You stated your case time and again...

This evening as Aaron and I sat talking, he asked a question that I felt needed to be answered. Thanks to Jessica and her increased interest in Bible verses, I had my computer next to me. My personal deity (i.e.-Google) was on hand to answer any question I threw at it.

So I started typing in my Google toolbar "how do you..."

I love the suggested queries that Google provides me with when I type in questions. I stopped in the middle of my question to see what was offered.

1) How do you tell if you're pregnant
2) How do you get to northend [editor's note: where?]
3) How do you get pregnant [editor's note: people on Google seem really concerned about pregnancy.]
4) How do you tell if a girl likes you

The last one (which was actually second, I think, on the list of options) was most intriguing to me. I mean, who Googles that question? On second thought, though, I figure a lot of people must have. Relationships are so weird and so uncomfortable to so many people that the only place they feel they can turn for a straight answer is the Internet. Think about it, your friends either tell you what they know you want to hear to make you feel better or what they know you don't want to hear to prepare you for the worst.

But how do they know? They don't, most of the time. So you ask Google. Because those anonymous sources on the Web are just that. They have no vested interest in your feelings. And when you ask an open question like "how do you tell..." the answers are so vast and varied that you will almost always see something that makes sense to you.

It isn't like asking a specific yes or no. "He calls me names in front of our friends but is nice in private. Good or bad?" Because guess what, depending on where they are coming from, people have different answers for this question.

And the people on the "how do you tell..." website certainly told their answers based on where they were coming from. But there was a surprising amount of overlap.

What stuck me most was how much I was, in fact, struck. The answers people provided made me laugh. Some seemed so juvenile (especially the one that wuz typed jus lyk thiz) and some seemed so wrong. But some seemed so insightful. And so reminiscent of the things that I tried to convince myself. We have all tried to convince ourselves that somebody liked us, I think. I also believe we've all tried to convince ourselves that somebody didn't like us.

It made me think about past mistakes. Past triumphs. Past lots of things. And also, of the future.

Yeah, a lot of it is utter rubbish and only good for a laugh. But I think that isn't the only thing it's good for... You tell me.

Moi je joue...

Dear Helena Bonham Carter,

Yeah. You make a decent Bellatrix LeStrange. But I'm almost positive I'd make a better one. Want photographic evidence? Fine.

Eat my shorts!

Moira Phillips
(Or... the real Bellatrix.)

Yes. I am really am that bored. Thankyouverymuch.

And a happy New Year

So I didn't blog while I was home... whoops. Pretty sure nobody lost any sleep over it, I know I didn't. Of course there is much to be said, but first, I look to the future.

January 1: a celebration of a new year, 22 years of life for moi, and, as always, new clothing...

This year's birthday dress turned out to be a skirt. It is quite plain but I like it quite a bit. Anthro describes the color as "hued of late-summer grass" and I like that. Will I wear it the same way as the model? No. (Probably just with a tank top as it is looking like it'll be toasty warm for my birthday.) Are my legs as skinny as the models? No. Do I still love it? Yes. Yes, I do.

Word.

Let's update:

I will, in 4 hours wake up to get ready for my short train ride up to Fayetteville. From there, a long drive to Annapolis. Hooray for being home!

Chelsea Handler, I love you. Please keep making fun of Spencer Pratt.

There will, of course, be plenty of updates from home. Well, maybe. If I don't deliver on my promise, though, I have a gift for you all.

Ohhhh yeah. ILU, CHUCK BASS!

I never thought I'd come to this

What's it all about?

B-dad

Of course right after I write of my love for Rudy Reyes, we get our first contact from Baghdad. After a few short flights, my sister has found her new home in the former pediatric ward of a bombed out hospital in Baghdad. For protection, she has a knife and apparently uses male escorts (not that kind) to go places. Sounds wretched to me, but she sounded like she was at least trying to make the best of the whole thing in the email she sent.

If any of you kind souls are interested in mailing her, let me know, I have her address. Until then, any warm thoughts you may send up into the atmosphere on her behalf are most greatly appreciated.

Dear Rudy Reyes

When I first read Generation Kill, your character made me laugh. "Fruity Rudy," I thought to myself. "That's funny." Not only could I appreciate the fact that you were a total metrosexual stuck in the harshest and dirtiest terrain, but you were also a completely b.a. Marine. (Get some.)

Annnnywho. This summer, as my father and I drove through Eastern Washington and Northern Idaho, we stopped the radio scanner upon NPR for a hot second. We heard all about how they were making Evan Wright's book into a HBO miniseries. I remember little from the interview except that one of the people was going to be playing himself in the cable dramatization.

As I watched the first episode last night (thanks, Farg), I spied one character who looked similar to the pictures in the book.

"Reyes. Reyes must be the person who is playing himself," I guessed. And then I checked on IMDB (aka, my source for all knowledge). Turns out I was right.

Mr. Reyes, I would just like to take this time to thank you for playing yourself. You're a freaking stud, dude. I mean yeah, I've never been attracted to the big muscly type, but who cares? You're kind of beautiful.

Keep up the good work, Reyes. I mean that.

Love,
MTP

Old Faithful (Or: Oh, come all ye fecal.)

I'm sitting in my living room quite contentedly a few minutes ago browsing the Internet. To be quite honest, in the past week or so, this has been one of my more steady posts. I've been out of classes with little work to do on the final frontier (hooray for take-home final exams!) and my work schedule has been as sparse as the hair on the top of Charlie Brown's noggin. I've watched quite a few movies, done quite a few crossword puzzles, and enjoyed more than my fair share of pizza and sugar cookies.

All good things must come to an end, though, no? And today, my happy home on the couch was disrupted. Violently. And with waterworks.

You see, they're building a new home for the Rabbi of Temple Beth Shalom just two doors down from us. While I could not be more happy for the family that will get to share this lovely home (it really does look quite nice from the architect's drawing they posted on the sign), it has proven to be a pain in the...how you say... tuches.

I will not, due to my generous nature, begrudge that the home is to be built upon the happy little field where all the neighborhood dogs used to do their business. Pooper scooper, check. I will not, due to my nonchalant nature, begrudge the fact that our house has been shaking on its foundations for the past three days. Rugged earthquake veteran, check. I will not, due to my shameless nature, begrudge the construction workers who tell me they like my dress or my shirt or simply leer at me as I walk by. Security in the appropriateness of my clothing, check.

What I will, due to my... human nature, begrudge is this:

The downstairs toilet, the simple half bath with the modern sink and Murikami art, was victimized in the most cruel and embarrassing way today. As I sit on the couch, I heard a most frightening gurgling arise from the bathroom. It sounded as if somebody was furiously plunging the toilet to dislodge the fecal matter of Bigfoot. Or perhaps it was Leviathan trying to escape the sea via the pipes of our plumbing. Either way, I arose with a fright.

I wracked my brain. Emily was the last person I saw downstairs. Had she gone into the bathroom and fallen in? Was she now trying to escape? The door was ajar, so I peeked my head in. Suddenly, I saw the problem. Our toilet had become, thanks to the construction two doors down, a bidet.

Water splashed out with avengence. The walls were spattered with the dead carcasses of potty water refugees. The floor was soaked. The smell was unbearable.

I do the only thing I know how to do. Scream. Scream some more. Sound the alarm. "OUR TOILET IS EXPLODING!"

Anna and LaLa go to tell the construction workers what has happened.

"We think it may have been from you guys."
"Yeah. It was definitely us. You shoulda been on it!"

No, sir. Kind construction worker. Nobody should have been on the exploding porcelain grenade. That would have been gross. And, for your information, sending over a man to check it out was appreciated. But he was scared of Charlie, the world's least threatening dog. And he didn't do anything...

You stood in my doorway with nothing to say...

I'm sitting on the couch listening to kind of sad chick music (Imogen Heap's "Hide and Seek" and the classic Jewel "Foolish Games") and thinking about the day and I have a few things to say.

First of all, I'll apologize for not saying much more about Thanksgiving after throwing my mini hissy fits. Thanksgiving was, actually, quite fantastic. I had a great time and it was extremely gratifying that every ate the food that I made (and possibly enjoyed it?).

On to something completely different, my new test of whether or not I like somebody is whether or not I am able to palate hearing a bad thing said about them. Sounds really random and dumb, but...

Here's the deal, I've been at odds with a particular person for just about our entire relationship. Despite getting along with her there was always a certain tension that I've never been able to shake, though I think the original reason for the tension has long left the both of us (I am not so self-deluded that I don't know exactly why she made me uneasy when I met her). Anyhow, this evening, I read something quite nasty about her on quite a nasty little website. And it really made me upset. It was weird because I never realized I felt any loyalty to this person, just a passing affection that presumably could be easily turned off. But, to be honest, I didn't like what I read and I couldn't imagine why anybody would want to say that about her if they actually knew her. So, to whomever wrote it, bugger off, won't you?

It is weird to realize that you like somebody when you've told yourself that you don't care. I think it's okay to care. (I think my counselor must be doing a really good job with this "making Moira be okay with caring" business.)

I have more to say, but I'd rather just listen to music. Check with me later.

Turkey Day Tantrum, Deux

Dear Potato/Apple/Carrot/etc. Peeler,

WHERE HAVE YOU GONE?! How on earth did you grow legs and walk out of the house? I would like to be as sneaky as you are. You'd be a great spy.

