subject to change

034

2009-12-28T15:54:00.000-08:00

Back to the back into it! Back to this business of normal life. Christmas is ovahhh.

Half awake coming down the stairs this morning, wearing my new and righteous pink fuzzy socks, a gift from Santa, I was brutally shocked into full consciousness. My right foot slipped, I jerked backward, instinctively grabbed the banister with my right hand, and descended into a front split. New and righteous pink fuzzy socks are deadly on stairs. I held myself there for a moment, then said out loud, "Good morning, Slick."

Just breathe, Anna Nalick. It's only Monday.

No one makes me laugh like my family. (No one makes me cry like them, either. But anyway...) Being with them for five short days last week was just so many things: comforting, tense, happy, confusing, wonderful, boring, easy and hard. But maybe I'm overthinking it - I do that. The feeling that stands out when I think of home, and those faces, is a feeling of gratitude and respect. My family is extraordinary, which isn't always a smooth and tidy thing. We're strong at our fracture lines, though. And the bad times make the late nights around the kitchen table, doubled over laughing at the things we say, so so sweet.

Love you, Family. Truly and forever.

033

2009-12-17T15:02:00.001-08:00

The evolution of nicknames is a source of fascination for me. Nicknames are given to us. We don’t really have a say in them. Someone just points at you one day and calls you by something other than your given name, and before you know it, people you’ve never even met are calling you Kipper. Even more fascinating, though, is the way a nickname changes over time. Eventually, people tire of the original “aka” and feel the need to doctor it up even more, or dumb it down even less. But the journey from Nickname A to Nickname F is one that can never be predicted. Could you ever have guessed that when you first got the nickname of LuLu, five years later they’d end up calling you Strutless Wonder? And yet, you can trace Strutless back to LuLu, listing all the in-between permutations, showing us how it connects naturally, one eventually leading to the other. Predictable, though? Hardly ever.

I have a friend who was given a nickname by her family of Juddah Ben Hur. Eventually, the family abbreviated it to Buddha. (To this day, she still has a brother that calls her that.) From Judaism to Eastern Philosophy in one nickname. Nicknames connect the world.

I was called Miss Dameana as a child. Apparently, I dabbled in petty theft, swiping stock from the lower shelves of drug stores, as my mother wheeled me in my stroller. No, actually I have no idea why they called me that. Later on in life, I was given a much simpler name of “Mi” (pronounced like “me”) which is what my youngest sister called me when she was one year old. Everyone has a nickname story. And we like to tell them don’t we?

What I’d like to know is what constitutes a nickname the STICKS versus a nickname that doesn’t. Is there some formula for success? A catchy factor? Number of persons present when using the term? Frequency of usage over a given period of time? What?

I’ll tell you the surest way NOT to get a nickname off the ground. Don’t tell people what you’d like your nickname to be. Again, it goes back to the first point: people give you nicknames; you don’t give one to yourself. In grade school, I wanted to be called Joey. Please don’t ask why. Fine. I wanted a name like one of the orphan kids on Annie, all right? But do you think anyone ever called me Joey, in spite of my aggressive marketing for weeks to my friends at school? Of course not.

Just a little thought for today.

Yours truly,

Mary-Miss-Dameana-Mi-MiMi-Marangue-Rang-Murry-Paka-Richard-Mariachi, etc.

032

2009-09-23T22:20:00.000-07:00

Today I did something I know all four of you are going to be very proud of. It is an act of singular courage and fortitude. It is a choice many people only wish they could make. So many lack the mettle. And I once was one of that many. For weeks I sat at home frozen with indecision, sick with guilt: what will people think of me? But today, I silenced the worried voice with bold stroke. Today, I changed my constellation, and set myself on a truer trajectory for happiness. Today, I canceled my gym membership. I am free.

031

2009-09-15T15:15:00.001-07:00

This has been a summer of Star Trek, or in other words, a summer of self-improvement.

Thanks to a discount dollar movie theater, situated near my home in Trolley Square, I’ve been fortunate enough to see Star Trek ten times for the cost of one evening show at a regular movie theater. Yes. Ten. And without the dollar theater in Sugarhouse, this feat would not have been possible, and my summer would not have been as prolific. I will now explain.

There is no perfect movie, and there never will be. But Star Trek, for me, is about as close as it gets. From story, to casting, to special effects, to script, to score, to pacing, humor and profundity, folks…this movie simply wins it. People who are lifelong fans of the television show were happy; kids who had only heard of the show were just as happy. Very few moviemakers have been successful in achieving this, and for that it deserves genuine accolade, sci-fi fan or no. But I’m not writing a movie review here. After watching this movie so many times I not only enjoy it, but I’m also comforted by it. I relax into this story like I’m in the company of an old friend, and allow my mind to be overtaken entirely into this world of star dates and federation planets. The house lights dim, closing me out from my unfinished life and life-related worries, as the widescreen unfolds and fills the dark with giant moving images and echoes of a new realm. Here, the stakes are higher, the evil more obvious, the outcome is victoriously sweet, and all woes are resolved in just over two hours.

During one of the ten viewings, I found myself casting the main characters with people in my own life. It was a brilliant exercise, I recommend doing it! I got to ponder a bit about why so-and-so would DEFINITELY play Spock, why other so-and-so DEFINITELY would portray Captain Kirk, and OF COURSE so-and-so had to play Engineer Olson (Olson - the overzealous British guy who jettisons down with Kirk and Sulu to disarm the Romulan drill, only he pulls his chute dare-devilishly too late and eats it in open flames). It gave me insight as I mentally placed my friends in their galactic alter egos, helping me understand them better.

Another time, while watching a poignant scene between Spock and Uhura, I made some headway into understanding better what is needed to make love last. I know, right? Go figure. Sometimes when characteristics are exaggerated, we’re able to see the solution more quickly.

Yet another time, while watching my 20 year-old roommate text throughout the entire film, which hurt me more than she will ever know, I thought about where I lack patience with others and what I can do to be more aware of it. I learned to not take another’s disinterest in something I love so personally. Granted, this was not a lesson taken from the movie itself, but had I not been watching the movie, watching THIS movie, this lesson would not have been learned.

Other times, I’d wake up on a Saturday morning feeling lonely. So I’d do a few important chores, then as a treat, I’d go online and find a good time to head down for a dose of happy from Dr. Star Trek. Always worked like a charm. I walked out afterward feeling lighter.

