Hi.

Who are you?

Did you notice that you can leave your name when you add comments? Since you seem to have read my ENTIRE BLOG, did you happen to skip over the one where I decided I was creeped out by anonymous comments and thought about disallowing them, and changed my mind because sometimes anonymity can be useful? But also, sometimes, it can be creepy. Did you skip over the post about how every so often I realize how creepy it is that all of this is on the internet and consider taking the whole thing down? Did you ever stop to think that all of the little things I tell myself that allow me to overlook certain characteristics in minorly creepy people mostly have to do with love of humanity (read: wishing people would overlook the same things in me) and not wanting to hurt people's feelings, which somehow doesn't come into play as much when you insist on being anonymous?

Also, the parenthetical comments are not self-deprecating, they're just secondary, which is why they go in parentheses (i.e. you could read the sentence just fine without them; you should kinda lower your voice to half-strength when you read them).

Also, what, exactly, is wrong with my spelling?

since we missed a day,

and just to drag this down to streel level again (since my mind's usually in the gutter, and all this lofty abstraction makes it seem more giraffe-like)

I have never needed moisturizing lotion. And, actually, I hate the stuff—it doesn't ever sink into my skin; it frequently smells funny (if not actually bad); and I just can't really abide by having to rub squishy stuff all over my legs and arms (which, really, is why I get so badly sunburned) but lately, my legs actually kinda itch/hurt. And either it's a bad idea to buy razor blades in bulk at Costco when you only shave once a week, tops, and they sit in your closet for several years before you finally use them, or I'm actually going to have to buy some daily moisturizer (or pray that it actually starts raining in Seattle some time soon; or buy a humidifier; or something...).

Secondly, what's the protocol on answering e-mail from /months/ ago? I logged into an account I forgot I had today and there was a somewhat intriguing message from a stranger (who, actually, come to think of it, claimed to be answering an ad I'm pretty sure I didn't place) and I wrote back without thinking and then noticed that the "sent" date was really not that recent...

have you seen this man?

I have absolutely no intention of feigning music criticism as an accidental corollary to taking pictures at rock clubs (and also, I promise to buy a flash, or at least rent a faster lens), but I think last night I decided that that universally vague fetish for chicks with violin skills extends to guys, too.

fill line

How much stock do you put in dreams?

Which, I guess, is a way of asking "How far do you trust your instincts?"

I think I stopped trusting instincts at some point because I couldn't separate the ones about other people (i.e. "he's trouble") with the ones about myself (i.e. "I can't tell about him; I'm scared; therefore, let's not try that").

Also, what does it mean when a girl is "asking for it" and how is that /ever/ different from "she wore a short skirt, therefore: rape = her fault"?

Finally, if you wake up uneasy, what do you do? (Also, what does it feel like when you really never want to get out of bed?)

as the saying goes

"You can only be a promising young man for so long."

big fish

yes, sir

(click here)

and just because I'm transferring the files before the reception

(and locked myself out of the hotel room while they were uploading)

I'm sharing a room with the best man.

At 11:30 this morning I woke up to my phone ringing. It was Will (the groom).

I stood up to get the phone, glanced at the clock, and mumbled, hesitantly, "Justin? It's eleven thirty ..."

Will said, "Hi."

Justin screamed "What?!" and threw back the covers and leapt out of bed.

(It's not even worth describing this—you've seen it in every movie with a wedding scene ever.)

"Um, we were supposed to meet to pick up our tuxes ...."

"We'll be there in thirty seconds," I said.

And now here we go:



(How on earth do you dress for a rainy September wedding in Wisconsin anyway?)

my good friend gets married today

and also, in Minneapolis

I'm supposed to find this guy. If anybody else has missions/suggestions, let's have 'em—I'm there 'till Thursday.

of course

the first night I'm actually exhausted is the night I haven't packed yet.

another word

See, now, this is great. We're ushering in a new era, here at my blog. It's really exciting for me, as I hope it is for all of you listeners out there.