Now I know, you just want Thanksgiving off. But I do, too, and I'm working...

And I hear you saying, "Oh, Moira. People survived without peelers. Buck up, kiddo. Do things the old fashioned way."

And I say back to you, oh, you traitorous deserter, "Yes, peeler. I am bucking up indeed. And by that I mean using one of those little knives which boyscouts get to hack away the peels of my sweet potatoes and apples."

On tonight's menu: carved sweet potatoes and whittled apple pie.

Love,
MTP

Turkey Day Tantrum, Un

Went to bed around 1 am.
Woke around 5 after a weird dream.
Couldn't sleep.
Go to Harris Teeter, arrive at 5:53 am.
Harris Teeter has no turkeys.
I repeat, Harris Teeter has no turkeys.

Mother of Turkeys, PRAY FOR ME! (Is there a mother of turkeys?)

If I were a boooooy...

Dear MTV,

You are the only person (entity? demon?) that I put on the same level as the dreaded palmetto bug when writing you scathing letters on my simple little blog. Know why? Because you consistently, consistently(!) get worse. At least with the roaches I know that they are disgusting and that is their nature. I am learning the same of you, MTV.

You would think that things couldn't get worse than "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila." You would think that things couldn't get worse than "Made," which frankly, just makes me sad...

"I want to be made into a girl that boys will date." Ouch. Having pride or dignity might help you on the way, but you forfeited that when you signed up to make yourself out to be a total and complete (SELF-PROFESSED) loser on national television. Buck up, sweetheart. You aren't single because of your acne or your glasses, you're single because you don't think you're worth a boyfriend. [Ending my self-help/didactic nonsense now.]

Now we move on to what actually prompted me to make this post. "True Life." When watching this show, it needs to be noted that they don't make true life shows about people whose lives are enviable. They make it about people whose lives make you sad because they seem so horribly confusing/disproportionate/complicated that it will make you feel normal, no matter what.

This is terrible, MTV! I am watching this little gem right now. It is hurting me. MTV, do not exploit these people. They are young. They seem misguided (though I am trying really, really hard not to judge them). They are in search of something that they cannot reach (objet petit a?) and they want it so badly that they will put themselves out there to perhaps find a little bit of recognition and respect. Do not take the bait, MTV! It is morally reprehensible to take advantage of these people.

Oh, and any of these people, if you should happen to read it. Jeff! You are probably the world's worst boyfriend! Why are two girls fighting over you? Your personal sense of style even hurts me a little bit...

I think that'll be the end of my rant. But you deserved this, MTV. You really did. I think I'm going to change the channel now.

But yes, you better believe I will tune in on Sunday night to watch Britney. Laura and I danced around just thinking about it at work today. We are excited. If it wasn't for specials like this, I would petition to have you taken off air. Oh, MTV, I do a great job of staying away from you, but I do love Ms. Spears. How could you (again with this terrible verb) exploit my weakness. That's just rude.

Love,
MTP

Don't you know, everything's all right, everything's fine...

I have a menu!

Yes, I know, Thanksgiving will not be the same this year as it was last year. I will not drink a bottle of vodka and a bottle of wine with Krystina before no-call no-showing at work and then having a mental breakdown as Josh teases, "You're gonna get fired. You're gonna get fired."

I thiiiiink I am okay with that. As much as I do miss that pesky KMK and her little family, I am on this new kick where I try to be all healthy and not a total wreck at life, so I mean, this could be a good change. Anyway, Emily will definitely be here and that will be great. Aside from her I have a potential guest list of fifteen people. As much as I would love to host all of these friends, I know how Shucks people are... I am guessing I get between 5-10. (Whatever the case, it's all good to me!)

Anyway, on to the menu:

-Brined Turkey
-Roast Beef
-Mashed Red Potatoes
-Cornbread Stuffing
-Broccoli and Cheetos (We will see about this one... New York Magazine may have failed us all, here.)
-Roasted Winter Vegetables
-Sweet Potato Bake
-Dinner Rolls
-Apple Pie
-Pumpkin Pie
-Vanilla Ice Cream

Hope this is enough! Eeee..

Author's Note: This was the world's most ill-fated blog post. Half way through it, I got violently ill and then my computer shut itself down for no reason.

Update

This morning as I stood in the kitchen making some Earl Gray and devouring french silk pie, I heard a scream from where Kelly sat on the couch. I looked over and she had her legs up on the coffee stable and was glaring below her.

"Die, you little fucker. Die! Die! You little bastard, trying to crawl on me," she snarled.

For some reason this sounded familiar. Oh, right, because it was me on Sunday morning. I will once again petition the palmetto bugs to leave our humble abode.

Dear la cucarachas,

We know that it just got very, very cold outside. We know how much this cold snap really sucks. We know that you, little palmettos, might actually die in the cold weather. We are, sorry to say, okay with this. Your time is up, little buggies (big buggies...). We will see you next Spring? Looking forward to four or five months without you!

Fondly,
MTP

Yet, if he said he loved me...

All weekend I kept thinking of things that I thought needed to be blogged about. This is pretty sad, if you think about it, because I am living my life and then while living it I am thinking it needs to go onto the Internet? Oh, Moira, you've really reached that point in your life. Even sadder is that very few of my brilliant ideas make it into this sacred little white box.

Mostly I just get distracted. My Mary Magdalene thing could, if I actually wrote it down, probably be a ten page paper. It's just this massive amount of passion and thought all mixed together, like a Blizzard at Dairy Queen, except that if you were to flip it upside down, instead of staying in the cup, it'd all fall out and then buzz around your head for as long as it wanted to until you took a Benadryl and went to sleep. But, do I write that in my blog? Absolutely not. Instead I post notices about my Thanksgiving get-together and then rant at bugs! Of course I do. Why on earth would I put down all the things I want to talk about when I could, instead, do an off-the-cuff blog that makes me late to work and bemoans a common household pest?

Anyway, I actually am going to blog about something I've been thinking about. Not because it is immensely important, mostly just because it keeps. coming. up. I can't get rid of it. And that's dang annoying. So here goes.

I'm ready for a relationship. I've been thinking I was ready for a relationship for a long time, but I think that for a long time I wasn't. I still carry a pretty hefty amount of baggage with me from past failures. But before, that baggage was the kind that got you stopped at airport security. There really was no way that I could move forward into... anything with it. But I couldn't let it go. Now that baggage has been checked. Look at all these tired cliches, I may have moved on emotionally, but you know I can't resist a really embarrassingly bad pun.

I've attempted to act on this relationship thing in a way that apparently isn't very intelligent. I wrote a note (originally to Chris) along the lines of, "Hey, I am ready for a relationship. Will you find me somebody? It would be really nice. Yeah, they'd have to deal with me, but I'm sure somebody must be up for it." Chris's reaction was so disheartening that I passed the letter along to whoever I could snag. Here are the answers I got, starting with the indomitable Mr. York.

Chris: (Laughing wildly, by the way. Loud laughter. Loud, loud laughter. Right in my face.) I'm sure there's somebody out in the world who would adore you. They're just not anywhere around here. [editor's note: thanks a bunch.]

Dave: I don't believe in dating. To set you up with somebody would be, in my opinion, a disservice. I would never do that to you. [editor's note: thank you, sincerely, for being more tactful than Christopher.]

Aaron: Yeah, I could probably find you somebody. I mean, I don't want to date you, but I'm sure somebody will want to. Give me some time.

Laura: Actually, there is this one guy... [editor's note: you get my biggest thanks, Red. You gave my petition thought and even came up with somebody. You rock.]

Then I realized that this is not the way to find a boyfriend. Begging your friends to find somebody who can tolerate you? Oh no, oh no, that just isn't love. Anna was telling Kelly this weekend that unless she wants to spend time with somebody, that she ought not make herself. That is to say, don't make yourself like somebody (or even pursue a relationship with them) just because they like you. It shouldn't need to be said, but to be quite honest, I think that's how it works in most cases.

My problem is that I am the pusher, not the pushed. I go after people, hard. It is neither subtle nor romantic nor any of the things it should be. And I shouldn't be doing it! I should be the one being pursued. I should hold out for somebody who actually wants to be my boyfriend. But what fun is that? I hate waiting. But it makes so much sense. Why, when somebody isn't jumping to date you, do we find it necessary to convince them to date us? They are not jumping. You will not be jumping later. It will be a big debacle. Don't go there, sister (or brother).

It sounds so sad to say "I have to wait for somebody who wants to date me..." but it isn't. Because there are a ton of people who I absolutely adore but don't want to date. And I know that there are plenty of people in this world who enjoy my company but wouldn't want to date me. And that's really cool and okay and normal. This whole waiting thing is just really starting to put me out.

Not only that, but then I realize that just because I'm not being a pusher doesn't mean I should be pushed. Say Mr. Wants-to-Date comes up to me and he tells me I am just the bees knees. Should I jump? Well, not unless I'm jumping. If I don't want it, I've gotta turn it down, and when I'm sitting here waiting for somebody to want me, I need to realize that I actually have some pretty high standards.

All the romantic prospects I've had lately have caveats. "He's a really great guy, but..." "No, I swear he's great, it's just..." "Most of the time we're totally happy!"