I realize some may call me pathetic for placing this much importance on a movie. It’s just a movie. Well, of course it’s just a movie. And I’m willing to believe it really is pathetic to see anything that many times. But at the end of the day, if I walk out feeling better, learning new things, and it only cost me a buck, I really don’t care what they say about it. These are the reasons why we tell stories. This is what good stories are supposed to give us. And I still have the good sense not to wear my Star Fleet insignia with flashing lights anywhere but in my own bedroom, thank you very much.

P.S. I have plans to see it again this Saturday with a friend. I can't wait.

030

2009-09-03T14:50:00.000-07:00

Well, the story of 029 (ie. previous blog post) concludes tragically with a negative outcome to the impound hearing. The hearing officer refused to reimburse me for the towing of my roommates car, stating that the police officer acted within the bounds of the law, and that just because I'm ignorant of the parking rule doesn't mean it's inapplicable or unenforceable.

I said, "YOUR MOM'S INAPPLICABLE!" then threw my Vitamin Water in his face, with my arm I pulled down all the papers on the counter, knocked over the flag pole, jumped on the metal detector conveyor belt and sang God Bless America at the top of my lungs. No, not really.

I tried to argue my side: a) no one is disputing police officer's acting within the bounds of the law; but that the law itself is unjust; b) it is unreasonable to enforce a law with such rigidity when there is no reasonable attempt to inform SLC residents of this law; c) the law is stupid and needs an outclause or two. I guess it's a good thing I'm not a litigator.

I resisted my urge to take things to a personal level with one who was so clearly drunk off the drop of presumed power this hearing officer imbibed. Thoughts of commenting on his receding hairline, how pit stains really show when you wear rayon shirts, asking how the last Trekkie convention was, or whether he still talks to his incarcerated mother, or what it's like earning $10 an hour when you're over thirty-five, were seriously considered before I decided to not give any of them a voice. But oh how I wanted...

029

2009-08-28T14:55:00.000-07:00

My roommate has been out of town for two weeks, and left her car parked in our shared driveway. About three days after she left, the neighbors with whom we share said driveway asked us to move the car so they could haul away some junk from their backyard. So, I pulled the car out of the driveway, and parked it a few houses down from ours.
Monday, I come home from work to find my roommates’ car no longer on our street.

I call the police, give them the license plate number, and ask if it’s been towed. They won’t know until tomorrow morning. I call my out-of-town roommate to deliver the bad news. The police will need a notarized affidavit from her authorizing me to get the car out. I give her my office fax number.

I call the police station the next morning. They have no record of the car being towed, and suggest I fill out a theft report. Poop. I fill out a report over the phone, and call my out-of-town roommate to deliver the latest news: her car has been stolen.

During the next hour, as I’m trying to stay focused on all I have to do work-wise, I can’t help but feel like the police made a mistake. What if they just didn’t have the car entered into their system yet? My neighbor said he thought he saw the police come the day before and tow it away.

I decide to call the station again.

I speak to a new person at the station who checks the license plate for me once again. Lo and behold, they did tow it. It’s at their city impound lot. I get the address of the station where I go to pay and pick it up. Then I call out-of-town roommate AGAIN. Just kidding, Roomie! Cracker-jack squad of geniuses we got manning the impound calls, we do.

Pause story for an important note: you may be wondering why it was towed in the first place. AS DID I. I was informed during my first call to the police that there is a city ordinance in Salt Lake which mandates a vehicle parked on a city street must be moved at least every 48 hours or it can be towed. I had left my roommate’s car parked for 3 or 4 days. 99.9% sure that one of my neighbors, not recognizing the car, called it in and had it towed. And because I’m the sap who parked it there, this was my pain in the bum’s aftermath with which to deal. Move the car out of neighborly consideration, get backslapped by another neighbor for doing so, to the tune of $246.

I sneak away during my lunch hour and go to the station. I have the faxed-in copy of the letter authorizing me to pick it up, my ID and my credit card. I wait in line for 45 minutes, and pray no one is having a business crisis and cursing my name. When I finally get to the window, I tell them I have a few questions: 1) where is this 48-hour parking rule posted? 2) how was I to learn of this law? 3) how can I dispute this impound? Answers: 1) it’s not posted anywhere; 2) officer at the window didn’t even know about the 48-hour rule until he started working same window; 3) he gave me a phone number and explained the process of disputing the impound, inferring that he agreed it was ridiculous.

As he begins processing the paperwork, he asks me for proof of insurance on the impounded vehicle. I hear my gut drop a foot into my uterus. I don’t have that. This means…you guessed right…I don’t get to pick up the car. I call my out-of-town roommate and ask her to fax a copy of her insurance card. It goes to voice mail. I have to get back to work, and can’t wait for her call any longer. The car was left to spend another night in the city lot.

This is the night I cried really hard, mainly to relieve the stress of a crazy job and a crazy week. Plus, I’m feeling bad for calling my poor roommate every fifteen minutes, harassing her for faxed documents, while she’s trying to enjoy the last few days of her vacation. Plus PLUS, I’m angry at the City of Salt Lake for making up dumb rules which precipitate eye twitches, sleepless nights, forced overtime, and the transference of money from savings to pay for such dumb rules.

The following day, faxed proof of insurance in hand, I go back to the police station. I go in the morning this time, and it was a smart idea because no one was in line. I fill out the paperwork and hand over my debit card. This is when I find out that the car lot, where the car is parked, is NOT ANYWHERE NEAR WHERE I AM STANDING. In fact, it’s a fifteen minute drive from downtown. Didn’t have time to do that. In the end, I had to involve my entire household just to get the darn car out of Egypt and back on our street before 6:00 p.m. and get to an appointment in Draper by 6:30. Sheer. Madness.

My eye has literally been twitching the entire time I’ve been writing . This is the kind of post I never wanted to write. No creativity, no abstract slant or whimsical anecdote. This is your garden variety story of life at its most futile. This is a gripe post. This is the stuff you listen to when you call your girlfriend/boyfriend and lend a supporting (but be honest, you’re bored senseless) ear. I apologize. There was just too much twitching to come up with something better.

