Maybe should have head examined soon

Hmph. Is suspicion that long arm of Cambridge extends here to taint existence, as crickets not even bothering to chirp in response to re-re-created resume. Is fine. Do not need crickets. Self worth can be restored solely by presence of cats with bad grammar.


Shut judgemental mouth. Does not indicate serious decline in cultural taste. Rather, clearly demonstrates ability to appreciate not only bourgeoise art (e.g., Fellini), but also proletariat (e.g., Aqua Teen Hunger Force). Possibly is harder to understand talking meatballs than shrewd Italian men with mother issues anyway. Do not begrudge me, snobby artsy people.

No, have not been maybe cat-sitting too long. Ringo and Elvis understand needs.

Those three words are said too much, they're not enough

The hardest part about an LDR isn't the eight hour difference, or the absence of face time. Well, it is both of those things, but only because they're components of a greater challenge: divergent expectations.

Because I know I'm not the only one out here going through this, I feel like it's important to remain honest about the good and the bad. So, the good: most days, I do remarkably well. Even though I don't have a lot going on, which means my time management skills have gone to seed, I'm still able to keep my mind preoccupied with other issues. Politics, job hunts, online reading -- anything to stave off the reality that I'm in an 8000-mile relationship. For a majority of the time, it works. The other good, which I want to emphasize before I continue, is that I've never wondered whether our relationship is worth this. It is.

Nevertheless, as you'd expect, there's also the bad: communication is everything now, and it hasn't been great lately. Between the ridiculous hours at which we make our calls (06hrs England = 20hrs Seattle), and the workaholic tendencies we both share, things have gotten a bit rough. I've said before that I knew our biggest challenge would always be the work-life balance; neither of us wants to put our relationship second, but both of us worry about asking the other person to compromise our personal goals to keep us first. I've been given a lot of grief by people for daring to leave my spouse behind in England (my internal response: shut up, shut up, because if you haven't been there, you have no clue what you're talking about)...but it was a mutual decision: because our commitment to upholding each other's goals and dreams represents a cornerstone of our relationship, I couldn't ask him to go, and he couldn't ask me to stay.

But things get busy. We miss calls, although it's getting better. The torrent of transatlantic letters is more like a trickle. We try desperately to make our infrequent conversations normal, but how can they be? Imagine you only get to talk to your favorite person on earth two or three times per week. Do you really thing you'd remember to be as trivial and inconsequential as most of your daily conversations are? Or would you save up all of the really important things (and therefore difficult or stressful) and unload them in one conversation, not knowing when you'll next have the chance?

I'm only really beginning to understand what a bitch this is. Best intentions only take you so far. One of the hardest things for me to accept is that love isn't enough, not if it's something you just believe will always be there. You have to work, every single day, to keep that love alive, because even though it looks healthy, make one too many mistakes and suddenly it's hovering in intensive care. Simply believing in love? Not gonna get you there. Sweat and determination make up the difference, because surviving a long-term LDR means making a lot of sacrifices. Tuesday and Thursday nights are home nights, except on the rare occasion when one of us really can't make it. Friends seeing a movie? Tough. Every week, I have to remind myself to make time to write a real letter, or send a card that says more than just "I love you!" And you know something? These letters, sometimes, aren't fun. They remind you that your relationship now hinges on the few ties that can stretch across eight time zones. Those letters, those phone calls, they take on monumental significance. Say something nasty or harsh in a call -- as I do, too often, worn down by the job hunt and the frustration of feeling like I came home for nothing -- and you might not get a chance to temper it before you have to go. Words and phrases you toss out like scrap paper in the normal pattern of a relationship suddenly develop sharp edges. Slice someone too hard, and the wound sits for days until you talk next. Then again, hold back too much to spare them, and you risk reducing communication to meaningless exchanges about (in our case) international politics.

Every single action I take (or don't) holds greater significance. It's exhausting. If it weren't for my incredibly supportive friends, I don't know if I'd be okay.