For starters (feel free to skip ahead if you don't care for indtroductions/acknowledgements), I'd like to say that I'm both excited and dismayed at the subject for our first address. Excited, because I've always wanted to have an advice column (and, based on the marketing information about my blog provided by google strategists, planned to call it "Pretty Girl Pictures"). And dismayed, because I'm probably the worst person in the world to ask for advice (which, maybe is why it's more fun to ask me?).

And so it was with this particular connundrum in mind that I first conceived of the highly original format for my column. Instead of the standard "problem - advice" formula (which probably requires good advice to succeed) I'm going to stick with the slightly altered, "your problem - my problem" strategy.

Finally, let me state (if it isn't already clear) one more thing about abstractions: Sometimes, I don't follow a thought because, though it seems at first intriguing, I'm worried it will turn out to be vacuous garbage. So it is with full anticipation of meaninglessness that I pursue for you, anonymous, something I said flippantly the other day (but vaguely, in stories about my life, and only as I percieve it to be interesting).

---

I have cheated on one boyfriend, once, in my life. It was one of the worst things I think I've ever done. And I don't mean for the other people involved—the boy I cheated on surely got over it (though I hear he's still mad); the boy I kissed (that was all we did) doesn't talk to me anymore anyway. It was one of the worst things I've ever done /for me/.

There was lots of crying, and guilt, and self-doubt, and all that. And when the "other guy" completely rejected me, well, obviously that felt good. And I spent a lot of time trying to atone for it all (not to mention just to figure it out) and I can't quite nail down where it all went (or, more likely, where it's still lodged) but I think I finally pinned down the most important effect.

A month or so after the incident, I was hanging out with my now ex- (we tried really hard to be friends for a while, which—yes, this was clear to everyone else—was him trying really hard to get back together). We were hanging out one day at a softball game and I had my dog there, and a couple other people had their dogs there and no one cared so they were all running loose. And every time they got too far away I'd jump down off the bleachers and chase them back again. They weren't doing anything wrong.

But about halfway through the game some kid started screaming. And eventually everyone realized that my dog had run into a yard that bordered the playfield and was chasing something. It was a chicken. In a chicken coop.

Now, it's totally natural for a dog to chase a chicken. And Coco wasn't actually doing anything except running in circles. And you know, this was the only yard in the entire neighborhood without a fence around it—why they would be the ones to have a chicken is anyone's guess.

But I felt /awful/. I felt like, since the dog wasn't supposed to be off a leash—since I'd violated this one rule—the whole universe was my fault. I ran over there and grabbed the dog. I apologized to the lady, who was screaming profanities at me like I hadn't heard since dodgeball in high school, and I took the dog by the collar and ran him back to my car, just to get him out of there as fast as possible. And then I got in the car. And cried.

My ex- and a bunch of the other people went over and started apologizing, and then they were yelling right back at the lady saying she was being outrageous, and apologizing and checking to make sure nothing had been damaged, and helping to calm her hysterical children. But there was nothing wrong. He hadn't even made a mark on the coop (I'm not even sure he touched it).

I hear what happened at that point was, she apologized to them for screaming (including to the owner of the other dog that was running in circles around the chicken) and said something like, "But that other girl—you tell her to keep an eye on her dog."

The point is, I hadn't done anything awful that day, but (and I really think this is true) because I had cheated on my boyfriend I'd lost a lot of self-respect, a fair amount of perspective, and the ability to muster any kind of indignation. I felt, essentially, like anything people wanted to throw at me was totally justified, but without any of the overarching sense of purpose that martyrdom has.


PART II:

I'm difficult. We all know this.

I do this thing where, if I see a pattern developing, I try to help. I'll explain to people, "You know, I know it's unreasonable, and I'm sure it's all my fault, and I'm sure what you're doing works just fine with all the rest of the world, but when you do [this one, totally innocuous thing] it makes me feel [awful, in some hyperbolic way]." Usually this kind of a statement is so ridiculous it's insulting, and people don't know what to do with it, so they get indignant. Ok. That's fair.

If we ever get past that, though, I usually try to offer suggestions. "I know it's weird," I say. "But why don't you try doing [some other, seemingly silly/indistinct thing] instead?" Usually this is met with more indignation. Ok. That's fair, too.