028

2009-08-24T09:27:00.000-07:00

The Participants:
SISTER WEBSTER (“SW”): single woman in her mid-thirties, babysitting GABBY and PARKER
GABBY: Eight year old girl with strong verbal skills and a well-developed sense of irony
PARKER: Five year old boy, precocious, inquisitive, and a surplus of energy

The Setting:
LIVING ROOM (watching Swiss Family Robinson before bedtime)

PARKER: Sister Webster, do you have a baby in your tummy?
SW: No, I don’t have a baby in my tummy.
GABBY: First you need a husband, huh?
SW: Yep, first I need one of those.
PARKER: You could marry your Mom!
SW: No, my Mom’s already married to my Dad.
PARKER: Oh yeah.
SW: Plus, she’s my Mom.
GABBY: Parker, you don’t marry your Mom!
(silly laughter)
GABBY: Do you go to college?
SW: No, I finished college.
GABBY: My mom and dad went to Snow College, and that’s how they met.
SW: That’s nice.
GABBY: I think that’s your problem. If you were still in college you could get a husband.
SW: Hmmm…

(later on…)

PARKER: Sister Webster, how come the mom isn’t swimming with them? (referring to the movie.)
SW: I guess she didn’t want to.
PARKER: Oh. Everybody has their shirts off but the mom. How come the mom doesn’t have her shirt off?
SW: Because she’s not swimming.
(Pause.)
PARKER: But even if she did go swimming, she wouldn’t have her shirt off, because then we would see her boobs.
SW: That’s right, Parker.
PARKER: I just said boobs.
SW: (trying not to laugh.) Yes, I heard you. I think the right word is breasts.
PARKER: Oh yeah. It’s breasts. Girls don’t show their breasts because…
SW: Because that’s a private part of girls.
PARKER: Yeah, that’s part of their private parts.
SW: Right.
PARKER: Do you have boobs, Sister Webster?
SW: Yes, I do.
PARKER: But they’re not as big.
GABBY: Parker!
PARKER: No, cuz she’s not a mommy, and she doesn’t have milk in them. That’s what boobs are for. I mean breasts!
SW: No, you’re right Parker, my breasts do not have milk in them.
PARKER: And that’s what they’re for. God puts milk in them to feed the babies. And you don’t have any babies, because you’re not married.
SW: And we’ve come full circle.
PARKER: Yeah.

027

2009-08-21T15:37:00.000-07:00

One year this month!

This month a year ago, I started a new blog, this blog, and started a new life in Salt Lake City. It still feels very new, and I’m horrified at how fast the time has gone.

I perused the first few postings and smiled at some of the things I wrote. I am grateful. See kids, this is why we blog: we need to document the discovery process, the subtle-moving shifts, and we relish in the experience of reading ourselves in times prior. We see how our selves are shaped. You read what you hoped for then, how those hopes either were met, not met, or evolved over a season or two. You recall what your prayers were, have been, and continue to be, and witness how incredibly true it is that God hears you, and you noticed it not. Not then. We write to notice. I’ll give you an example.

On August 18, 2008, one year and three days ago as of this post, I was becoming more aware of the feelings I would not allow myself to acknowledge, privately or publicly. One effect of this was how it prevented me from feeling more real in my relationships. I wanted to change this:

“Finally, I've reached a place where my need to connect overrides my need to be safe and sound.”

Reading this again, I pictured the exact spot where I wrote that sentence. Sitting at a gate in the Las Vegas airport, adjacent to the slot machines with their relentless bells and flashing lights, dodging the smell of stale beer emanating from the guy sitting to my right, I was waiting for my flight home. I was starting a new life. And while I felt lonely, I felt the excitement of new possibilities:

“I'm hoping this will be the place where I try all this stuff out, all my new
and improved life skills. Push back the temptation to stand alone and
independent, soften, and reach out in openness. Oh man, I really hope I can do
this. “

It makes me laugh reading it! Not in a mean way, just in a pitiful way. And then I ask myself, did I do it? Was I softer, more honest, willing to forego safety for being truer to what I feel and want? Well, I’d have to say yes. This year, the chances at bat were plentiful, and I took way more swings than ever before. I suffered more strikeouts, yes. But I didn’t watch the ball whiz past me as often either. The idea is to act, and not be acted upon. I’m getting better at this, by the grace of God, and it feels pretty good.

Also included in last year’s posts for August was a self-portrait. I’m lying on my back on the twin bed I didn’t end up having to pay for. I held the camera straight above my face and clicked. I looked at the photo again today. My hair is so long! I’m smiling, but there’s something off about it. The captions reads: tired but happy. Really? I’m not buying that. I know this sounds insane, but there seems to be one emotion capture in my right eye, and a different one in my left. My right eye looks pretty hopeful. It’s open and ready. My left eye, I hate to say it, gives away a sadness I was keeping locked down as tight as I could. It’s an old, rather woeful looking eye. But that smile cannot be ripped off my face, not even with fly paper. I look old in this photo, at least that’s the first thing I notice. But when I looked a little deeper, I find a little more. And it pretty much sums up all that was inside, I think.

I’m starting to feel narcissistic, so I better close it up. I just get excited when I think of how it all works out with such astonishing beauty. I’m grateful. I’m glad I blog, because that’s when I notice it.

026

2009-08-19T15:33:00.000-07:00

Occasionally when I’m having trouble coming up with something to write about, I’ll harass my friends into giving me a topic. Yesterday it was Slurpees. Today, care of my buddy Linda, I bring you a few ponderings on Heat.

I’ll try not to repeat anything from my previous post, which references summertime, sticking to vinyl, spotty air conditioning, stuff like that. My objective is to go in a new, fresh direction.

I even told Linda, when I asked her for a topic, to make it the first thing off the top of her head, the simpler the better. Linda delivered. It doesn’t get more simple than heat. Well done, Linda. So here it is: my thoughts on heat.

By the way, sometimes when you’re writing about a particular subject, said subject requires at least three short paragraphs of back story or intro to really set the stage adequately. Heat is one of those subjects. There’s just so many different directions you can take it, you must first clarify and narrow it down. You can’t just start writing about heat in the very first sentence. How would your audience stay with you? It’s too broad of a thing. Okay.

Heat.

That hot thing we like to call heat.

A pregnant woman just walked by. I hear pregnant women overheat more quickly. I bet they could write a blog post about heat, only different from mine. Not better, just different.

Have you ever surprised yourself when you’re hot? Ever sat without a glimmer of apology in an unladylike position just to get a little air circulating in your nether regions? Just me? Okay.

You know what they say about heat? Tell me.

I was reading about this thing called Heat Edema. It’s where your body can’t rid itself fast enough of all the extra sweat and salt the heat is creating in your body, so it goes into your ankles, and they start swelling. I think I’ve had that.

