when someone like me sees a nicely organized closet, they think, "they've found The System!" 

I think the more disorganized you are, the more you believe there is a solution out there -- you just don't know about it. I also believe, a certain amount of how organized you are is just part of your genetic programming. My sister: organized; me: not so much. Unfortunately for my sister, her oldest  has my genetic programming, and, therefore, messy closets and an obsession with "Ripley's Believe It or Not." (My sister to me: "Seriously, what the hell?!") And since some of us don't have the programming to be naturally organized and we see others that do it effortlessly, we look for The System. 

Of course, there are industries built around selling The System. Oh, I try not to fall for it, but then I come home with a series of rods and boxes from The Container Store. And Mr. Higgy Piggie just sighs.

The place where I am most likely to fall for it is in the purse department. Surely this one will hold my billfold, ipod, glasses, phone, book, notebook, pens, maps, and sewing kit in a tiny, cute package that I can get to everything easily! Which is why I carry a backpack a lot. This way I can also bring socks.

Hoping to be like Cezanne

I'm reading an interesting article in "The New Yorker" about whether "genius" is related to age. (And, yes, I am way behind on my "New Yorker" reading, thanks for pointing that out, but in all fairness, this issue did get buried in a pile of papers, so I'm not that far behind.) Anyway, the article discusses that, although most people equate genius with precocity, it isn't really true. Although there are many people who have done great work when they were in their twenties (Orson Welles, Picasso, Mozart), there are plenty of folks who did their great work when they were considerably older (Hitchcock, Mark Twain, Cezanne).

The article discusses that it isn't that these late bloomers are discovered late; it's that these guys need time to develop. Their talents don't come from instinct, but rather, they have to work at what they do. They have to experiment and try, try again. That, frankly, they weren't very good at what they did when they were young, but they kept plugging away. 

This article makes me very happy. I like the idea that I still could get good at something. That I just need to put in the work. I'm not saying that I'm going to be a genius or a fantastic talent, but I like that there is still time. I think that I've had the feeling that if I didn't accomplish something when I was young, I would never accomplish anything big. This article basically says that this is a myth -- keep working. 

Now, to find what that thing might be...

Tired

I am overwhelmed and tired today. All of the rooms need work. I have too much stuff. Every time I think I'm done with one part of the house, another issue pops up. I thought I was somewhat prepared for the amount of work that had to be done, but it's feeling non-ending at this point.

I know I've mentioned this about 100 times, but my God, the books. I really thought I know where they all were, but then I found a bunch in the basement, another bunch in the guest bathroom (I know, shut up), and other huge bag of them in the guest closet. What the hell? I never thought I'd hate books, but right now, I kind of do.

I found a stack of notes from high school. The ones you pass between classes. I was reading one between me and someone else, and not only did I not know who the other party was, I didn't even know what we were writing about. I decided I just need to put these away -- no time to figure that sort of thing out.

And I found skeleton keys. Seriously, what the hell?

Getting the house ready

We are trying to get the house ready to sell. It's a task that is overwhelming me. A big part of it is just simply the amount of stuff we have (and, admittedly, most of that stuff is mine), but it's also just that there seems to be more and more to do. There's another corner with a stack of magazines, a pile of books, what the hell am I doing with all these pens, another pile of books, good Lord, another pile of books. 

It's also difficult because it's not just cleaning, but getting ready to show the house to a bunch of strangers who will be judging it. Should we shove all the clothes to one side so that there's a space, or have them nicely spread apart? Should we have one closet crammed with stuff or should we have a little in every closet? Should we clean the oven or straighten the basement? Are people really going to look in there?

In some ways, this part is even worse than getting ready to actually move. When we move, just dump everything into a box and go. Ugh, I hate selling houses. I guess I'm lucky because I will be out of here during most of the showings. But it's also frustrating because I'm limited time-wise to what I can do to the house. I have to rely on Mr. HP to get everything done, and his priorities about the house are different from mine. 

I feel like getting the house ready is a series of steps. Every time I put away something or organize a shelf, it's another step closer to being done. I just wish I knew how many steps I still had to do.

New Year's resolutions

Despite mocking by certain friends who will remain nameless, I have made New Year's resolutions for 2009. And also some guidelines. (I know you are wondering what the difference is between the two: resolutions are measurable and guidelines are, well, guidelines.) (And having just read that statement, I realize that I may be even nerdier than I am currently accepting.) 

First, the resolutions:

1) Keep the 10-ish pounds I lost since the summer off. Sure, I'd love to add to the loss, but I'll be happy just to stay where I'm at. For now.

2) Go out at least once during the week. Even if it's just to grab dinner and/or a drink. But at least once each week, get out of the apartment. Weekends don't count.

3) Join the 19th century literature bookclub. This one has the bonus of helping me stick to #2.

4) Try one new recipe a week. I've got a whole stack of recipes to try out, but there's always a reason to stick with the old standbys. Or not cook at all. 

Now, the guidelines:

1) Less caffeine. I have been hitting the coffee at a much higher rate these days. Sure, it's toughened up my stomach, and, for the first time in years, I may have had a Christmas where I wasn't throwing up by noon. But, really, I should cut back on the caffeine. At least a little. 

2) Exercise more. Yes, I should have made this a resolution where I specify the amount of exercise I will do. But I'm not going to. I'm going to keep it vague.

3) Get rid of some of my shit. No, seriously, I have way too much stuff. Stop by; I might give you a sofa.

4) More yes, less no. This is a carryover from the mid-life crisis, but it's always a good idea to remind myself.

That should do me. I thought I had five resolutions, but I can't remember the 5th. That's not a good start.

Anyway, happy new year!