On a night like tonight, when it's late and my mattress is calling, I want to shut this laptop and crawl under the sheets without undressing. I won't. I've missed too many nights already with similar excuses. I need to send an email, a photo, something to say hello. Because otherwise, all we ever get to do -- at the end of phone calls and IM conversations, in the closing notes of letters and cards -- is say goodbye.

Sometimes you have to roll the hard six

You know, there's nothing like driving all the way to the 'Couv (and I'm not talking the nice northern neighbor) for a third round job "interview" that's been presented as a mere formality on the way to hiring...only to slog through three hours of traffic to find that it's very much a real interview because "We're interviewing at least 10 candidates!"

Fuck. This.

It's just the kind of morale booster I need, really. I burn through gas money and a hotel stay -- because of course the interview couldn't be at a time that would allow me to avoid rush hour traffic or crazy early driving -- and then learn that not only am I still very much needing to fight for this job, but I also may have to come back for a FOURTH round. Four interviews? People, you are not that important. Please consider creating an inter-office hiring panel, because unemployed people like me are really having trouble making ends meet as it is, without the gas and the food and the overnight.

The worst part is that I really want this job, and I actually felt cautiously optimistic until I showed up today and encountered an intense interview I wasn't expecting. Maybe this is what I get for telling my family not to get their hopes up, since anything can happen. Well, it did happen. I am seriously depressed right now. While I'm told by former college advisors that this extended period of unemployment is "perfectly normal" for recent grads, it doesn't make me feel better. I never thought I'd have to live at home for more than a month, and while I know I should be grateful for being able to (and I am, at least in brighter moments), it's killing me. I take care of myself. That's always been something I've been very proud of, and it's been taken away from me. Maybe some of those temp agencies will call me back. Sigh. I was so down when I returned this afternoon that I resorted to watching Leaving Las Vegas just to feel better about my own life. It almost worked, until I realized I was watching Leaving Las Vegas just to feel better about my own life. Damn the man.

_______ has died

God, I hope this makes sense to at least one of you, because revealing the full extent of my geekdom isn't worth it unless I can drag others down with me.

When I look back on middle school, very little stands out -- apart from the constant bullying, the clumsy colt's body, and the electric green braces. Somehow, I thought that last one would be awesome because the X-Files season finale was coming up, and these were sort of an alien green, thereby broadcasting my undeniable hipness to the world at large. It's shocking, really, that the first day I showed up with my new bands, the girl in the front row asked if I was cultivating a new fungus for our science class.

What does stand out? Hunching over my computer playing the Coolest Game Ever. C'mon: if you didn't die of dysentery, you might be able to pick a crapload of berries before fording the Columbia on your way to pixellated utopia. It pleases me to no end that there are several dozen Facebook groups devoted to Oregon Trail, because obviously all of us geek kids have become cool, fully functional people in the current day.

And it's not like I named my characters Fox or Mulder or anything stupid like that. Sheesh. I had a little more sense, please. My wagondriver's name was Duchovny. Today, having reached the stage in my life where I'm actually purchasing adult-looking clothing, I would christen my OT characters with names that acknowledge the difficult road they faced as they trudged through their two-dimensional landscape, a place where oxen perished in three feet of water. The names would be completely unrelated to television fantasies and would instead invoke images of bravery and all-American courage, like...erm...Jamie. Or Apollo. Who is a Greek god, after all, and was long before a far more attractive character adopted the moniker.

'Scuse me. My sister just died of snakebite.

Conversations with Rachel Corrie

So, I saw My Name is Rachel Corrie tonight. I didn't expect it to be as profound as everyone reported; after all, this girl was my age, right? What could she say that I hadn't heard before? I'm an idiot for missing the point: it's how she said it.

