Hanging Out

I enjoy hanging out with friends. We go to movies, or to each others' houses or with the advent of my birthday, we mostly wobble around from bar to bar. We are those annoying "early twenty something" girls that you probably hate. But that's my interpretation of the phrase "hanging out."

This is not everyone else' interpretation. Or perhaps it's just Richmond's interpretation is different, I really don't know. I don't know slang, and I'm not a passive communicator, I say exactly what I mean. The end.

I had been out on a few dates with a particular guy in town, and that fizzled, or at least it did for me. I told him one night while we were sitting in my car that I didn't think we were romantically compatible. He didn't like this response, and went on to ask me why I would join a dating service if I wasn't looking for a relationship. This seems silly to me, the implication here, at least what I gathered, was that he thought I was looking for something instant - that I was looking to jump into something quickly. I wasn't, and I'm not. Actually, let me rephrase that, I'm not looking to jump into anything with anyone that I don't have that immediate connection with. It's not "love at first sight," it's more something at first glance. It's a lingering feeling, connection that isn't forced, it just is.

Though, I did enjoy the time we spent together, the chemistry just wasn't there. He explained that he "didn't need anymore friends" which is fine, but rude to say. And I told him that I was looking more to meet people than for a long-term relationship; if something didn't work out, well then at least I'd met someone new and hopefully someone that would still be interested in knowing me.

He leaned in and "whispered I'm going to make this hard for you" and kissed me. Like that was supposed to change my mind or something. It didn't. He got out of my car and I went home.

The following weekend he sent me a series of passive aggressive text messages, though when I finally confronted him about it he claimed that I just didn't "get his sense of humor, yet." This combined with condescending statements regarding how I interact with people and that I need to be "socialized" - whatever that means - didn't exactly help his case. So when he called me a week later at two in the morning and asked if I was "hanging out" I wasn't sure what he was talking about.

I had gathered that he thought I was interested in his friend, not true, and thought he was asking about his friend. His friend and I had been "hanging out" in my sense of the phrase, platonically. He went on, "No, are we hanging out?"

I think we use that term differently, you mean are we dating? No. I thought I explained this to you last week.

"No, we made out in your car."

No, you kissed me, there was no making out.

"So, we're not hanging out?

No. I am not interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with you. I'm sorry.

"Oh, well, bye."

This was followed by him tweeting about "realtalk" and then blocking me on Twitter. Real mature.

Let's be clear though, I had been seeing him less than a month, and we had never had a DTR (define the relationship talk), so I wasn't leading him on. I've been out with lots of people and met lots of people and generally putting myself in new environments in which I can meet new people. I'm not "hanging out," I'm hanging out and I prefer it that way.

Getting Excited About Christmas?

Christmas is in five days and I still have the majority of my Christmas shopping to do. I'm poor, so I'm only buying my immediate family presents this year, and I'm getting them from thrift stores. My sisters and I all have an appreciation for the odd, unique, generally old things you can find, but the rest of my family won't be so easy. My mom prefers gaudy, new things a la model homes - that kind of gaudy. Everyone else isn't as picky and may not love what I get them, but will deal.

As picky as my mother is about what she wants, she's just as picky about giving us what she thinks we should want. For example, I need new clothes. The last time I went shopping was in September, I bought a (third) pair of black skinny pants, two plaid shirts and a red dress. With the exception of that dress (that I've only worn once) that became my fall uniform. Since winter has arrived I've modified it slightly by wearing tights under my pants and t-shirts under my button-downs. I keep it basic because I can't afford to dress better. My mother hates this, she's always telling me that I need to get some nice "slacks" and to let her know if I'd like anything from Talbot's, Chadwick's, Bowden, etc.

This summer she told me to email her some dresses I'd like, and she'd get me a couple. I sent the email, everything was around $50. She didn't like any of them and in return sent me links to dresses she thought I would like. They were terrible. And I didn't end up with any new dresses. THANKS, MOM!

So, the other day she and my dad were in Richmond and we were all at my sister's house, and when my mom goes to hug me, she very conspicuously looks at my shirt tag, and then makes this face. The corners of her mouth curve up and inward and she squints her eyes, it's terrible, but it's her "I'm up to something face"- because she hadn't already given herself away. I had been warned that my mom was planning on buying me a coral sweater set, so I told her very plainly not to. I would not wear it.

Last year I asked for an oversized, black, merino wool sweater. I got a black Merona (the Target brand) sweater instead. Not the same thing, but at least she tried.

I don't ask for a lot, but I am very specific about what I want. And as my mother has learned, and demonstrated this summer with the dresses, if it's not what I asked for, I would rather go without.

My sister April is smarter about her responses to "What do you want for Christmas?" She asks for practical gifts with very little specifications. This year she told me mom that she wanted a toaster, no particular brand, no specific color or size, just a toaster. Well my mom decided to get an expensive one, since it was all April had asked for. Then this conversation happened:

Mom: What else do you want? Something big? (Big, i.e. more valuable than a toaster)
April: Something that I can use the internet on...
Mom: ...
April: Like a netbook?
Mom: I was thinking a gym membership...

1. April has a gym membership.
2. My mom can be such a bitch.
3. April can fit into her pre-pregnancy clothes.
4. Could my mom be any more passive aggressive?

My mom thinks April is fat, and that I dress terribly. Ohdeargod, Christmas is going to be so much fun.

The presents that I have bought so far aren't great, I've definitely done better (with more money) in the past, but I'm doing my best to be inspired. And as cheesy as that may be I think I'm doing alright so far.

Faking It Pt. 2 (wherein I overshare)

(If you're Mormon and/or related to me, you may not want to read this, just a heads up.)

I spend way too much time with my sister, April. She's a stay at home mom and they have the internet and netflix, and more food than I do, and the cutest kid ever - all of which are reasons to go there. But because she stays at home, she also enjoys (or pretends to) my stories of being single and stupid and doing very stupid things, especially concerning the opposite sex and/or booze.

April and I are fundamenally very different, she is conservative and wears muted colors, and I am very liberal and prefer bold colored everything. She also has all these rules, rules about life and dating like, "don't bake for him until he's bought you three dinners" and "no telling him what he would look better in before five dates" - the list goes on and she's more than happy to enlighten me whenever something goes wrong.

She thinks that I have terrible taste in men, "he's ugly/fat/old/etc." followed by "and he's just not that into you" are frequent things she vocalizes. And she makes no effort to remember anyone's name "until she meets them." So all the guys I date are worthless phantoms because I can't seem to have a normal dating life, but I'm really good at the non-relationship. These are relationships that aren't defined, he is not my boyfriend, I am not his girlfriend, and usually one or both of us are projecting our feelings for an ex on to the other person.

Well I was seeing this guy for just under two months, given things moved really fast, but he was the one that said "we" first. I don't do that - because then I end up being that crazy girl who wants things to move to fast, so I wait and see. I'm really good at this. I also don't hold hands in public, or kiss, or generally behave as though I'm dating someone unless you know, it seems like a sure thing.

