Friday, August 31, 2012

I want to understand these things.

(I was going to make this be one of those rare non-relationship-related posts, but then I wanted to say that it was, which makes it not one anymore.  I didn't even try, really, but I thought about trying.)

The rational conclusions I am failing to make tonight is now my most viewed post of all time, which is especially surprising statistically since it's less than six months old, and my previous record holder is from 2009.  Blogger gives me access to some information, such as search keywords used to find my blog, but I never see any searches that would link to that particular post.  Searches for "if some men are doctors" would obviously link to the post about "some men are doctors."  But there is nothing for Rational Conclusions.  So I am assuming that, somewhere, someone has linked to me, and that someone is popular enough that the people who bother to click through are enough to significantly alter my blog statistics.  But it bothers me that I don't know.  Why that one?  It doesn't seem to be a stand out post in any way.  I mean, I like it, I guess.  But I wish I understood.

This is me being Not Discouraged

Sigh.  Onward down the list.

I remember looking through photography magazines in the bathroom at Looking Glass Photo, and studying the gallery exhibition notices and book publishings, and some times it seemed as if all the photos looked like mine, and I thought I must be boring and derivative and I despaired of ever breaking through.  Other times it seemed as if everything was shiny and sharp and foreign to me.  On those times, I despaired of ever breaking through.

Doom Girl: Not A New Thing.

I must remember that I love this little story, and eventually someone else (the kind of someone who edits journals) will love it, too.

EDIT (actually the second such addition, but I figured the first could follow the Five-Second-Rule, which isn't quite five seconds but basically says that if we can pretend it didn't happen it will be okay):

I might continue the "add to earlier posts rather than make a new one each time" trend.  I feel a little more serious that way.  Someone with long thoughts instead of short ones, although all I'm doing is grouping together short thoughts in the form of long thoughts, but back to the five-second rule, I'm willing to pretend if you are.

I am back to my list of prestigious journals because I am snobby, and also lazy.  I think these guys are worth waiting two weeks for.  Mostly because of this essay.  I have been skimming the essay archives of a few journals on the list, looking for something that might somehow resemble mine.  And this doesn't.  But it's strange and funny and not like the others, and makes me think that another essay that is Not Like The Others might also be loved here.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

I wrote something pretty

I left him in November, in the middle of an ice storm—my first—it was beautiful and scary and not at all what I had expected. I didn’t know that the trees would turn into chandeliers along the Coralville strip, and I didn’t know how little I wanted the warmth of his back against mine while I slept. Except I didn’t actually leave.

Then I left him in June, and I did.

It was two weeks before the Fourth of July. It would have been our anniversary. Mike bought sparklers anyway. I have a contact sheet with pictures of him, in the blue light of a shadow, sitting on the pavement outside our apartment, tiny fires levitating above his hands. I never printed them.
Anyway, I think it's pretty. There may not be much else, content-wise, but I like pretty things.

Also I made my appointment at the Emma Goldman Clinic, and before I gave my address, the woman says, "you live at G's old house, don't you?"  (She sometimes brings us eggs.)  Perhaps my next t-shirt will say: IOWA CITY: NOT VERY BIG.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

More notes about sex

1.  GodDAMN the socialization that makes me both ashamed of the hair on my body, and ashamed to shave it.  Because any decision is a Decision, and Means Something, even the fact that I am making a Decision emphasizes the fact that there is naturally hair, when one is supposed to encourage the idea that one is naturally smooth and hairless.  I am embarrassed, and I am pissed off that I'm embarrassed.

2.  I also have three pairs of underwear that are fit to be seen.  I don't like doing laundry.  Obviously, there is shopping in my future.

3.  Also, there is sex in my future.  That makes up for pretty much everything else.

4.  He said, in regards to my website, that it wasn't very vague.  I thought of this and did not say, you have no idea.

Sometimes I love placeholders as much as I love the real thing

I know where I'm going with the story!  This is very exciting.  This will not, actually, be the ending:

heat transfer, my skin slowly merging with the water around it, carried away into something else, something larger and more strange, warming in tiny ways something really far away, things out of my control, things I can never control, stop worrying and let it go yay I have a metaphor!

p.s. because it bears repeating

I have a boyfriend.



When he told his best friend about me, he made sure to not say my last name, to protect my privacy.  Which is not only incredibly sweet, but personalized.  This isn't a bouquet of roses because girls like roses, this is the specific yarn I've wanted but never thought to ask for. 