I'm sitting here now in front of the fire with a cat on my feet, and I feel completely frustrated. Two or three years ago, I think I could have been like Rachel -- not her, by any means, but out in the world fighting the good fight. I'm not sure what happened between then and now. Partially, I'm less comfortable with adopting the self-assigned role of a world-saver. It's a position you take only when you're priveleged enough to be able to choose to do so. Being a white, middle class American lets me think I'm special enough to make a difference -- but now, I'm a little bit older and a lot more aware of that privelege in all its problematic glory...and I just don't feel quite right storming off into Gaza or Chiapas or wherever, because I'm not sure if my presence there is helpful or hurtful. These are issues Rachel clearly considered every day, as evidenced by her journals (the source of the play). I wish she'd lived longer to enlighten us about where she went with those thoughts.

It's one thing if you-as-outsider can actually find a way to support a local movement, as it seems Rachel did, but more often a group of outsiders winds up creating a separate movement instead. Or, you come in thinking you know what it's like and projecting your sense of right and wrong into the situation, when in reality (*cough* Cuba) you don't have the slightest clue what's happening because you haven't been there; moreover, as someone who's present voluntarily, you can't ever be a part of it in the same way as someone who's "in it" without a choice. I spent most of my time in Mexicali sweating over how my identities -- as academic researcher, as higher-educated person, as white woman, as American, as young and Spanish-speaking gringa -- affected the information I gathered. I probably spent as much time analyzing and questioning my own actions as I did conducting the research itself, and I don't know if that's such a good thing. I think it's a common trap to encounter: as you become more self-aware, the awareness creates more questions about identity politics. So, what if you go abroad to "change things" and wind up doing as much harm as you do good? Is there any way to avoid that?

And then, there's the selfish side, too. The part of me that thinks nothing I do can have a big enough effect to matter. The part that gets burnt out and frustrated because I can only tutor one inmate at a time, and most aren't going to be released, or won't have any job opportunities when they are released, so what the hell good am I doing? If I can barely make an impact in my own community, why go somewhere else to try the same thing? Plus, if I did go somewhere, like Palestine or the DRC, and get killed for it, I bet the news media here would focus on me, the American. Instead of on the people living there who die every damn day. What good does that do?

It's stupid, I know. Deep down, I think I'm largely feeling inadequate because I can't do what she did. Correction: I won't. There is no way I'm going to go stand before tanks in Gaza. Knowing it makes me uneasy. At the core, it's part of my larger, growing uncertainty over what role I can play in this world -- and what role I should. Why do I feel like nothing I do will be enough?

Requiem for a Jetta

My car, Nikita, I think she died.

She's been in the shop for three days. I took her in on Tuesday and was told, "Oh, yeah, we'll totally have it back to you by tomorrow." I patted her on the trunk (hey, we've been through a lot together) and wandered back down the road towards home. That was Tuesday. This morning, I got a call from the same mechanic, who said he totally hadn't expected her to be, you know, so fraked UP!

Like, her transmission is probably coming to pieces, but the only way to tell for sure is to dismantle it. This comforts me slightly less than the original diagnosis, which was that the engine was about to drop out of my car. Oh, and also, the idle? The periodic burbling idle I noticed because it started resembling the last gulps of a person with congestive heart failure? Yeah, that's bad, too. And the broken sunroof? Still broken, he said. Completely screwed, if I wanted him to be honest. (Hint: I didn't.)

-----------------------------------------------
For Sale: 1994 Jetta. Excellent mileage (94K)! Charming exterior: that pesky antenna will never get in your line of sight because IT'S NOT THERE because some drunk-ass frat boy snapped it off when I was overnighting at my future husband's house four years ago. You see, I stupidly never imagined that parking on Greek Row might mean I'd pick the one block where every single car on the street lost its antenna on a Saturday night.

Oh, wait, this is a want ad. Anyway. Sunroof. Well, more like a moon roof, as you can't open it. You can try, if it would make you feel better, but don't worry: see, it started leaking when I was in England, but my awesome family didn't notice until I came home over Christmas and backed down the driveway, at which point the angle caused about four cups of water to spurt forth from the ceiling all over me, the dashboard, and my radio which is useless because I have no antenna. You get FM, though. But there is a sunroof. It's sealed shut with some kind of magical glue my Dad thought would be a good idea, and I think the last dealer I took it to actually ripped the wiring right out of the control box, but hey: it's there. This is more than I had in high school, so you'll still be the envy of your friends if you live in, say, Forks. Or maybe the outer Hebrides.