This guy in particular said "we" first at a concert we went to. We were talking to a friend of mine who DJs and happened to be djing the following weekend and Boy looked at me and asked if "we" would be going. I had been planning to go as I do most months, but I had planned on crashing at a friend's place. I explained that I was sure my friends probably wouldn't mind putting him up to with which he responded, "Oh, we'll just get a hotel." What? Right, because that's something that people that have been dating less than a month do without the intention of being in a relationship. Sure, it could translate into "I just want to fuck you in a hotel" but come on, you don't have to go to another city to do that. It was the night before going back to DC that we had the "I'm not interested in seeing anyone else, but I don't want to rush into another longterm relationship" talk. Story of my life.

We go to DC, we have a great time, we continue to see each other, we do coupley things, we go to a few shows, and then when we're on our way to a movie he says, "I woudln't care if you slept with other people..." "Really?" "Yeah, it's not like we're in a relationship..." "You're right, we're not." We're just spending several nights a week at each other's places and people are starting to regard us as a couple, but yeah, we're totally not in a relationship.

Things fizzled, that's fine. He didn't want a relationship. Whatever. I can deal. Then my birthday happened, and he slept through it because he had been "working a lot..." So I drunkenly sauntered over to his house and woke him up at 1:30 am. There were tears involved and I think I may have shouted something along the lines of "I want to be in love!" Because I am melodramatic and generally impulsive.

He did take me out the following week and we had a lovely, if not slightly awkward time. But I am not the type that just stops caring about people. I've never understood how people just stop talking to their exes, and he's not even a real ex, an ex-lover? That sounds cheap. Anyway, I'm usually pretty good at staying friends with people, even Mr. Potato Head and I managed to get back to being friends.

Everything was fine until last week. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but I've been struggling with money, school, the move, really just life this past month and went out every single night for two weeks in an effort to escape it, because that's healthy. Last week I was out with some girlfriends and I wanted to go sing kareoke, and with no obligations the next day we saw it fit to drink in excess (cue Four Loko). As I was walking up I ran into his roommate who told me that he was there, which was fine, except he was there with a girl, which also would have been fine had he given me a heads up.

We had talked two days prior and I had told him about my joining OkCupid and the dates I had been on, he didn't say anything. So walking up and being told and then seeing what was happening was like a punch in the face. I managed to keep my cool-ish - I spent a lot of time smoking other people's cigarettes and pacing up and down the block while my friend went inside and made new friends. But what's worse is that he did introduce us, and later I put two and two together and she dated one of those OkCupid guys I went out with. It's incredible how small this city is.

I went home that night and didn't sleep. That was followed by days of not sleeping or eating, and the knot in my stomach just got bigger and eating became near impossible. The amount of anxiety I experience in five days was more than I think I've ever experienced. It all culminated over the weekend with a series of panic attacks, passive aggressive tweets (that I later deleted) and vomiting in my friend's toilet Saturday night. Sunday was spent in a daze of trying to get things accomplished and attempting sleep, but turned into another panic attack on Sunday that ended in my friend's living room with a xanax in one hand and a bowl in the other. If nothing else, the munchies got me eating.

Monday I went to April's and she pointed out how terrible I looked, I hadn't spent more than ten hours in the previous four days in my apartment, and was still wearing Friday's clothes. Classy. Gross.

I'm not sure why, or how these things affect me the way they do, but they do and there's not a whole lot I can do about it. He has no idea (though he might read this, probably not). I even cut his hair and had him repay me in the form of liqour, and with the exception of a few awkward moments, it was mostly fine. Fine is what it has to be, because I'm not going to stay in to avoid uncomfortable situations, they happen, and I put on a happy face and deal. It's all I can do.

I've never had to deal with this situation before, I've always remained friends, or at least friendly with my exes. I know I'm going to run into them, and just because we're not together doesn't mean that you stop caring, and if I care about anyone in the least I usually make a point to say hello. It just sucks when you realize that you were someone's rebound, and that it's not that they didn't want a relationship, they just didn't want it with you. Even after all the "signs" and words, and all the little things, they're okay not talking to you and they aren't ever going to suggest hanging out, or grabbing lunch or drinks. All of that is fine, because thankgod, you aren't pregnant, and you can move on to the strangers on the internet that think you're "sexxi" and put on a happy face.

Faking It

So I finally bought the domain for amandarants.com, but I can't use it yet because I bought it with another email address other than the one used for this blog.

It's been almost two years, but after my freshman year at VCU I didn't get any of the internships I had applied for so to make some extra money I decided to start removing wallpaper. My sister had just moved into a house covered in it and I found that I was quite efficient at removing it. I created an email address for this endeavor, and somewhere down the line it became associated with this blog instead of my primary email address. Though whenever I try to create a new blog with my primary email address it won't let because Blogger still thinks that it's associated with this blog.

So, I did end up getting an internship with WashingtonPost.com's Going Out Guide, and the wallpaper removal thing never happened, and I would like to delete that email address but am afraid to considering the circumstance.

In case you were unaware having multiple email accounts become complicated especially when you don't check all of them regularly. I counted, I have six, or seven? Not totally sure. Why do I have so many? Not sure about that either because there are really only four that I use, the one for this blog, the one for school, my personal email address and my "professional" email address.

I spent most of yesterday trying to get things configured, called my computer nerd friends, and wracked my brain trying to work it all out. It's a slow going process, but I'm learning things that will probably be useful in the future. This is my attempt at being tech savvy - I'm not, but I'm going to pretend.

I really need to put up and pay for the internet

So, the abridged version of the past three weeks.

1. Signed the lease for my new place and moved. I'm now living in a studio, by myself, without roommates - WITHOUT ROOMMATES, in Shockoe Bottom. Sure I live above a really shitty bar/club combo thing that plays really terrible Top 40 music three nights a week, but I live alone, and it is clean, and I'm usually out those nights anyway. My neighbors are alright, no one is particularly loud and I'm pretty sure there aren't any hookers that live in my building - I'm moving up in this world.

2. Turned 21 - this may or may not have led to me standing outside of someone's house in the rain and crying after they slept through my birthday. Happy Birthday to me! And then I may or may not have continued to get drunk and/or stoned elsewhere. Yay! for healthy decisions!

3. I didn't go to Pittsburgh as I had planned. Christina's grandfather died and then she had to work, and I had a series of money issues and it was generally just a bad weekend. So I'll probably go after the new year, and I'm really hoping that she and her boytoy come to Richmond over the holidays.

4. I joined a dating site, because you know, I want to go on dates and have some semblance of a normal dating life that doesn't include men twenty years my senior. I'm not sure what the problem is, but meeting people in Richmond is one of the hardest things. Making friends is difficult enough, but dating is near impossible. I've been out with friends and not met anyone, I've been out by myself and not met anyone - though the last time I went out by myself was to a post-punk dance night and I was that girl dancing by herself - a couple of dudes talked to me after and said that they had seen me dancing/that I was a good dancer, etc. but they waited until everyone was leaving. WTF? Anyway, I was annoyed, so this whole online thing is something I'm giving a shot. So far it's been pretty entertaining, I have learned to delete messages from dudes who don't wear shirts in their profile pictures, and some dudes think that liking "blockbuster movies and lemonade" makes them a catch. It doesn't. I've only been on it a week and I've already been on a couple dates with normal dudes, or seemingly normal dudes.


Seriously, the past three weeks have been insane. And I still don't have the internet at my new place because I'm poor, so I'm writing this from a cafe down the street from me. I'm really embracing the poor writer/student cliche.