But the thing is, I'm really trying to help. Or, at least, I think that's what I'm doing. I spend an awful lot of time puzzling over my own prickly reactions to things and trying to find ways around them. And I know the ways should all be in my head, but sometimes things that other people could do seem so much /simpler/.

The other day I had an interaction that went something like this:

[me, in my head]: Gee, I wonder what [so and so]'s doing tonight ... I should just ask ... no, no, that always makes me feel stupid, 'cause [so and so]'s always busy ... but, so what? I mean, it certainly seems that way if you never ask ... but why doesn't [so and so] ask? ... and, somehow, I always feel stupid asking ... can I even handle feeling that stupid? ... but, if you're going to demand like that, you've got to supply ... but then it'll be obvious I have nothing to do ... but, if I can't handle that, that's ridiculous ... but so what? I wanted to have nothing to do—that's the point ... but ...

quick note: there are quite a few people in my life for whom the basic structure of this conversation and the panic involved are perfectly apt. So, if you think it's silly that I've blocked out names, or you think you know who it is, please shut up the way you wished that guy in 10th grade English would—you know, the one who would answer the question he was asking while he was asking it...

and on and on and on.

Until I talked myself into shutting up about it. And I asked. I sent a message that said,

"What are you doing tonight?"

and felt perfectly good about it.

And I got a response that said, "I'm doing [some cool stuff]. And you?"

and I thought, Hm, ok, guess [so and so]'s busy. That's cool.

and responded with, "Trying to be quiet and alone." and that was the end of it. I felt fine. In fact, I felt great. Maybe I felt great instead of fine because there was so much negative anticipation that just totally didn't pan out, but whatever. I was calm (which I am not usually).

A few minutes later I was thinking about it still, 'cause usually I panic after interactions like that. And I was thinking nice, happy thoughts, and I suddenly realized, wait a minute—he turned that around. He did exactly what I asked him to do. And it totally worked!

But the thing is, I've had so many fights with people who refuse to cater to my ridiculous whims, leading to endless bouts of stubborness and indignation, that part of me is so focused on getting someone to do this because I'm not sure if it will work. I just have this sense. And so, once I realized what had happened, I expected to feel triumphant. Like, "See? I told you all along that if you'd just do it that way everthing would be /fine/."

But there wasn't any of that. I felt totally grateful, and respected at the same time. Like, I owed a lot to this person. But, not like I was endebted. More like, my capacity for love and humility had expanded (or something equally gag-inducing).

The flip side of this is, I felt awful. But in a much more universal way. Instead of all the interactions where people tell me I'm being overbearing and demanding, I felt like someone had just come along—taken my side, really, if just as an experiment. And it made me feel awful and useless and crazy and demanding (and sad and pensive and everything that goes with that) but on my own terms, and in a way I finally felt I could deal with.



So, wait, advice, right?

I think the point is, we always want more from people. But if I had expected [so and so] to do as I asked, I probably would have felt vindicated instead of supported, and the whole interaction would have been a power play, instead of a semi-revelatory experience.

The point about the dog was, I don't know, indignation isn't useless? Find humilty without excessive self-defeatism?

a note on the last (next) post:

There was an anonymous comment on my blog yesterday. And I thought about it, and about how I really wanted to say something to that person, and how that didn't really work since I didn't know who they were. So I wrote another comment on my blog. But that didn't seem right. So I erased it. And then I considered blocking anonymous comments (so it wouldn't happen again). But then I thought about the relative merits of anonymity, real or perceived. And then I mused on that for a while, and tried writing a post about it, but it wasn't getting anywhere. But then I realized I haven't slept more than four hours straight in months, and no more than 2-4 a night for the last week, and everything (here and in my life) has turned sort of poorly thought out and musey, so what the hell—here it is.

As the post was trying to say: I didn't mean for this to be clear, not because I'm hiding something, but because it's not clear to me yet, and I thought I'd lose it if I waited 'till it was. So, yeah: if you want more, just ask. If I can, I will.

Dear anonymous,

Let's talk about this.