Did I mention the 94,000 miles? On a 14 year-old car? Now, how many cars can you find that have less than 100K on them and still manage to have mysterious idling problems and "could-be-on-the-verge-of-disastrous-but-maybe-not" transmission issues? Also, the trim above the driver's side door has come loose. Watch that -- it always seems to smack you in the head right when you're making a dangerous turn onto a major interstate. Oh, and the speakers? The right side doesn't work. Hasn't since I purchased the car. This generally isn't a problem, except when you have songs on your MP3 player that require full speakers to function properly. Or when you have a guest in the car who can't hear what's playing. Sometimes, they think you're singing along to nothing. Or arguing with a talk show host who isn't there. Could be a good thing, really, if you need cover for occasional bouts of insanity. But: 94K!

$1500 OBO. Hell, make an offer. Please. Would consider swapping for an office chair. Or a fancy teakettle.
--------------------------------------------------

Never mind, of course, that I have no idea what we're going to do if this car actually turns up dead tomorrow. I'm still waiting on the idle, since the last I heard was that the mechanics had "no damn clue" why it was running about 250 rpms below where it should. It's not like I have anything major coming up, like a possible job relocation or other pressing financial matters. A new car is just what I need! When I have no paychecks!

If I could just figure out a way to bike everywhere, forever, I swear I would. Some other day, I'll write a sentimental post about this car and all the memories I have in it (my first kiss with CB, driving to the wedding, surviving a hellish trip over the passes this winter)...Tonight, I just need to polish up my for sale ad.

And now, a little lighthearted rebellion

C'mon, peeps, how can you not vote for that guy on American Idol (the one with the hair and the not-so-much singing) when the site advocating for him gets great fan mail like this?

I was so mad Wednesday night when they announced that Sanjaya was not in the bottom three and therefore NOT GOING HOME THIS WEEK that I was shaking and in a flood of emotional rage caused by this STUPID website and the people that keep voting for Sanjaya I threw my glass of coke at my FREAKING BRAND NEW 65" HD TV and NOW IT DOESN'T WORK. So now not only is Sanjaya still on American Idol for another week, thanks to you jerks, I can't even watch the show and the TV warranty won't cover the damage from what I did. THIS SITE CAUSED THIS PROBLEM SO YOU SHOULD PAY FOR A NEW TELEVISION, which should not be a problem since you are making so much money by trying to ruin American Idol. Please email back and tell me how you want to pay for the TV. I have not been able to sleep since Wednesday and I don't think I will be able to until you pay for what you did and Sanjaya is kicked off the show. Please do the right thing and help me.

*AND*

Listen we were talking about vote for the worst at my Bible class (my teacher is a huge american idol fan) and you people are the spawn of satan. you all are stopping melinda dolitle from a million dolars. she is a wonderfull person who cares about everything like God and Jesus and u people are stopping her from winning. sanjaya is a evil satan worshipper who doesnt beleive in God and he will go to hell JUST LIKE YOU PEOPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SO GO AWAY AND DONT EVER COME BACK.

C'mon, fellow spawns of Satan. Please do the right thing and help me take this show to new heights by letting those judges know what we really want: an end to this fraking nightmare that's inhabited my television for far too long. Now, if I only had the slightest understanding of how to vote for anyone; I just tried and failed, so I guess I'll have to use my satan-worshipping skills to fix the voting machines this time.

Momentary respite

I need to take a quick breather from this fuck of a week:


Ah yes, that will do it. Since I can't exploit the jaw-droppingly seductive, "Why the HELL aren't you home RIGHT NOW?!" photo of CB for viewing pleasure (damn morals), the least I can do is come up with a suitable substitute. Like the Speedo scene from X-Files, but about 1000 times better. Once again, the placebo effect lives: I feel better already. Don't you? (Courtesy of many places, but particularly this one.)