Milestones

I made it through the month-o-posting and this is the 60th posting to this blog. In honor of these milestones (of sorts), I am just going to tell you some various randomness that isn't enough for whole posts. So, we both win!

On the walk to work, I have to cross one major road. Until recently, the crosswalk just had its usual cycle of the light with the walk/don't walk sign coming up appropriately. A few weeks ago they activated the button to "help" you cross the street. As far as I can tell, the button doesn't change anything -- the light still takes forever -- except (1) if you don't hit it in time, you don't get your "walk" sign and (2) there's some creepy, distant voice, mumbling something at you (at least I hope it's coming from the crosswalk.) So, thanks for the button!

Now that I'm working earlier hours (I shifted to 7-4), it feels like my own personal daylight savings time. Of course it helps that it's been sunny the past two days. The only downside is that I'm so used to eating dinner when I get home from work, I'm now hungry at 4:15. 

I'm very excited about the 19th century bookclub I'm joining in January. I tend to be anti-bookclub, as I've always read for private reasons, just reading on my own and coming to my own conclusions. I also am not a fan of the assigned reading; I tend to have a shelf (maybe 3 shelves) of books-to-read and then pick based on my mood. But this group seems aggressively nerdy, so I'm all on it.

I'm still annoyed at the stagers. I know, I've got to let it go. 

I think it would be good for me to go on a bender. I think it might be good to let go of control. Of course, as I consider this, I am thinking about how to have a controlled bender: where it should be, who I should be with, etc. I have issues.

As I was driving back from Ohio, I passed so many exits for Civil War battlefields, and I starting thinking about Cliff. I may have been a little bit weepy.

My Nana rocked!

Let me tell you about my nana. My nana was so awesome. Oh, your nana might be pretty cool, but mine was the best. My nana taught me many important things. She taught me to drink vodka ("they can't smell it on your breath.") She taught me to always have a back-up (a lesson given to me when I started dating. You can think about that for a minute. And, thanks, Nana!) Most importantly, she taught me how to grow old.

After Papa died, Nana went through a period where she was definitely depressed. I remember my parents just taking her places and she just kind of went along. But at some point, she changed. She started embracing the idea of "sure, what the hell!" And she found out that life was fun. Because she was having fun and enjoying herself, more folks would invite her places. "Wanna stay at Uncle Carl's for 2 weeks?" "Sure, why not?" "Wanna go to the Triangle Tavern?" "I'll get my coat." It wasn't just the family and friends; I saw total strangers respond to her. One night at the Triangle, the table next to us sent Nana a Mudslide ("We thought you might like to try one of these") and another table sang her "We're Strong for Toledo" after seeing her Medhens t-shirt.

Watching Nana, I saw that attitude made a difference. Nana just had a good time. Let's contrast this with my Aunt Lil. Aunt Lil was actually one of my favorite relatives when I was younger, but, somehow, Aunt Lil turned into a bitter, nasty old lady. And it was a chore to even stop by to visit. But Nana was fun!

I miss my Nana. She never doubted me and she always thought I did the right thing. Nana, you rock!

So glad he won

I've noticed that most people I know do not refer to Obama by his name. It's just "he." Like, "When I heard he won, I cried." It's this weird sort of intimacy. I kind of love how there's an assumption that you'll know exactly who they're talking about. "Oh, I think he'll do a great job!" 

It's nice to have a president that people are actually excited about. I really can't remember what that is like. I knew some people who were excited when Reagan was elected, but more like "I'm excited for business because Reagan is president", not so much about Reagan himself. Maybe I just don't remember. Were people excited about Reagan? I really doubt that anyone was excited about the Bushes. 

Tom Petty changed my life

When I was 21, my dad got transferred to the Philadelphia area. I had just graduated from college and was ready to start my teaching career in Toledo. Before school started for me, my family went house hunting, and we made it into the family vacation. The Piggie siblings took a separate car so that we could go site-seeing while Mom and Pops looked at expensive, East-coast houses.

At this point, I wasn't sure if I wanted to move out East. In fact, I was thinking that I wouldn't be moving. I had my friends, I liked living in Toledo, I could visit my family. But it was fun to see Philadelphia and to consider it. Anyway, for whatever reason, my brother decided that we should go to see the Tom Petty concert at the Spectrum that night. He was in town and we weren't doing anything else. We found a Ticketmaster (ah, remember those days when you had to buy your tickets at a Ticketmaster), and that night we were on our way into the city. 

I remember being at that concert and thinking, I could do this. I could move out here and I would really like it. Tom Petty concerts every night! I'm not sure why, but it was like seeing a new way to go through life. I could just buy a ticket and go! I could explore new areas and it might be a lot of fun. That's when I really started considering moving out of Toledo. And leaving Toledo changed my life in so many ways. I know I wouldn't have gone to grad school if I stayed in Toledo. I would've probably stuck with teaching, which really doesn't suit me. I'm an East-coast girl -- I just didn't know that when I lived in the Midwest. 

And that's how Tom Petty changed my life.

Christmas Past

When I was growing up, Christmases followed a very specific pattern. Christmas Eve, we started off going to Grandma and Grandpa Campbell's. I felt this was a good choice to get them out of the way as (a) these were the "boring" relatives and (b) they gave fairly lame gifts. It was always a fairly quiet start to the night, even in later years when the events moved to Aunt Tina's (a/k/a Butterfly -- sadly, I am not making that up.) An hour or so hanging out with the Campbells, and then it was off to the Majkas. Good Lord, the Majkas. 