He holds my hand in the street and changed his Facebook status.

I told myself that if he thought I was more engaged than I was, that wasn't my fault.  I told myself that it's been eleven days; I told myself it was too early to assume anything.  But that only means that I have succeeded at plausible deniability, and that's not the right standard to aim for.  Plausible deniability still means that I'm being cruel.  All I've succeeded in doing is finding a loophole to avoid the consequences. 

He deserves better than that.  If I am not in this with him, I need to get out.

I said, "Can I be your official girlfriend?"

I said, "I trust you.  It might not sound like a big thing, but it kinda is.  I wanted you to know that."

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

I am considering changing the official parameters of this relationship.

He says that things have been coming together for him, not the least of which is meeting me.

I don't want him to leave, but I don't want him to trust me.

He is offering me security, sincerity, he is offering me the chance to matter to him, and I want all these things but I don't know if I want to reciprocate.

Which sounds awful, I know.

He is in this for realz, he is not messing around, and my lack of decision making is becoming a decision to let this happen. It would be so easy.

I love the things he says to me. And I love the things he does to me. I anxiously wait for his texts. I worry when they're late. I have become someone waiting by a phone (well, sitting on the far end of the couch so I can sit my phone on the chair next to it, which is just close enough to the entrance of the basement to get a signal), and the grumpy I don't know what I want but I'm unhappy because I don't have it, went away with his text.

But, of course, I like to be flattered. And I like to be wanted. I want to be special. And I can't be trusted.

That's the story I know.

Monday, August 27, 2012

Sadface Monday

Everything else, though, is pretty bad this morning.  I'm stressed about work.  A lot.  I'm stressed about the crazy food cravings I gave into yesterday.  For some reason, I'm even slightly stressed about ballroom lessons starting today, but I think that's mostly just a One More Thing kind of deal.  Also, I'm tired because my sleep schedule is all out of whack. 

And, now that I think of it, I'm worried about my tooth, because the implant is fragile for a little while before the bone attaches to it properly, which means that it can be screwed up during that time, and the dentist told me about someone who got hit in the face with a basketball and they had to do the implant over again, and I think, what if I did something accidental, something like leaning my face in my hand without noticing it, and pushing in on the implant and dislodging it and it's ALL WRONG RIGHT NOW I just don't know it yet?

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Sometimes reading the comments doesn't suck

From Barbara in Virginia:

...there is nothing like pregnancy. There is no other requirement embedded in either law or Judeo-Christian reasoning for one human being to potentially risk their life for another when they don't want to. Cases have been brought and utterly failed -- we would never require someone to undergo even minimal surgery, for instance, a bone marrow transplant, on behalf of another. The ONLY basis on which one can posit such a duty on a pregnant woman is not because of the moral agency of the fetus -- people in need of kidney transplants have moral agency too -- it's because of the relationship between the woman and the fetus, and thus, whether they acknowledge it or not, the pro-life position emanates from a view of morality that requires women to sacrifice for their unborn fetuses if that is what is required. To say that it has nothing to do with the status of women when it so evidently requires pregnant women to bear a burden that is not imposed on any other human being is -- well -- lacking. You take your pick of whether the deficit is one of honesty or logic.

It's getting so serious in here.

I got the rest of the tattoo printout:

Prounounced (badly) mmmm goy chah shoo bow

Me with tattoo and gaussian blur.  Sometimes I just can't help myself.


I was telling Chicagofriend about the Abusive Ex. I said, "He was manipulative and controlling and emotionally abusive, and it was escalating and would have become physical abuse."

I said, "One time I was sitting on his lap on the ground and I said something that made him angry and he shoved me off his lap onto the ground and I looked up and saw his boot raised and I thought he was going to kick me and I screamed and he didn't."

And Chicagofriend said, "You do know that's physical abuse, right?"

I said, "yes," of course I did. Of course I know that. I'm not some asshole Republican who thinks that anyone without broken arms couldn't possibly have been raped.

But the truth is, I didn't think it until that moment. And part of me still thinks, "But he didn't kick me. Being pushed on the ground didn't hurt. And if it didn't hurt it wasn't physical abuse."

Just like, I never said "no."

It was a long time ago, and my memories are hazy. I have better memories of the stories I've told myself about the events afterwards than I actually have of the events themselves.

