Is that covered in the Patriot Act?

Handwritten sign taped to the wall outside apartment 4 this morning:

PLEASE stop taking
the liberty by parking
any more.

Thanks,
TENANT

I assume the crazy lady who lives in apartment 4 wants people to stop parking in her spot, which she uses as her front porch/storage shed/kitschy crap display area. I, however, managed to imagine her demanding a whole country of cars with American flags on their back bumpers, eternally driving, rejecting the fascist, terrorist scheme of parking. Oh, I'm going to miss you, Crazy Lady in Four.

So much for tolerance like Christ

This makes me very upset. I won't go into it further here, because I know not everyone agrees and I don't want to offend as I am offended, but seriously. Judgmental, JPII.

"These signs are real. They are also the symptoms of a process."

As my impending departure marches ever nearer, I am becoming more and more obsessed with literature: what do I need to read before I go, what should I take, what's worthwhile and what's to be avoided. Oddly, I'm tempted most by books about violence and death (Journal of the Dead, The Rifles, and The Cannibal have all found their way onto my list), plans gone awry with fatal consequences (Into the Wild), and things generally going wrong. I'm not sure what that means—maybe I'm subconsciously trying to remind myself that things could always be worse—but it's certainly not helping my dreams at night.

In any case, I thought I would give you all a quote from one of my favorite books, which happens to be about violence, war, death, and things just generally going wrong. Somehow, though, it remains upbeat and breathtaking throughout.

"You go from dream to dream inside me. You have passage to my last shabby corner, and there, among the debris, you've found life. I'm no longer sure which of all the words, images, dreams, or ghosts are 'yours' and which are 'mine.' It's past sorting out. We're both being someone new now, someone incredible."

~Thomas Pynchon
Gravity's Rainbow

Bless me, internet, for I have sinned

Since you've been so patient with my not-bloggingness of late, I thought I would tell you some secrets:

I don't like the Beatles. I recognize and respect their contribution to popular music, but I can't really listen to them. A friend of mine in high school had a theory that you're either an Elvis person or a Beatles person. Sad to say, I'm an Elvis person. Don't be cruel.

I wore my underwear inside out yesterday. And what's really sad is that I didn't notice until about 5:30 p.m.

I read romance novels. I know, it's a waste of paper, blah blah blah. It's not like I don't read anything else, but a little mindless predictability is in order sometimes.

I tease M! a lot about eating noodles and/or Cheese-Its for dinner, but I'm just as bad. My dinner options if I'm eating at home are usually spaghetti or cereal. Maybe a chicken sandwich if I get ambitious.

I stole the Chicken Show shirt I own from my dad. I also have a pair of socks that my sister loved. And all of her bangle bracelets. And a shirt that belongs to D, and one that was his roommate's (the one that wasn't me). If I could steal my brother's football jersey, I would. I'm a clothes klepto. Also, pens.

I don't floss.

I haven't forgotten you, my darlings

I've just been very busy. Quick update: the book is gone, the wedding is over, this week I have to buy a plane ticket. Now, time for spaghetti.

I like it when...

...my hair stays wet all day in its up-do, and then is cool on my shoulders when I take it down at night.

...we go for coffee and order cake and salad and soup and a cookie, too.

...my flip-flops reach that perfect level of broken in and I just decide to wear them every day, regardless of whatever else I've got on.

...it's payday, and I've worked 38 hours of overtime—not quite so onerous now, is it?

...I understand whatever weird French phrase you throw at me, but my German answer is completely incomprehensible to you.

...the freeway exit that I take EVERY DAMN DAY is suddenly, inexplicably closed, and I get lost while trying to suss out an alternate route in the dark. (Yes, that one's sarcastic.)

...I wake up early and actually get out of bed, thereby gifting the day with a sense of accomplishment from the get-go.

...the baseball thocks hard into the webbing of my glove, right where it should. Although the purple thumbs were oddly compelling.

...I can say what I mean without you reading something into it that isn't there...or better yet, that is.

Gotta break a few eggs...

I know all your lovely, lovely comments have gone away, but I got tired of my comments always being down or broken, so I switched commenting services. Hopefully Haloscan will be a little more dependable.

On being a grown-up:

Yesterday, while I was getting my physical, the nurse asked me, "What do you do for a living?"

I was gobsmacked. I don't "make a living," I wanted to say. I'm 22! I'm...I stopped. Well, what am I? Not a student anymore. And I do support myself. I guess I do make a living. Who knew?

I said, "I'm a layout editor for a publishing company."