As a result of being 21, I've been going out more, in Richmond which has been nice. I've only spent like one day in DC in the last month and that was to see La Roux. I finally feel like a Richmond kid, it's terrible, but probably healthy.

Completely unrelated and I'll probably post about this later, but don't fall asleep at your friend's house when they're doing mushrooms.

My Face is Bigger than Your Face

This past week I've been tweeting a lot about my face. The itching that started Monday, I mistakenly thought was related to my allergies and developing sinus infection. The two red spots that showed up Tuesday on either side of my right eye I thought were developing pimples. Tuesday night my forehead started to feel slightly bumpy. I called my friend who's an epidemiologist and explained to her what was going on, she told me to take Benadryl and that if it didn't help to see a doctor. Wednesday morning I had a nice ring around my entire right eye and spots developing on the left. I went to the doctor.

Except, I am still on my parent's insurance and have not seen a doctor in Richmond in over a year when I went to the VCU student clinic. But since I'm not a student there I can't go there anymore and my primary physician is located in Northern Virginia. So I had to call Tricare and was finally able to see someone at Ft. Lee. But because Ft. Lee is still more than thirty minutes away, I have to find a civilian doctor that takes Tricare to be my primary physician.

So I see the doctor, Dr. Huggins, a very short, plump woman who seems to think that continuously poking and prodding my face is somehow going to make it better. After some time (I think she took her time poking and prodding to make it seem like she was actually doing something) she writes me a prescription for an antihistamine. Then she leads me to a nurse to get my flu shot - I should mention that I don't typically get a flu shot, just because I unfortunately do not make my health a priority and I only got inoculated out of convenience, and it was free. I think I'm getting over my trypanophobia - I didn't cry or hyperventilate. PROGRESS!

I then make my way to the pharmacy and on the way I'm passing all these people in militay uniforms. I don't care so much about the uniforms, but in contrast to them I look sorely out of place. Aside from my face's mutation, my clothing says "Hi, I'm a poor student, am probably a lot more liberal than you, and yes I've been wearing this particular hoodie since the fifth grade." When I walk up to the pharmacy's receptionist, instead of greeting me with a hello or similar salutation she says, "What did you do to your face?"

I made the mistake of trying a fancy face wash my mom had samples of when I was home last weekend. I don't typically use much on my face. I have really sensitive skin and like to keep it simple, but I had been having all these small breakouts lately so I thought I'd try something stronger. Boy, was that the worst decision ever. I can only compare what is on my face to that one time in the seventh grade when I got poison ivy really bad and used it as an excuse to skip gym for three weeks. Except, it's on my face. And my right eye lid is swollen to the point that there isn't really a lash line and it makes reading small print difficult because everything looks blurry. And instead of missing gym I am missing what I have made out to be the best weekend of this year. I asked to take tomorrow off about a month ago for the Stewart/Colbert Sanity/Fear rally/gathering, and have been looking forward the Halloween festivities since last year. Last Halloween was pretty epic, if not messy.

(This is me last year as a candy striper very happily wearing a friend's "wild thing" head.)

I've digressed. Anyway, so, Wednesday I go to class that night and after I finish my quiz my professor comes up to me with the in-class assignments and tells me that I look contagious and if I need to go home. I proceed to call my boss and apologize for needing the next day off. Thursday is spent in bed hiding from the world until my sister stops by with neem and coconut oils that I had asked her to pick up for me at the suggestion of another friend. The oils are supposed to help with the swelling or something. "It really does look horrible," thanks, April. I don't know why she was so surprised. Sure, my typical descriptions of things I'm excited about may be a bit hyperbolic, but not about things I'm not excited about. Guys, it really is that bad. I have friends who keep claiming otherwise, asking for pictures, but I refuse to make any documented evidence of this situation.

This morning it wasn't any better. Please excuse me for insulting the only real socialize healthcare system in the US as I do like having it, but they never give you the good stuff the first time around. They would rather give you amoxicillin when you need augmentin - I know the difference and when which is necessary. (Example: I took one augmentin that I had lying around for the pesky sinus infection I had developing - POOF! Nipped that in the bud!) Hydroxyzine was just not doing the trick, so I made my way to the emergency room downtown to see a doctor that wasn't a contractor for the government. And while I was waiting in my room some man from the Richmond Health Department asked me if I wanted to get tested for HIV, for free. This week I have not been one to turn down free health related things, so I obliged and got free condoms to boot! "The pink one is for the guy who conveniently forgets to bring his own." What a sweetheart, right? And during such a shit week what could be better news that to have someone tell you that you're HIV negative? Really, in this life, I don't think there is anything better than being HIV negative.

I have had my sunglasses on this whole time. The doctor comes in and asks me to remove them and states, "This is a really impressive case." Impressive is not something anyone in this sort of situation wants to hear. It's the same thing doctors used to say as they called their colleagues in to look at my giant thyroid (it's something like 10 cm wide, which is apparently huge). I have also brought all of the stuff I have been taking, applying and an ingredients list I had the facial cleanser's company send me. He writes me a prescription for prednisone and I'm done. I have contact dermatitis, but a really bad case of it so I'm getting the big guns.

I've taken three today and so far it hasn't really made a difference. But it needs to start working by Sunday because my military ID expires on Tuesday (because my birthday is Wednesday) and if I have to see a specialist it would have to be on Monday. This all presents a problem because I had originally planned to renew my ID on Monday, but I won't be doing that because of the face issue. My mother suggested that I go ahead and do it and then get a replacement later, but that would require me to go out in public without sunglasses and make documented evidence - all things I am not going to do. My mother also didn't believe how awful I look until my sister told her. My parents are going to be in town tomorrow to visit my sister and her baby and want to swing by and see me to, this cannot happen. My mother is one of those people that always has a camera with her and in 20 years she would love to get out these pictures for family gatherings, I'm sure. They do not have my address, and I am not giving it to them.

Birds have it made.

Last night I had dinner with a friend. We had Thai. I never get Thai food. It was delicious. So, I'm having it again tomorrow for a different friend's birthday - her choice. He was telling me all about all the things in his life that are currently bothersome, and I of course did the same.

He told me that I had to stop feeling guilty about things, which is true. For example, right now, I could be writing for school or a publication, but I'm not because right now I need to do this. And later I'll probably write some really terrible poetry and attempt to play the piano and become frustrated because I'm not nearly as good as I used to be.

I saw my parents this past weekend. It was only for an hour or so, and I needed my dad to sign some stuff so that I can hopefully move into my own place. So, my mother was sitting there with us and started going on about how her children don't like her. This isn't true. We do like her, but as with my father, we prefer small doses. I suppose this may seem mean or ungrateful. I can only be around them for so long before I start feel like a terrible person. My mother will first ask me about school and why I'm not done yet. Then she will tell me about some people at church that I don't know or care about and how they're getting married or having children, two things I am in now rush to do. And then she'll ask me about my job and tell me about how another person is making so much money doing something different. This will all lead to politics, something that we will never agree on.

I finally told my mother that it's not her that I don't like, it's the fact that she constantly puts herself down and then blames her children and compares us to everyone else. Life is hard. We're just trying to make it. I'm young, I have the rest of my life ahead of me and who knows what that means. I can only listen to what a disappointment I am so many times.