I remember the steel-toed boot and the concrete and the fear.

I remember sex that I didn't want to have, sex that made me feel degraded and worthless, or sex because I was degraded and worthless.

But I don't remember ever saying no.

I am thinking about this again, because a woman told me that the guy she's been seeing was shocked to learn that she'd been sexually assaulted.

I am thinking about how it shouldn't be shocking. Conservative statistics say that 1 in 4 women have been sexually assaulted. Some statistics say 1 in 3. So, assuming that this guy knows more than four women, he has already known someone who has been sexually assaulted. He just wasn't aware.

He wasn't aware because we don't speak out. It isn't exactly part of normal conversation.  No one says, at the water cooler, "Hey did you see the Dilbert today and did you know I was raped when I was 18?"

And so I want to MAKE it part of the conversation. I want to stand up and say, in every public forum available, "This is not abstract. This is not hypothetical. This is me, standing here, telling you that I have been sexually abused. We are not talking about "women" in some general sense, we are talking about ME."

But I don't remember ever saying no.

Ogres turn into princesses but sirens will eat your face, says Roommate

Related, sort of, but also not.

I spent a good deal of time yesterday feeling anxious and insecure. I feel wobbly, I worry. I wobble with worry.

In my head, I am always either an ogre or a siren. The minute I believe that I might be desirable, I worry that I will harm anyone who desires me. I am emotionally capricious. I will lure you in, change my mind mid-lure, and dash you to the rocks.

I have reasons for this, of course. There is always something I can call a reason to feel the way I do.  But the reasons, when actually written down, are pitifully inadequate:

1. MT: This is the real reason. He loved me, he followed me, and I left him. The reason I second guess myself. I either loved him and stopped, or I didn't "really" love him. And that terrifies me. Except that I am not sure if there is some "real" love that is different from "not real" love. So I loved him. And then I began to not love him. Over the course of six years. This is something that happens. Feelings that change over six years are not evidence of capriciousness. And yet, I am the bad guy in the story. I broke his heart. And I'm not over it.

2. Boy 1 and H--: I wildly enjoyed their company for a little while, then got bored or annoyed and left. Within the space of a few weeks (the former) or a month or two (the latter). On the other hand, Satanist Dan, D--, Voldemort, and Flicka all got tired of me first. Again, that's what happens. We try a new person, we see how they fit, if it doesn't work we move on.

3. Misc. other OK Cupid people I never even met, but chatted excitedly for a few days and then broke it off. Seriously? I worry about THAT?

That's it.  That's the sum total of reasons that I can even pretend are rational, and it's obvious to anyone that they aren't rational.

Things might work out this time.  They might not.  And "not working out" might happen in a day or three months or six years, and that does not make me a bad person.

I think.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Week 1, part 2: Things Left Unsaid

There was a friend who, much like a work-friend, was someone I curated my conversations quite a bit with.  I didn't bring up things that I knew we'd argue about, because it wouldn't be any fun or produce any changes.  There were quite a few things we would have argued about.  But we had fun together, and liked to do the same things, and listened to each others' heartaches and joys.

But this blog is not curated so strongly (I won't pretend that I am ignorant of all readers, or that the knowledge doesn't ever affect blog content), and that became a problem. It was not THE problem, there never really is a singular Problem, but I think that it was a problem, and related to other problems, and then there was moving apart and then it was over.

And now I have thoughts that need excising, or at least I would really really like to talk about them right now, but there is the looming specter of Who Might Be Reading, and I don't really know how to handle it.

Part of me thinks, this is a designated Personal Space.  I use words like "blog" and "journal," because "diary" sounds so girlish, but really, folks, this is a diary.  I even write it, diary-like, towards an imaginary other person(s).  And because it's a designated Personal Space, anyone reading is doing so at their own risk.  And if you don't want to read what I'm saying, that's what you get for reading my diary, right? 

But the metaphor isn't perfect.  Because I don't actually take any steps to keep people out.  I don't take steps to draw people in, but this space is a far cry from a locked book in the hidden drawer of my jewelery box with KEEP OUT written on the cover.  Reading my blog isn't a breach of trust because I don't tell anyone that they shouldn't read it.  And so it feels a little disingenuous to act as if I have perfect freedom to say anything about anyone on my blog.  (Well, I have perfect legal freedom, but the moral freedom is much more ambiguous.)