No more buts, boys (men?). Little Miss Moira will sit on her porch-a, smoking a cigarette. And she'll not be "waiting" on a single one of you. She'll be enjoying herself. Knowing that at some point somebody will walk by and jump. And she'll jump, too.

Sounds good, huh?

A point of clarification.

Dear Palmetto Bug,

You are vile. Really. I've been spending the past four years of my life trying to explain to people that you are not, in fact, just a really big german cockroach, but your own separate, entirely evil entity.

At The Elliott House I once published a whole pamphlet trying to explain to people your existence and the fact that it plagues, plagues, us here in Charleston. Nobody bought it unless they had already been plagued by you.

Well. Now you seem to be trying to get back at me. The other day when I stepped on one of you in my room I felt a little sad. I didn't want to kill you, palmetto bug, but you snuck under my bare feet and for that I was both sad and horrified (why would you do that!). But today. Today, when I was in the shower without my glasses on, a little groggy from the night before. Today when you crawled in my drain where my hair goes after I have shampooed the crap out of it, today was the last straw. Do not mess with me palmetto bug. When I pulled you out with my bare hand, wondering at first how a twig had gotten into my shower until I figured out what you really were, I was really, really mad.

It is November! Go away!

Love,
MTP

Shucksgiving 2008

Dear anybody who might be in Charleston this Thanksgiving,

As I'm getting ready to head over to Kendall's for some vegan fare and wine, it made me think of a little get together I'll be having shortly in my humble abode.

We're doing Thanksgiving at my home and you are welcome. (Even you!) I'm calling it Shucksgiving seeing as, well, it'll probably mostly be a mass gathering of people who had to work at A.W. on Turkey Day and are thus stranded without their family and without their grandma's candied yams. I'm cooking. You're drinking. Bring a bottle or a six pack or just yourself and I will bring turkey and the rest. (And I will be wearing my sweet apron.)

Back to Mary Magdalene some time shortly.

If Mary Loved Jesus . . .

I've been doing some thinking. I know, run and hide, right? The next few blogs might be a huge mess of thoughts with no coherence, and for that I apologize, but I think I need to get this out of me for my own benefit and to give you, gentle reader, some food for thought. Note: this blog will not be about faith/religion/Christianity except that in discussing Mary Magdalene and her relationship with Jesus of Nazareth (Jesus Christ, if your disposition so lends you to believe)-religion is inherent. Don't think I am spouting off on some religious topic that will offend you or reassure you. I am spouting off on love and that very well might offend you or reassure you. Now that our ground rules are established. . .

If Mary [Magdalene] loved Jesus, then how did that make her feel? The interest in Mary Magdalene is more massive than I realized. My Google search produced 1,760,000 sites in .21 seconds. Whereas I thought that the only people who really paid attention to her anymore were obscure ascetic monks out in the desert, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Dan Brown, there actually appears to be this magnificent interest in her. I told Caroline I was doing some research on her and the question came up, "Why?" "For me," I said. "Well, it's all conjecture, anyway," she stressed.

Fair. This is all conjecture, too. I used the word "if", didn't I? That said, the conjecture about Mary that I see on the internet has to do with her identity and what that meant to Jesus. Was she the same as Mary of Bethany, was she the same Mary that had seven demons cast out of her? Was she a prostitute? Was she the beloved disciple, apostle of the apostles? Did she marry Jesus? Did she and Jesus have babies? That's a lot of questions.

I have a lot of questions myself, but they all start out the same. If Mary loved Jesus . . . I will again make a distinction; the ramifications I seek to explore here are the ones that affected Mary, not those that would have affected Jesus. I mean, honestly, I'm in over my head as is, seeking to understand Jesus is so far beyond me that I feel heretical (or maybe just foolhardy) for even suggesting it.

When I was in class, I did a little outlining to try to figure out how to tackle what I think on the situation. Really, an outline. The last time I attempted to do anything of that sort was. . . never? But perhaps because I care about this personally, I want to sort things out before I put them here. So, with much ado, I bit adieu. Kind of a let down, no? But I think each bullet point on my outline is going to get its own individual post. I mean, it's a lot to digest, and nobody wants to sit and read a crazy girl's twelve page tract on Mary Magdalene all at once (if they even want to read it at all). See you tomorrow!

Snapshots

Facebook advertisements always get me. Exhibit a is a joke. Rachael Ray's flat belly? Uh . . . Exhibit b is a gooood get. I love you, Daniel Craig. Be my baby daddy?

Where trouble melts like lemon drops...

Ladies and gentlemen, today will be a good day no matter what because I've already managed to do something I've wanted to do for a few weeks now. An autumn playlist. Playlists in the fall are always my favorite because there's something about this season that makes music stand out more. Don't ask me to explain because I don't understand it. Anyway, it's only 27 songs, one of my shorter lists, for sure, but it works. Enjoy.

Bon Mot

1. Israel Kamakawiwo'ole- Somewhere Over the Rainbow & What a Wonderful World
2. Rolling Stones- Beast of Burden
3. Britney Spears- Womanizer
4. The Beatles- Golden Slumbers, Carry That Weight, The End
5. Ben Kweller- Falling
6. Bush- Glycerine
7. No Doubt- Underneath it All
8. Cat Power- Sea of Love
9. The Cranberries- Dreams
10. Coldplay- Fix You
11. Rachael Yamagata- Letter Read
12. Emmylou Harris, Alison Krauss, & Gillian Welch- Didn't Leave Nobody But the Baby
13. David Gray- Babylon
14. Joe Dassin-Les Champs-Élysées
15. Roy Orbison- You Got It
16. John Legend- Save Room
17. Rufus Wainwright- Cigarettes & Chocolate Milk
18. Etta James- At Last
19. The Cardigans- Lovefool
20. Citizen Cope- Sideways
21. Fiona Apple- Paper Bag
22. The Flaming Lips- Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots pt. 1
23. Lauryn Hill- Can't Take My Eyes Off of You
24. Oasis- Champagne Supernova
25. Pete Townsend- Let My Love Open the Door
26. Phish- Waste
27. Sufjan Stevens- Chicago

(Notable absences: Rilo Kiley, Death Cab for Cutie, and Belle & Sebastian. Don't worry, though, I'm still pumping plenty of all three through my speakers.)

Why dontcha do something?

Yesterday I wrote a little something as I spent my entire afternoon in the park. It fizzled out toward the end (which you will definitely see), but I like it anyway. The writing isn't genius level, and for that, I apologize. I was going to write more in here about love, but who am I to spout off about things I don't understand? Enjoy. . . (Or don't. Your choice.)

11/7/2007
1:29 PM

At the age of 21, I have it all. Money? Well, no, not that. Any inkling as to what my future will hold come graduation? Ah. . . no. Any inkling as to what my future will hold come tonight? I guess I don't really even have that. (But guess what? Neither do you!) But I still have it all.

I have a blanket in Marion Square. I have a trusty legal pad, a New Yorker magazine, a City Paper crossword puzzle, and a Dr. Pepper. I had the world's most delicious pita, but I ate that already. Sorry, pita, you didn't stand a chance.

Hadley's laying next to me, it's good to have a friend. The girls directly in front of me are having, oh geez, like the world's most vapid conversation as they lay in a busy city park wearing string bikinis. Hadley and I are both fully clothed. (Go us.) We are also not being distressingly vapid, at least not right now. Had is reading Cicero. It's good to have a (smart) friend.

I have eyes. Those are nice, too. People watching is the world's most under-rated way to spend any morning, afternoon, or night. If people watching was an Olympic sport, I think it's safe to say that I'd be a definite contender.

I have a gel pen. I love writing with gel pens because the words look so fluid and shiny. I am easily amused. . .

I have a picture of my parents in my wallet that makes me really happy. If I were to venture a guess, I'd say that they were, at most, 25, and that they probably had very little more than I do in terms of money/long term plans. But they look like they have it all. I actually love this picture so much that I feel guilty. As somebody who is very possessive of their emotions and experiences, I know that if somebody had a picture of me with my future spouse in their wallet, I'd probably think that they were trying to have my love. And I'd be sad. Or maybe angry. Hopefully my dad doesn't mind.

I have to work tonight. This breaks my little beating heart. I don't want to go home and change and trudge to Shucks. But as I said. . . no money. Oh well.

That's my daughter in the water...

I don't blog about my family because, well, they've asked me not to in the past. And while I understand that, I will divulge this quick little conversation between me and my father from this afternoon. It must be admitted that this conversation is completely through text message. Yeah, my Abba is cool and texts me back when I am being weird. And I present: Moira's reaction to Connie's new car . . .

MTP: There is a Prius in our driveway. I can't believe you surprised me with one!
DTP: So that you finish the school year without incident - please do not take it. That would be grand theft auto.
MTP: Shoot, homes, you mean it's not mine?
DTP: No girl - not yours.
MTP: Dag, Davizzle, now I'm sad.
DTP: Go grab a 40 and chill.

You heard it. Best advice ever. From my father. Go grab a 40 and chill. Words to live by, folks.

Well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool.