It’s not hot where I work. I wear a sweater all year long at my desk. My cubicle is directly below a four-way air vent. I’ve brought it up with maintenance several times. Were I to close this vent partially, they say, it would throw off the entire climate of the southwest section, potentially overheating the schmucks sitting closer to the windows, where the temperature is always much warmer. In practical terms, what this means is two or three of my sweaters never see the inside of a winter storage container. Sometimes, as a treat to myself, I go and stand in the emergency stairwell, where the temperature is always perfect. I might even sing myself a little song, like that 80’s hit…Aruba, Jamaica, oooh I wanna take ya…

The previous paragraph was not about heat, but the opposite of heat. Hm. Maybe I should have written a fourth introductory/clarifying paragraph.

Most folks at this point in writing a blog post about heat, and failing miserably, would simply give up. “I’m not inspired to write about heat,” they'd say. “Leave it to the geologists who study the earth’s crust,” or perhaps they’d blame their writer’s block on fuel emissions and carbon waste. But not I. I can write (and write well) about anything, anytime. Yes, I may be feeling the heat. But is there a better, or more on-point sensation to feel for such a task as this? Hellfire, no.

Last month I was down in the Dominican. It was pretty hot down there.

THE END

025

2009-08-18T14:30:00.000-07:00

Slurpees are a part of summertime like fingers are a part of hands. Slurpees could be the perfect small-scale model of everything summertime is and should be: sweet, sticky, refreshing, something to look forward to, and lastly, difficult to slurp when your straw reaches the bottom and all the Slurpee is sticking to the sides of the cup. That’s when you remove the dome lid, swish the half-melted liquid around in a circular motion, reposition the straw, and resume enjoyment. It is this last point upon which I will direct my thoughts today.

When you first walk out of the 7-11 with your Slurpee, life feels immediately easier. Slurpee consistency is perfect. Love is in the air, and nothing will ever, ever go wrong in your life again. That sweetness hits your tongue, and all at once, the world around you slows to the casual pace of your slurping. The slushy goodness glides up that green straw with effortless ascension, requiring minimum suckage, yielding maximum satisfaction. You forget your propensity to stress over rent, relationships, or robot invasions. Your body fills with cold, sweetened ice, and in your mind you hear Sly & the Family Stone’s Hot Fun in the Summertime vamping. Your hips start to swing a little as you walk down the street. Everyone you pass is your friend. All the lights say “Walk,” and a twenty dollar bill drops from the sky and adheres to the condensation of your GI Joe Slurpee cup. Slurpees are money. A Slurpee is freedom in a cup. If there were an open fire hydrant flooding out its contents upon laughing children, you’d drop your bag and run to join them, splendiferous cup of freedom in hand. Yeah, it’s that good when you first leave the 7-11.

Ten minutes later…

You’re back in your car which is twenty degrees hotter than outside. Your skins sticks to the vinyl, and there’s nothing good on the radio. You grab your sweaty cup and slurp air. Another red light - jeez! Swish, swish. You angle the straw to “more verdant pastures” where Slurpee still stubbornly clings, but the color's gone out of it some. You're sucking a bit harder now, literally and otherwise.

Fifteen minutes later…

You’re in a crowded parking lot, people trying to kill you, and you’re ready to intentionally bash into a bumper or two. Your AC is spotty, and you can’t spare a hand at the moment to get rid of (oh kill me now) Smashmouth. The Slurpee? The Slurpee is now just a non-carbonated syrup filling up the bottom two inches of your GI Joe cup, oozing sticky crud that’s bleeding on to the cup holder. Waiting while a car backs out of a spot, you steal a sip, then immediately wonder why the hell you did that. Blauchglk!

What happened? Where’s Sly? Where's the laughing, soggy children? It was only fifteen minutes ago, and so much has changed. Sly is now a synthesized arrangement of Gloria Estefan as you search the Wal-Mart aisles for the best deal on deodorant. The children have been caged into shopping carts, screaming their lungs and faces raw. You faintly remember the good times, that first step out of 7-11, that marvelous frozen delight in tote. You loved that Slurpee. But that doesn’t mean you’re ready to go back there right now and grab another. It would make you sick! The truth is, we need a little life without Slurpees in order to appreciate them in their full majesty, as nature intended. So it is with summertime.

We’re nearing the end of a glorious season – the Slurpee season. And while so much of me grieves this impending transition, this temporary farewell to warm nights and cherry red-stained tongues, I square my jaw and face the music. Through fall and winter I will endure what is necessary to ensure my cherry Slurpee of May 2010 is a good one – one for the books.

(This post is dedicated to the recently nuptualed Julie Hulet Keller, fellow Slurpee enthusiast and muse.)

022. Dear Boys and Girls...

2009-06-08T15:13:00.000-07:00

I am one of you. I am your friend. I come in peace to give you loyal counsel on a particular matter which so many of us have need of advisement. It is the matter of your questionable flirtation methods. Please do not be offended. I understand this is a sensitive issue. But if you don't know why the men or women you admire appear uninterested, irresponsive, or anti-responsive to your attentions, please review the following list of no-no's and see if your tactics need revision.

Scheme 1: Password Please?

If you're one who likes to intentionally prevent a girl from walking past you by blocking her way with your body, and perhaps in a teasing sort of way ask her for a password, please re-think this. At best, you're showing yourself to be childish; at worst you're an ass. It is not funny, or cute, or productive in getting to know a person. Particularly, if the girl indicates by her pace and focus whether she is in a hurry or has a task to complete, better leave her be. Choose a moment when she is leisurely to seek her out. If you try to compete with her time, you will lose. And leave your password-asking for the second graders on the playground.

Scheme 2: Smile!

Permanently remove these phrases from your flirty repertoire: "Smile, beautiful! It's not so bad!" "Hey, long face...smile!" These and any other variations which include the direction to smile should be obliterated from existence. I know you mean well. But most of the time, it just comes off as bossy and/or dismissive. So leave it.

Scheme 3: The Guessing Game

Don't make us guess at anything - your age, your profession, number of brothers and sisters, what your favorite color is, ETC. Just tell us.

Scheme 4: The I'm-Just-Kidding Verbal Backslap

I don't know how this became a trend, but guilting someone for not calling you, in a so-called "flirty" way, ie. "Hey, thanks for not returning my call the other night, loser! hahahaha!" Not okay. This does not make anyone want to call you ever again. This goes for "Fine, don't say hi to me," and so on. If you insist that you're just playing around, then I hope you like playing by yourself.