An obvious answer is to ramp up the actual privacy, restrict access to known readers, who are not people I am avoiding discussing, but I would like to avoid that.  I like to think that there is something to be gained by being public.  That taking this blog away would be doing someone a disservice.

The other obvious answer is to say, well, if I am not actually private, then I shouldn't say anything about anyone that I wouldn't say over a loudspeaker because that is the Rule of the Internet.  If you don't want your boss, your mom, or a judge to read something, you shouldn't say it online.

But, but, but I don't wanna.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012


I do and then I don't and then I do and then I don't, and then I feel bad about it.


Good Night.

I have a new goal.

Besides learning Fake ID before Thursday, because I've almost got it down already.  I so want to WIN at country dancing.  (I've been feeling mighty these days.) 

I'm aiming for 167 lbs. by 2013.  It's ambitious, because there are some serious hurdles between now and then, but it's not totally implausible.  Hitting 167 would mean an even 50 pounds lost in 2012.  I like that number.  It's worth trying.

Monday, August 20, 2012

You know what would be a really good idea?

Not staying up all night learning the dance to Fake ID.

Even if it's awesome.

Data Points

Last August, when school started, I posted this:

Tuesday morning I was sobbing in the shower because it had started to rain and my clothes had been sitting outside for a day and a half already and my car window still wasn't covered up and I couldn't handle any one more thing.

It is good to have data points.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Other People's Words Again

There is this bit from a Ani DiFranco live CD, where she says something like

So I dunno if you've heard this new album I've got, but all the righteous babes, well, some of 'em anyway, they've got their panties all in a twist and they're like "What's all this about love and shit, what happened to your politics," and "is this a conscious move away from overtly politically songwriting Ms. DiFranco?" And I was like, "no, man, I just got--

--I got kinda distracted."

He said, I said, he said, you know.

And then, and then.

Me and My Skirt and My Crush

Wedding reception, now onto lab cleaning, which so far has meant putting two scanners away and taking a too-tired-to-make-a-face-for-the-camera skirt shot.

I made this skirt last summer for Sara's wedding.  This is me wearing the skirt today.


At first I wasn't sure if he wanted anything more than a hang-out buddy.  Then I wasn't sure if I did.  Then I changed my mind.  So I came up with an excuse to go out with him and before I got in the cab to go home, he gave me an opportunity to kiss him and I took it.

And this morning, I started to think:

Do I like him enough?  

Do I like him for the wrong reasons?  

Do I want him to be my Boyfriend?  

A Real Boyfriend?  

Should I be doing this if I don't?  

What will my friends think of him?  

Can I take him to Knitters' Breakfast?

And you know what?  I thought all these things, and then I thought:

I met a boy on Friday and kissed him on Saturday.  I'm having a lot of fun.  That is all I need to know right now.

I am no good a sleeping in anymore.

But I got a kiss good night.

Friday, August 17, 2012

No, really

I am not going to spend my day blogging.

But I thought you should know that there is a loltheorists page.  You have to go through some unfunny, but it's worth it. 

Academic Elitist humor!  Fun!

Thursday, August 16, 2012

There is No Privacy on the Internet

I take care that my first and last name are not used in this blog in a way that would make it come up on a search.  Not that a google search of my first and last name doesn't pull up a number of things that I am only grudgingly okay with being seen by anyone who wants to know, but I try to keep at least a few levels of remove between Professional Internet Me and Blogging Internet Me.  I think. 

Except it's only recently occurred to me that all of the casual internet me's are connected, especially Blogging Internet Me and Dating Internet Me, because I use the same damn name.  I mean, adding a "the" in front of my username isn't exactly a big intellectual hurdle.

So someone viewing my profile, with curiosity, might easily end up here.  I've done it, I mean, with others.  I totally found Flicka's real name and Facebook page and stalked him for a while until I got bored.  And this is not exactly where I would want someone to go from my profile.  It's not that anything here is a secret.  But there is a certain amount of curating that one does when one is meeting new people.  One does not bring all the crazy at once.  One doles out the crazy a little at a time so it gets balanced by the awesome that is also revealed over time.  One does not send people that one is irrationally crushing on to ones blog which is all the crazy all the time because it's a dumping ground, it's what I do to make the rest of my interactions slightly more palatable.  Um, also, if one is careful, one will not switch to first person in the middle of a diatribe that one is pretending is a general stance, and not personal, not at all.