Going to a community college and getting an associates degree in court reporting in the sixties is hardly comparable to going to the largest university in the state and then flunking out. I feel terrible about all that wasted money and time, but at the end of the day I know that I'm much better on in Richmond than I would have been had I stayed in Lake Ridge. Anyway, I get like this after having those kinds of conversations with my parents.

I'm trying to get myself situated enough so that I can save up and after I finish my own associates degree in Liberal Arts, I can go somewhere for a year. And between now and then I'll hopefully find a way to get over all my qualms regarding writing. I mean, I just wrote all of this. I'm sure that were my parents to see it they wouldn't exactly be happy, though it's not my job to make them happy. I have the beginnings of things written that ideally one day will be published that I would like to spend more time on. And I'd like to spend more time writing music, and maybe attempt to get over my stage fright; grow up. Growing up seems an impossible thing to do.

I'm moving, again, and not to DC.

When I moved in with Adam in June, I had been in a hurry to find some reasonable human being to live with in a very short period of time. I basically had three weeks to find somewhere to live.

Adam is straight-edge, and vegan. Which isn't a problem. We don't share food, with the exception of his candy. His diet is made up primarily of fried potato products and candy - he doesn't like the banana flavored laffytaffy, so he puts it in a bowl for me. I think this is gross. But that's just fine because he thinks that all the dairy products I consume are gross.

He is also not in any way type-A. I am. And this is where I have driven every roommate I've had insane. I like the areas that we share to be clean, but not your version of clean, my version of clean. And then I start to resent the person I live with for not having the same standards that I have and I start doing passive aggressive things, like not taking the trash out when it starts to smell, or not doing dishes - just to see how long it takes them to notice.

When I moved in I liked that Adam was a DJ, had a great music collection, small label and is just generally a music person. I didn't realize that he had so much stuff. And I really don't like stuff. I am a minimalist. I like my books and records, but I like them stored in a non-obtrusive way. I like linear things and I like stacks and defined angles. And I really don't like dog hair.

Adam has two dogs, two pugs. And I grew up with dogs, I love dogs and generally prefer them to cats. But I don't think I've ever been around two dogs that shed as much as these two do, or maybe it's just because there are two of them. And nevermind the older dog's bowel issues - I bought a plastic rug for the living room specifically because of this problem.

So, Adam and I had it out the other night. I've wanted to move out for awhile, but wasn't really sure how to go about asking out of my lease. And I didn't mean for it to happen the way that it did, but basically he told me I was mean and I told him he was dirty, and then we talked about our fucked up families. It actually felt a lot like a lot of the conversations I've had with my family members growing up - things almost always started with an argument, then turned to tears, then eventually a rational discussion was born. Age-wise he would fit perfectly into my family, snugly between Steven and April.

So, now I'm on the hunt for another home. One where I live by myself. As much as all of my roommates have annoyed me, I can honestly say that I love them. But as a favor to the rest of the world, I really need to live alone. Well, as a favor, and for my sanity. The only issue with this is that it will be slightly more expensive. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will A) be living in the ghetto or B) be living in not the greatest conditions. I prefer the former.

I looked at a tiny one-bedroom earlier this week and it was kind of perfect except for the location. The leasing agent even warned me of the proximity to one of Richmond's most dangerous developments. This doesn't bother me as much as it will bother my parents. The place is in a quadraplex and the other tenants are mostly nursing students that attend classes on the nearby MCV campus.

I'm looking at a studio today that's in the noisy Shockoe area. I'd be living above a bar, which again doesn't really bother me because it means that I could be as loud as I wanted to. And I have an appointment to look at another one bedroom later today that's in my current neighborhood - it's more expensive, but all inclusive.

I am using one of my old roommates as a reference so that she can attest to my cleanliness and orderliness. I'm not a bad tenant, I'm just a bitch to live with.

Birthday Prep

Shit. It's been weeks since I've posted anything. Though, if you've followed my tweets you'll see that I have been busy bitching as usual about life's injustices, or my first-world inconveniences via my new Android. It is my new favorite thing. I've become one of those terrible people that are constantly playing with it. AND THE APPS. Let's talk about Tetris. I love that game. It's probably the only video game that I have ever been any good at, and I played it the other day until my battery died. It's been a week, and I use that phone literally all the time. What's the weather like? What time does the show start? What's the latest on NPR? It's all there. All the time. Literally at my fingertips. I know this isn't something new for most people that have any clue about technology, but I am so technologically inept that this thing continues to blow my mind.

Aside from my new toy, my life has gone like this: work/school, nap, work/school, food, internet/hulu, food, work/school, show, food, sleep, work/school, food, nap, etc.

There was a minor freakout a couple weeks ago, but those happen regularly as a result of my talking myself into thinking crazy things and then acting on those crazy though and it usually results in a really long email and/or series of phone calls. All is better now. Except for waking up in the middle of the night realizing that I had been talking in my sleep and may or may have not said silly/incriminating things. If I had been told that this sort of thing would happen while I was growing up instead of all those other silly things about not touching the opposite sex, I would be a very different person. But no one has told me about my sleep talking in years, so I haven't thought much about it. My first roommate used to try and tell me things that she had heard, but none of it really made sense. Thankfully I don't sleep walk. I can only imagine what world of trouble that would get me into.

Moving on to more important matters. My birthday is in exactly a month, November 3rd. I will finally be 21 and it will finally be legal for me drink adult beverages in public places. No good will come of this. In fact, I'm certain that it will only lead to more embarrassing tweets and text messages and probably at some point tears, and probably public nudity. So, friends, please be kind. Those that know me well already know all of these things about me and should not be at all surprised when I call them at three a.m. spouting off all the things I know about angler fish, or showing up on their porch with baked goods and an apology for my drunkenness. So, really, nothing is going to change, except now when I get IDed, I won't have to come up with an explanation as to why I don't have my ID. I have gotten really good at this, and the majority of my friends are of age/old(er) and this usually helps my case when I explain to the bouncer that my car got towed and I got pulled over last night and my license was left on the seat with the ticket and registration... I have learned to just avoid female bouncers/bartenders/waitresses because this stuff never works on them.

I make a really big deal about birthdays because no one ever made a big deal about my birthday. This isn't to say that I didn't have birthday parties because I did, every year, but I always planned them, wrote out the invitations and I'm pretty sure I started planning them so far in advance that my parents didn't have a chance to ask me what I wanted to do before I had given them a detailed list of what was supposed to happen. Then when I didn't do this, well, it's never been good. And my friends aren't much better, I love them, but they are all dispersed around the country, and even if they were all in one place, I'm pretty sure none of them know the others well enough to successfully coordinate anything.

And let's be honest, birthday parties are not the most happening of events. They just aren't. So, I've decided to keep it really small this year and only the people that I know would gladly hold my hair back as I puke all over the bathroom at Bamboo will be there (Anthea, Eleana, I'm looking at you). And while I don't really expect presents, I have compiled this list of things to plant seed into the subconscious of my friends and family, except my family doesn't read my blog most of the time, so I'll be emailing them this list repeatedly through December in hopes that maybe they'll get it right at Christmas.