Scheme 5: Take A Bite

Please don't hand/spoon/fork feed us food. The only person who enjoys this is you. Maybe after you're in a relationship and you know each other more intimately, you can add this back in. But for now, play it safe and leave it out. It's creepy.

Scheme 6: I Am Funny. Really.

Don't tell us you've got a stand-up routine. Only persons who make an actual living doing stand-up are allowed to say they have a stand-up routine.

Scheme 7: Surprise Shoulder Rub

If you've been on less than three dates, avoid massaging his or her shoulders unless he or she specifically requests it. I know you want to touch him. Touch his forearm. Shoulders are off-limits.

Scheme 8: Premature Terms of Endearment

If you don't know her first name, don't call her honey. If you know her first name but not her last, don't call her honey. If you know her full name but she doesn't know yours, don't call her honey. Honey is for couples. You are not a couple, you take the same train. No honey for you.

Scheme 9: I Had the Craziest Dream About You

Maybe in your mind you think this sentence will intrigue that boy in your office you've been trying to talk to. This has crazy written all over it. Three months into your exclusive relationship you can start talking dreams.

Scheme 10: Brute Force

Please refrain from throwing us into swimming pools, pushing us into walls playfully, holding our arms down, making us arm wrestle with you. This is just lame, people. We aren't in the market for a doofus big brother; most folks aren't turned on by feeling weak or humiliated.

These are just a few. If you know of a big one I left out, please add it in a comment. I've given you 10 Dont's. Here are three Do's:

Do everything you can to make him or her feel confident and comfortable; that is Priority One
Stop to look and listen for any cues he or she is giving you, and let that inform your next move
Be patient and confident; make sure to smile and keep it in the friend zone until you've gotten to know each other better

the things we choose to ignore...

2009-06-05T15:47:00.000-07:00

Today I passed this young couple in an outdoor mall. They were holding hands in the interlocking-finger fashion. In my life I must have seen thousands, maybe even a million, couples holding hands and walking. But for some reason today, this particular couple reminded me of the very first time I ever held hands with a boy.

His name was Mark. I was a freshman in high school. Mark was a senior, and the lead piper on the bagpipe squad. I know it seems weird to say this, but his bagpipe skills were outrageously good; the boy could wail. In fact, he performed this solo at graduation later that year that impressed us all. His fingers moved like hummingbird wings over the stops, fluttering to create this quick-paced melody which transported us back in time and place, a time and place where burly men wore skirts every day and ate mutton stew and liked it. So I was extremely flattered one day in the autumn when Nancy, a fellow Highland Dancer, told me that Mark had a crush on me.

I’d never had a boyfriend ever. More than that, I’d never even had a boy pretend to be my boyfriend, or rumor that he was going with me, or steal a kiss during P.E. and run back to his friends, or anything. The closest thing to it came when, in eighth grade, Trent asked me for the stupid pink barrette I’d worn in my hair that day. He asked for it so he could wear it in his black, feathered hair to make the other kids laugh. (I liked Trent major, so of course I nearly died of hyperventilation in the girls bathroom moments following the transaction.) As far as male attention of the romantic ilk, that was it. So here in my first year of high school, to learn that a boy, a senior boy, had an actual, bona fide, personally declared, openly-defined Crush on me was almost beyond comprehension.

Soon after Nancy’s disclosure, I had a letter passed to me in the band room in first period. That’s right, the band room. It was from Mark. The first thing I noticed about it was he had very feminine-looking handwriting. The second thing I noticed was he wrote it in pencil. A true musician. I don’t remember exactly what the note said but, to summarize, this lead bagpiper, Mr. Lungs, wanted to be my boyfriend. At the end of class, I met him at the door and told him yes.

My first boyfriend! This was awesome! Right then and there, he asked to walk me to my next class. I said okay. And then…Mark took my hand, interlocked my fingers with his, and we headed for the A Building.

We walked across campus holding hands. Something you see every day, I know, but for me this was mind shattering. I had never, NEVER, walked with a boy, as my boyfriend, to a class, holding hands. With people around! People saw us holding hands! That means they think we’re boyfriend and girlfriend! Because we are! We were “going” together, ya’ll. The kicker? I didn’t even like him. Felt absolutely nothing for the guy.

I was blown away that a boy liked me, and that he’d admitted it to someone aloud. I was further mind-blown by the fact that he did something about it! He asked me to go with him! So what was I supposed to say, no? No, I won’t seize this entirely new and exciting enterprise, all because I’m not even remotely attracted to this person, or have had any real connection with the guy prior to this blessed day? Sure, the note he’d given me represented the most words he’d ever spoken to me, and we’d never so much as spent an afternoon hanging out together, but so what? It’s a boyfriend! In all honesty, I’m not sure if I understood back then that in order to date someone, first you have to like them. To my naive adolescent mind, all that was required was he had to ask. Don’t trifle with small matters such as my own feelings about him. Just date the dude! He said he wanted to! Sadly, there are times, even as a grown woman, when I recognize that first impulse inside me to not disappoint a man who shows interest. At fourteen, however, it was more than an impulse; I truly didn’t know to do any different.

I’d had this wah-wah feeling in my stomach the moment Nancy told me. I ignored it. The stomach feeling came back the moment he took my hand, but even still I went along with it. I remembered all the hookups from junior high, the boys and girls making out in the back of science class during the movie on cellular osmosis, and thinking…what in the world does that feel like? Does it feel like you’re going to be sick? Walking down the hall holding hands with Mark made me want to put my head between my knees, what does kissing do to you? I guess you learn to live with it, I thought. I guess you don’t mind the nausea after a while. You keep holding the guy’s hand and call it good. I resolved to forget what wasn’t comfortable about being Mark’s girlfriend, the whole didn’t-want-to thing, and forge ahead.

I made it a week. By the following Monday I had prepared to break up with him in the most staggeringly mature manner my fourteen year-old self could invent. I wrote him a note, and passed it to him in the band room, first period. My heart was pounding, and I dared not look behind me. I wondered if he’d start crying, or maybe throw a music stand. Not much time passed before I got a tap on the shoulder, and someone handed me my note back. He’d written on the back side of the paper his reply. He said it was okay, that he understood. No drama whatsoever. And after that, we never really spoke again.

Later that year at graduation, listening to his amazing bagpipe solo, I felt proud to have been his girlfriend for a whole week. The hands making that music were the same hands that wanted to hold mine. Never mind I didn’t like him; he had liked me. And I was proud of that.