Every single year, the front steps were an absolute sheet of ice. I swear that my Uncle Henry must've come down ahead to time to pour water on the stairs. It was deadly. Just to explain, Hank and Sally lived in a duplex with Hank's mom (Busia, of course). We would start downstairs at Busia's and work our way upstairs. Everyone would pack into the living room, the television cranked up to 11, at least 10 conversations happening at once, everyone shouting in Polish and English at each other. Woody and Nana would be drunk already, Mom would be pissed that Nana was drunk already. Hank would offer us a drink that was all ice cubes and about an ounce of soda. God forbid you ask for seconds. "Another one?!") It was a hundred degrees and noisy and overwhelming. 

The most annoying thing: one of the Majka cousins was also a November birthday. Although she was a year older than me, she started school the same time I did. So, although she was in the same grade as me, she was a year older. In the first grade, she needed glasses but they didn't figure it out right away, so she got held back. So she's a year older but a grade behind. I'm sure you've figured it out. Not the Majkas. "How old are you?" "10." "What grade are you in?" "Fourth." "Wait a minute, Gail is 11 and in the third grade. Are you sure?" Yes, you are right; I am unsure of my age and my grade. Why must I go through this every year?

Somehow, everyone would get the magic signal and go upstairs, for more of the same. More shouting, more of everything (except something to drink.) Then it was time to head out to midnight mass. It would seriously take my mom an hour to get out the door. We would be in our coats, waiting, waiting, my mom acting like she was headed off to war. All of a sudden, we had to run off to mass. 

Midnight mass at CORC: one of my favorite things. Awesomely weird Christmas carols, folks from the past showing up, all candle light. It was so fantastic to have this hour and half (or more) of calm and beauty after all the chaos. I just loved that church. 

The next day was at our house. Morning was time for presents, then running around getting ready for everyone to come over. Much better than the previous day.

You know, when I was growing up, I always thought that it was all too crazy and too loud. There were years that I really couldn't stand it. But after we moved, I realized that I missed it. I missed the pattern, as crazy as it was. Our future Christmases were without an identity. Maybe it's easier to romanticize the situation, being removed from it, but I miss the nuttiness.

Pick it up!

When I was a kid, a big part of family gatherings was playing cards. Learning how to play poker was your ticket to out of the kids table. This is why I was playing poker at the age of 6. I loved playing poker with the family. Uncle Carl would swear too much, Papa would accuse Hank of cheating, Nana would bump up the pot, and we'd all fold because she never bet unless she had a fabulous hand. Good times. And it was every family gathering. I won over a dollar in the game that was played after Papa's funeral. We still play on occasion, but poker was really part of my grandparents' generation.

Poker wasn't the only card game that was around. My parents played bridge with about a thousand different groups. (I could never figure out the betting but was great at getting tricks.) (Yeah, that just sounds dirty.) Hearts, which I still refuse to play with my family (too many fights). Mom, Nana, and I used to play three-way pinochle, until Mom accused us of cheating and threw the cards at us. And then there's stupid man's bridge: Euchre. The best card game ever.

If you don't know what euchre is, well, I guess you've never been to a frat party in the Midwest. It is one of the easiest games ever. Okay, Indian poker is the easiest and stupidest game ever, but euchre is not too far off. I've see euchre played with two people who were completely wasted and one who had never played before, and still a good game. Euchre is awesome because it's fast, simple, has a bit of strategy, and cheating is expected. There are variations (no-trump, screw-the-dealer) which should be established at the beginning. It's played at parties, in line, wherever you've got 4 idiots from the Midwest and a half deck of cards. (Oh, you can't play euchre with a full deck -- that makes it all complicated-like.) Sigh. I miss euchre.

I'm finding as I get older, my card-sense is disappearing. I used to be able to evaluate the games a lot quicker and it was more instinctive to me. Mr. Higgy-Piggie still thinks it's impressive when I watch poker on tv and can tell him right away what each player need ("ooh, he needs a 9 or the 3 of clubs!"), but it seems like I have to think about it more. I kind of hate that. And I know that bridge would be a struggle.

Well, Merry Christmas to all! No poker tonight and that kind of makes me sad.

Twitter to Ohio

If I was twittering the ride to Ohio, it might go something like this:

7:10 am: Out the door, off to Target. Shut up, like you're so organized.

7:50 am: Done with Target. Hunting coffee. Helpful hint from worker: Barnes and Noble opens at 9 and they have a Starbucks. Thanks?

7:58 am: Waiting for Corner Bakery (a chain store?) to open. Why does a place that sells coffee and baked goods not open until 8?

8:01 am: Service here makes Starbucks look snappy. 

8:05 am: heading out. Finally.

8:25 am: Rain, rain, rain. 

8:45 am: Having that weird panic that I have the first time a take a route: Am I going the right way? West, right?

9:something: crossing into Pennsylvania. Ah, it's always good to be above the Mason-Dixon. Later, Waffle House.

Shortly after: try to call Bru. No luck.

10-ish: Now that I have "The Modern Lovers" newly uploaded to my ipod, I have two versions of "Pablo Picasso." I'll bet you can't say that.

10-ish later: I am on the PA turnpike and the sign states that there will be no rest stops for 116 miles. Really, PA? Really? So, I better stop. News: coffee makes me, um, have to stop.

Next: Quick stop. Grab a water. 

11:00: More driving, more rain. 

12:10: Seriously, the worst rest stop ever. The only food: McDonald's. A McDondald's with no grilled chicken, even. Service: S-L-O-W. And an almost fight between a customer and an annoyed worker. Big puddles in front of the gas pumps. Gas pumps keep splashing back and turning off. I'm already hating you, Ohio.

12:30: Hate driving in the rain. At least it's not snow, but then, again, if it snowed that much, I'd probably be in Maryland.