So, maybe I'm saying hello?  I am realizing that I might be saying hello, that I have been saying hello, I just didn't think about it that way.  Dear OK Cupid: hello.

(Reading this again, I remember that someone found me here, starting with my real name, and not my internet name, and maybe it's also because she knew the story I'd written and also blogged, but it might be an easier trail than I thought, because I also remembered that my flickr profile links to my official site, and also this site, so really this is all very silly of me because there is no privacy on the internet, I knew that.  But I had reasons I could use to pretend otherwise, and now, not so much.  Holy run-on sentences, Batman!)


I am now at the afraid-to-say-anything-to-mess-things-up stage.  We are meeting tomorrow for coffee.  I am second guessing EVERYTHING.  (So, in the last message, I mentioned being SUPER BUSY and not able to craft essay-length responses.  Which is true.  Also, what I didn't say is that I am afraid of essay length responses because I really want to meet this guy and I want him to really want to meet me, and he wants to now, but who knows anything I might say could make him change his mind.)

With that in mind, I'm kind of shocked that I only started THIS MORNING the "what will I wear" debate.  Poofy skirt, because they look the best AND show off the tattoo.  I'm thinking that I want to signal pretty much the same as for HSB, so ideally a polka dot skirt for the same reasons.  The red clashes with my pink shoes, the black is in the photo of me on OKC, so I am thinking green.  And either with the pink YOU'RE AWESOME shirt or the IOWA CITY CONVENIENTLY LOCATED shirt.  Advantage of the former is that it's in my profile photo which seems like a nice way to say "yes that's me," also, is friendly and cheerful.  Downside of the former is that pink and green are a little further than I'd like on the clashy side of my color spectrum, and I'm not sure that it's the most flattering because the material is thin enough to cling in ways I'd rather it didn't.  The latter choice makes a slightly more mellow color combo, although not so much that I feel like I'm giving a false impression, and I've mentioned having Iowa pride tshirts, and is a little more substantial of a t-shirt so looks a little better I think.  If I pick the IC shirt, I will have chosen the exact same outfit twice in a row to be seen by a crush.

(For the record, since last Monday, I've gone from 188 down to 185, up to 190, and down again to 188 this morning.  The upper point of that is probably higher but I didn't start weighing again until yesterday.)

Also, I got one of the grads to print this out for me:

Isn't it pretty?  It's the thank you part of thank you pork bun.  Pronounced (badly) like mmmm-goy.  Rhymes with mmmmmm-boy.  I might get pork bun later today.

And once I get that part, then I could, conceivably, get the tattoo whenever I want, there is nothing stopping me, and I don't even know if I really want it.  Cassie says, would it be helpful to self-impose a moratorium, say one year and then if I still want it I can get it, which is a good idea but, oh I don't know.

Work being busy and worrisome means that all my rules go out the window, so I actually did come in wearing cutoffs yesterday, and the rest of the week I've gone with baggy tshirts and jeans (which fit the rules, but certainly aren't blog-worthy), and I'm still feeling kind of bloated and gross, despite being at a weight I would have cheered for a month ago.  I've started eating a bigger breakfast and a GIANT cup of coffee which means that I'm not actually hungry again until dinner.  This is probably bad for me. 

Anyway, work yes?  I have a meeting to go to.  Bye!

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

It is far too early, and

I CAN'T get all hopes-up on this guy.

But I am.

Also I have work to do.  Lots and lots and lots and lots.

I have blogging piling up in my head, falling asleep, waking up, in the shower, but it will have to wait.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Important Question.

I'm hungry.  What should I have for dinner?

I would like it to come to me.  I would like it to be eatable with a fork or spoon.  I would not like to feel too guilty about it afterwards. 


When I made my travel and work plans, I thought, I can sleep on planes!  I can sleep anywhere!  What I forgot was that even if I sleep "all night" on the plane, when I'm only flying from San Diego to Detroit, "all night" is a 4 1/2 hour flight.  Even with about an hour or so on the next flight, and an hour or so nap, it doesn't actually add up to much that I can use.  With the nap and the coffee and the excitement of being able to ORGANIZE ALL THE DATA, I powered through the rest of yesterday but now... well, I'd much rather quote someone else than come up with new content.  So here you go:

I still read this blog, sometimes. Curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought him back, right?  Anyway, you should follow the link and read the whole post but I've quoted some of it here because I really think that the more places this is said, the better.