I'm officially a boy. Last night we had this discussion as we watched the Pats game (sorry New England fans, that was rough . . .) at Tommy's. I watch football. I yell at the game. Chris and I had a discussion about which of my female Shuck's workers I hang out with. The answer would be: Sara. Seriously, I think that's it. Now if you look at the male co-workers, there's kind of a bunch of them.

Know why? Because I'm that girl. I am the girl who every male puts in their "friend" slot and forgets is a girl. I suppose I'm okay with this. I'd rather be friends with all my guy friends than be nothing at all. On the other hand, if somebody could at some point look at me and think, "You know? She's actually kind of date potential," that would be a rare treat that I would really appreciate.

To make things better, Chris said, "Well, you could be like Elisa, she is clueless about sports." Elisa is also gorgeous. Gorgeous girls don't need to worry about sports or drink lots of beer or anything because they're gorgeous. She also happens to have a killer personality that just doesn't involve football. Elisa happens to have told me many times that she thinks I am pretty. That's good. I like it when nice pretty people take pity on that girl and tell her she is attractive. I'll take it where I can get it.

No, this is not the world's biggest pity party. This is actually just a lead in to just another reason why I am that girl. I cut my own hair today. I've done this before. The first time was when Max and I broke up. I drank a few glasses of wine and went into our bathroom and hacked out some bangs. While they weren't exactly beautiful, they weren't exactly terrible. I have since been cutting my own bangs for about a year.

This time I went crazy, though. And here's why. In August I went to the salon where I used to go in high school. My old hair lady was gone, but the owner was still there and she went ahead and cut my hair. She gave me a great color, but the cut was something that made me kind of tear up a little bit. And by a little bit, I mean to say that I had a fit. I mean, she charged me 130 dollars for a cut that frankly, was not cute. She then tried to tell me that it was very chic and all the women in France were wearing their hair the same way. I tried to smile graciously, but I think she could tell that I was a litttttle bit sad. When I walked home that afternoon, my father eyed me from the porch,

"You cut your hair."
"Wednesday Addams would prefer not to discuss her hair at the moment."
"You don't look like Wednesday Addams. Her hair is longer."

Dave thought this was funny. I did not.

Long story short, I have come to this conclusion: getting your hair cut is a complete crapshoot. Even if you like your stylist, she could be having a day where her thoughts don't jive with yours and in the end, things get ugly. So, you could pay $100 for a haircut you love, or you could pay $100 for a haircut you hate. Why not just cut your own hair and if you hate it, at least it was free?

But cutting my own hair still kind of makes me one of those girls. Self-respecting pretty girls do not cut their own hair, even if it is on a whim and because it seems to make sense to them. Taking such a drastic risk with your own hands and scissors is just not a girl thing to do.

That said, I present my somewhat successful (and completely free) haircut. I may not be a master stylist, but I actually think it's an improvement upon some of the cuts of the past.

Ode to a clean room?

If KK can blog to a missing shoe, I can by all means blog to a clean room. Seriously. I moved into this house on August . . . 24th? Somewhere in there. I am proud to say that today, October 30, I have finally managed to move in. That is, my room is clean, and I have homes for all of my little knick knacks and I will actually sweep my room to get all the dog hair off the floor (that will happen tomorrow because tonight there is a party going on and I do not wish to interrupt it by walking into the room, grabbing a broom, and walking out . . . that would be awkward).

That said, I would have to venture that having a paper due on Halloween and having roommates who want to celebrate the night before is a good idea. I mean, if nobody was here, I'd be out in the living room watching tv. If I didn't have a paper due, I'd be out in the living room partying. But here I am, saving money and cleaning at the same time. Also, I have hung essential items on my wall, like my Moira pillowcase I got for my birthday when I was 4.

Speaking of that pillowcase. It was much to my chagrin that my beach towel was seriously worn when I pulled it out of the dryer this evening. You know how sometimes towels start to fray at the edges and they get all natty and sad? Well, this one is starting on the very unfortunate decline in that direction. This got me to thinking, I've had this towel since I was eight. It's about damn time. I am the biggest pack rat, I have a pillowcase from 4 and a towel from 8? I also use a bath robe my sister got when I was 10, have a hat I got when I was 11 hanging from my wall, and use a bed cover given to my parents before I was even born. That said, I hope that when I get married I get a huge trunk in which to put all these things. I admit it might be weird to have them as a part of my life once it is also somebody else's life, but I neeeeeeeeeed to keep them. Mr. Bear on the other hand, might just have to sleep with me and my husband. So, dear prospective men, I apologize. You can sleep with whatever you want (except another woman), just give me my bear.

I guess this is really an ode to life. That sounds better than an ode to a clean room. Well. I guess it isn't really an ode at all . . . But I like it.

Womanizer.

Why I love Gossip Girl. Because they mix sexy men and Britney Spears. It's like a gay club, but with more hope for a straight girl!

Rob Thomas

I just walked into my room and turned on iTunes for the first time today. First song that pops up is "Ever the Same" by Rob Thomas.

After tonight's "Always Sunny," you've gotta wonder if it's just a freaky coincidence? I think not.

This is Sinbad's house!

2:47 pm

As I sit in class, listening but not taking notes, I have to wonder if this could be the downfall of me as a student. Being a body in a class is not the same as being an active member. Then again, not being in class at all is very often what really gets me into trouble. Seriously, though . . .

I spent yesterday's Comparative Religious Ethics class drawing the letters "th" numerous times to see which way I liked it best. FYI, see the diagram to the upper left to see which I prefer. While the latter is more attractive, the former seems more natural. I like natural.

In my mass media class, I created a Fall 2k8 playlist and tried desperately to think of an appropriate name for it- which led to musings on happiness (see- yesterday's blogs).

In Critical Theory, though the feminism unit was intriguing, I spent the first ten minutes figuring out my own little bout of feminist writing (though it is not particularly groundbreaking, see below).

And now here I am in some meta mess. (The more I avoid it, the more I'm drawn to it. Perhaps from now on, it'll be known as the meta-flame and I'll be a Robbins-esque libidinous moth, trying so hard not to jump in head first.) Class is nearly over and my understanding of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood is very, very nominally broader.

So back to the question- is this a good thing or a bad one? Well, we'll continue this vein next class. Unless I find something else to write about. I probably will. Stay tuned at some future date for my humble insights into the romantic night I spent with Miss Maggie May.

Feminism

I am written in the margins. But I am not to be marginalized. I will do more in my tiny space (with my pencil) than you will do on a whole page with your heavy black ink. I could change the world just to prove you wrong, but I am above that and will change the world because I want to (and can). I will start in the margins, and perhaps I will end there. Stretching across the page is not my goal. If I can just put one little pinprick in one little part of your heart, I will know you are changed. And I will be changed, too. All the way over here, in my margin.

Post Script

Shortly after posting my last blog, La came home from Hadley's with miniature ice cream sandwiches and asked if I wanted one.

"Only if you'll sit and eat one with me," I said.

We sat in the living room talking about boys and eating something way too cold for a night like this way too late for any health nut (which we are not).

Now I'm in bed listening to "Reasons to Love You".

See, told you life was good...

She'll let you in her car, to go drivin' 'round.

At 7:28 tonight, I had a realization. In religious terms, had this particular realization been heralded by chubby children with wings and silken mops of golden curls, I might just want to call it an epiphany.

It was that powerful.

Brace yourselves, folks, it'll be a blog for the ages. What I'm going to say is short and sweet (or it could be, had I not the deep-seated desire to draw every word out of every situation). You will sit and think that it should be true all the time, but before you judge me as some crazy person, sit and think about whether or not you can say the same.

If you can, awesome. Sincerely, I think that it is fantastic in every way. I wish that I could say this all day, every day, but I think it's encouraging to say it and mean it any day, at any time. If you can't say this, I am sorry that you're stuck reading the blog of somebody who is saying it, because I know that's just like salt in the wound.

And with much (unnecessary) ado, I get to that little kernel which has kept you waiting with bated breath on the tips of your toes:

I'm happy. Really happy. And not some of the time, not on a day to day basis, not just when things are going right.

Yesterday morning, I walked into my house happy. And when I got there, the Waring brothers brought pancake mix and we let the puppies out in the yard and we hung out and it was really good. Just... simple. And still happy.

Then, probably one of the scariest things I have ever experienced. Charlie hobbled into the house, blood marking every part of the ground that her right paw touched. As she stood in our kitchen, it was literally spurting out, the type of bleeding you only see on Grey's Anatomy or in a Quentin Tarantino film. Bawling, and with Laurie in the back of the car also bawling, we drove to an emergency vet in Mount Pleasant.

Now, I know I've never really talked about the dogs on the blog except to say that they most likely think that we are all crazy. To sum up my relationship with the dogs, I love them. They are both La's and they both show her the highest degree of love and loyalty. But I adore them more than I realized. Charlie is, I would venture, exactly how I would be as a dog. She goes outside and runs around for twenty minutes like a bat out of hell and spends the rest of her day being lazy and a little bit weird.

So, we arrive at the vet, me cradling Charlie, La holding a (now horribly soiled) towel around her paw. A kind man who happened to be outside opens the door for us. We walk into the lobby and just stand there. Bawling, holding Charlie. If you've ever seen Michelangelo's Pietà right up close, you will understand the utter agony and depth of emotion. Granted our dog is not the crucified Jesus Christ and we are not Virgin Marys, the potential for loss was astounding to us.