1-ish: Getting really annoyed at driving in the rain. It's just tiring.

2:30: Arrive at the parents. As the rain starts to let up. Of course.

Happy holidays, y'all.

I should drink more

I've never had a hangover. I assume I'd know what one is like if I had one. And I'm pretty sure I've had enough to drink that I should have a hangover. Yet, nothing but regrets. No headache, no upset stomach, no dizziness. 

I've heard enough about hangovers to know that if you wake up the next day a bit sleepy because you got to bed late and the room was spinning, that's not a hangover. A hangover is green around the gills. Maybe I haven't drank enough. Although I've had enough to get sick and I've certainly had enough to do a few things I've wished I hadn't done.

I'll admit, I don't drink much. It's that control-freak thing. Maybe I haven't had hangover-worthy quantities. Maybe I should let go, go on a bender, test the no-hangover theory. Although I doubt I can let go for that long.

Handbasket

It occurs to me that there are a lot of things I do (or think) that I follow with the phrase "...and that's why I'm going to hell." I don't know if this is a good thing. Although admitting you have a problem is the first step.

The thing that brought it on the other day it was babies in the office. Seriously, though, why do people bring their babies to the office? Babies don't like work. Babies don't like offices. Babies don't like cubicles (much). And if there is a baby at work, you can either pretend that it's so totally awesome that the baby is there (and, therefore, the person who brought the baby thinks, "yay, everyone loves to see the baby!") or ignore the baby -- then you're the bitch. 

Okay, not liking babies in the office isn't really the reason that I'm going to hell (although it probably isn't helping). The reason I'm going to hell is because I'm making an issue of it. And, as I am making an issue of it, I am thinking, "let it go." But no. I am choosing to rant against babies. I am making this big issue over a 10 minute disruption by a baby. 

I have issues.

Be very quiet, I'm hunting houses

The hunt for a house has begun. I'm already exhausted and somewhat sick of the whole thing. I really have very little patience for house hunting. It's somewhat surprising, as I tend to over-ponder my decisions. And, yet, the two houses we've bought have been basically impulse buys.

The house in Hatboro was one we drove past one night. "Ooh, look! Stop, get the number." We weren't even looking to move at the time, but there it was. It was not the best time to buy. I was still in grad school, we had a townhouse to sell, but we bought it anyway. While we were trying to sell the townhouse, before we actually could buy the house, Mr. Higgy Piggie got laid off. Sigh. But it all worked out, and we got the house.

When we went to buy the next house, I swore I would actually look for a house. I knew I wanted to be closer to work, and Newtown seemed just about right. Before we got our agent, we went for a drive around the area. One of the first places we checked out was some new construction, although it seemed really expensive. We then met with a realtor, who gave us a list of houses to check out. The  next weekend, we drove around, I got depressed, and we just got the new construction. Yeah, I'm that lazy.

At least this time, I've seen a few houses, gone to a few neighborhoods, and I actually feel like I am researching this purchase. I suppose it's the least I could do, but, it is just exhausting me. I am such a baby. 

Karaoke Tunes

I think that, on your list of favorite songs, you need to have at least one song you would perform at a karaoke bar. Yeah, yeah, you're never going to sing karaoke. I get it. And if anyone should not sing karaoke, it's me. I have a terrible voice. I will never be singing in front of a crowd. Ever. No really. Not enough booze in the world. But I do have a karaoke song. You know, just in case.

I believe a good karaoke song has a few key elements: (1) It should be relatively well known. You need to get that crowd on your side and they probably won't rally behind "Yellow Pills." (2) It should have a portion of the song where the crowd will want to sing along or participate. (3) It should be a song that's easy to sing. Don't try that crazy Mariah Carey number. You just can't do it. You really do not have the pipes. (And don't be fooled by any Queen songs -- Freddy Mercury had a damn fine voice. You will not be able to pull it off.)

For a while, my karaoke song was "Living on a Prayer." It has all the elements, plus you probably can't go wrong with Bon Jovi, especially living near New Jersey. But recently, I've rediscovered "It Never Rains in Southern California" and that is my karaoke song. If you haven't listened to it for a while (and, really, why would you unless you were an idiot like me), give it a spin. Well, you got to get past the flute. It's a great song, prefect for karaoke. And everyone can sing along with the chorus. But, it's mine, so no stealing.

I think some country artist (not too country) needs to redo it. It would be fabulous as a country tune. 

Tales of Christmas Present

When we lived in Toledo, Christmas had a definite pattern. I suppose you could call them traditions, although I think that implies handing down through generations, whereas this was more just what we did every year while I was growing up. More on that another day, when I'm feeling more nostalgic. 

After we moved, we lost our pattern to Christmas. A part of it was that we were getting older, but it was mostly being away from the extended family, the church we had always attended, the things we had grown up with. We tried to establish some sort of pattern, but it never took. It was all very frustrating, and, of course, you look around and think everyone else is having this great time at Christmas, surrounded by friends and family, and you are stuck with a bunch of people you don't know at this church that plays the wrong Christmas carols. It was just depressing.

Now that Andrea and my parents are back in Ohio, a bit of a pattern is emerging. A part of it involves Andrea's in-laws, who have the Christmas traditions they've been following forever: Christmas Eve at Dom's parents, Christmas Day at Aunt Diane's, that sort of thing. I have no problem with that, in fact, I'm a bit jealous, but when we go there, we hang of the outskirts, looking in. I tend to avoid these gatherings, as they emphasize my feelings of being an outsider. However, they have given us a framework for our holiday, and something to work off of. 