Fat hatred is socially acceptable. Fat people can be discriminated against and have little to no protection under the law. Fat people can be fired or not hired for being fat. It is ok to make fun of fat people. Fat people can be judged in public without the person passing judgment feeling badly about it. Fat people can eat healthy in public and receive judgement. Fat people can eat junk food in public and receive judgement. If a fat person is handicapped, Americans assume it is because they are fat. If a fat person has any health problems, doctors assume it is because they are fat. Clothing companies do not make clothes for fat people. Seats in public places are not designed for fat people. Fat people can't ride roller coasters. Fat people are supposed to believe that they are stupid and lazy. Fat people are supposed to believe they need to diet. Fat people are supposed to believe they should be thin. Fat people should want to be thin. In America, this is how we think and feel. Fat is less beautiful.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Five hundred and four words

I am tired all the time.  I keep thinking that I should work on adjusting to the time, except I'm flying back tomorrow so I will have succeeded in teaching myself to be late to work.  So I will not be replying to anyone just yet, not even the five hundred and four word message I got back from no. 138. 

I am very excited to write back.  But I would like to trust myself a little more. 

The grammar guy who has a column in the San Diego Union-Tribune wrote a list of Olympic announcer errors, and along with "amount" versus "number," he got to my favorite pet peeve (is it possible to have a favorite pet peeve?) which is a soft "j" in Beijing.  JING, like jingle bells.  The Chinese do not have a soft "j" sound, but Americans tend to Frenchify what we want to sound fancy or foreign, so we give the Chinese a French makeover and everyone does it and it's annoying.



(The next morning, I open my computer and discover that I didn't even post this.)

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Things I Didn't Learn at Greek Easter

I know it sounds like the biggest cliche in the world.  Hey, you're Greek?  Do you know ______?

But I'm pretty sure I just heard my extended family say that we're related to John Stamos.


Friday, August 10, 2012

Guess What?

Turns out that the bag I love is discontinued in orange.

Not that the teal isn't gorgeous.  There is no reason to be so attached to the orange.  But I'm not flying through MSP on my way back and the website is already out of stock... which is funny because I was so sure that I could just get it online whenever I wanted.  Sadface.

It's VERY light.  And small enough for carryon but large enough to be useful.  And it just looks nice.  I can't explain it.  A grown-up duffle bag in bright colors to say, still has fun.  Also, easy to spot.

Notes on a Three Hour Layover


I always hated airports. Because airports are such important places, emotionally, and so poorly suited for the purpose. Airports are sterile, commercial, visually overwhelming and aesthetically barren. How can one be expected to have a meaningful moment when jostled about by bedraggled strangers, bored businessmen, tired children, and and their equally tired parents? No one cares. And even worse are all the other people having their own meaningful moments, your world is only one of a dozen worlds about to begin, or end, when the boarding call comes. It's impossible.

I actually like traveling more now that they've raised security, because even though I did have to go through the porno-scanner, which I object to on principle even if it doesn't actually bother me, now that no one can go with me to the gate, I am obliged to have my moments in better surroundings.

And yet, I still have "taking an airplane" filed under "unpleasant obligations," and rewardable with enormous financial and culinary excess. I have a very strong sense of what is expected of me, and the minute I deviate from this I am filled with righteous indignation. I worked twelve hours. I went to the dentist. Whenever an unpleasant but not overwhelming event happens, I immediately demand recompense. Usually in the form of food, but alcohol or sex, when available, will do as well.

And so, when I discover that Wok and Roll: Fine Asian Cuisine at MSP serves sliced BBQ pork, it's not just that I want it, because I try not to miss opportunities like that, but I am convinced that I deserve it. I'm in an airport, and the world owes me for that.

I also deserve dessert, so I take a tour around the entire airport, comparing dessert options and decide on an Oreo sundae at T.G.I. Friday's. And a white russian. I'm a little tipsy right now. My waitress' name is Angie and she was born three days after me. She's charming and I like her. There is late 90's music playing and I so very much want to sing along.

On my tour around the terminals I very nearly bought a $225 piece of luggage. And it was perfect luggage, perfect, but I have dental bills to pay and I promised myself I would be frugal this month.

Did I mention how perfect it is?

I fly twice a year. That adds up eventually. Right?