An old friend of mine called me last night and, in the middle of a discussion that I didn't really think was about blogs, he started in: "You know, I kinda resent those little asides about how no one reads your blog. I read your blog." (Oh, and "it's an awesome waste of time since, you know, I don't look at it that much, so when I do I have hours of stuff to read".) And this in the middle of a compliment about how he likes reading my blog because it's not very well presented—because it seems like I'm just writing it for myself. (The compliment part was something like, "deeply personal".) I kinda think he provided his own retort, but the only thing I could really say was, "I like thinking that no one reads it, and that I can record things however I want to, or, really, however they occur to me—it's not a slight."

The other side of that, obviously, is that it's a blog. It's on the internet. I don't write this crap in a diary.

I also have an ongoing (largely internal) debate about the accuracy of various kinds of communication and how intentions (both of the speaker and the receiver) inhibit transmission.

another bear-with-me aside:

I had a friend years ago who ceased being my friend when I started dating this other guy. One day, he signed up for an anonymous hotmail account and sent me an e-mail. It said, "What is it that you're always trying to say to people?" Now, I knew exactly who it was (or, at least, I was pretty sure I did, and in any case it was much easier to respond as though it was that guy, no matter who was really reading it). I didn't have to think about it at all. I said, "I think I'm always trying to tell the people I love how much I love them without giving them the wrong idea."

A week later, he responded. It said something like, "Your candor is impressive. Does the veil of anonymity make you feel safer being forthcoming?"

Now, since I never really considered it anonymous (since he knew who I was, obviously, and I was convinced I knew who he was), that seemed like a moot point. But one point seemed to stand: I felt like I'd told this guy /exactly/ that, thousands of times before, and somehow it never took. At least, not until I said it totally vaguely and abstractly and kind of into the void.

I can't stop thinking about how people reframe things according to what they want to hear, or what they're capable of admitting. And I won't ever claim to have figured it out. So, while I often write about things I wish other people understood, I certainly don't think that the way I write about them here would necessarily help them understand. And, while I'm often thinking about specific people, or situations, when I write, I don't really think it's the same as writing /to/ particular people. If I thought that was the way to go, I'd suck it up and send an e-mail.

That said, I had a really wonderful exchange once that went, basically,

"I didn't know about your blog."

"Oh, it's nothing serious. [blah, blah; hedge, hedge]"

"I thought that was for me."

"It was for you."

and it really felt like I had said exactly what I wanted to say, in a way I might never have managed to, and it had made it across.

I also have a couple of friends who respond to my blog over e-mail.

And you'd think I could just e-mail them, but the other day, for example, I would never have thought to tell James this story I'd already bored everyone else with, and I was having a hard time bringing it up again, but I still hadn't gotten to the end of it, and when I wrote it out it still sounded awkward and after he read it, and responded, I finally figured it out.

I guess the point is, my best friend read my diary when I was little. I'm pretty sure she read it out loud to all the neighborhood boys. It really doesn't matter, and I don't even know how I found out, but ever since, whenever I've kept a diary I've kept it in such a way that I really don't care who reads it. In fact, it's kind of fun when people do. But that doesn't exactly change the fact that it's fundamentally for me, and I'm not all that concerned (let alone surprised) if you don't get it.

(also, the other day a friend of mine was ranting about astrology and how it's total garbage—like, made-up; there's no truth to it—and I allowed as how, sure, but there are scientific theories of psychological projection and suggestibility...)

OK, that's not the point at all. I guess the point is: This is for me. But I'm glad you read it. And if you want part of it to be for you, just ask.

love,
me

some facts

I can tell you how to deal with me. You can take it or leave it. I don't understand why your taking it is the only thing that makes me want to let you leave it.

---

I just watched two Law & Order re-runs. The line that sticks in my head is,

"and that's why you use sex as an exercise in self-abuse".

---

Someone asked me for advice today. I said,

"It is always ok to want more from a relationship. It is never ok to expect more. And figuring out the difference is the hardest thing in the world."