My new phone is my early birthday present from my parents, and I'm quite surprised that they got it right. It's a Samsung Galaxy S, and I was sure that I would end up with some awful Motorola contraption that they considered good enough.

1. Cake. It's my birthday, I should not have to bake my own birthday cake (though I probably will). My favorite cakes are Pineapple with cream cheese frosting, and banana cakes with peanut butter frosting. Though, pumpkin flavored cake with cream cheese frosting is also delicious, and I know that Carytown Cupcake has these flavored cupcakes, so...

2. Other food. Dinner. Somewhere that's not Mexican of pizza oriented. Somewhere that has seafood is a plus.

3. Card. Inside should be a short, but personal message. Nothing says you don't care like a card that you bought and simply signed.
4. Necklace. I am constantly resisting buying them. I have a necklace that I wear all the time, but it's really because it's sentimental and has a story. It's not just an accessory, it should have some meaning. The one I currently wear was given to me for Christmas several years ago by my brother. He lives in San Sebastian in Spain and the design is that of the fences that go around the beach there. Apparently it's some sort of Basque Nationalist symbol, but I have never been there, so I'm not completely sure. But my point is, he gave it to me, I don't see him often, and it reminds me of him. I should like you well enough that I would be happy to wear a reminder of you. Anyway, I really like this, this and this. (The last one reminds me of the carousel scene in The Catcher in the Rye, and if I had the money I would have bought it for myself by now, but I am poor.) And I don't like gold things.

5. Vinyl. I have not bought nearly as much vinyl as I have wanted in the past year, and there have been so many great things that have come out. A mix CD is also a great alternative, though like the card, it should require some thought.

6. Concert ticket. Sharing a concert with someone is always special if you both really love the band.

7. Clothing. I will probably take it back. So gift card is probably better, but if you know my taste well enough and think I dress well, then give it a go. If you are my mother, you should be aware of my taste, but because you don't like it, please refrain from buying me clothes forever and always.

8. Hats. But not a baseball cap or a beanie, I like and collect vintage hats. Sure, I don't wear them often enough, but I love them. And on crappy days they're a pick-me-up, kind of like wearing my favorite heels with my pajamas because I can.

9. BOOZE. Buying me a drink is appreciated, but if you really love me you'll buy me a bottle of Jameson, or Maker's Mark, or maybe some expensive vodka that I've never had. Or Amaretto. Or Gin. Please do not buy me anything sweet tea related, I am over it, it only leads to terribleterrible things (like all the scars on my body from tubing).

This is a really reasonable list. I mean, I didn't even list shoes, or furniture, or trips, or shoes...

@amandarants

Awhile ago Lily Allen was posting clues via her Twitter page that led her fans to find a pair of tickets that she had hidden while she was on tour. I created a Twitter account to follow those clues and was really pissed that I had to work (and I think had a test) the day that she was in DC. Then I kind of forgot about it. Then a few months later I posted one tweet, and then today I finally gave in.

I have complained about people linking their Facebook and Twitter and Foursquare and blogs and GoogleBuzz and everything else together, as it means that you get updated multiple times. You check someone's blog and there's their latest tweet, you check their Facebook there's a tweet and link to their blog, etc. I'm moving towards becoming one of those people that really is constantly connected to everything all the time in a variety of efficient ways, that doesn't mean that I don't think that's it's ridiculous. It is, but I acknowledge that I am, too.

I'm @amandarants. I'm keeping it public, so even my parents will be able to read all of the absurdly embarrassing things that I will inevitably end up tweeting. Now, instead of sending drunken text messages to certain people, or to the twenty most "recent recipients," I can twitter and let the whole world know things that I will regret in the morning. YAY!

What's up?

I hate that text message.

This is the text message that guys send when they're too chicken to call and/or are looking to get laid. It depends on the time of day, but no matter what time of day it is, it is a useless message. They don't care "what's up" they aren't interested in the fact that you are getting ready for work or class or bed. This is fine though because if they are sending you this particular message, they are bored and probably not worth spending time with anyway.

This is not the text message of a person that has a ton going for them. They probably aren't pursuing any hobbies, is probably not the most emotionally healthy person, and lacks the confidence to carry on an interesting conversation. Was that harsh? Perhaps. But I'm being honest.

If you do happen to respond to this message it will lead nowhere. It'll probably result in the following:

"Nothing much, just doing (insert mundane task here)."
"Sounds like more fun than I'm having (insert emoticon)."
"What's up with you?"
"(Insert some activity that you have absolutely no interest in.)"

This will go on until you, the recipient of the original text suggest that you hang out, because they don't have the chutzpa to ask you out on a date or at the very least instigate hanging out.

If he were actually interested in seeing you or how your life is going you would receive something more thoughtful. Perhaps a "How is your day going?" Or a "What are you doing later?" Or maybe something witty and related to whatever they're doing, i.e. "Did you read (whatever) on BBC today? Sending you the link now." Or "We fucking owned that shit. (insert sports team they love) 297397, (other team) 0." You get the gist.

"What's up?" is quite possibly the lowest form of communication. It's probably a template message by some mobile carriers. It requires no thought. Sure he texted you, but the likelihood of him texting several other people the vague, impersonal message is likely. It's an effort to make his evening slightly better.

And if you are one of those sad souls who sends that text message, please stop. Do something. Anything. Just don't be so lazy. This isn't even a romance thing, it's a being-a-decent-person thing. And decent people keep in touch with people, and ask those people questions and call them or email them about their lives, if those are people that they want to be in their lives.

"What's up?" is not a complete sentence, there's not even a subject!

While I understand that we live in a world of instance and brevity, if someone is worth staying in touch with they are worth asking real questions, and hopefully they think enough of you to do you the same courtesy.

Baking Slut

A few weeks ago I was asked to fill out a survey for Hipster Wife Hunting, a blog out of New York that my friend Jessica contributes to. I am pin-up #37. And the last sentence in my self-description should read "I'm really goofy."

My sister April doesn't read my blog, and probably won't read my hipster wife description, but if she did she make note of my comment in regards to baking. You see, she thinks that I'm a "baking slut" because I "give it away for free" because apparently it isn't appropriate to bake things for boys before they "take you on and pay for three dates." She is full of all kind of wisdom like this. But my baking sluttiness is something more, it's a direct result of my "inner Mormon" - you see this is something that we all suffer from. We spent years baking things for people who were, like we are now, inactive members of the church in an effort to them how much we cared for and miss them. I know that this is complete horseshit though. I was always confused about why I would bother putting so much effort into something where we would inevitably be considered very strange by whomever we were delivering these baked goods too.

Imagine for a moment taking someone a plate of cookies that has not been to church, or whatever organization, in years. Then seeing them at school. You don't say anything because you don't know them. You just happened to see them the evening before because you and a group of other young girls have been encouraged to make her feel welcome, like a part of this group that she is not interested in being a part of, by giving her baked goods.

Then there were all those times when we baked for the missionaries, and the boys our age who were busy whittling or building a fire or learning about the importance of having gainful employment as to support your wife and 2984793 kids one day. We, the girls were practicing for the roles we would one day have as mothers - baking cookies for every occasion.