By the time I get to a network connection I may have a new piece of luggage. Or I may not.

It's $225 dollars. And perfect. And bright orange. I LOVE it.

It's light, and small enough to carry on, and feels well made (it had better be, for the price), and BRIGHT ORANGE. It folds small enough to fit in the luggage I'm walking around with right now. It comes in a pretty teal, and a red, and probably something black, not that I'd notice a black. But I'm stuck on orange.


I finished my drink. I gave Angie a 40% tip. Have I mentioned how ridiculously happy I am at this very moment? I am. And I left with the intention of buying my orange luggage except that I managed to talk myself into doing it later. Because no matter how perfect, I won't use it until Thanksgiving at the earliest, it's not like I'm going to switch bags and ship my current luggage back home. And it's not like street vendor jewelery, it's not going to go away, and I can buy it online when I get home and it isn't August anymore. So I am being reasonable and waiting. And while I wait I can see if there is actually an even more perfect luggage that just isn't for sale at the airport mall. There are lots of amazing things that aren't for sale at the airport mall. Look how reasonable I am being.


In a completely unrelated note, I may never look good naked again. I can diet myself into the shape I want, more or less, but I have been fat for a very long time, and I have too much skin now and it isn't going away. I droop. The skin over my belly is strangely lumpy, it sinks voluminously into itself. And nothing short of surgery is going to fix that. It is the price I pay for the choices I've made. It's a bit like a hangover, but on a very, very, long scale.

I knew what I was doing, and I did it deliberately. I considered my options and chose the best option available. I was ruining my body and it was ruining my mind. I starved myself, and I binged, I puked, I was stuck in my misery and self-hatred and even that wasn't enough to succeed. I had already lost nearly half an octave because my poor throat could no longer take the strain. And throughout it all, I was still, always, too fat, all I could see was fat.

I had tried, and failed, at moderation. I was trying and failing at self control, and I was losing everything else in the process. So I made a decision. I ate. And I stopped worrying about the consequences. I stopped looking. I cultivated a deliberate ignorance, a separation between body and mind, and I then told my body it could go to hell for all I cared. I wasn't going to watch. It took ten years before I could attempt to bridge that gap, before I thought that I might be well enough to try again. And now that I am well enough, I have to accept the consequences.


Sleepy… Dragons, then sleep. Boarding soon.


Note to self: A-line skirts, even when comfy with pockets, are terrible on airplanes.  Do not attempt again.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Oh the Songwriters!

I spent an hour with an old friend yesterday, driving up to Marion for dance class.  I'd forgotten how good it felt to spend time with her, how smart she is, and funny and understanding.  We joked around, we talked about things we used to do together, and what we're doing now.  I told her about my fears that I'm too mutable to ever have permanent relationships, and maybe I'm at heart too selfish to ever care about another person more than I care about myself.  She talked about bad relationships she's been in, and her insecurities.  And then we went back to joking.  It felt so comfortable, so easy and natural.  Except that it only happened in my head.  It was just me and Ani DiFranco on the stereo, like old friends.

"fashion blog posts"

I was saying that a fashion blog should really be a fashion blog, since the purpose of a fashion blog is a bit like pinterest: one says I would like to spend some time looking at pretty things and maybe get some ideas for me, and then one finds a fashion blog where it is all there in one place, curated by someone whose taste one admires, like A Dress a Day, and A New Dress a Day (no connection).  But one does not necessarily put fashion blogs in their RSS feed, because one wants to consume at lot at once, but not very often.

But since my Grown Up Resolution, clothes are often What I Am Thinking About, and so I suppose I will continue my "fashion blog posts," but with scare quotes, even though I disapprove of scare quotes, because I would like to make sure that no one thinks that I am thinking that this deserves to be taken seriously.

This is the second day this week that I have successfully resisted a desire to go to work in a ratty pair of cutoffs.  I don't know why, but those are my comfort clothes during the summer, but they are definitely not allowed in my resolution.

My plan is to go home after work, pack for San Diego, and then go to the Practice Dance at the studio, and an hour or two of salsa.  I am having trouble going to bed appropriately for school hours, so I really need to get home at a reasonable hour.  On the other hand, I need the exercise and I would like to try a few more times to see if HSB will be there.

With that in mind, I wanted to wear the camera skirt for its signaling purposes, but I don't have much in the way of good t-shirts for it.  So, bright blue corduroy skirt, Threadless t-shirt. 