Out of words

I'd love to write something funny or witty today, but the fact is that I'm sick about the Tech shootings and tired of how people are already turning it into a debate over gun rights or a forum to argue over whether or not this was god's will.

It's a tragedy. Can we just leave it at that for now? There will be plenty left for vultures to pick over, but just shut the hell up until people have had time to process what happened.

Hitting the trails

It's mid-morning, and I am running the dirt path that loops around the city zoo's outer fence. The trail is shaded by many cedars, doug firs, and red alders; I flit from sun to shade and back again, while a herd of elk stares from the slopes of their enclosure.

The last quarter of the trail is a jagged uphill stretch, riven by exposed roots. By the time I get halfway up, I'm shattered. Suddenly, I recall the last time I ran the trail -- another jogger ahead of me ran this part backwards, and he seemed less worse for the wear when we both reached the top. Besides, isn't backwards running supposed to be en vogue, better for the shins, and all that?

I glance up the hill. No hazards in sight, no major roots coming. On rubbery legs, I spin and propel myself up the hill, keeping within a few inches of the fence. Suddenly, my legs are pumping faster and easier than ever. This is great! This is fantastic! Effortless, even! I don't know why I don't do this more--

SMACK!

Everything, from my head to my calves, hurts. I fall forward, but catch myself before I bite it in front of some sort of weird deer with a foot-long, fuzzy tail. Confused, I spin back around. The open trail I saw is not so open: I have run into a tree. A tall, very round tree with fissured bark. The deerthing looks amused. Perhaps I need new contacts.

I am back at my neighbor's house now, cat-sitting. By cat-sitting, I mean toasting my legs in front of the fire while two throw-pillows sprawl bellies-up beside me. That's the beauty of watching cats. You don't have to do a single thing, except occasionally poke your charges to make sure they're still alive. But the head, it sort of hurts, and sadly I couldn't remember why until I poked the sore spot hard and contemplated how I could have smacked the back of my head with such accuracy. Maybe the collision gave me temporary amnesia. I hope so.

Sitting, waiting, wishing

Some days, all you need is a warm spot in the sun and a book for company.

Although the presence of a certain spouse of mine wouldn't hurt, either.

Not much to report. I'm still searching for environmental work, and am applying for entry-level jobs in my new field, as well. I just received an email from a new job gatekeeper (e.g., HR Department personnel) informing me that they'd received my application; I should receive word on a job within two to three months. I was feeling pretty good about this job until I talked to a friend who'd applied for it last time -- he said they received over 200 applications, and he didn't even get an interview.

Fortunately for me, the sun is supposed to linger for another day or two, which provides me with enough time to completely forget what my friend said.

Thinking

I don't think anything - moving to England, getting diagnosed with Graves', moving back without CB - has been as stressful and existentially challenging as this job hunt (four months and counting, since I'm not about to count that one interlude as a success).

Right now, I'm looking at my options. They include working part-time without benefits (with a serious commute involved); temping full-time and edging that much closer to career Admin Assistant; and accepting the apparent norm in environmental nonprofit land, which means working without pay until the group I'm with decides to hire me. Then, there's the whole challenge of making a two-career couple work. Where are we going to go after CB finishes school? How can we each pursue our dreams while being mindful of the other's, and how on earth do we find a compromise that won't leave either of us feeling like we sacrificed too much? It's a frightening balancing act, but hey: it's only the most important relationship of your life, right? Sometimes, I wish I could be someone who would be happy staying home with the kids, or working wherever I found a job, regardless of what it entails. But then I remember that I wouldn't be who I am if that were the case. And he wouldn't have married me.

CB and I made the decision to marry each other knowing full well that our biggest challenge would be managing to balance work and home in a household headed by two ridiculously driven people with very different career goals. So we work on it, every day, even when we're 8000 miles apart.

But now, on my end, things need to change. When do you decide that your plans need tweaking?