The one thing that stuck around throughout all the years is my dad's insane need for fresh kielbasa at breakfast Christmas morning. This was actually a surprisingly difficult request when we lived in Pennsylvania. You would go to the meat counter and they'd try to give you the smoked nonsense, packaged in plastic. Oh, please! This is not grey meat! Fresh kielbasa is both incredibly nasty and awesome. The spices, the fat, the fact that it takes about 5 hours to cook properly and then your house smells like the stuff for about 3 weeks. Luckily, we found a local place that made it (Illg's), so Christmas was saved! Every year, Christmas breakfast: fresh kielbasa. And about 2 hours later, I am throwing that stuff up. I swear, I cannot remember the last Christmas with my family that I was not purging by noon. (Family joke: "I'm feeling Illg's.") 

The Campbell family holiday tradition: greasy meat and vomiting. It's a wonderful life.

Nosing around other people's lives

I like to read other folk's blogs. There are a number of blogs I read regularly, and I do not know a single one of these people personally. But I keep up with these people and their lives. There's Expat Mike, who doesn't post too regularly, but every post is a jewel. The latest involves a taste test of sodas he bought in Macau. The folks on "It's Lovely! I'll Take It!" make looking for a house both better and worse than it actually has been, and "Overheard in the Office" always makes me laugh out loud.

I've been reading Elyse Sewell's for quite a while. For those who don't know, she was on the first season of ANTM (go look it up, if you don't know, but, seriously, if you're looking it up, you may be reading the wrong blog.) Now, if you've looked up "ANTM", you may be looking down your nose at my taste in blogs. Do not judge! You will love it. It's random and funny and so very, very awesome.

I read blogs started by various folks associated with Television without Pity. These folks are all really interesting writers and very funny. Reading all these blogs makes me want to write better. They also show me that clever goes pretty far.

And one that I just found: sexypeople-blog. Bliss!

My red ipod

Oh, little red ipod, why must you torment me so? I know you have over 900 songs on you and, yet, you keep playing certain favorites. Why are there songs you never play for me? I've given them to you with the hope that they would brighten my day by plying them, but you guard these songs with secrecy. Is it that hard to throw some Aimee Mann into the mix? 

Oh, little red ipod, what is your obsession with X and The Monkees? Sure, I was excited to get "Make the Music Go Bang!" but now you're just making me resent that purchase. Okay, yes, I do love John Doe and, sure, he could sing the phone book and I'd be happy to hear it, but give the guy a rest. And The Monkees, they are there just for that now and again childhood nostalgia. If you don't play nice, I'm going to have to take them away.

Oh, little red ipod, I know it's probably not all your fault. Clearly, you had issues from the start. You were always a fan of the two-fer, but this two-in-a-row behavior did make me doubt your "random" function. If I have given you only five Neil Diamond songs, what are the odds you play two in a row if it's truly random? Sure, it might happen every so often, but how are you picking two Beastie Boys tunes a few songs later? I know, it's probably Apple being "helpful" again. Oh, little red ipod, don't listen to Steve Jobs! You know that it's nothing but trouble.

However, little red ipod, you are not without your sense of humor. "Up All Night" followed by "I'm Only Sleeping"?! You little trickster. But a little less X, a little more Elvis (sure, either one), and I think we'll both be happy. And maybe stay away from Rage Against the Machine at work. Thanks.

They're writing songs of love, but not for me

When I was at dinner with Steven, we got on the topic of my ex-boyfriends (as one does). I mentioned that I get along with most of them, and he pointed out that I was always good that way. Of course, it got me thinking about why this is the case.

At first I started with the basics: I never really had a nasty, terrible break-up. (Sure, they weren't any fun, but nothing really nasty.) And I've always maintained that, if I cared for these guys on some level, I'm not going to stop caring about them just because we're no longer dating. I've got some really great ex-boyfriends: smart, funny guys doing impressive stuff -- engineers, professors, scientists, etc. (I may have a bit of a type). I'm in touch with a number of them and I like to hear what's new with them. But then I started wondering if there wasn't more to it than not-nasty break-ups and the occasional e-mail.

A few years ago, I stumbled upon this in my reading: "Why are old lovers able to become friends? Two reasons: They never really loved each other, or they love each other still." Thinking about that, I think, for most of my relationships, it's actually both. While on some level I really do care about many of my exes, it occurs to me that I've never really had a passionate relationship either. One that is just pure emotion, just craziness. Boombox over your head in the rain frenzy -- not happening to me. Which is probably why it's never lead to that nasty break-up, that tearing up of one's heart. I think the kind of love I am prone to is that steady but not-too-exciting love, but not deep, crazy passion.

I know that a big part of the reason this sort of passion has not happened to me is my fault. I do guard my emotions and I really don't let go. This is not an easy thing to accept, this unwillingness to trust another person, to be that vulnerable. I tell myself that this sort of craziness doesn't really last, and maybe only exists in movies, but sometimes I wish...

So, I'll probably never get the love songs. But I will have the friendships. Is this what I want? Depends on the day. Ask me tomorrow, you might get a different answer.

Revolutionary Road

A couple of years ago I read "Revolutionary Road" by Richard Yates. I don't even remember why I picked it, but I absolutely loved the book. It's sad and awful and fantastic. Easily in my top ten. And it's one of those little-known books, ones of those books people just haven't heard about. Even my brother, the PhD in literature, had never heard of it. Of course, I recommend the book to all my reader friends, especially those who also watch "Mad Men" (which is really the perfect show to match with the book.)

Now it is being made into a "major motion picture" with Kate Winslet and Leonardo DeCaprio. Now, I love Kate Winslet, and she's really a perfect for the role. And I'm actually kind of excited that a lot more people are going to discover the book as a result of this movie. But I'm sort of protective of the book and I kind of don't like the fact that it's so "out there." That it's not longer my cool, secret book to recommend to everybody. 