020

2009-02-25T14:41:00.001-08:00

The first time I waxed my eyebrows was in preparation for the eighth grade Spring Dance at Ahwahnee Middle School. I agreed to this almost without knowing it. I remember it came as a school dance-prep package deal. The beautician who lived across the street from us was going to give me a new haircut, style it for me into a fierce up-do, then give me a full makeup job, oh, and she’ll wax my eyebrows, all for a very reasonable price. My excitement for the first three numbed my ears to the fourth I guess, because I don’t remember even blinking before I said “Like, totally! Yes!” or something to that effect. (Did I mention this was 1987?)

Here’s the thing. I don’t need my eyebrows waxed. Didn’t then, don’t now. I’m part Norwegian. To put it differently, I don’t grow much hair. I shave my legs maybe three times a year, and it’s always in the summer, and it always comes in blond. Those women blessed with an abundance of hair shouldn’t be too envious of me; it doesn’t grow much on top of my head either. When I’m sixty, I’ll be teasing out the three strands remaining, clinging to my scalp for dear life, as they’re spread out like a rice paper fan over my whole head and shellacked with Aqua Net. You who need the depilatory kits and loathe every moment of it now, just remember me with the three strands then and be content. Anyway, why we felt the need to wax the brows of a one-day balding eighth grader feels more like a “we can, so we will” thing rather than a “we will, and we must” kind of thing. Shoulda said no to that last one I think.

Today I was looking at my eyebrows in the mirror of the office bathroom. I believe it was almost three years ago I plucked a few strays. They’ve only partially grown back in.
And that’s when it hit me. My eyebrows succinctly illustrate my growing concern over the economic stimulus package and President Obama’s overarching economic redevelopment plan.

First, let me state plainly that I am an Obama supporter. I was thrilled when he was voted into office, and I’m genuinely excited to see what happens next in his tenure as CIC. I love his speeches, I am inspired by his history and I admire his values. But what if his speeches are the haircut, his history the up-do, his values the bangin’ makeup job, and his performance as President of the United States is the wax job? I was lulled into loving the fourth unwittingly by loving the first three. But am I being smart about this? Am I looking at each item objectively? Can I honestly say that I’m reading the economic stimulus bill with an eye of fair scrutiny? No. No I can’t. Because the haircut is soooo cute, and I looove the blue eyeliner, freak.

Is there anything in this plan that is a “we can, so we will,” only if we do, are we just going to get back some partially grown hairs in three years? Is there anything in this plan that would indicate a Scandinavian blood strain? Because this could be very critical to its global success.

I don’t think there’s any way for me to know for sure unless – you know – I’d studied economics or something. Bi-partisan leadership is what I was counting on, what I voted for. As more legislation rolls forward, I’m hoping to see it play out. I’m skeptical. Optimism and positive thinking can be incredibly powerful. But what if the follicles are dead? (Sorry, I mixed that metaphor pretty badly just there.) In other words, what if we don’t listen, and they don’t budge, and we’re stalemate at every turn?

I went to the dance. No one paid any attention to me. I bet they didn’t even see my perfectly shaped brows. Even when I asked a boy to dance, he refused me. I cried in the back of the Voyager all the way home. This paragraph isn’t part of the analogy. Just want you to feel sorry for me a little bit.

019

2008-12-11T17:06:00.000-08:00

This was taken from a real card given to a former roommate:

You have just been serviced by a fellow ward member! Take this little card and "pay it forward" to service another ward member. Then give them this card. It will give them the opportunity to service someone else!

Brought to you by the Ward Service Committee

Can't stop laughing about it.

016

2008-10-15T21:01:00.000-07:00

Tonight my roommate made us steak.

M: T., this steak is fantastic! Well done!
T: Oh, good!
M: Well, actually not well done. I'm not referring to how you cooked the steak.
T: No, I know.
M: No, I am referring to how you cooked the steak, just...in a more general sense.
T: I know.
M: Not, the temperature, or...to what extent or length the meat was...
T: Mary. I got it.
M: Anyway the steak is...tops. Good work.
T: R., how did your day go?
M: Just the...steak...

015

2008-09-24T15:43:00.001-07:00

Here’s one. It happened this morning on my way to work. I call it - His First Day.

The doors opened up at the Trolley station where a young couple was waiting. The husband wearing a new looking suit with pinstripes, and the wife, in a coat over her sweats, hair a little disheveled, each had one hand on a stroller holding a tightly-swaddled baby. Husband shouldered his leather bag and kissed her quickly, looked into her eyes to say something soft, something only for her. She smiled, they broke off, and he boarded the train. He took a seat by the window facing the station, and didn’t stop gazing at his wife and baby. I looked out the window to look at them too. His wife, gazing back at him, was absolutely radiant, and she beamed at him with so much pride and love. As the train started to pull away her lips mouthed a simple “love you.” And off we went. Husband opened up his Tribune. I went back to my iPod. But that was a great way to start a Wednesday.

014

2008-09-17T21:42:00.001-07:00

Here's a first. I'm sitting in a restaurant this evening, waiting to rendez-vous with my friend Carri. "I'm ten minutes away," she calls to say. "Stay near your phone I'll call you back soon." "You got it!" I reply, then hang up. I then proceed to pack up everything in my bag and exit the restaurant, leaving my cell phone on the table. I seem to have a subconscious aversion to instruction compliance. When Carri called back, I told her what I did. "Okay, Mary. I'll meet you in front of The Gap. Throw your phone into a garbage can, I'll be there soon." It worked. I kept my phone close. Carri should have been a shrink.

013

2008-09-15T20:27:00.000-07:00

This is starting to become a place I really like to be.

012

2008-09-14T16:01:00.000-07:00

I'm back after a long week of training and traveling. So tired that today I took a two-hour nap. Haven't had a Sunday nap quite like it in years. It came with entertainment.

I woke up this afternoon to some kid practicing the Notre Dame fight song on his trumpet. It's just as well, because my dream was one I apparently needed help getting out of, and a 12 year-old butchering a rented brass instrument works just fine.