"Oh. That's nice," she said. "Stick out your tongue, say 'ah.'"

Of course, this doesn't explain why, when entering my personal information into the computer, she wrote down "English Teacher" under profession.

Dear Sara Lee:

Imagine my shock and horror this evening upon contemplating your Iron Kids "No Crusts" bread on the shelf of my local supermarket. Naked bread, right there, where any child could chance across it and have his innocence cruelly ripped from him. The bread, boldly there, all its delicate innards on display. Have you no shame?! I am appalled, ma'am, shocked and appalled. "The crust is the best part" is not just a saying, you know! The crust has a civic duty to protect young children, the importance of which must not be underestimated. Please rectify this situation immediately; clothe your bread as it was meant to be.

Sincerely,
A Concerned Consumer

Just thought you might like to know what I've been up to: To Do, 21 July 03

Monday morning meeting, 9:30. Report on status of Probate book, Criminal book. Diet Coke 1.

Dr. appt., 10:45. Remind, TB test.

Fix probate pagination. Make tables of contents (delegate). Diet Coke 2.

Blog check. Updates: M2, M!, QSS, yes. M3, Meg, IP, AW, NNM, no.

Copy edit Timetables & Charts (finally). Enter changes. Coffee 1.

Monday afternoon meeting, 4 p.m., Table of Despair. Apropos. Coffee 2.

Review re-pagination of plus codes while boss searches for Family Code proofs.

Emergency meeting, 4:40 p.m., boss's office. Organize progress of Probate book for completion Thursday. Rank co-workers according to skill/know-how. Make matrix of book parts vs. co-workers vs. days left. Panic a little.

Proofs of Family Code. Review first 266 pages.

Blog.

Print out entire 1052 pages of Probate Code. Separate into six parts, bind. Repeat twice.

Distribute parts of book according to matrix.

Turn off security alarm, 8 p.m. Finish up. Clean up work area so everything is set for tomorrow. Set alarm, leave work.

Grocery shopping. Remember bread.

Put groceries away.

Feed cat.

Feed self.

Pay bills (phone bill overdue, must be done tonight!).

Shower.

Bed.

The rules of IM

Oh, you know there are rules, and you know that you're breaking them. Just in case you're confused, however, as to what is and is not acceptable, let me refresh your memory:

1. Screennames: Pick something relatively easy to remember. This is your only requirement when racking your brain for a screenname. Things that aren't easy to remember: random strings of numbers, creative spelling. The worst screenname ever would be like KraizeeGurrrl84206. Nobody wants to look at that.

2. Style: You're not excused because you're typing. Let's shoot for at least ending punctuation and some rudimentary capitalization, okay? Proper names and such? I know hitting that Shift key is just exhausting for your poor little pinkies, but give it a go, all right?

3. Content: There are some things that are probably better left to face-to-face interaction. Fighting is a good example. Don't fight over IM. Don't break up. Don't reveal major changes in life status (that you've married a man named Dean, for example).

4. Abbreviations: I've said this before, but don't use abbreviations that you can't find in the dictionary. It's not cool, it's annoying. And it's bad for you, k?

5. Attentiveness: If you're going to talk on IM, talk on IM. If you're going to pick your nose, pick your nose. But don't start a conversation with me and then wander off for five minutes with your finger buried up to the second knuckle while I wait for your response. It's just rude. And gross. Get a kleenex.

6. Away Messages: Use them when you're, you know, away. Or at least let your screenname go idle. Don't make me guess whether you're there or not. I don't want to send you a goofy greeting that you get three hours later and make me explain when it's just not funny anymore.

7. Profiles: If you're going to define your personal profile, I have two words for you: NO LYRICS. It smacks of overblown teen angst. Poetry is one thing, lyrics are something else again. This also applies to away messages.

Okay, that's all I can think of off-hand, because I'm only talking to one person right now, and he's not doing anything to annoy me. But rest assured, if I think of anything else, I'll let you know.

Who saw a scary movie last night?

Yes, that'd be me.

Who had nightmares of being chased by red-eyed freaks?

Yeah, still me.

Aunt Erin on the case

I don't really want to have kids. I haven't ever felt a strong urge to have someone shriek, "Mom! Guess what?" at me while smearing unitentified goo on my shirt, and since my parents have three other chances for grandkids, there's not a lot of pressure.