As teenagers, and then in college, Mormon girls will commonly bake things for the object of their affection. And he, unless he likes her back, will think she's insane. BAKING! FOR SOMEONE SHE HARDLY KNOWS! (Save for that one awkward dance together at the church sponsored dance a month ago.) Okay, I'm generalizing, but there are chicks that do this. I knew one who knitted a boy a scarf, it was really wide and not very long and I never saw him wear it. Nor did I ever see them interact. But it was fine, she moved on and was making stuff for someone else in the following weeks.

I don't typically just bake people stuff. I do enjoy baking and cooking, but I usually save the baking for thank-yous and birthdays. So, even if I did get three dinners paid for, there's still no guarantee. The term baking slut only came into play this summer because I knew so many people with birthdays during a couple of weeks and I made all of them a cake - and most of them happened to be dudes, and apparently it doesn't matter because baking a cake for a male friend somehow sends the wrong message? I disagree.

Sometimes, I even invite friends over and make dinner. And then we discuss the rationale behind the way all these people in our lives think. And sometimes, I even send friends home with leftovers.

Slut? Yeah, that's right.

Not Keeping My Opinions to Myself

I knew that as soon as I posted this that someone would take it the wrong way. Though, my thinking this didn't keep me from posting it. That's what's great about a blog, I don't feel the need to use a filter. I can write about anything, but I try to be respectful of my friends and family as not to reveal anything that they wouldn't want me to, Christina I'm looking at you and please note that I still haven't posted a certain conversation from when we were fourteen and had a very skewed idea of everything. (Bwahahahahaha...I bet you're wishing right about now that we had never written all that down.)

I woke up this morning to an email from my mother that read, and yes I know what I wrote above, but this was just too ridiculous: My friend said she read your blog and she had no idea that you hated her because she was fat. Her feelings were hurt that you wrote those things. I didn't realize that I had singled any one person out. The idea that this person took my blog post so personally is upsetting, it's upsetting that there are people that I don't know who allow blogs written by some girl to offend them. And beside, if I "hate" someone, I'm not going to write a passive-aggressive blog post about it, I believe in confrontation, and the next time that person did something to slight me I would most likely confront them about it.

Anyway, I responded to this email, and I hope that this clears some things up: I don't know which friend you're talking about, but I'm sure I don't hate her. I am just generally annoyed by obese people. Most obesity is not hereditary and is nurture, not nature. Americans are not overweight because it's in our genes, it's because we live in a world of convenience and people don't take time to take care of their bodies. And then when I hear these larger people that don't take care of their bodies in the first place complain about how difficult it is to do things, I have no sympathy. They've made unhealthy choices and are obviously not motivated to make the necessary changes in their lives. It is absurd how large the average person has become in this country.
If Americans as a whole were to change their attitude towards food and eat healthier, exercise more - they would be healthier, fitter, and probably a helluva lot happier. I am in no way advocating that everyone should have a 26 inch waist, just that people should be conscious of what is and isn't healthy and work at keeping their body feeling good. I understand that some people struggle with weight their entire lives while others go years without taking care of their bodies and have it catch up with them later.

I had a roommate who used to always be on diet, but never ate well or exercised. Somehow people have still not figured out that "diets" don't work, but they're probably easier than learning portion control and learning how to make healthy things and take a walk every now and again. People don't educate themselves about food, about sex, about most things and would rather watch Good Morning America and learn about "superfoods" than get the facts. If you're interested you might want to read this, and this, and kudos to you if you're not bothered by it. I'm not prejudice against overweight people, I'm annoyed by lazy people who complain about things that are well within their power to change.

Just a reminder: I am probably younger than you.

I'm not sure how exactly this came up, but it did.

Me: I had a Tickle-Me-Elmo.
Him: You did?
Me: Yeah, the original. The one that you could only get from PBS.
Him: Oh wait, you had one because you were a little kid.
Me: Yeah, I was like seven or something.
Him: And I was in high school.

I have conversations like this most days of my life.

I am afraid of being reduced to only being able to shop at K-mart

My sister had her baby last Monday, the 23rd, and my sister-in-law in Spain had her baby last Thursday. I have a lot to say about this whole thing, miracle of life, and all that sappy shit, but it is a work in progress and I've been really busy with classes starting and pretending to have a life - i.e. doing what my mother refers to as "partying" and what I refer to as drinking too much and falling asleep in my friends beds, playing with strangers' hair (because I'm a cosmetologist and have mild OCD when it comes to hair and people that have good hair), and watching terrible tv. It's all very productive.

Anyway, if you've read my blog for long enough (or ever, really) you are probably aware of my prejudices towards fat and stupid people. And when those two things are combined I, well we just won't talk about it.

Yesterday I took my sister to K-mart. Yes, K-mart. She's on all sorts of meds still and isn't allowed to drive. She wanted some new shirts and nursing bras (SEXY!) but she didn't want to spend a lot of money on something that she probably won't be wearing for very long anyway. Really this was just a trip to reduce the frequency at which she has to do laundry. So K-mart, that godforsaken box with dingy lighting didn't have anything suitable. But they did have a lot of embroidered and bedazzled sequined sweatshirt-like things. The types of things that you only see morbidly obese people wearing. I used to think that only obese people bought that sort of thing, but then I looked at the sizes, they only had them in huge sizes - 1XL, 2XL, 3XL!

And to think, I have always wondered why larger people wore such ridiculous things as to draw more attention to how large they are. But it's not their fault! It's the only clothing they can buy in their size! I don't get it. Why can't they have a plain teal shirt without any sort of adornment? Why can't they have their elastic-waisted pants in normal denim washes? And surely it doesn't cost more to make something generic and basic than it does to make something that's tacky? And are people only that size within a certain income bracket? What is so wrong with the world that we've doomed large people to this fate?

So, as a result of yesterday, I almost feel sorry for all of these people who take up way too much space.

And because my sister was unsatisfied (thankgod, I'm not sure I could handle it if my sister was reduced to shopping at such a depressing place) we went to Target - another box store, but at least the clothes are cheery and blatantly rip off more expensive designers and has better lighting. Seriously, lighting makes such a difference.

No Babies

Sometimes I'm not the one sending drunk text messages.

Him: When I'm 30 will you have my kid?
Me: What?
Me: No!
Him: Why not?
Me: Because I'll be 24?
Him: So?
Me: And I probably won't want kids then...

But really, this guy would actually probably be down with the Sunday-Dinner-Daddy situation.

A different conversation:

Him: Are you pregnant?
Me: No.
Him: Are you sure?
Me: Yes.
Him: You're kind of religious, right?
Me: Not really...
Him: Well if you were pregnant...
Me: Dude, I'm 20...

I'm not going to write out the rest of that conversation. 1) My mom would cry. 2) I have no reason to believe that I am, or soon will be with child.

Dudes are so weird sometimes.

Also, baby related - my sister's due date was this paste Monday. The baby is still in her belly. And I spent last Wednesday with my 6 year old nephew, who is great, but I am so down with not having one of those for a very long time.

Summervention - Tubing Edition

Two weekends ago I drove from Richmond to DC to go dancing and make out with strangers at my friend's party - which totally didn't happen this time (sad face). Then I drove to Baltimore the next day for dinner, and then I had planned to drive back to Richmond. But I ended up drinking and dancing in the rain in Columbia Heights where it was decided that we, the people currently there, were going to go tubing the following Sunday. I didn't actually think it was going to happen, though since going on the Fourth I've wanted a re-do.