There's a new career I'm considering, but it involves a major shift, a lot of dues-paying, and more grad school. The latter doesn't bother me, but I'm hesitant. I feel like I need to investigate every possible avenue that this new path might lead me down; I thought I'd covered my bases last time, and yet here I am with no real job prospects in sight. Plus, I do need to think about what's best not only for me but also for us. No problem -- what's one more ulcer, right?

So for now, let's just say that I'm planning to either: a) find that elusive environmental job; b) temp full or part-time and research/start on my new career after hours; c) curl up in bed until it all goes away.

I like c) best.

Random thoughts from an overworked mind

Dear God, Jamie Bamber is hot.

The fact that King County makes you fill out 9 .pdf pages for an entry-level job is a good indication of just how sadistic government can become unchecked. Seriously, don't you people have better things to do than make me sweat over my computer for three hours, swearing as I reformat text boxes that somebody put in the wrong place?

Both husband and I went running in our respective countries today. Both of us made sure to run until we were feeling slightly ill, which in our minds indicates a good workout. Clearly, both of us are insane. Distance does not appear to be fixing this shared affliction.

Any ideas on how to convince well-meaning family that maybe it's not such a good idea to have a dog with my name, even if it did come that way?

Career guides make it all sound so easy. They are liars.

No, I mean Jamie Bamber is REALLY hot. I cannot deny reality.

This whole two-year drought thing is going to be a problem.

The husband, although he cannot conceive of it now, is maybe possibly going to be sorry by the second day home. The neighbors might be sorrier.

I cannot believe I just wrote that.

Let alone that I am going to post it. The blogosphere really is a bad influence on us all.

I am definitely getting rid of all references to my real name tonight. And hoping all family members stopped reading months ago.

(But Jamie? Still hot.)

Hitting home

This article really hit home with me. Not because I come from a highly privileged town (I don't) or attended an elite public school (I didn't), but because I think that every girl I know can relate to the pressure these kids are feeling today. We were on the cusp of it eight years ago, when four AP classes were becoming "the norm," when I felt like I not only could take, but also needed to take those courses, plus serve as the yearbook editor, plus volunteer at two different agencies, plus hold down a job.

I worry about these kids. A lot. What happens when they turn 25, like I have, and realize that they never paused long enough to figure out where they were going? All my life, I've been on a self-selected track that I just assumed would lead to somewhere that made sense. Instead, I'm here, wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do now when all of that work (which I loved) isn't leading to jobs, or bliss, or a real sense of what exactly I crave to do more than anything in this world. So what do I do now? What happens when you realize that all of your work to prepare yourself isn't going to help, because you never quite figured out what you were preparing yourself for? You just thought you'd be on the right track because you thought (with the limited ability of any young kid) that you had done everything you could to get on it. Now, I'm not sure if there is a track, let alone if I know how to find it -- or if, in this speed-crazed, income-disparate, "do it all asap" world, anyone my age is really going to have a chance to figure things out before their options pass them by.

To be blunt, it's fucking terrifying. Paralyzing. I know what would make sense: pull back, take a breath, do something random until the picture comes together. But I can't. There's something in me that drives me to understand right now, to pick a direction and get moving before it's too late to choose. It's like most of the people I know are frantic, throwing things up in all directions to see what sticks, or going with the one track they're on even if it doesn't feel right anymore. None of us know what to do now. And I worry for these girls. The mounting pressure to know what you want before you even understand who you are, the sense that nothing you do is good enough to get where you might want to go...sooner or later, people are going to crumble under the weight of their own expectations. And I don't know if anyone knows how to slow us down before we come undone.

Gotta love your mid-20s crisis, right? Gaaah.

You can take the girl out of hicksville...

Actual lyrics from a country song:

I'd like to see you out in the moonlight
I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks

Do I get any credit for living through four years of this (high school) and still winding up as the Death Cab-loving, Sufjan Stevens-addicted, Simon and Garfunkel devotee that I am?

Pish off

So, I haven't been around this week. Where have I been?