There's not too many times I'm at the front end of a trend. Sure, I was in the Kiss Army in 1975 and I was digging the cartoons of Matt Groening in the early '80s, but I think that's about it in my list of being ahead of the crowd. So, just remember, I was digging "Revolutionary Road" before "Mad Men" and Kate made it cool.

Words of love

It's goofy but I really love tut.com (although I don't actually go to the site very often). What is it? It's this absolutely goofy thing (calling it a service is almost an exaggeration) where you sign up and they e-mail you a "note from the universe" every day, Monday through Friday. Here's an example:

Every challenge is a stepping stone to a happier place than you even knew existed. Oh, the magic,

The Universe

One day soon you will be exceedingly glad for this very path you now tread.

Yes, they are new-age-y, kind of silly little messages. But every morning, I open my e-mail and see what "The Universe" has sent me for the day (you get a bonus message on your birthday!) These notes make me happy. Sort of like a feel-good horoscope. 

Sign up. And be happy that The Universe is sending e-mail. 

My favorite thing about Christmas

Although this time of year has a lot of things to hate or, if nothing else, be annoyed by, there is one thing I love about Christmas: Christmas carols. No, really, I absolutely love Christmas carols. There is no such thing as a Christmas carol that is too dopey for me. I'm singin' along and lovin' it.

Part of the love comes from the Catholic thing: no Christmas carols during Advent, then Christmas Eve: Joy to the World! The church we attended in Toledo always had especially wonderful music at Christmas. Midnight mass was always freezing but great music. They would always hit the standards, but pull out some of the more unusual carols as well. Oh, CORC, you bunch of hippies, I'm missing you this time of year. 

I also loved when the Christmas music showed up in the band folder. Marching band season was over, the big fall concerts had passed, contests were still months away. Right around Thanksgiving: "Sleigh Ride"! Yippee! We'd play the standards (to this day, I love, love, love "A Christmas Festival") but some weird ones as well. One year we played this awesome piece called "Russian Christmas Music" -- just fantastic. Plus, Christmas concerts were lighter and more fun than other concerts. 

My love for Christmas carols is pretty much across the board. I love all the Phil Spector Wall-of-Sound nonsense, "Jingle Bell Rock", both the Drifters' and Bing Crosby's versions of "White Christmas", James Brown. Bring it on! 

But I freakin' hate the Springsteen Christmas songs.

Yay for today!

There are little things in life that just make me feel good. Like, when I get the oil changed, I'm good for another 5000 miles (I do a lot of highway driving), and, after I get my car inspected, I know I'm good for another year. (I don't think my life is all about car maintenance, so why are these my example?) Anyway, today is the day I look for every year: the day the sun starts setting later.

"Wait just a gosh-darned minute! Today is December 12th. December 21st is the shortest day of the year!" And you would be correct. But I am a dork, so I know that although December 21st provides you with the shortest amount of total daylight, there is a short period where the sun start setting later. The sun also rises later, which then leads to an overall shorter day (up until the 21st). For those keeping score at home, today the sun set one minute later than it did yesterday! Glorious!

It's really silly, but when the sun starts setting just a bit later, I feel like I'm winning. So, yay for today, my funny, little holiday!

No time to post

Great dinner with a friend from high school and suddenly, the night is gone. I will post the sleeping cat instead, which is what I should be doing. Yes, I am lamely trying to keep the streak alive. 

Something that makes me the way I am today

Everyone has those events in their life that shapes who they are and how they behave. I'm going to tell you about about one of mine. One night in December when I was in the 4th grade, my dad and I went to pick up my grandpa. It was snowing, and on the way home, it got pretty bad. The car got stuck in the snow, but we were only a few blocks away, so my dad told me to just walk home with Papa while he dug out the car. Although it wasn't too long of a walk, it was in fairly deep snow, so it took a lot longer and was a lot harder walk than either of us expected. But we got home. I was so excited, I ran up the driveway. My mom was waiting for us and gave me a hard time for running ahead: "Go help Papa get up the driveway." Of course, I went back to him, but he was already most of the way up the driveway. And that would have been the end of it. Except the following week Papa had a heart attack and died.

I have to admit, I was probably a lot older than I should have been when I finally accepted that I didn't actually kill my grandpa. But I don't think I'll ever get over that I could have anticipated that there was something I could have done to help. I know that this is a big part of my control-freak nature. Of course, it's absolutely ridiculous to think that if I had held his hand walking up the driveway, he wouldn't have had that heart attack. But, deep down inside, I know there is a part of me that says, "but what if it would have made the difference." 

I do sort of live my life anticipating the possible problems, trying to solve them before they happen. I keep a change of clothes at work, spare shoes, snack bars, safety pins. Why, yes, I do have tweezers/a Sharpie/a sewing kit. A friend once told me that I was the person she would want to get trapped in an elevator with -- I'd have food and probably a deck of cards. Yesterday, I had a minor panic attack when I realized that all of my spare keys to my car are up in Pennsylvania. (If you don't think that that's crazy enough, the reason I thought this was because, if my purse got stolen, I would not have a spare set.) But it is tiring. I wish I could let go just a little bit. 

But I did run ahead that once. And, yes, I may be crying right this minute.

Really, American History Museum?

The National Museum of American History is reopened, and this afternoon I went to check it out. Disclaimer: I only had about an hour, so not too much checking. First thing I did: checked out the Gettysburg Address, which is on display until the end of the year. I'll admit it, not too exciting. But it was there, I was there, we both had time to kill, and, well, you know how these things are. (A slightly amusing side note, this particular document hall was named for Albert Small. So it was the Albert Small Document Hall. I kept thinking of small documents -- okay it's not that amusing...) (tee-hee).