Tuesday rolled around and plans were underway and what started as a drunken suggestion was coming to fruition. (note: Fruition is really fun to say.) Then Saturday morning I got a text message that started "Pt. 1 of 2..." explaining all of the details for the trip. You probably don't care about these details, but these small details are huge. You see, I am a planner. I like planning things. I have always had to be the person to plan anything that I've ever wanted to do. I mean, seriously I have planned every single birthday party I have ever had except for my 18th birthday where my mom attempted to give me a surprise party that turned into a roast, "write down something you've always wanted to say to Amanda, it doesn't have to be a compliment..." THANKS, MOM! Anyway, I have given up on birthdays and generally other people planning things because other people are lazy and prefer to wait around for someone else to do all the work. I got to be one of those lazy people this time. AND included in the plans was a driver and a van "so that everyone can drink." Yes. YES!

So yesterday I picked up a chick and we headed to the van! And the van not-so-quickly filled up with people and soon Brite - that's "beer plus Sprite" (actually Bud Light Lime), was being consumed and Powerade bottles were being emptied as to be filled with mixed drinks later. So everyone got their electrolytes and was fairly hydrated before we hit the river.

Once on the river we managed to not make it to the far, less rocky side like you're supposed to, but we too occupied with making sure that we were close to the coolers. And each rock we came to then became a "bar." Pretty soon we were divided and people had floated away but I fortunately (or unfortunately) was tied to the person tied to a cooler. This made going over and around rocks all the more fun, and as we caught up with people more attached themselves thanks to the rope and knife our Planner had brought.

When the rain came, and the tornado sirens were going off and it was raining harder, we stayed in the river and watched the lightening and finished our bottles of various fun things. It was at some point during the rain that we untied our "crafts" and the cooler tube got away before we were able to close the cooler. The cooler was saved as was an actual Sprite bottle full of vodka. And after that it's mostly a blur, a really fun, messy, painful blur.

I lost my tube at some point and somehow, thankfully, but not really helpfully, the Planner found it and returned it. Because he got back way before me. I'm pretty sure it was the lack of tube that resulted in all of the scrapes and bruises on my body. Except for my feet, they are perfect because I wore these.

Last night when we probably should have showered and sprayed our bodies down with bactine, we didn't. But if we had, our bodies may have felt slightly better this morning. I haven't seen all the spots on my body, but every time I move I feel something new that I didn't know could hurt before. It's all fine, I can deal, except for the gash on the left side of my left middle finger. For all you right handed people, the idea of this happening probably isn't very distressing, but for me I can't properly hold things and my handwriting has been reduced to third-grader scrawl.

The exchanges today have been along the lines of "my body hurts" and the reactions have been "what the hell happened to you?" But the best reaction was my sister who explained to her husband that I looked like "someone locked me in a cage with a rabid cat."

Moving is Living

I made the mistake of watching "Up in the Air" again. I saw it for the first time when it was in theaters with my friend Spencer. We were escaping out families around Thanksgiving, I believe. He and I were both speechless at the end of it. I mean, what can you say? It's about our supposed realities that we create for ourselves based on delusions of our future.

Anna Kendrick's character, Natalie, is a foil to the selfish, conceited, condescending Ryan, played by George Clooney. Natalie is young, naive, indignant and Ryan has to show her the ropes and generally all the flaws in her way of thinking. That idea, of course, is that life is empty, meaningless, and weighing us down. He thinks it's revolutionary, Natalie thinks he's lonely and a pathetic shell of a human being. His love interest, a woman named Alex (played by Vera Famiga) seems to share his philosophy and love for travel or as she puts it so curtly they are "turned on by elite status."

Ryan and Alex make a point to see each other and fuck on their respective business trips. It's supposed to be a purely physical, maybe intellectual relationship - she seems to be the only person to understand his bubble. So, as movies go, their relationship deepens, or seems to. This is the part that I love because movies are always made about stupid women falling for jerks. But in this movie, he is the stupid one and ends up getting his heart crushed. I know on some level it's probably wrong for me to feel good about this, but this movie is about that guy who refuses to acknowledge anything beyond his glamorous career, and for once, there's not a fairytale ending. He doesn't see the light and she doesn't decided to be with him, they move on and I would assume are more careful in communicating their wishes with other lovers in the future.

It was already in the DVD player when I watched it again. My roommate recently got Netflix, I probably wouldn't have watched it again - not because it's not a good movie, it's a great movie, but because it makes me feel restless. All the feeling that I have right now are the exact same that I had the first time. And their very familiar. Their the ones that I get whenever I get too comfortable. This is a trait I inherited from my father and am drawn to in others. It's terrible. Wherever I am, I feel like I'm missing out on something else. If I'm in Richmond I want to be in DC, if I'm in DC I want to be in Baltimore, or Annapolis or New York or fucking Kinston, North Carolina. And if I'm in Kinston, I usually end up feeling terribly depressed and want to be in DC.

I have never lived in DC-proper, but I can honestly say that it will always be home base. One day, when I travel and have elite status at various hotels and frequent flyer miles I will also have an apartment in DC and will stay in it when I get tired of being elsewhere. And I probably won't go out while I'm there, unlike my current over-socialized trips to DC, I imagine that at the point in my life when I can have this, I won't go out much at all.

Until then I will continue to pretend.

dancing > crying

Do you ever have days like this? Where those closest to you completely mock you and tell you that you're feelings are unwarranted? The whole having unreciprocated feelings things starts at such an early age.I could go on and on about how gender roles are defined and uncomplimentary from a very early age, but I'll save that for a research paper.

When I was three I was set on marrying the red power ranger or Elvis Presley - and I totally cried when I found out that Elvis was dead. I also cried when I found out that George Washington was dead - I had gone to "his house" shortly before finding this out and my dad did not tell me that we were going to a dead dude's house - MISTAKE! Ms. Malinowski, my kindergarten teacher, had to deal with a very distraught five year old that day.

The video won't let me embed, so watch it on YouTube .

If you're having one of those days, you can just watch this:



Do you feel better? Because I laughed for the entire duration of that video, and I would be content with that man singing the soundtrack to my life.

Now that you feel better, go dancing tonight, and if you're in DC maybe we can dance together.

Storytime

Yesterday evening I met up with a friend with whom I have not seen a couple weeks. She is carless, so I picked her up and we went to our favorite burger place.

Me: Here we got these samples at work, but we just stopped carrying this line. Their great, but I don't need the moisture one, so I thought I'd give it to you.
Her: Thanks, and way to turn that into an insult.

She has curly hair and it's pretty, but it could be prettier.

Later we're sitting at a table on the patio of the restaurant and I see this guy with whom mutual friends tried to set me up with last year. He's cute and according to the mutual friends "looks just like Ian Curtis." We met up for dinner once and walked through Oregon Hill and then back to Broad Street for ice cream one evening last year. I'm pretty sure we haven't talked since then. He apparently has a girlfriend, she's probably an art student, he's getting his graduate degree in something art related. Anyway, so he and his assumed girlfriend end up sitting two tables over from me and my friend. Neither he nor I say anything to acknowledge the other.