I do, however, want neices and nephews and godchildren. This is not because I like kids, particularly, but rather because I'm evil. There's no better way to torture your siblings and close friends than by making their kids happy. I want to send my sister's kids fingerpaint and play-doh for Christmas, and laugh my ass off when she calls me complaining that her walls are a mess. M3's kids are getting kittens, and maybe a lizard if I get ambitious. My brother's kids are getting the entire Curious George series, along with a copy each of Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel, and I will instruct his children that their father is to read all of them at least once before they even consider sleeping, and if the reading isn't enthusiastic enough, they are to throw a tantrum. Man, I got so sick of those books when we were young and E2 would demand to read them all the time. I wanted Ramona! Sucks to Mike Mulligan!

I'm going to take their kids out, sugar them up, and send them home. I'm going to teach them swear words and sarcasm and ruin their dinners and let them stay up too late playing video games. I'm going to take them to amusement parks and toy stores. I'm going to teach them to read madly and love baseball and have good grammar, too, but the evil comes first.

In fact, I've started using their future children against my friends already, as in, "If you tell that stupid story one more time, I'm getting your kid a snare drum for his third birthday." It's fun, but not necessarily effective, because as Tex told me the other day, "Don't kid yourself. You're going to do that no matter what I do."

He's not wrong.

Ignore the idiot behind the curtain

Sorry, I was being dumb in my last blog. I was going to take it down, but I figured for honesty's sake I'd keep it up; y'all should know that I can be especially not intelligent sometimes.

So, new topic, sprung from a question Olivia and I were pondering today: can you recommend a good book for me to take abroad? It should be long and relatively literary, to merit its being lugged about all over the world. A good example would be something like Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie. Ready? Break!

Temper tempered

There's no question in my mind that I had the worst temper of my siblings and friends when I was younger. I could be seriously irrational and violent when upset, and I was easily upset—the price you pay for being a pint-sized control freak in an uncontrollable world.

I've tried very hard as I (attempt to) mature to keep my temper under control and to realize that everything that goes differently than I want is not a personal attack. In fact, I rarely lose my temper anymore, even when I should. But I still get irrationally hurt over things that have nothing to do with me personally—the weather is wrong, he doesn't like me enough, the phone hasn't rung in two days, does she have no social skills whatsoever?, and my neighbor is being too damn weird. Instead of losing my temper, however, I either lick my wounds alone, suppress, or discuss it in a rational manner. I'm almost an adult.

I had a point when I started this post two hours ago, but now…oh! Yes. Anyway. Last night this happened—my feelings were hurt, and someone's on my shit list (don't worry, it's probably not you), but I'll get over it. And, I'm not supressing or sulking in private, because I'm telling you. Best of all, I'm fully aware that I'm being retarded, and therefore I will refrain from attempting to irritate this person by expressing my grievance and making him or her fix it.

Or maaaaaaybe I'm being passive-aggressive and hoping the person will read this and fear that I'm upset with him or her, and will be extra nice to me. I wouldn't be the only grown-up in the world to use that tactic. At least I'm not hitting you.

Just to cut the sap: screw you

In February of my third grade year, Mrs. Reilly decided that her 23 eight-year-olds weren't getting along well enough. Winter had been dragging on a little too long, learning penmanship was a little too hard, playground time was a little too short. One afternoon she sat us all down, had us fold pieces of construction paper the hamburger way, and put our names on the front. Then we passed them around the room and everybody wrote one nice thing about the person on each card. I loved it. I'm a sucker for the warm fuzzies, and who doesn't like praise?

Well, summer has been dragging on a little too long, going to work every day is a little too hard, and sleep is a little too short. I can't make my friends sit down and make compliment cards, but I can tell you what I would put on each of their cards. I'm going to, too, because too often I tease them without telling them what I really think:

M2: My most trusted, compassionate confessor, the one person in the whole world to whom I can say anything without being judged. Also a snappy dresser.

E2: Hands down the funniest kid I know—seems to have an instinctive knowledge of just what quips and expressions will crack me up. I thought he should be a stand-up comedian when I was younger. Smarter than he thinks.

M3: A lot of things I could say, but she is so unflaggingly loyal to her friends. It's staggering sometimes.

Tex: Seriously unafraid to say outrageous stuff, even if it's offensive or controversial. I admire his honesty.

E3: More passionate about everything than I am about anything. We're like oil and water, but I'm still proud of and impressed by her drive.

M!: I think everybody has one friend who is just around to teach them things, whether it's the rules of hockey or what's funny or just how to be a better person. Or the miracle of how someone who eats so many Cheez-It's isn't orange.