Long story short, Charlie is now fine and has a pretty purple bandage on each paw and is learning to hobble on three legs and is laying at the edge of my bed as we speak.

I remarked to Laurie as we sat in the doctor's office that I was surprised by how quickly things could go wrong. We were having the perfect morning and suddenly found ourselves on the brink of what would be, for us, a tragedy. (That said, I should probably never have children. I would probably have a heart attack each time they fell from a swing.)

It wasn't until tonight, as I sat in class making a playlist instead of taking notes, that I realized how quickly things can go right. Despite our mishap yesterday, everything is going to be fine. Everything is still so, so good. And I thought about the past week. I had moments where I was upset, an entire hour-long phone call with my dad can attest to that, but on the whole, I came out of everything okay.

And not only okay, not merely surviving. But happy. I don't know exactly why, because I'm not one necessarily prone to unabashed joy (unless I am watching Chuck Bass on tv or dancing to no music).

It kind of feels good.


In other news, we have no water in our house. Kind of ironic, since Anna and Emily were just talking today about how we needed to change the bill to our name and start paying it...

In your eyes...

First, let me do the biggest shout out to my best friend and fellow blogger (newly!), KMK. Dear, KK. I love your blog and will read it daily. Not to mention that this chick is my best friend and also a seriously hilarious writer, she also is doing her first "friend interview" on me. An interview that I filled out at work this afternoon while eating a seared tuna salad and watching my section to see if it would ever get sat.

FYI- I had one table tonight, it was a single dude. He left me ten dollars on his twenty five dollar meal. It was sad that I only made ten dollars, but happy that I made it on a single one top.

Anyyyywaaaaayyyyy, I was seriously planning on plugging Krystina here, so here it is: Vanity. Live it, learn it, love it. This girl is amazing and I mean that.

In other news I had the most romantic walk ever. No kidding, full moonshine, empty inlet. Marshes. Lighthouse. Arthur Ravanel Bridge. Cruise boat in the harbor, followed closely by a sunset cruise. And as I rounded the battery, right along the marsh, a single shrimper casting its net. Oh, and I was also with Chris's dog. Seriously, I cried on the inside that I was walking a friends dog and not a boyfriend. It'll happen one day... Maybe?

My stomach is now protesting, and according to Sweet D, the Red Sox won?! Why is such a great night ending in such pain?

xoxo, GG? or just me.
Mo

I don't care if you really care, as long as you don't go.

Sometimes I have to wonder just what the dogs are thinking when they watch what goes on in this house. Today is Tuesday and I haven't worked since Saturday. In my three days off, I wonder increasingly what they think of what goes on when I'm here.

Exhibit A- Details Magazine. Apparently, this is a men's magazine. I use the word "men's" to really mean "metrosexual's". I mean, seriously, many straight-laced straight men would cower at a magazine targeted for them that discusses "douchebag hair", "winter wardrobe", and "The Gossip Guys". Ohhhh, those Gossip Guys! You will be pleased to know that there are also pictures of David Beckham in a cardigan, a great article by Augusten Burroughs, and a interesting portrait of Ridley Scott. It isn't all about the Gossip Guys, they just happen to be the most amazing part of the magazine. (At least in this issue. Apparently, there's one with Shia LeBeouf, too...) When I got to the part where they interviewed Ed Westwick, I literally went "Eee!" and took the magazine into my room to read it in bed. For some reason, I did not think it appropriate to hug the magazine to my body and grin in the livingroom. I don't think it is appropriate to hug magazines to your body and grin in any room, come to think of it. Perhaps I was just going to my room to hide my shame... The dogs followed, though. Luckily, they just fell asleep on the floor.

Exhibit B- Music. Seriously. I am now listening to Nick Drake, and that is suitably appropriate for 7:41 in the evening, laying in bed and writing a blog. Just a few minutes ago, though, I was actually bouncing in my seat to "Lovefool" by the Cardigans. Part of the song rings too close to home, but mostly, it is so catchy. Sure, you say, that song went out of style, oh, who knows, when Baz Lurhmann's "Romeo and Juliet" stopped playing in the theaters. But I still like it and I will still play it. Plus, it is less embarrassing than the Taylor Swift or, oh, don't say it, you know I'm gonna, Miley Cyrus that I've been known to pump through the speakers in my weakest moments. I'm not sure that the dogs really notice my music, but I would imagine they'd have to. Who couldn't notice "Jesus, Etc."?

Exhibit C- And this one must really mess the dogs up. Facon. Yeah, I said it. Fake-bacon. Facon. Every time I cook it (or one of the girls does), I imagine those commercials with the dog nose running through a house and into the kitchen screaming "Bacon! Bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon, BACON!" Our dogs don't do that. Luckily for me, I am not pulling out Beggin' Strips, though. I am enjoying the salty, savory goodness of a product that looks/smells/and tastes so suspiciously like bacon that sometimes I have to pause and wonder just what is going into my body [editor's note- "That's what she said."]. In fact, Zuli started whimpering as I wrote that sentence. I would guess that either she objects to this facon or wants me to respect her utter restraint in not trying to eat it every time I cook it. Or she is just uncomfortable on the wood floors.

I could use more examples of things that really seem to confuse the hell out of the dogs: cigarette smoke, why in the heck I actually do my laundry on occasion and take away their happy home on the floor (La has already done this, so they sought refuge in my wasteland of a space), and of course, beer, but I shall stop.

Blogging? It's been a while. Felt good... I guess.

So I say I'm going to blog and then I don't. Funny, this is a pattern in my personality that has only lasted... five years now? I've been a blogger for five years?! Or more! Wow. Wowie McWowerson. I'm a little embarrassed, but mostly not.

I think the shift in blogging has come from a pretty big change in myself, though. And I don't think Bloggergate is entirely to blame. I mean, yeah, the desire to blog seriously decreases when your family calls you out on the nasty things you come up with when you're having a bad day. But a lot of other things have changed. Blogging used to be a personal thing and in the past few years I've really wanted to stop airing my personal business, especially in a way that is semi-anonymous and therefore tends to be passive-aggressive and whiney (at least in my case). So, then what? I blog about George Harrison and the books I am reading and a snippet of the writing I'm working on. I mean, that's interesting to me, I suppose, but then, why not just think these thoughts in my head and leave them at that. To blog about anybody else I know would be invasive and rude.

So on to the invasive and rude, starting with ____.

Just kidding.

Unless you want me to blog about you. Maybe that's the best idea. I can just write blogs about people that nominate themselves. KK, would you like to be first? And probably only, which means that I could blog about you once a week for a year and you'd have fifty blogs about how somebody loves you?

Ah, this is just getting sad.

You can come by any time you want...

Over a month with no updates and the only update you'll get right now is this:

NEW COMPUTER!!!

Expect more to come in the new few months.

(Seriously, it took me five months to get a new computer. Go me.)

Do you realize...

I'm writing a children's novel this summer. Check out the first five pages, brought to you exclusively by my blog...