I fill my friend in on all the ridiculous happening in my life, as per usual. My life cannot get cut a break, ever. I suppose it's better this way, otherwise I would be so bored.

Our food arrives and I have ordered onion rings. I love onion rings, but I had forgotten how large the order was.

Me: Do you want any?
Her: No, I don't like onion rings.
Me: Really?
Her: I've always hated them.

about half an hour goes by...

Her: Actually, can I have one?
Me: Sure, but I thought you didn't like them.
Her: Actually, I've never tried them...(takes bite)...these are delicious!

We then proceed to walk around Carytown looking for hiring signs because she is looking for a new job. We see that a barbecue place is hiring so she goes in and fills out an application, I sit by an ice cream store down the way.

A woman and her two children come out of the ice cream shop. The little boy called Jack-Jack asks if he can sit by me (I'm in one of four chairs) an as I say yes his sisters sits in it, so he sits in the next one over. A man with a motorcycle helmet is sitting on the other side of him and becomes distracted by the helmet and drops his ice cream. While he is screaming, his sister tells me all about Robin Hood which happens to be playing at the dollar theater across the street, and their mother gives the boy her cone. She picks up her son's cone and sees that it can be salvaged. She takes a napkin out of her purse and wipes it clean and then trades her son. "You got a decent bargain, two flavors instead of one," say the man with the helmet. The boy settles down and my friend comes out and we continue on our way.

Today I had English. My "Image Analysis" was due today, it required me to find a print add in a magazine and criticize it. I chose a Skinny Cow add in Glamour magazine. I usually don't pay attention to add that aren't fashion related, but I have found that all the non-fashion related adds in women's magazines are incredibly insulting compared to the adds in men 's magazines. Ugh.

Anyway, we were told before our break to meet in the library after the break. I got there with a buch of my classmates and we all sat in a circle of loveseats and chairs. There was a little girl sitting on one of the loveseats and we all started talking to her and asking her about her books. Okay, not everyone, but me and the guy that I flirt with in this class (you have to have someone to flirt with in all of your classes, duh). Anyway, she was telling me all about her books when she left for a moment. When she came back she asked me to read her a story... I hesitated before asking her to pick one. She chose The Mitten, the story about a boy who loses his white mitten in the snow and a bunch of animals make room in it to keep warm before it gives and they are put out and then he finds his very stretched out mitten. The end. Anyway, I didn't make it though the entire story because my class was meeting in one of the group study rooms, but the little girl didn't seem to mind and thanked me for reading as far as I did. She was probably about six, and very bored. I would have been too, it was just so sad to me. I suppose it shouldn't be, but I had no idea who her parents were, but I can infer from my fellow classmates that they were probably single and can't afford childcare, and probably don't have time between work and school for storytime. It's such a shame, because storytime is really the only thing that matters before the age of nine when most people are capable of reading fairly well on their own.

My dad was the storyteller when I was a child. If we weren't reading one of the books from the giant stack we brought home from the library, he was making one up. He is to blame for my overactive imagination, slight paranoia and love for reading. And I find it difficult when I realize that not everyone is as luck as I was to have someone read to them everyday. I may be making too much of this, perhaps that girl does get read to frequently and just has no problem asking strangers to read to her. That's would still be an incredibly different experience than what I had, and I hope that's the case. Even so, those few minutes were surprisingly enjoyable as I read to not just her, but that circle of people. It felt strange, but comfortable.

I should really consider decreasing the frequency at which I listen to Brit-pop.

As far as the opposite sex goes, I am terrible. This year has been one fiasco after another. It seems that I am excellent at finding out that dudes are in relationships, too late. Ugh. Later I think to myself, why didn't I ask? Because I shouldn't have to ask. Because if someone is in a happy relationship they will rub it in your face. They will make it known to everyone. They will wear it on their sleeve, because they will be proud and feel lucky to have found someone that cares enough to share their life with them in the same capacity they are interested in being in that person's life.

And the more I become acquainted with the opposite sex, the more I realize that they are all perpetually seventeen with major mommy issues, but idolize their daddies (despite their fathers' obvious flaws that they themselves have inherited). Or, they are the opposite - Mama's Boys. I deal better with mommy issues than mama's boys as the former is not looking for someone to replace their mother.

Their personality traits aren't the only things they have in common, no, I like guys that have the same name, or better yet the same birthday as previous boys. It started with the Spencers and has just snowballed since I was fifteen. Davids, Billys, Pauls, - though I have found that all my friends named Mark (none of whom I have been involved with romantically) are much better people than the others. I currently have three very good male friends named Mark. Perhaps I should date a Mark.

Anyway, my older women friends have given me no hope.

I once told my aunt that I would almost prefer a Sunday-dinner-daddy to a husband, and she told me I was on to something. I was joking, sort of. The Sunday-dinner-daddy is a dude whom I would be good friends with, who would be down with having a kid with me, but never getting married. The kid(s) would live in an apartment and we would each live in our own apartments and do a week on and a week off and have Sunday dinners together. It's not like people don't do this already, I mean, half of married couples end up getting divorce anyway, and why not save some grief and allow the children to think that this completely fucked up situation is normal? I mean, there would be no fighting, no parent worrying about the other's infidelity - you have to admit, as cynical as it may seem this idea has potential!

Especially after hearing about a dude's harem fantasy - a house with oh, maybe, three women all of whom are faithful only to him. I had to inform him that that's called polygamy, and if you're into the Fundamentalist Mormon church or Muslim, you are welcome to practice it. I then shared how ideal that would be for anyone, but let's be realistic, humans just don't function that way.

I used to be an absolutist regarding fidelity. I used to feel that if someone was cheating that the relationship should be over - the end. And then I grew up and realized that there is so much more to a relationship, and that if someone were to cheat on me, after punching them in the face, I would want to know why. And what's worse, is that I probably wouldn't care so much about the cheating as I would the lying. I would just want them to communicate in a healthy way with me. Unfortunately, I think that whole idea of communication is dying. No one wants to talk anymore, no one cares to make plans more than an hour in advance that could possibly lead to speaking in person - not skype, not texting, not emailing.

I'm a terrible romantic attempting to be a pragmatist. And I like writing letters and postcards, and if I must the longest emails you will ever read.

I need to move to Stokholm, and soon.

on being a girl

On Sunday I wore one of my favorite dresses and as I left one friend to meet another - oh, a walk of about six blocks - a couple of men on bikes made comments and/or whistled at me. The bike part is important.

When I got to the restaurant, I removed my messenger bag that I always have slung across my back. Except this time when I removed it, I felt the back of my dress fall. It had ridden up significantly and those dudes on bikes were kind enough to not tell me. Awesome.

I need to invest in a new bag. Recycled rice bag messenger bags unfortunately don't go with everything. Especially that dress.

Actually that dress doesn't really go with much. When I was in San Francisco I wore it my last day there and as I was walking around Haight Ashbury it repeatedly blew upwards - I had many Marilyn Monroe moments that day. And it was on my way back to my friends place just before I was to leave that a man said, "Nice titties" to me. This dress is in no way provocative, I've had it for two years, and I really like it. But I may need to take a break from wearing it for awhile.

Though, the most important lesson to be learned here is that you should always wear cute underwear. You just never know who may inadvertently be seeing them.