S: If there's anybody in the world I want to be more like, it's S. She's smart and practical and strong, but her compassion and empathy are boundless. Also, she's beautiful enough to be Miss America, which makes me jealous.

D: Put up with more of my crap for longer than anybody rightfully should have. Accepts me just as I am and expects no more of me than what he knows I can give. The purest kind of friendship.

E4: I am so excited to watch her play basketball because her dedication is almost palpable. She's such a hard worker and so strong, even when she's not getting the playing time she deserves or the breaks she should. Her integrity spreads out from there.

So anyway, my friends are supergreat, yadda yadda yadda, we now return you to your regularly scheduled abuse and sarcasm. I know there're probably people I've forgotten who mean a lot to me, but I can't do everybody right now; my teeth would all fall out of my head from the sheer sugar shock.

You're just messing with my head now, aren't you?

I don't know if the moon is full or what, but I think the crazy lady in apartment 4 has gone completely nuts (moreso, I mean). The parking-spot storage rotation has reached a fever pitch—in the past couple of days, I've seen a small bookshelf, a recliner-and-ottoman set, two houseplants, a stool, an ironing board, a deck chair, a coffee table, and a pretty calico cat that makes Regan yowl from her window perch. A couple of weeks ago when M! dropped me off, the venitian blinds in her window were hanging drunkenly askew, presumably knocked down by the enormous amount of junk pushed up against the panes—the aforementioned ironing board and plants, some unidentifiable furniture, and random papers. I don't know what happened, but I'm glad I wasn't trying to sleep through it.

The woman herself is a little frightning to look at. She spends a lot of time laying in the deck chair in the sun, and is consequently the color and texture of beef jerky that's been left out in the rain. Add this to the fact that her hair looks like Yosemite Sam's when dynamite blows up in his face, and her evident abhorance of wearing an actual shirt instead of a bikini top, and she's just a little bit of the frightning. I'm sort of waiting for her to be taken out in a straitjacket or the apartment to blow up. It's amusing in the meantime, though.

If I hear one more egg pun, I won't be held responsible for my actions

So it's time for the annual Chicken Show in my hometown. I'm a little nostalgic about it, although it was always a pain in my ass growing up. As M4 likes to say, "It was fun the first year, and after that...eh, I've got laundry to do."

I was trying to explain the show last night to friends, going on the assumption that every small town has a festival that celebrates something not really worth celebrating. However, it became clear in the course of the discussion that the Chicken Show is a little...different.

The Chicken Show has been around for 24 years and attracts about 20,000 people every year—four times the actual population of Wayne, where it's held. There are, not surprisingly, T-shirts and a parade and a concert, all the normal accoutrements of a podunk holiday. The Chicken Show likes to take things a little farther than that, though. There's a theme every year; this year's is "Wayne's World (Egg-cellent)." The sidewalks downtown have giant chicken footprints painted on them in yellow paint, supposedly left there by "Sasquawk." There's the National Cluck Off, where the person who sounds most like a chicken wins a chance to go on The Tonight Show and cluck for Jay Leno. (Though we did have a two-year winner not too far back whose technique in the cluck-off was yelling, "Hey you all chickens, come ovuh he-uh.") The parade features the Chickendales, who used to be a group of middle-aged men with exposed paunches and paper bags over their heads, dancing like idiots on a float. Evidently they've given way to college students, but it's no less frightening.

A guy runs around town in a chicken suit, harassing small children and posing for pictures; in 1993 or 1994 that guy was my dad. I remember being proud of the fact that he was the chicken, despite the fact that he was probably miserable in that stupid costume—it's invariably 95 degrees the day of the show. The night before the Chicken Show is Henoween, which features the World's Largest Chicken Dance: a lot of semi-drunken farmers acting like idiots and making chicken puns. The next day is the parade, followed by insanity in the park, including dropping eggs off a cherry picker, deciding who has the most chicken-like legs and nose/beak, and chicken-inspired singing contests.

As weird as it is, though, the show plays out pretty much the same way festivals in thousands of little towns across the country do. The theme is an annual point of contention, as are the design of the T-shirt and the identity of the person in the chicken costume. The Chicken Show Committee gets a little too big for its britches every year, drunk with power; merchants have weird theme sales, children spend the entire weekend high on sugar from snocones and parade candy, and everybody eats a lot of omelettes and barbecue.

I don't know if I miss the Chicken Show itself, or the feeling of amused condescension it inspires when I watch it. I do know I miss that barbeque, though.