Of all the people in this great big, whole wide, ever-changing world, very few are enthusiastic about (and even fewer, properly matched with) their age. There are old souls stuck in young bodies, immature spirits haphazardly breaking loose from wrinkled skin and shrinking bones, and everyone in between who just wants to be two years older (will eighteen ever come!) or one day younger ?(I could've been a tax break)?.
Aurelia Cielo was a blessed soul, completely free of any misgivings or mismatching when it came to her age. She was, quite simply, the world's elevenest eleven year old.
There were a lot of ways that Aurelia enjoyed her age. She studied salamanders in summer streams. She flew face first into fall's fantastic foliage. She wide-eyed wandered along the white wilderness of winter. And finally, in the spring of her eleventh year, just before she was to turn twelve (and appropriately so, for soon she would outgrow the elevenness of eleven)- Aurelia Cielo embarked upon the most stunning, frantic, wonderful, dizzying, life-changing, rip-roaring, gut-wrenching, all out amazing ride of her life.
But it didn't start off so exciting. No, on the contrary, May 11 started out just like any other day, with a sunrise and a tea set.
Aurelia's Aunt Gloria started every day with an entire kettle full of tea. Luckily, she started every day closer to noon than nine, allowing Aurelia a chance to sleep as late as she wished (8:27 every morning with the exception of Sundays and major holidays, when she slumbered right up until 9:13) before starting her chores, the most important of which was preparing her aunt's tea.
Just as Aurelia was arranging the last of the sugar cubes on her aunt's tray, she heard a loud thump and a deep bellow from upstairs.
"Aurelia!" It was shrill and trill and sent a chill up the spine of many a people. Aurelia had grown used to it and walked towards the room which smelled heavily of cinnamon and moth balls. (Aurelia liked to imagine she'd call it cinnaballs should she harvest it and market a line of aromatherapy candles with the scent- candles she knew no sane person would care to buy.)
"My spot of tea, dear," the older woman cooed from her oversized chair in the corner of her bedroom.
"No spots on this pot, Auntie." Aurelia placed the silver service just to the left of her aunt and cheerfully dropped two lumps of sugar in the cup she had prepared. "I just polished it this morning."
Aurelia's aunt, who was in the habit of adding the letter s to the front of certain words to make them sound more regal (an inexplicable habit, sto sbe ssure) ignored the gentle ribbing from her niece and turned to her giant Persian cat.
"Oh, sue me!" she exclaimed, knowing the cat would understand her exhaustion from housing such an ungrateful orphan with such grace and poise.
Umi, for his part, peeked at Gloria with one eye, recognizing his name, then fell back into an aloof semi-consciousness.
"My dear child," Gloria pursed her lips in disdain and stared at Aurelia's house dress. "What in the high heavens are you swearing?" differently.
"The strain, my child, the strain!" Gloria held her hands up above her head and her eyes bulged like those of a bullfrog, causing the veins in her neck to appear quit strained indeed
"What strain?"
"The strain!" Gloria was now shouting. "Today we leave for Otono! By strain!"
Aurelia immediately checked the clock that rested on her auntie’s mantle. Already 11:11! A firm believere in superstition, Aurelia made a quick wish (that they would, in fact, make the train on time) before clucking her tongue and facing Gloria’s doorway. Which had upwards of a dozen suitcases, all waiting to be carried towards the carport and loaded into Gloria’s antiquated station wagon.
“We need to leave in only two hours, Auntie!” Aurelia scolded. “Had I not forgotten, I would’ve woken you hours ago. Please have your bath quickly, we have a lot yet to do.”
“Of course, darling.” Gloria cooed over her teapot, yet showed no inclination to move. “Just be a dear and get my sluggage into the scar for me. I’ll be clean as a whistle in a moments notice.”
Picking up two of the bags, Aurelia’s mind was running so quickly that she almost didn’t hear Gloria’s voice echoing down the stairwell after her.
“And that dress, my dear! You must swear something nicer!”
“I’ll swear that woman will drive me batty one of these days, “Aurelia grumbled to herself as she heaved the bags into the old auto.
When they reached the train station, it was already 3:33 and they had but twelve minutes to pick up their tickets and check their luggage (thirteen bags for Miss Gloria and only one for young Aurelia) before their train pulled into the station.
“By my sword!” Gloria sighed as she fit her bulk uncomfortably into the compartment reserved for their two day journey. “I almost thought we wouldn’t make it.”
“And by my word, I just knew we would.” Aurelia grinned. “Why don’t you lie down and rest, Auntie? I’ll go find us some water and maybe a light snack.”
“Excellent plan, Sorry.” (I regret to inform you that due to Aunt Gloria’s pesky habit, Aurelia’s childhood nickname of “Auri” was pronounced most regrettably by the silly old broad.)
As Aurelia slipped from the quarters, she nearly stepped on a girl hunched against the door to the adjacent cabin. A grin rested on her face, not stretching from ear to ear, as some are wont to do, but simply enjoying the spotlight front and center.
“Oh my!” Aurelia started as she stumbled over the girl’s outstretched right leg. “I almost plowed right into you! I’m sorry, please excuse me.”
“No apologies necessary. Life is good.”
She stood to face Aurelia and brushed off the seat of her faded jeans. “Name’s Sonrisa, pleased to meet you, and just who might you be?”
Her smile didn’t falter once in the entire time she addressed Aurelia and her eyes stood attention as she waited for her answer.
“I’m Aurelia.” And just for good measure she added, “I’m eleven years old.”
Sonrisa held out a hand, which Aurelia gave a tentative shake. Before she could speak, her stomach did it for her, letting out a low grumble that made her cheeks flush with embarrassment.
“I’m on my way to the snack car,” Aurelia shrugged. “Sounds like you might want to join me.”
“Wish I could, Aurelia-“
“Call me Auri.”
“Okay. Well, Auri, as I was saying. I just don’t have any spare money for the dining car. Sure wish I did, though, I think my mom packed us some tuna fish sandwiches, and there’s nothing that’ll turn your stomach quicker than three tuna subs in one small room. I came out here just to avoid snack time in case my guess proved true.”
Aurelia looked down to her feet and dug in her pockets to see if by some miracle, there might be an extra dollar or two from the last time she wore them. Of course, there wasn’t, but something just to the right of her feet caught her eye.
“Aha!” She bent to pluck the five dollar bill off the ground. “Your wish is my command, Sonrisa!”
“Call me Soni.”
“Soni and Auri? I like it.”
Sonrisa’s smile brightened as she regarded the five dollar bill. Then it faded away almost as quickly.
“But don’t you think we ought to return that?”
“To whom?” Aurelia gestured to her right and left, but all the doors were closed and nobody else stood in the hallway. “This money has no identification on it, plus whoever lost it probably doesn’t know it’s gone! As far as we know, somebody wanted you to have this.”

Hail to those who have gone...

Okay, well, I am a terrible negligent person and we already know this and I have a lot to say, but I don't know how to say it. So I'm going to do something a little different. I'm going to take a simple online survey that I found filled out on myspace and I'm going to make my own personal confessional of it. I realize that this is the most egotistical thing in the world seeing as, not only am I assuming anybody will care about a survey that I fill out, but here I'm also assuming that they will actually see me as innovative and fresh for changing the format a little.

Let the self-absorbency commence. Maestro, strike up the band...

I've come to realize that my boobs are not my best friend, nor are they my worst enemy. Sometimes they serve as a powerful tool, but that is very rarely and only to people who allow themselves to be swayed by boobs. And really, if you're that interested in a c-cup instead of a conversation, I've got no time for you. Really, I've got no time for my boobs, either.


I've come to realize that this weekend is the last weekend I'll be spending in Anacortes. Ever. And boy, I can't explain how happy that makes me. Not being somebody content to sit around and wait for the next big thing, I feel that's all I really have going for me here.


I've come to realize that when I'm driving I spend entirely too much time talking to myself and making up stories in my mind and rehashing the failings and successes in my life and not nearly enough time paying attention to traffic. To all the other drivers and my insurance company, my heartiest apologies.


I've come to realize that I need to get a job, a clue, and a backbone.


I've come to realize that I have lost my best friend. (For the record, it's not an experience I recommend. Losing touch is one thing, losing the person... not quite the same.)


I've come to realize that I hate it when I talk too much. Blogging is really the easiest way to combat this because nobody has to listen to me here. Nobody has to listen to anything, they can read it if they choose or walk away (click away?) and never come back. Or come back often. Or they can start their own and get their own skeletons out of their own closets and into a fashionable display window with a moon and stars background.



I've come to realize that if I'm drunk I really, really need to have my phone taken away from me. Really, I need to be sequestered in a room by myself with a big bottle of water and a big bottle of aspirin and a big bed. But we all know that never happens...


I've come to realize that money makes people loco. Crazy. Insane. Batty. You get the drift...


I've come to realize that certain people are amazing :). (Certain people aren't, but why would I sully my very own shiny little blog with them? They've got their own way of getting their problems out in the open.)


I've come to realize that I'll always be a little bit heiress, a little bit Irish. (And, on that note, terribly fond of stealing song lyrics to express myself. What is up with that? So unoriginal... Ten point to anybody who knows from whence the heiress/Irish bit originated.)

I've come to realize that I have a crush on celebrities and people who want nothing to do with me. Don't get all "She's so self-deluded and has no self-confidence" on me. EVERYBODY does it. I bet you've done it, too.

I've come to realize that my mom was most likely not perfect but was just as perfect for me as anybody that has ever come into my life (and probably ever will).


I've come to realize that my cell phone is really not that great. I mean, you have to buy the internet plan to even get a freaking picture message. As a result, I do not have the tractor that says "poopdick", I do not have license plate that says TLA, and I cannot send other ridiculous things to those that like ridiculous things.


I've come to realize that when I woke up this morning, I was still tired and wanted to go back to sleep. Which I did. I'm such a lazy girl sometimes.

I've come to realize that last night before I went to sleep... you know what, dear whoever made up this survey, this is a stupid question and the last one was, too. I've come to realize implies that you've had a lot of time to think about something. I've come to realize that.... what about last night? Seriously, you haven't come to realize that, you've just remembered it. And to be honest, I don't even know what I did before bed last night. Probably got under the covers and turned out the lights like I do ever other night. And for the record, some of the questions coming up fall under this same category. Think of better questions for this survey![/meta ]

I've come to realize that right now I am thinking about why on earth Fiona Apple always seems so unhappy.

I've come to realize that my dad has had a much greater influence on who I am than I realized. Also, he's pretty awesome. I really enjoy my dad. ...Most of the time, of course.

I've come to realize that when I get on myspace I wonder why it's been so long since I've been on and then realize that I'm actually just addicted to facebook instead. Facebook ftw!

I've come to realize that today came before tomorrow and just right after yesterday. Isn't that the funniest thing?

I've come to realize that tonight it's kind of dark outside and kind of cold outside, but I'm inside drinking a South American fern and there can't be anything dark or cold about that, maybe just slightly weird.

I've come to realize that tomorrow I will probably do the same thing as I did today. Maybe I'll get the chance to finish The Moor's Last Sigh though...

I've come to realize that I really want to give the world a hug. Not the actual world, it's entirely too big and wet and there are all sorts of prickly things on it like mountains and trees. But you know, the people. Except the ones that I don't like. Why on earth would I pretend to like somebody and hug them? That sounds terrible. But I do love hugs. Maybe if I get super lonely...

I need a sunburn...