Sounds good, doesn't it? Where do I get off giving advice?

to be honest,

I only ever really understood the appeal of electronic dance-club music once—in the opening sequence of Blade when two kids walk through a meat locker and down a dank staircase into a hidden basement disco bumping house music, and then suddenly the sprinklers in the ceiling start squirting blood and it turns out they're all (most of them) vampires and the whole thing turns into this enormous blood sucking orgy.

That looked like fun.

And then, suddenly, this kinda looked like fun, too:

turns out

it's not really all that easy to take interesting pictures of bald guys with laptops...



(thank god for video projectionists, right?)

except, I'm feeling more like this today

by which I suppose I mean, I'm feeling both like girls are evil (myself included), and like I'm trying to put qualitative things into quantitative scenarios resulting in ridiculousness that still seems, somehow, sort of true.

I had this dream

last night.

WARNING: I don't think you can ever tell whether your dreams are going to be interesting to anyone else.

I was talking to my friend about traveling. We talked about all the places we'd considered going and how many millions of other places there are that we've never even thought about. I started looking around on google earth and then just jumped in, Reading Rainbow-style.

I came to, looked around, and was immediately confused. But I started thinking, god, Sarah would know where this is, and GodSarah came to me in this booming, ambient voice (that clearly only I could hear).

"Describe it to me", she said. And I started explaining, like Spock in those fuzzy dust-cloud scenes where he's talking over his broach, trying to find his way back to Kirk and the gang. "It's bright. I can barely make it out, but there are colors in the distance—stripes of yellow and deep red. There's sand, everywhere. I see a line, like a low mountain range..." etc. etc..

It turned out I was in the desert in some made-up country in Africa. It was hot, but also joyous and beautiful. I was having a great time, but also being looked at strangely. And then I realized there was a mournful quality to the celebration that was taking place. And then everyone stood completely still. And in the distance we heard a procession—all drum beats and low, gutteral wailing. This was, apparently, the marching band that was coming to slaughter us. Our only chance, if anyone else's actions were any indication, was to stay completely still and hope they didn't see you.

I ran.

I ran like the new kid on Baywatch who hasn't learned to kick his feet out to the side when he runs into the water to avoid catching your toes on the waves every time. I stumbled through the sand and tripped and thought about screaming and eventually found a portable to pause behind and stood there, freaking out, with the drums approaching in the background along one of those tall dirt mounds like the ones that the officer on the horse marches somberly across between two trench-style mass graves after a particularly bloody Civil War battle.

I'll spare you the details. I stood there, and panicked, and I think I ran some more.

Eventually I realized, "wait a second. I'm just inside google earth. What the hell am I doing? I really ought to get out of here" and I spent several minutes scrunched up in the standing fetal position with my eyes clenched trying to will my way out of this dream. Which I did. And almost managed to stop it while I was still dreaming but not stuck in a slaughter.

But I woke up.

It was probably good that I woke up. I was pretty panicked.

When I finally went back to sleep I dreamt about text messaging a friend of mine.

The reply came back, "I don't need someone to rescue."

I have this dream

that's bascially, I want to take portraits of dead bugs. Mostly 'cause they look cool, but also because I think it would be interesting to document all of the undignified ways bugs die. I suppose there are surprisingly many bugs in my house, but I'm always finding them trapped under this morning's toothpaste or drowned in the dog bowl. Yesterday a rather large moth flung itself at a pie pan I had soaking in the sink.

I got a fancy lens and started keeping dead bugs I found in interesting places. But it's sort of hard to do, as it turns out.

This, I think, is the first one that really works:



There it is. Dead; legs kicked up (maybe one of them missing?); dust already collecting around it. And this one died on a piece of mail I'd left unsorted on my windowsill. (That's a postmark in the background).

p.s.

If somebody can get me a copy of the manual everybody seems to have read that explains which are the "personality traits" we're just supposed to accept in people and which are the "bad, learned behaviors" that it's our sworn duty to help them out of, that'd be aces.

thanks!

both ways

Frequently things come out ambiguously. Or, at the very least, you could find another way to take them if you really wanted to. I guess you're supposed to eradicate this kind of imperfection from your writing. I kind of like it, though. So while the abstraction that keeps things anonymous is /obviously/ intentional, let me state for the record that, in my mind at least, the ambivalence (in the literal sense) is as intentional and important.