We stayed out in the yard...just...stayed out there

As a result of several conversations with friends over the past couple of weeks, it's become clear that my parents had more rules than most. Evidently I was completely unaware of this when I was a child, but as a 22-year-old who spends a lot of time going, "We weren't allowed to do that...", it's kind of funny.

Some of the rules I "suffered" under:

1. No t.v. Not to say we never watched t.v., but I think I averaged maybe two hours a week until I was 13. When I was in elementary school, we were allowed to watch one show after school—usually either "Reading Rainbow" or "3-2-1 Contact." Sometimes "Ducktales" if M4 was feeling particularly lax.

2. No movies I don't think we went into a video store until I was ten, because we tended to fight. A lot. Loudly. I always wanted to rent Mary Poppins, E2 usually wanted The Cat from Outer Space or something animal-related. E3 was a staunch Cinderella kid, and her opinion was soundly rejected by everybody. Fortunately E4 was too young to care. The theatre was also right out. I saw one movie in the theatre before I was 10. It was The Little Mermaid, chaperoned by Sr. Birdman and attended with E2. Bizarre and inauspicious. I didn't see Star Wars until I was 15. I still haven't seen Back to the Future II or III.

3. No bad words I would say "No swearing," but really, I don't think actual swearing ever crossed our tiny minds until we were in middle school, and actually using swear words waited until high school. On M4's list of unacceptable words: poophead, bites, dummy, darn, dang, gross, shut up, and butt. "Stupid" was borderline. Words that'll still get me a good glare if I use them: crap, sucks, blows, damn, ass, frickin'. Funny story: whenever M4 took us to the grocery store, we would try to get her to buy butt roast because we wanted her to say it. "Look, butt roast! Get the butt roast, Mom!" Seriously, gales of laughter on that one.

4. No white shirts at the dinner table This one applied mostly to me. I wasn't a neat eater. Shocker.

5. No jumping on furniture "You'll break something," was a statement we totally believed, because E2 did. Compound fracture of the ulna or something like that. He was bouncing on the bed with a girl, already a ladies' man at seven. Jumping off things was also right out; I nearly fractured an ankle jumping off a six-foot retaining wall into a snow bank when I was nine.

6. No socks in the basement Our basement was unfinished, which means concrete floors. Running on that will wear holes in the heels of your socks faster than you would believe. "Bare feet or shoes!" was M4's rallying cry.

7. No standing on the head of the horse swing We had a swing in our basement that was shaped like a horse. It was tied to the rafters and couldn't swing very high, but it was fun to ride standing up. However, if you stood on its head, it overbalanced and tipped forward. I cracked my chin open and got four pieces of butterfly tape when I was 5. I still have the scar.

8. No playing in the corn bin My parents raised steers for slaughter so we could have relatively inexpensive meat. Totally cool. But this meant we had to have grain to feed them in the winter. The grain was stored in a giant bin in the garage, and standing or playing in it was about the coolest sensation a seven-year-old can think of. It's sort of like a cross between the ball pit at McDonald's, and sand. I don't know why we weren't allowed in it, but there was no faster way to make Sr. Birdman furious than to be found up to your belly button in dried corn.

9. No chasing the steers And really, that just makes sense. Because my dog was doing it, and we probably would have too, if our parents hadn't put their collective foot down.

10. No saying "ew" at the dinner table. We had to eat whatever M4 made, even if it was bean soup, which we all hated except for Sr. Birdman, who thought it was the greatest thing ever. We could put as much ketchup on things as we wanted, and we didn't have to eat huge helpings of things, but we were never offered other options and we weren't allowed to express our disapproval with anything more than a polite, "I don't care for that, thank you." I finally put my foot down on the peas issue when I was 12 (prompting a fight with Sr. Birdman—the first I ever won), and I don't eat bean soup (or really, beans in general) ever, but other than that, my tastes and M4's are remarkably similar.

11. No pierced ears until age eight. Except for E2, I think, whose rule was "No pierced ears...ever. Ever ever ever." The second set of piercings was allowed at 15, although I'm the only one who took advantage of that.

So basically, I have the most wholesome parents in the world. Like cornflakes, they are. I never felt stifled by growing up with out video games or the crusts cut off my sandwiches. Mostly I just wanted to get back outside and figure out how to get into the cornbin when Sr. Birdman wasn't looking.