In an attempt to live in Anacortes rather than to just bide my time over on the West Coast, I made a trip to the library yesterday. Not a far drive (nothing's far when you live on a tiny island, though), easy to join, and though not the biggest, it had enough to keep me happy.

I picked up a couple of things I'd been wanting, including Memories of My Melancholy Whores and Eat, Pray, Love. Though this is most certainly not Moira's Book Blog-- we all know I don't have enough to say about anything but myself to constitute a blog-- but there were a few things I wanted to point out.

I'd recommend reading Memories of My Melancholy Whores for a number of reasons, but the shining moment of universal truth and humor occurred for me in a passage in which I recognized myself (I mean, yeah, it's sad that it all must relate to me, but I think that's generally how we begin to understand everything).

At his ninetieth birthday, the narrator receives various gifts from the co-workers at the newspaper for which he writes a weekly column:

The secretaries presented me with three pairs of silk undershorts printed with kisses, and a card in which they offered to remove them for me. It occurred to me that among the charms of old age are the provocations our young female friends permit themselves because they think we are out of commission.


George?! Is that you! Everybody who is reading this (KK, you could be the only one) should know George because he is this man. Though not nearly ninety, this passage reminded me so much of him. Mostly because at the restaurant each morning, I used to sit with George and listen to his tales of seducing women, of the great vacations he took and planned on taking still (with his live in girlfriend), and most unabashedly, I would flirt.

Why would I flirt with a man who admits to me that in his old age, he must go to the tanning beds ("in my banana hammock") in an attempt to ward off psoriasis? Why would I flirt with a man who sometimes tells me the same seduction stories repeatedly because he forgets that he's told me in the first place? Well, probably because I "think he is out of commission." And I am not the only one. George is a pimp. Every girl in that restaurant (and Zorb and Moe) loves him. He has confidence and charm and makes a good conversation, and because he's older I accept that he's doing all these things because he's just a cute older man who likes to talk to people.

One day George looked at me very seriously from across the table after I said something I wouldn't dare to say to somebody my own age. "You know, sweetheart," he started. "You're playing with fire." I laughed, but he shook his head. "Watch yourself."

Apparently, they're really not out of commission. (I'm guessing that García Márquez, who has, in my opinion, seemingly gotten better looking in his old age, knows all about this.)

Now, on to Eat, Pray, Love. There really are many things I could say about this, but I won't, except to note that I'm glad I am young. Very different than the last story.

Anyhow, this quote struck me and made me realize on the first page (after the introduction, that is) that I would like the way this woman thought:

Not to mention that I have finally arrived at that age where a woman starts to questions whether the wisest way to get over the loss of one beautiful brown-eyed young man is indeed to promptly invite another one into her bed.

Now, I wouldn't say that I'm particularly prone to inviting anybody into my bed, but I sure do have a weakness. And you know what? That's just fine. My relationships-with-men-ruining-self will figure it out eventually. And then maybe I'll stop. But for now, life is just fine.

Follow-Up

"Are you a Jealous Woman?"

Guess what, I'm not even taking that one!

Come along take my hand, let's all go to Dragon Land...

Yeah, my life is totally at that point where, when I need song lyrics, the thing that pops up in my head is the Dragon Tales theme song. Oh Max and Emmy, you so crazy.

Anyhow, Dragon Tales is not the reason I blogged (though I will say a big WHAT UP! to LaLa and tell her I scored some sweetass bubble swords for our dragon riding adventures. No, that is not some obscure drug reference, either). I blogged because of something that I came across on blogthings.com.

First, let's explain why I was on blogthings. I am a sad and pathetic human being who (when I'm not watching every George Harrison video ever published on YouTube) finds solace in comfort in the realm of the internet. (I'm taking bets on how long it'll be before I start with WoW). Anyway, on Kendall's facebook she had this quiz section and it made me think of blogthings and I went and started taking quizzes.

And then I came across the best quiz ever!

Ahem.....

"Do You Ruin Relationships With Men?"

What?! People need a quiz to tell them this? This is the most brilliant quiz idea ever. I mean, seriously. I am incredulous. Of course I ruin relationships with men!!! Now, I realize that not every person in this world is as socially/romantically/lifeally (not a word) incompetent as I am. I know this. But guess what, those people don't need to take a quiz to tell them that they're incompetent. They are perfectly healthy human beings who are out having relationships with men instead of a) sitting on blogthings and then b) actually blogging about said ridiculous quiz!

Dear blogthings,

FAIL! Massive, massive, flaming ball of fail. Really? Yes. I do ruin relationships with men. If I didn't, I wouldn't be taking this quiz, either. Hates you.

Love,
MTP






Also, after making this ranting blog, I took the test. It was smug and told me I was a "relationship doormat". Know what, quiz? I'm gonna smear doodie all over your doormat. How do you feel about that?

FINI.

I really wanna be with you...

In the countdown to the move, this is what I do to entertain myself...

Return to me.

Well, I'll admit, I'm the most negligent blog-tender ever. I suppose I don't "tend" to my blog, but it would appear I don't write in it, either, so I'm really just a non-blogger?

I hate to admit it, but I don't feel guilty at all. The end of the semester has been closing in on me with the speed (and fury) of a band of horses, not to mention that there's always my ever-rewarding work at Shucks and -of course- my various and always entertaining social life.

With the end of the semester almost exactly upon me, I've been busy doing other things, of course. Playing mah jongg and trying to win without La's help, planning a trip to see my sister, and planning a vacation to North Myrtle Beach with Erin, La, Mark, and Moe (possibly the most varied, and awesome, group of friends I could have with me on a beach vacation). In other news, I also appear to have a deep propensity toward run-on sentences right now. This affinity towards verbosity would, in my humble opinion, be a sign from God that I shouldn't be writing my papers right now, because honestly, what teacher in their right mind wouldn't mark down for sentences that have too many words? (Ahh, rationalization, you are the procrastinator's best friend.)

Yesterday morning, right before my English exam, I walked around Charleston a bit in the 7:15 am air. It was a little warm, a little sticky, and a lot different from the weather they ever have in lovely Anacortes. Suddenly, I felt my throat constricting. I know I'll be back here in four months, but leaving for that period is starting to seriously freak me out. During the exam itself, I kept checking out Professor Lewis's salmon colored socks and remembering how a friend had admitted to me on Saturday night (in a total drunken stupor) how she seriously, seriously had the world's biggest crush on him. "Simon Lewis, you know, the sexy South African!" And those salmon socks distracted me so much that I felt leaving Charleston, even for a few months, would be hell. How can I leave friends who discuss CofC English professors with me? And then dance to "Like a Prayer" at Light? And then Wet Willies??? No idea why we actually went to Wet Willies, but you know what? It was fun!

How can I leave friends who decide after way too much to drink at Wet Willies that we'll go to an all black strip club in North Charleston before realizing halfway there that we will have to pay a cover ("I'm not paying for that!") and ending up at Denny's on Rivers Ave at three am?! I realize that I was extremely manic last summer, but it was amazing! Stupid Siobhan's love quiz (Siobhan isn't stupid, the love quiz was) made me realize that I'm manic no matter what. So, manic in Washington where I'll go crazy or manic in Charleston where I'll have an amazing time going crazy?

On the other hand, there is the hope to go back to Annapolis. I know that writing it on blogger is probably a huge jinx, but I wrote hope, not definite plan, so there! Take that you jinxing spirits! I would really, really love to be back in Annapolis. Especially if Lizzie has made it back by then from Latin America. Smoking cigarettes with her and drinking red wine and listening to stories about the people she met sounds more than amazing. But that's such an if! I want no ifs or buts unless they're Iffs and Butts.

I'm getting myself extremely worked up in the College of Charleston library.

Break time.

Maybe I'll be back in the next month or two.

I smell sex and candy.

Here I am, at the Marlene and Nathan Addlestone Library. Blogging. You heard it here, my life has now reached a new ultimate low. I am not only a blogger (how nerdy), but I am a blogger without a computer. It's hard to say what exactly happened to my computer mostly because it has lived a long and difficult life. For a little over a year now, I've been having trouble even getting it to start and it finally kicked the proverbial bucket and sits on my desk staring at me with a haunting black screen that I know will never shine down upon me ever again. (My best eulogizing is reserved, of course, for my machine.)

I called my dad and told him I wanted a Mac. He told me he would loan me money to buy a computer, but I would be paying him back. Being in debt already, I think this is a terrible option. So I'm just going to "rough it" for two or three weeks until I can afford to buy myself a new machine on my own. It will not be a Mac.

Last night ended up being a bad idea, as most nights are turning out these days. I worked my first official shift behind the bar and it went pretty well, thankfully we were slow as molasses. Erin decides she wants to go to Tommy's and get drunk. I decide that I can't get drunk, but I will go for one beer.

Who am I kidding?

No. Really. One beer? I should know myself better than to think that is ever going to happen. As soon as we arrive we order a shot of Rumplemintz, a red headed slut, and drinks. This is not going to be a "one beer" night. Oddly enough, I think it was a two beer night. It was the shots that got me. Stupid shots. I think I need to find a new haunt, though. Getting drunk at Tommy's is probably one of the most unprofessional things in the world that I could do. I mean, aside from getting drunk at Purple Tree and having Seth carry me out of the bar after I've spilled a beer on my general manager and fallen on the floor...