I love how this shirt looks with blue.

Also, I love this shirt.

Here's the thing about the shirt: During spring break of my sophomore year of college, I took a road trip and couch hopped from friend to friend up and down the East Coast, from NYC to Richmond.  I was 19 years old and somewhat recently out of an abusive relationship.  I'd just chopped off all my hair and once I got back, I would dye it blue for the first time.  I was young and sexy and happy and free and I even knew it, which has been a very rare joy for me in the past, and it was a brisk, sunny, day that first drive up 95.  For the first time, when I saw the signs say I-95 NORTH NEW YORK, I was actually going to New York, New York, and my diskman plugged into the tape deck sitting on the empty passenger seat played Friday I'm In Love.

And the shirt?  It's got the lyrics drawn out in pictograms.

I don't care if Monday's blue
Tuesday's gray and Wednesday too
Thursday I don't care about you
it's Friday I'm in Love!

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

I can.

It is August first.  I paid my car, my phone, my utilities, some of my loans, my credit cards, and rent is set to go automatically.

My bank now has a program I get to use that makes me charts.

This is very exciting.  I am a little worried about dental bills, also falling behind on student loans, and I have decided to spend NO MONEY, LITERALLY, NO MONEY AT ALL on craft supplies for the month of August.  No fabric, no zippers, no buttons, no yarn, NOTHING.  I have gone a little out of control, and all the sewing also translates into all the shopping, because even when I resolve to only use current stash, I never stash up on zippers and elastic and all the little extra things.  And even though these are "good" purchases, because I use them on permanent, non-frivolous, things that are life-enriching and stuff, I need to stop and wait and get used to the idea that I can say no.

Check boxes

I apparently crush a little on dance instructors.  Even way back when with my swing instructor in Berkeley, and it wasn't even a romantic crush, but a sort of giddy admiration.  I've had a crush on K forever and now she's a dance instructor, so it's not that I like the people who teach me dance, but I like people who want to teach dance. 

C is tiny and quiet, not prone to extravagance or big movement.  She wears dark, muted colors: burgundy, forest green, gray.  She's quiet and serious enough, that every time I ask her a question like, "can we try that again slower?" and she says, "no," I am shocked for a minute before she laughs and says, "This is where you're supposed to tell me that sarcasm isn't becoming on me."  I am trying to get better at learning the names for steps.  I asked her why there is an "under-arm turn," (the lead raises their* arm and the follow turns underneath it) when there isn't an "over-arm turn" (the lead lowers their arm and the follow turns over it?).   C said she'd make one up for me.

She asked me if I had thought about private lessons, and I told her what I'd said before, about how I'd love to, it would be great to have a syllabus and check things off, and she said, "I can get you a syllabus and check things off!"  So we did.

This is my American Smooth Syllabus as a lead, with things checked off:

Do you see?  I love this woman.

I still sometimes start on the wrong foot, especially in Tango, but I'm feeling a little more natural leading, I almost never step on her feet anymore, and I'm getting better at navigation, although that's mostly in lesson where there isn't anyone else to complicate things on the dance floor.  I'm not ready to call this a win yet, but it's coming. 

Also I hit 185 this morning.  I can't even express how THIS NUMBER is the important number.  When I was doing this in 2009, my goal was to get from 245 to 135, and 185 was my half-way marker.  (Technically, slightly more than half, but that was what I picked.)  I needed to think of the weight loss in sections because otherwise I'd get overwhelmed by the scale of what I wanted to do.  Ten pounds is not nothing, but it feels a lot like nothing when the goal is over 100.  So I made myself two goals, attained one of them briefly, and then lost it again.

This number means I did it.  It's not settled yet, since I have to keep it until Monday, and not bounce back, and given the upcoming trip and fair, and then school starting, there will likely be some rebound.  But I am now setting a new goal at 150.  At 150 I will re-evaluate to see where I want to be.  I don't really know what my target weight is, because my only reference is from twelve years ago, so my plan gets a little nebulous at the end. 

I feel as if there were a third thing to say here, another checkbox, but I can't think of what it was.

*Given the options, unless I am talking about a specific genderqueer person with pronoun preferences, I will use the plural.  I hate it, but I hate it less than the other options.  For those of you who hate it more than the other options, I understand, and I apologize.