I dreamt that I was spending time at the house of an old bishop from my church. I was there with a friend, and we were playing with his kids. And here's where it gets...well I'm not sure, you tell me. In the midst of some mild horsing around with the kids, the bishop toots. I dreamed my old bishop tooted. Now, in the dream, as is my custom even in reality, I pretend I don't hear anything and just keep playing. But of course it's not really the same. I'm pretending not to be wise, when I am wise. So it's a little strained, but I keep up appearances. After a few moments of this, the bishop says, "Did you hear that?" He starts to laugh. Then, and here's the part that is so funny to me, I proceed to start chattering endlessly and nervously, jumping immediately on top of the bishop's four little words. I am telling the bishop toot story after toot story. Every toot story in my arsenal. Stories of toots which are far worse, to my mind, than what the bishop brought just a moment ago. "Oh, that's nothing," I say. "There was this one time I was on this bus..." "My friend, this other time, she was on this date, right? And she thinks he's further away from her than he actually is..." It goes on and on. I'm doing this, I lucidly surmise, because I'm trying to ease the bishop's embarrassment, make him feel less sheepish. But the sad truth is that all I'm doing here is making myself the most exceptional brand of moron, the bodily function equivalent of forty toots to his one, because I cannot shut my trap. I even get some body language from the bishop himself alerting me to the fact that I am way over-doing it, and I need to find a sock and use it. My friend sits down and holds himself like a stone. And while I'm absorbing all this input, suddenly, off in the distance...an off-tune and halting fight song. I am stirred into full consciousness. Smarter, more rested, and with a greater insight into myself than two hours before. To which I say, Rally. Sons of Notre Dame.

011

2008-09-07T19:16:00.000-07:00

For those of you that heard Jeffrey Holland's talk tonight, wasn't that a-mazing?

Okay, so here's a few more photos of what I've been doing/spending/toiling over this past weekend.

Firstly, I picked up my desk from a second hand store. The original stain was this not-too-pretty yellowish accented with some stenciled cactuses on the front drawers. Cute, but not exactly me. Yet I saw potential. All those hours in front of HGTV were put to use. I sanded it down to its knuckles, and then slapped some polyeurethane over it. I'm trading out the cactus drawers for wicker baskets, which I haven't bought yet.

Isn't it cute? Look at the great job I did!

Such craftsmanship. But the very best part about this desk...

Out of nowhere psychedelic pencil sharpener. Yesssss.

Then, I also grabbed this cool chair that was 20% off.

You might be thinking that nothing really matches in my room. And you would be right. But when it's all finished I'll show you another shot, then and only then shall ye judge.

Right now I'm packing for my trip to Palo Alto tomorrow. My first day at the new job. I will spend the entire Monday getting orientated here at the local office, then I leave from work to fly to CA for a two-day firmwide orientation. Yeah, these people are dead serious about training. Kind of leaves me no out if I screw up, you know? I'm pretty sure that even with all the multiple training days held in two separate locations I'll still need help with the fax machine. Wish me luck, friends.

p.s. went on a second date last night. a third will be happening soon. dating here is soooooo much easier than it was in boston.

010

2008-09-05T21:33:00.001-07:00

Went to Ikea with Stacer!

It's getting there.

Also, I went on a date tonight. And it was really great.

009

2008-09-04T21:28:00.000-07:00

Back in Salt Lake now, I spotted a bumper sticker which read: "Frodo Failed. Bush Has the Ring." Yes. Now that is more like it. Oh, and it appears Salt Lake is the land of 90's rock stations. Pearl Jam, Dave Matthews, Oasis. I'm pretty sure that beats country though. I don't know; ask me in a month. And another thing: every man wears a goatee. I counted close to twenty today. And that's just when I went to take out the garbage. One final observation: there is no "you." Only "ya."

008

2008-09-03T22:32:00.001-07:00

First full day in my new place. A humble start, but a good one.

Tired but happy.

Also, I'm thinking about this for a haircut.

007

2008-09-02T09:36:00.000-07:00

Left my hometown this morning. As a parting precious, I happened to overhear a late-boarding passenger tell his seatmate how TSA held him and "made a huge deal" over the fact that he packed an undisclosed, disassembled pistol in his suitcase. He picked it up at a rummage sale last week. It's not even loaded. He then lamented the state of national affairs with this insight: "you know...when other folks don't do good it makes it hard on everybody else." You gotta give it to him, though, you know? I mean, I panic over whether they're going to eighty-six my overpriced facial moisturizer. This guy packs a bunch of pistol parts without a flinch. That takes guts. And he had quite a large one, now that I think of it. In your face, Homeland Security. You ignoramuses.

On a separate note, let me tell you the latest in what appears to be a continuing streamline of blessings sent down from heaven. I was inches, centimeters, away from buying a new bed during the Macy's Labor Day Sale. I was ready to do it, but not too keen on spending so much green. My parents encouraged me to go forward with the purchase, mostly likely because an investment such as a new bed might help me embrace the fact that I am, in fact, an adult woman approaching her mid-thirties and no longer justified in sleeping on an undergrad-grade level twin. As if my lower back isn't already telling me this on a daily basis.

I'd gone to Macy's on Saturday, talked with the sales guy, Jesse, and picked out the mattress I wanted. I wanted to sleep on it, though. Not the mattress, the prospect. Determined to have my mind made up by Monday, the last day of the sale, I went home and talked about it with all my sisters, my parents, a few friends and our cat, Winifred. I went to bed Sunday night fully intending to drag Jen with me and make the deal.

Woke up Monday morning, and just didn't feel good about it at all. So I didn't. It would mean a list of inconveniences to not get the bed, but I'd deal with it. I'd get on craigslist, find some used thing, rent a U-haul for a day, since I don't have a car, or any friends with trucks, or any friends of any kind, and it would work out somehow.

Monday evening, I get a call from my landlady, who also happens to be a close friend. "Hey," she says. "I just left the house, and everything's all ready for you tomorrow. Quick question, the girl that's moving out left her bed here, and was wondering if you'd be interested in buying it from her. You interested?"

I mean is that cool or what? I need to make a list of all the so-called little things that have happened akin to this bed experience, all of which are so marvelous to me. I've uprooted, moved across country, and started over at least three different times since graduating from college, and this by far has been the most seamless, by far the most effortless experience I've had. And seldom can anyone say that a move of this scope could be described as effortless. It's nothing short of miraculous.

006

2008-09-01T11:58:00.000-07:00

Oh I come from the land of Ford pickups.

Today while driving I scanned for a radio station that wasn't country and gave up. At a stop light I noted a decal on the guy's windshield, depicting Calvin's evil twin urinating on the words GUN CONTROL. Where am I? Alabama?

Maybe it's time to go back to Salt Lake. I'm starting to think a fancy dinner has to include a big wooden steakknife and a baked potato "loaded." But first you have to wait twenty minutes out front with a pager and listen to Kenny Chesney.