Speaking of which! Seth was in town this weekend and we went out to dinner and then went to see Erin at Shuck's. The most amazing part of it was Erin looking at me last night and saying, "Seth sent me a text! How cute is that? I'm very excited." I looked up at her from over my Newcastle and asked, "Did it have to do with this weekend? It had an exclamation point and said something about how it was nice to see you?"

We both grabbed for our phones to verify and there it was. The same text. Sent to both of us. Who knows how many other people received it. Seth, if you are reading this, you are a mass-text-sending dirty rotten scoundrel. I'm pretty sure that Erin was heartbroken.

Yesterday I stood at the host stand. It was boring and slow and I was in a bad mood. To cheer myself up, I planned my marriage to Mark. So far I've decided that our party favors will be white m&m's and we won't even have to buy those ridiculously overpriced (and tacky!) personalized ones because the m and the m will stand for Mark and Moira. I've also decided that our first dance will be to "I Can Feel it Coming in the Air Tonight" by Phil Collins. Finally, somebody asked Mark how he felt about all of it. His response was a shrug, probably involved the word "cunt" but mostly was to the effect of, "What happened to you in your childhood that made you so annoying like this?"

I've done lots of thinking about that question. Because seriously, what is wrong with me that I insist on having people like me when they clearly do not? Tune in next week for the answer.

Party up!

Completely accidentally, I clicked the "Party Shuffle" button on my iTunes. After my computer hummed and paused and flickered on the brink of death for a few seconds (if you'd like to buy me a new one, leave your name and number after the beep)-viola! I can't remember the last time I made the same mistake, I know I've never intentionally clicked on that button because I'll make my own mixes for my parties, thankyouverymuch iTunes! Anyway, what resulted was one of the most diverse short playlists my computer has ever seen. I found it interesting, so I will share it with myself... on a blog... in the public forum. I suppose that means I'm sharing it with more than just myself?

17 songs, 1 hour, 68.2 MB


1) Gone- *NSync
2) House of the Rising Sun- The Animals
3) Accidentally in Love- Counting Crows
4) Wild World- Cat Stevens
5) Do You Remember- Jack Johnson
6) Pink Moon- Nick Drake
7) A Boy Named Sue- Johnny Cash
8) Eternal Flame- The Bangles
9) Death of an Interior Decorator- Death Cab for Cutie
10) Superman- Five for Fighting
11) Say It Right- Nelly Furtado
12) Rehab- Amy Winehouse
13) We Rule the School- Belle and Sebastian
14) Don't Stop Till You Get Enough- Michael Jackson
15) Lonely No More- Rob Thomas
16) More Adventurous- Rilo Kiley
17) Caress Me Down- Sublime

After looking through the vastly different songs, I realize there's a reason they're all in my iTunes, even if I don't listen to them very often. I don't think I would've been the same person I am now if the summer after my senior year of highschool wasn't spent listening solely to Belle and Sebastian and Death Cab as I drove between work at Target and Dress Barn. Honestly, how could I be the same person without that experience?

I don't think there's anything that sums this summer up better than drunkenly singing "Rehab" with Brody at Aromas. Yet the thing that kept me (reasonably) sane through it all was the entire More Adventurous cd along with various excerpts from Nick Drake (though I'll admit, it isn't exactly party fare, but I think that's why it kept me sane).

"Gone" by *NSync, I mean, c'mon... we all know I don't need to go down the highschool road except to note that "Accidentally in Love" reminds me of the absolute innocence and glee with which I (the 17 year old nanny) danced and sang at the top of my lungs along with Ethan (the 4 year old being nannied) every day for the summer of my Junior year. Which then reminds me of being the young child, watched by my sisters, laying on the couch singing "Eternal Flame" in our little house in Florida.

Music makes weird connections. Every time I listen to a song on this list, another comes up, I've in the time I've written this blog added "Ripchord" by Rilo Kiley and "Trouble" by Ray LaMontagne. And I could say so much about Ray that it would take four blogs just to summarize it.

Side note-Did you know that "House of the Rising Sun" is about a whorehouse?! I think I read that on AOL radio.com or something similar. I had no freaking idea. I always figured it was a drug den. In fact, I think that at some point I asked my parents and they assured me that yes, it was. Better to have your young child think a song is about drugs than prostitutes.

I could go on forever... I'll stop myself...

And they're all made of ticky tacky...

You know, I've been thinking today about the nature of blogging. Generally, I avoid any sort of meta actions, with the general belief that if you're thinking too hard about doing it, you're not doing it. Now before you get all up in arms about how things must be considered for what they are to even know what they are, I will acknowledge that I believe in studying the things that I do. I love the craft of writing, the art of fiction, whatever you will call it. I love those silly little books with ridiculous writing exercises that are made just to further the craft. I love reading what other people have to write and seeing if I can apply any of that to my writing. Yadda yadda yadda.

What I do not like is sitting down and treating the things that I personally do as if they are worthy of being put on the slide of a microscope and dissected with minds that have better things to do. My own mind included. I do not take myself too seriously (I hope), I certainly don't take this blog very seriously, and in general, I like to let life come at me as it will.

But recently I've been thinking. What makes me even write this blog? And why does it seem like compared with the things I used to write, everything has gone into the shitter?

I think a lot of this has to do with my passion for writing and, quite frankly, my passion for romance. When I look at the blog I had toward the end of my highschool years, the writing was callow and sometimes extremely rude, but it was funny. My words had a punch, enough so that Caroline used to share it with her co-workers at the Governor's office. I was, in my own tiny little insignificant readership, an entertainment.

These days my blog has to do mostly with myself. But it's not even funny! Has all the humor left my life? I like to think not. I mean, honestly, if I can't laugh at myself, I'll have nobody else who's nearly as ridiculous at whom I might laugh. So. Why aren't I laughing?

I don't quite know. This part, I think has to do with my writing skill. I used to write daily, if not on the blog, on pieces of loose leaf paper tucked into an old maroon folder that I had previously used for math homework (what a long life that folder lived). These days I write far too little and perhaps this meager blog is too late. I need to have some passion for my writing, I suppose, but right now... it's not there. I thought the blog would foster it, but sometimes I just look at the blank screen and my mind gets even more skittish than it was before.

Perhaps, I need to get back to the basics (look at the cliches I write in these days! Oy va freaking voy!) and start writing again on paper. When I have that down, I'll be a better blogger? We'll see.

I think maybe it's much to do with the purpose I hold these days. In writing this blog, I have no real purpose. Back then I had a very clear one. Mostly, it was to make Max like me. Yes, I agree, this is a terrible reason to have a blog. But honestly, reading each others blogs was our sort of courtship (along with text messaging). This may have had a monumental effect on the eventual dissolution of our relationship. Text messaging is great, lengthy discourses on life and love and everything in between are great, but there's a certain point to which you need to learn something other than the insides of somebody's mind.

What somebody thinks is one thing, what they do is more often than not something different. Perhaps not entirely different, I think that as a whole current generations are obsessively intent on remaining "true" to themselves. But that doesn't mean that we don't all suffer lapses (suffer could be a harsh word here... it's not always wrong to go against our gut feeling). It also doesn't mean that knowing somebody's brain, picking apart their every thought, will make you compatible.

How do they walk? How do they talk? How do they treat waitresses? What do they wear? Do you like their friends? Do they like your friends? Do they have any weird eating habits that make them prone to outrageous bouts of halitosis? Will it bother them if your room isn't tidy? Do they clean the hair out of the drain when they are finished using the shower? What kind of deodorant do they use and does this make them smell good or is the scent too strong or does it still leave them with pit stains when they've got on a blue and white striped oxford?

Dear readership, be aware that these specifics aren't necessarily ones that Max and I struggled with. But there are specifics that can't be learned. And I thought, at that time, that learning all these specifics through the internet was possible. It's not. It's really not. I don't care if somebody says "I use right guard plus with the aloe strip in the middle that Bam Margera advertised a few years ago." You still don't know what that means!

Mark told me the other day that I am the most [expletive] annoying, nosy thing. I think this is a little inaccurate, but mostly a lot misunderstood. I think that in some way, lacking every detail in every relationship I've had in the past has made me ravenous for them now. I ask a million questions, I expect them to be answered. But mostly I look around. I notice your prescription or your pictures or your blanket or your toothpaste. It's not a good thing, but I don't think it's so bad, either.

"I like to be vague," Moe said as we were walking the other day. It came shortly after him saying, "Jesus Christ! Mark was right! You are annoying."

I don't mean to be annoying bloggership. Maybe I should stop writing about me and what I do and start writing about the things I observe. But then if I do that, would it be intrusive upon those whom I observe? Should I start writing fake names. Moe will become Gilles or Laurie will become Kristy (she would never be a Kristy)... I don't think that's quite life. But parts of me worry that writing beyond the trivialities of life will be too much for those whom I write about (here you can thank Bloggergate 2005. Anybody who's been reading my blog for these past three years, I laud you in ways I can't express over this computer). I suppose I could write observations about people I don't know, but then I'd be so limited. It's like reading a blog to know somebody, you don't know them unless you know them.

...This is going nowhere. But does anybody feel me?