SWF seeks big meanie w/ $100K+/yr

E: Eh, you and Jane complement each other well. And you're not annoying to hang out with as a couple. So kudos on that.
Tex: by complement do you mean that i make money and she spends it?
E: Well, I meant she freaks out and you calm her down, and you're mean and she's nice.
Tex: so basically, she is a good couple by herself?
E: What, she freaks out and is nice?
E: That's not a good couple.
Tex: ah, ok
Tex: so you are saying that you will need a nice boy someday?
E: No, I think I would destroy a nice boy.
Tex: so both of you will be mean?
E: Yeah. It'll be great.
E: I can be nice. I just choose not to a lot of the time.
Tex: uh-huh.
E: Shut up. Just because I've never been nice to you…
Tex: the pope can be jewish
Tex: hmm. "can" needed the italics.
E: Whatever. I am perfectly capable of being nice.
Tex: k
E: So yes, my ideal husband will be mean and rich. Not sure where I'm going to find this mythical man, but there you go.
Tex: there are lots of them out there
E: Riiight, and sooo many of them are chomping at the bit to date me.
Tex: better chance than nice and rich
E: That's true.
Tex: hey, look at me. do i deserve to have a girl? nooooo
E: Yeah, but on a relative scale, I think you're cuter than I am, and you make more money.
E: So...
Tex: you're smarter!
Tex: ha, i got you
E: I'm not smarter. I just worked harder in school. So there.
Tex: nope, smarter
Tex: hahahahaha
E: All right, the sarcastic laughter can stop now.

Sorry, Mom, but it was Fat Elvis with a minister's license!

I swear, if I ever get engaged, I am eloping. I just don't see the point of having a big wedding. Let's think about it. The average cost of a wedding in the United States is about $20,000, according to Brides Magazine. I can probably elope for...$200, with gas and license and so forth. That leaves $19,800. The average paperback book costs $8 (rounding up, here). So...I can have a big wedding and feed 200 people, half of whom I don't know and probably don't like, or I can elope and have enough money to buy almost 2,500 paperbacks. Even if I have to split the money with my husband, I can still have 1,250 books and a damn nice engagement ring. Seems pretty obvious to me.

Free lemon bar vs. $3.25 for gummi bears. How is that a choice?

Here is my new plan for movie snacking goodness: 8"x8" pans of lemon bars. It worked last night at Terminator 3, in any case. My bag is big enough to fit them, and since I happened to be carrying them because I was dropped off at the theatre and had to take them with me, I tried (and succeeded) at sneaking them in. The usher didn't even look funny at me and my tote bag with the oddly square bulge in the side--too busy talking about his five-day suspension from summer school (oh, the humanity!).

So during the previews (yay, antennalope), S and I ate lemon bars off of old phone cards I had in my wallet, since I hadn't had enough foresight to sneak in forks, as well. The whole thing worked beautifully, except for one dangerous moment halfway through the movie, when I moved my foot and caught the edge of the nearly-empty pan sitting under my seat, making a loud clanging noise on the floor. Fortunately, Ah-nuld was causing mayhem at the moment and nobody really heard.

Seriously. Brownies and bar cookies are in. Get yourself a tote and a Betty Crocker mix, and you're golden.

Sometimes I just don't understand you

What do you mean, "I don't like the beach"?! That's unacceptable! How can you not like the beach? It's the beach. There's sand, and interesting things in the sand, and waves and seagulls and sun. You can watch people being stupid and take your shoes off without people looking at you funny. It smells salty and fishy and different, better at least than the smog-flavored sludge you breathe day in and day out. There's breeze to blow your hair off your face. It's the best thing ever. Only Philistines don't like the beach, Philistine.

I probably should save this until Friday, but...

It's too much fun right now. Yay, fireworks!

Okay, it is for public consumption. Sort of.

M3 asked me the other night, in one of the more awkward moments of the past few months, why I don't date. I was sort of gobsmacked, so I gave her a crap answer and changed the subject. The question has refused to be put to rest so easily, though.

I can't give you a precise answer that lays open the deep-seated neuroses at my core, or if I can, I'm not going to. But looking back over a good 10 years of having crushes on boys, I can tell you about the rather disturbing pattern that emerged.

All my crushes take a wrong turn somewhere and end up in the Friend Zone.

I suppose this isn't that shocking a conclusion, and it speaks well of my ability to get a bead on people, but yo. Seriously, I counted, and I came up with ten separate instances of this happening since I was sixteen. Not great for my self-esteem, but I have a whole bevy of guys I can call on to fix my computer, to teach me how to change my oil, to rant about why the Mets suck so fully, and to watch movies where things explode. My guy friends are princes among men, and if some of them make my heart twinge a little in quiet moments...well, it's not a fairy-tale ending, but I'll take it for now.