As the small document hall didn't take too long, continued to do some exploring, see what they did with the place. And they still have that awful statue of George Washington. What the hell is up with that? The least they could have (should have) done was gotten rid of the thing. Okay, actually, the least they could've done is move it into a far corner or covered it with a big blanket. But, no, there it is, all ugly and awful and embarrassing for poor George Washington. I don't know why, but I saw that statue, and I was instantly exhausted with the whole museum. 

In all fairness to the Museum, I know that they have to keep some things there because the tourists want to see the things they saw as kids (I'm talking about you, Fonzie's jacket). But wouldn't it be nice to surprise us now and again?

Hello kitty

Yes, we have a cat. Before that, we had two cats. I like having a pet and a cat makes more sense than a dog since we travel and work, etc. It's a furry, four-legged animal that we keep in the house. This does not make me a "cat person." This does not make me dislike dogs. And it most certainly does not make me want things with cats on them.

As soon as we got the cats, I started getting birthday cards with kitties on them. Calendars with cats, Christmas ornaments, little decorations, etc., all with cats. Really? Did I become that girl? Because I thought I just got a pet, not ideas for the gifts I will get for the rest of my life. And the cat stuff is especially bad. Pastel-ly, flowery nonsense. I don't understand how people who know me think that, because I have a cat, I suddenly like this sort of thing. 

No one has gotten me any "hello kitty" stuff, so that's something. Although some of that stuff is actually kind of cute. (A quick check of the "hello kitty" website has taught me that you can buy a "hello kitty" Flip camcorder! Awesome! You can also get diamond earrings that cost over $2000. Plus they're really ugly.)

So, with Christmas coming: no cat stuff. Thanks.

Open Houses

Today we did the open house frenzy. It's just overwhelming. I'm such a dork -- before we hit the road, I got our list together, found them on the map, listed the coordinates on the map for easy finding, so we could see as many houses as possible. Of course, after you see a few houses, they all start to blend together. And my energy level goes into the negative region.

It doesn't help that there are houses that look okay on-line are not-so-much when you see them in person. You're looking at it at home and it's like "ooh, look at the cute little thing!" and you get there and it's, "Hey, why doesn't this have a driveway?" In some ways this is a good thing. You pull up, you look, you say "no" and quickly move on. But then you panic that they will all be awful. 

One or two open houses are kind of fun -- a day of it is too much. They do tend to blend together. "Is that the single-guy's house or the one with the blue?" It always amazes me how people get "ready" to show their homes. Did you really thinking that little snake on the counter would help sell your house? Oh, don't bother cleaning up all those leaves; they add to the charm.

Anyway, after seeing a lot of houses, there's a part of me that is "a great house is out there" and a part that is "there's nothing but nightmares out there." I'm sure there will be some compromises, but I'm not ready to give up too much stuff yet. 

3 Weeks

Three weeks ago I packed up my car and moved down here. I can't believe it's only been 3 weeks. It amazes me how quickly I've kind of gotten used to it all. It's not that I feel that this is my life and the way it's always going to be. But it's become comfortable and routine; it's like I've gotten used to this weird hotel-like existence. 

I'm surprised that I haven't been bored yet. In fact, not even close. By the time I get home, make a phone call or 2, catch up on e-mail, blog (well, now), have some dinner, do some stuff around the house, well, that's a night. (I know, the excitement is killing you.) I'm doing a few things during the week like going out to dinner or running errands (usually those are weekend activities for me). Next week, I'm planning to go into DC twice!

I've settled into the job pretty quickly. It's a new therapeutic area, but I'm working on the types of documents I know, so I'm pretty comfortable overall. The group is delightfully ornery, so that keeps me happy. Give me some snark during a meeting, and you've got my attention. The projects are starting to pile up and soon I will be busy, busy, busy. And I'm actually looking forward to it. I hate waiting for things to do.

I've got to start getting at least a little bit serious about the house hunting. This existence can't last too long. House hunting just makes me tired. So, for now, I'll enjoy the walk to work, the minimal cleaning, this weird existence.

Walking the walk

One of the best things about where I'm living now is that I can walk to work. It's not the nicest walk, and it's not the best time of year, but I'm still enjoying it. Most of the walk is through parking lots, and I have to cross a fairly major road (luckily, there is a crosswalk with a walk/don't walk sign). I'm not thrilled that the walk home is in the dark, but I'm sure it's safe. At least no less safe than walking to and from my car would be.

It takes me about 15-20 minutes, which is almost too short. It's not exercise, so I really should do more than just this walk to work. But it's a nice amount of time to clear my head or listen to music. If it were much longer, I'd probably make excuses to not walk (it's too cold, it might rain, etc.) For now, I've walked to work almost every day since I started. 

I'm always surprised that other people are surprised I walk to work. It's not far and it probably takes almost as long as driving. Anyway, I get to listen to my ipod and get some fresh air. I'll enjoy it while I can.

Sticker shock!

In order to help sell our house, we are considering hiring people to "stage" the house. I know, hard to believe that's actually a job, but there you go. Anyway, they had come to the house a couple of weeks ago, taken a lot of pictures, and tonight they were ready for their presentation. (This is why we set up the iChat, if you're wondering.)

So, they walk us through their findings. First off, we have too much clutter. Really?! Yes, we know that. We're not putting the house up just yet. We know we need to clean our closets. You also may be surprised to hear that the litter boxes are not a good thing. Thanks. You are clearly an expert. Be sure you put that in your report. Anyway, they have a lot of suggestions which mostly fall into the categories "yeah, we meant to get to that" (Paint the garage, yep. New light fixtures, sure.) or clean up your shit (organize the linen closet, clean the windows, etc.) None of this is really a surprise.