My best friend called me at ten o'clock this morning; "I hope I didn't wake you up", she said.

---

"I had no plans to have met you, baby, I had a
million things to do, baby
but you hit my heart with a harpoon ...

and if you wait a little my pretty friend, until I
come back to hold your hand
we'll be like bugs when they break through a cocoon ..."

just one more thing...

"On this trip, I understood it to be, somewhat disturbingly, about not not loving someone who you are not with.”

'cause "wishing is fast enough to dance to"

Suddenly I'm obsessed with this song, and with the man who wrote this review. In my mind, they have illustrated more beautifully than I could have hoped the power of being totally guileless. Not without intellect or accomplishment, not without subtlety and depth, but just without deceit, without subversion.

I think I just want to be done with derivative accomplishments and ulterior motives.

And also, there's this idea of a magazine ...

bad plans

I'm feeling today like I don't have enough experience doing the things I always figured were a bad idea. It would be totally thirteen of me to do them now, though, huh?

I met a creepy dog

I've told this story fourteen times already

but it keeps not coming out right.

I know that's probably because I don't have a handle on it yet—since you can't really frame a narrative properly without having some sense of where it's going—but isn't that why I keep telling it to friends rather than entering it in a New Yorker non-fiction essay contest?

So, if I get a little abstract (and distracted), bear with me; if anything resonates, holler; if this makes sense to you, please tell me how...

---

I woke up late Friday morning. (Long night with the girls on Thursday—different story entirely.) I woke up, stumbled downstairs, sweaty, wearing a pair of linen pajama pants (roughly fourteen sizes too big), and an oversized black T-shirt from the Sturgis bike rally a couple years ago. I stumbled downstairs and cooked breakfast (bacon; fried eggs) and made a pot of coffee.

I spent roughly three and a half hours staring at the computer—it turns out the RAW image files my camera creates are basically incompatible with anything resembling software you might actually want to use, so I stared (at a bunch of pictures of drunk girls), and googled, and read photo blogs and downloaded beta-testing software and e-mailed this nice photographer guy I met, and generally wore myself out on hyper-complicated stuff I wish I understood, coffee pot in one hand, forehead in the other....

Three and a half hours later, I can't handle it anymore. I'm tired. I spent all night last night entertaining people. I don't even like entertaining people (except, obviously, I do—or, at least, I'd be mortified if I couldn't do it on occasion). My brain is done (or, hasn't started yet—it's hard to say). I've gotta do something else, just for a while.

I grab the coffee pot (yes, sometimes it takes this long) and go out onto the front porch with the dog and the newspaper.

I've been sitting outside for about four minutes when this cute couple comes around the corner. Usually it's old people on this block, especially this time of day (not that they're not cute). They walk closer; one of them speaks; I look up again; squint. "Holy shit. Daven?"

Daven is a friend of mine from years ago.

Or, I guess I should clarify that (maybe this is the problem?). Daven is this guy I knew years ago. I've had a long, complicated relationship with him involving romantic interest (always one way, though not always the same way), other lovers, friends, mental health, time, space and generations. (I could make up a fake name and go into more detail, but it really seems unnecessary.)

Daven lived with my first boyfriend.

Daven walks up, fiancee in tow (I think they're engaged; in any case, this is Helena, not to be confused with /Elena/—the last girl he dated, who hated me, which is basically why we haven't spoken in, effectively, six years).

"Holy shit," I say again, and hug him, and then, awkwardly, her.

Daven goes to school in California, as does his girlfriend. I can't remember the last time he was in town (though, later, he assures me it was less than a year ago) and he never tells me ahead of time.

"Um... So... Yeah" I say, looking down at my smashing outfit, wondering what my greasy hair and face look like, thinking briefly that, yeah, this is totally the best way to meet the long-term girlfriend of a guy you know who's chicks have habitually stonewalled you, and then going back to the basic "good god I look awful, this is /fun/!".