005

2008-08-30T10:46:00.000-07:00

There is something strangely comforting about waking up in your parents house and hearing your Dad working in the backyard. Listening to his grunting when he moves something heavy, or hearing the small comments under his breath. Then this rushing sound, and you know he's watering the planters or hosing off the patio. He'll stop and give the dog some loving good-girl's, and you can picture this big yellow lab sniffing and surveying the area Dad's working in. Most likely, Dad is wearing that sad straw hat and the jeans we wish he'd never wear. He'll come in through the sliding glass door, sweaty, and say something witty like: Oh, Mary. You'll just die when you see my new paving stones! I can hardly stand it!

Oops. Just now, Dad let out a low, warning "Minnnie?!...." Sounds like the dog is standing on dangerous, freshly-landscaped ground.

Just last night, Dad and I were brainstorming on vocal warm-ups for twangy country singers. The falsetto-break exercise. The scooping exercise. The over-emphasized "r" sound exercise. Yes, we thought we were very funny.

004

2008-08-26T15:40:00.000-07:00

First a couple updates. I got a job. I'm very excited about it. I have a new nephew. His name is Isaac, and Leanne, Isaac's mom, is my hero. He was born last Sunday. This is a happy time.

Still home in California with the folks. Last night, I found an historical nugget in a box stored in the closet of my old bedroom. I saw it from a distance: this fabric, floral covered journal. My journal. From 1984. Reading the mind of Mary at age 10 is unbelievably comical, tragic, and explains indeed so very much. Ohhh, the drama. It's pretty good, but not as good as my journal from 1990. Freshman year. I found that and read some to Laura. We were particularly moved by the line: "My life is like a carousel spinning out of control! Who will slow me down?!"

I love old journals. I should probably archive my blog entries.

003

2008-08-18T10:08:00.000-07:00

Sitting here, once again, in an airport. This time I'm on my way home to visit the fam. If I'm this close, and without job, I may as well get in some family time. Plus I'm desperate for a father's blessing. (Non-LDS friends: Dad holds the priesthood in my faith, and can give special blessings to his children. They've meant a great deal to me over the years.)

I was with a couple girlfriends the last night I was in Boston. We talked a little about the things we don't allow ourselves. I was telling them that I don't allow myself to feel anger openly. My friend said she did the same thing, only with sadness. These emotions make us feel weak. They felt like "should-not" feelings. And so we don't express them. Sometimes we don't even know we're having them.

My anger tends to come out in sarcasm. If you've read my blog, maybe this is apparent to you. Or, even worse, about every two years or so I have a complete blowout. A lash-out, a temper tantrum. I go off in a rage. I throw things, I scream, I get really crazy. And then I feel so incredibly awful aftterward I want to die. My most recent one was last month. And it was horrible. So I bought a book, and I started being honest about my inability to express anger and crap like that. And now instead of looking at my tantrum as something despicable, I'm starting to see it as an inevitable consequence for not dealing with it honestly.

I also think this blog (or rather, the last one) was an outlet for that anger, albeit a more civilized but brassy one. I admit I like my snark sometimes; it feels cathartic to be snarky. But I also want to be able to assert myself in person genuinely, not just cyber-sarcastically.

I've been trying to see all the different ways in which I distance myself from others, and eliminate them one by one. I've learned that my mismanagement of feelings is a huuuuge barrier. But I wouldn't have thought that it would be. Finally, I've reached a place where my need to connect overrides my need to be safe and sound.

I went to one of the university wards for church yesterday, and had a wonderful experience. I don't know what I was expecting, but it far exceeded those expectations. I came home feeling charged and optimistic about my new digs, and my ability to thrive therein. I'm hoping this will be the place where I try all this stuff out, all my new and improved life skills. Push back the temptation to stand alone and independent, soften, and reach out in openness. Oh man, I really hope I can do this.

002

2008-08-15T17:23:00.000-07:00

Week in Summary:

Left my home of nearly five years
Moved across country
Shopped ShopKo for the first time (sale on shampoo!)
Consumed 3 Jamba Juices (and that's just the beginning, baby.)
Had five interviews, two of them for the same company
Had two rather awkward first dates (will this misery please end?)
Read 160 pages of teen vampire drivel and liked it
Acquired three blisters from two different pairs of heels
Suffered three bloody noses (the dry climate of my youth...alas, I had forgotten.)
Inhaled one large box of Hot Tamales
Loaded in four heavy boxes into my new house which arrived via mail
Cried only once

Yeah, I'm pretty wiped.

001

2008-08-12T22:01:00.000-07:00

I think I counted forty-three copies of "Breaking Dawn" in three different airports today. Wait, forty-four. I forgot to count my own. Which would you rather be seen with at an airport: A celebrity gossip rag, a book of easy word search puzzles (because crosswords are too frustrating, and you like to circle stuff,) or an over-celebrated high school vampire romance novel? I swear, if I read the words "stone," "marble," or "mmm," one more time, I just might not like reading this book anymore. I'll still read it though. I am ashamed. Don't look at me.

So today I came unbelievably close to vomiting in the back of an airplane for the very first time. It happened between Long Beach, CA and Las Vegas. Perhaps it was the stench of collective moral decay combining with the concentrated number of plastic perky parts smeared with tan in a can, all sitting facing one direction for forty-nine minutes. Or, I don't know, maybe it was the turbulence. Either way, I had to literally talk myself out of throwing up. With my head down, and my frame glazed in a thin sweat, I carefully swallowed back what would have been the story of the century for the OC housewives ready to party at The Palm with their greasy bo-hunks. I could just explain that I'm bulimic and win them all back, probably. It was getting pretty intense toward the end. I prayed: okay...either this plane lands, and I mean like now, or my turkey avacado sandwich is about to be worn by Twinkly-Toes Half-a-Dress sitting next to me here. Thankfully, the plane did land shortly thereafter. Awgh....avacado. Talk about a Ralph Rodeo.

Got picked up at the airport and taken to my new digs in Salt Lake. Yaaaay! Even met the new roommates tonight. Yaaaay! Tonight, I'm going to sleep in. Tomorrow I'm going to hit the temp agencies, replace the shampoo TSA threw out this morning (seriously...one lousy ounce over the limit?) and maybe do some sight-seeing. Hey, as long as I'm feeling good I'll work it. Plenty of time for the panic attacks and cry-fests later.