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.