They come in (after standing awkwardly on my porch for several minutes). They come in and sit down in the dining room and they just sit there. "So ... how's California? How's life? How's" blah blah blah, and nothing. They just sit there looking at me like I'm going to entertain them. I'm sorry, and I love this guy, but after five minutes of this—me in my American Eagles on Harleys T-shirt, brainless, (braless,) them sitting at the table, politely staring—I feel like a dancing monkey. Like I should have a set of cymbals and thick, taxodermied arms. And having stared at my computer all morning, and not quite finished this pot of coffee, like the white plastic wheels moving me around are sticky, like I've rolled over a patch of week-old honey.

They spend an hour in my dining room. I finally get it out of them that they're here (in Washington) to do some hiking. They'll be gone all weekend. They're back Monday, for a little while. "So, great! Do you want to come over then? I'll make you dinner or something?" "Oh, yeah, well, we're staying with [some people I know]. And, actually, we're supposed to hang out with [this girl who hates me] and [this guy I thought was my friend]. But yeah, if you're going to be here Monday, we'll totally just stop by, if we can."

(You'll notice I haven't said anything about the fiancee—she didn't open her mouth, except once—to accept a glass of water I offerred her, which she never touched.)

I pull out a couple of obvious comments, they laugh; I make fun of myself a bit, they laugh some more. Now everybody's getting up and walking away, smiling.

(There's this little air of showmanship coming from Daven. Like, "See? I told you she was funny". But...)

I think the thing that's really bothering me is this: Daven is one of this group of three guys I've known for ages. First they were one friend and two phantoms; then a boyfriend, an enemy, and a skeptic; then a friend, an ex- and a sore spot; and now they're three occasional acquaintances. I said at some point, "Wow, it's been ages. Where have you been?" and he responded, "We always figure we'll never lose you—that one of the three of us will be in contact with Kate Chapman at any given time."

So, I guess the problem is this: I don't need another person in my life who finds it interesting to check in on me occasionally. I don't need to be entertaining (which is not the same as taking great pleasure from making people I love happy). I don't need another friend who can't be bothered to learn me, who thinks that my whims and caprices (or flaws and neuroses) are hilarious from a distance, not to be meddled with.

But, of course, that's what I do. And, of course, we all live in that space for /some/ period of time.

And now I can't decide: Do I find myself something to do (there's no shortage) and quietly spend the evening in a little 50s house dress (or the negligee I've been sleeping in since the Embarassing Eagle Incident), hoping (faintly) that they stop by, or do I forget again (as, actually, I did until just now) and go out, miss them for another four years?

In other news:

They're running Six Feet Under on Bravo. It's a good thing I never remember TV schedules.

a conversation I just had

Mom: Are you ready to go?

Me: Readier than you are, apparently.

Mom: Well, see, I was ready ... and then I ...

Me: Took your pants off?

Mom: Well, see ...

when academic ferver borders on genius /and/ idiocy

I'm not very good at taking notes. I used to claim is was on purpose (so, when I looked back at them, I had to rediscover whatever it was I was thinking about, which—as we all know—is more powerful than just being told).

I remember deciding at some point in college that calculus was the perfect metaphor for—if not just the obvious antecedent to—postmodernism. I remember, also, deciding to write a paper about this for some lit class. I just found these notes:



um ... yeah.

I'm not sure

So, I have a "flip" phone for the first time in my life and it's early and I haven't been sleeping right and I totally just caught myself draping it over the waistband of my pjs like it's a belt clip.

my new stationery?

a list

me and my ____

I met a nice guy at a rock festival this weekend. We were working together, so I had his cell number. And talking on the phone from the photo pit of a huge rock concert is impossible, so I text messaged him (after we'd met in person, briefly). We were coordinating. "I can't make it to this show, can you cover it?", "My camera battery died, can you get to ... ?"

I ran into him at one or two shows on which we overlapped.

Halfway through the last day, my second camera battery died (and there was this thing with the kitten a while back, so I don't have a charger) and I sent him a message that said something like, "I am of no further use here so I'm going home. It was nice to meet you." Then, since we'd been having cell phone trouble all day (does loud rock music knock down towers?) I sent an e-mail. It said,

It was nice to meet you. Sorry I wasn't more help. Maybe we'll get to do a proper tandum run at the ####### Festival (or, whatever that was ###### was talking about).