So, what do they do to sell themselves as experts? Well, when you're ready to sell, they come in a day or two before you list and rearrange everything, add some decorations, that sort of thing. I will be the first to admit that this is not my strongest suit, so, okay, we need some like them for that. And they'll bring in some of their things, which, whatever. 

How much does all of this cost? If we sign up with them: $2900! No, I am not making that up. But, wait, there's more: if we use their stuff (which they basically said is going to happen), we have to pay extra to "rent" their stuff. Is there any guarantee that this will help sell our house? No. None at all. In fact, they get more money if you don't sell right away, because you are renting their stuff. 

Anyway, I'm a bit annoyed at the whole thing. Sure, I expected to pay more than I expected. But this is way more than I expected. Way more. To rearrange my furniture and tell me to clean my closets. For that kind of cash, you can do some cleaning. Or provide some vases without charging "rent". So, we definitely have to think about this.

On a side note: not having cable is resulting in me watching a lot of "Two and a Half Men." This is not helping my mood.

Adventures in iChat

So, we're trying to set up the iChat. First, you need an AIM account. Ugh. Off to the AIM site. Pick a name. Seriously, someone else has HiggyPiggie? And HiggyPiggy? It's a complete nonsense name that I starting using when I set up a fantasy sports team. And now someone else has it!? Jerk! Meanwhile, Mr. Higgy Piggie is going through the same thing. "I can't think of anything. This is stupid. What do you mean I can't start with a number? Why won't you take this name? Can't I have a period in there?"

So, I finally find a name to use. Now I got to fill out all the nonsense. I'm still listening to Mr. HP cuss as they keep rejecting his choices. ("What the hell is wrong with that one?!") I fill out the nonsense (or so I thought) and type in the crazy, blurry word. Error! Oh, I forgot one field. Type in the new annoying word. Error! ("Come on! That one's gotta work!" from Mr. HP.) Finally, I get it set up. Now onto the actual iChat program. Except it keeps kicking me to the website that advertises iChat. No! Meanwhile, Mr. HP has finally successfully picked a name and is now trying to register. "Is that a 9? Dammit! Another error?! I can't read that!" At this point, I'm hating technology. I tell Mr. HP to call me when it's all set up on his end and he can walk me through it.

I get a big glass of wine.

Mr. HP calls and has it set up. He walks me through the steps and, yay, we can see each other and hear each other. Unfortunately, my picture is up there as well (kind of picture-in-picture) and I realize that I blink a lot. Seriously, what is up with my eyebrows? It's hard to resist making faces. And rubbing my nose. So, I'm trying to figure out what the different buttons are and, of course, I hang it up. I don't remember Mr. HP's "name" and I can't figure out how to call him back, so I wait. And wait. And wait. Sigh. Phone call. Somehow, I had hit something and was "not available." Anyway, we get it working again. We "chat" a while, then it randomly hangs up. "No data." I have no idea. We connect again. We play with it a bit more. Yeah, I may have hung up on him a few more times.

So, I think we've got it working. We'll see tomorrow, when the realtor is meeting with us. I'm betting we have to go to the phone.

Sometimes I can be girly

I'm not a particularly girly girl, but I do have a strange obsession with make-up. I have no idea where it came from and why I love it so. And, yet, Sephora! I am not a shopper, but I cannot go past a Sephora and not stop in (and most likely buy something). It's really a problem.

The weird thing is that I wasn't one of those girls who wanted to wear make-up when I was 12 or one of those girls who had to hide make-up in my locker to put it on when I got to school. Around the time I started high school, my mom took me to one of those places that taught you how to actually use the stuff, and that was that. I don't remember asking if I could wear make-up. And, even though I love the stuff, I've never worn a lot of make-up (although, for full disclosure, I did go through an unfortunate blue eye shadow phase. It was the '80s, so it wasn't entirely my fault.)

I sort of blame Nana. I once told her that when I started making money, I would buy good make-up. When I got my first "real" job, she reminded me of this. (I think she just wanted the freebees that came with buying Estee Lauder or Clinque make-up.) It's not really her fault, but I think of her when I overspend. And I do like having an excuse to thinking of my Nana.

I have this great lace-covered train case full of make-up in my closet. It smells so good. Lip balms, perfume samples, eye shadows, powders, funny little brushes. And I have the most ridiculous stuff. False eyelashes, green glitter eye liner, white eye liner (I'm not even sure what that one's about), lip balm that changes color depending on "your mood." All very practical. Alan Moses does like my green glitter eye liner, though.

This is not my beautiful house!

Living in my apartment is a weird thing. There's this feeling of going back in time. Am I really back to apartment living? Am I back in grad school? It's one of those things that, once you live in a house, you think you'll always live in a house. That you'll always have all that space. Now it's all so compact. Of course, on the flip side, every time I get groceries, I've got to haul them up to the third floor.

Yes, this is a temporary arrangement. Hopefully no more than 6 months. But 6 months is still a pretty long time. I'm renting furniture, which only increases the weirdness factor. It's not my comfy bed, and it's more coordinated than I would go. And more brown. It's single-guy furniture. Not that that's a bad thing, but it's not me.

Anyway, it's better than it was when I first moved in. We've rearranged the furniture, and I've brought some stuff from home that has made it feel more like mine, as opposed to some weird hotel. I'm tempted to bring more things in, but everything that gets moved in has to be moved out, so I'm trying to resist those temptations. 

I have a loft and I'll be damned if I have any idea what to do with it. It seems like a good idea, but then there's this spiral staircase...