Drop me a line if you ever want advice about ######, or feel like telling me how you got into photography.

cheers,
Kate

then I got a text message.

Married w kids?

um?

and this morning I got a response to my e-mail that just said, "you have a txt message....."

So, am I just enough of a natural flirt that this guy I met for about twenty seconds thinks I'm hitting on him? What do I do over text message that seems so uncontrollably gushy? How on earth do I recover the situation, especially since (as much as I hate festivals) I was kind of excited about starting to work semi-professionally (or, at least, getting a photo pass to the concert was kind of nice) and clearly if I can't get any work done, or get any honest feedback without everyone thinking I'm flirting... I guess what I mean is, how do I keep my personal and professional insecurity from manifesting itself as pointed sexual interest (and don't tell me to divert the interest, 'cause I've gone all manic this weekend and we all know where that gets you).

I've spent all weekend feeling prickly. And now I think I'm just teetering. It seems like it's going to have to be more exciting, more comforting, or over.




And then, of course, shut up Katie. You know you'll change your mind. And anyway, it's more important than that.

(right?)

yet another cute boy

non-judgmental (Type III) jealousy

first, did you know:

from Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary

One entry found.

jealous

Main Entry: jeal·ous
Pronunciation: je-ls
Function: adjective
Etymology: Middle English jelous, from Anglo-French gelus, from Vulgar Latin *zelosus, from Late Latin zelus zeal — more at ZEAL
Date: 13th century
1 a : intolerant of rivalry or unfaithfulness b : disposed to suspect rivalry or unfaithfulness
2 : hostile toward a rival or one believed to enjoy an advantage
3 : vigilant in guarding a possession ("new colonies were jealous of their new independence" — Scott Buchanan)
- jeal·ous·ly adverb
- jeal·ous·ness noun

well, my dashboard widget dictionary says "rights or possessions", but you see where I'm going with this ...

second: my shrink was forever telling me to be "non-judgmental". Have you ever heard this line? Here I was trying to learn to be a critic, already paralyzed by the intimidating opinions of certain well-meaning (if pretentious) indy kids and, actually, pretty convinced that my problem is in an inability to pass judgment, at least with conviction, what with my obsessive belief in cultural relativism and my own solipsistic tendancies...

Saturday I went to see Awesome (yes, they're awesome) and I was sitting toward the back with several empty seats to either side (I had my stuff all splayed out around me) and ...

ok, it's not the mildew, it's the sink

How the hell do you get rotting food out of your pipes? 'Cause it's not like it's backed up and Drano's gonna do the job. I just poured almond-scented dish soap and coffee grounds and bleach down there and there's still this Mouth of Hell cave ogre breath eminating from the left-hand drain.

three good photos

houseguests

I've been doing that thing where I forget to put my laundry in the dryer, and now everything stinks of kitten barf and old tube socks (which, apparently, is the wonderful smell of mildew all warmed up).

since I've been putting them up rather haphazardly

I guess I should mention that this is basically ready:

        

Also, I think I'll go into business putting together party favors for weddings and corporations. Anyone with a large catered event (or, any kind of business model) should, you know, get in touch.

really?

Ok. it must be time for this.

Reminds me of text message I got from my best friend Sarah a while back.

"It was the strangest thing—I kept staring at it and thinking, cute? or hideous rabid rodent?"

a question

(or, receding into abstraction)

Why does self-preservation seem to dull everything? Or, I guess what I mean to ask is, does it? 'Cause I always feel like panic makes me exceedingly calm for a while, and then when it wears off, everything's worse. Or, is that just what it feels like when you come down (off adrenaline, or whatever). (Or am I making this up?)

Do you ever feel like you let a moment pass, and once it has, the reality of what could have been combines with the shock of defeat (and the absolute uncertainty of projection) to make this mass of ambiguous, stunning, anxious insecurity?

[long awkward pause]

Ok, maybe that's a hangover talking...
(ok, it must be time for this.)

(p.s. please note the music selection, which I think is one of the more poignant parts of the piece, really.)