Oh yeah. That's right. Pursuing my new hobby, one guaranteed to make me the coolest kid on the block and the biggest Babe Magnet of all time. You guessed it: Birding.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Damn, why didn't I decide to spend all of the last two sunny afternoons sneaking through brush at the city parks, ruining my eyesight while trying to identify diving ducks from at least 1000 feet away?

I know, I know. But we can't all be the cool kid. Only a few of us get to see Greater White-fronted Geese (SIX OF THE MO-FOS!!) at the Montlake Fill; only a few of us get to feel good about ourselves, crouched in between the goose poop, alarming passers-by as we squawk "Did you see that?? Do you see that, right there?!" Only a few of us know what a Rhinoceros Auklet is. Or care. But you can still aspire to greatness. Maybe start with your robins, move onto your black-capped chickadees and bush tits. Someday, you, too, might be emailing a birding list to report what you've found.

You might even find yourself with an Audubon form in hand, trying to choose between a class on birding by ear and a two-night series on bird anatomy. Who do you think you are, making that kind of decision? Just take them both. Don't worry. I'll be the one in the desk next to you, jabbering about how I'm pretty sure I need to buy a spotting scope because I almost had the ID on a Yellow-Billed Loon the other day, except I couldn't confirm it with my binoculars.

Sure, some of you might recall how long CB's been overseas and posit that all of my newfound birding zeal is driven by some pent-up energy I've been harboring. But you are wrong. WRONG. My pileated woodpeckers are way cooler than whatever I used to do with spare time.

I need help.

Or a Master Birder. Yeah, definitely the latter.

Silence, you and your dirty minds! I can hear you thinking from over the internet. I kid you not.

I'll be leaving soon

Thursday afternoon.

I hear a noise from the office doorway and look up from where I'm crouching over sets of figures, tabling the numbers we're going to lose on the event being canceled. Outside, the rain has been sliding down from the sky all afternoon in thick, sinewy sheets that splatter along the sidewalks. My boss, or ex-boss, is leaning against the door frame, red-faced, just staring. I set my pencil on the edge of my desk and fold my hands, looking at him expectantly. He's only just learned that the other co-worker is leaving, too, and now he's on his way out for the weekend. When he comes back, I will be gone.

He doesn't say much. Just stops and starts, fixed rigidly in the doorway. I don't reply.

"I just, I'm not good at...the thing is. I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm very sorry."

He half approaches, maybe seeking a handshake, but I don't move. I can't. My feet are glued to the floor and I just want him to leave because I don't want to feel bad now, not after I've learned what he told the board, how this is all my fault, how everything that's happened comes down to me and my inability to handle the job's burdens.

But he looks so sad and confused and even small that I want to say something. Anything to at least let him know that I haven't enjoyed one moment of the past two weeks, either. Instead, I drop my gaze and pick up the pencil and mutter, "I'm sorry, too."

He waits a moment longer, then leaves. I listen as his footsteps recede down the hallway. When I know he's gone, I drop my head to my desk and remain there while a trickle of rain seeps through the window like an open wound.

Frack you, Battlestar. Frack you hard.

I'm catching up on BSG's first season, since I'm a new initiate this year. Can I just say that one might do better than to watch the first half of the miniseries before bed? Not that it isn't a brilliant show (and I *love* learning all the little things I hadn't known), but it's not a great bedtime story. I'm right in the middle of the nuclear holocaust now, at the point where the survivors have to leave people behind in order to save themselves.

Now I find myself sitting at a dimly lit desk while the city sleeps, thinking about planes. About how a plane isn't just a silver streak in the sky anymore. Does anyone still watch planes in the city for the sake of watching them? Are we all tracking them warily out the corner of the eye, telling ourselves we just like watching planes when we're really wondering Where's it going? What's it doing? Did it dip a little? Should I hold my breath again?

Remember when a plane was just a cumbersome bird lumbering across the lazy sky?

Now, I hate flying. HATE it, despite knowing how irrational it is to cringe every time the plane shifts. I look around, and I know who else feels that way. You can mark us by the stiffness in our shoulders, the way we fix our stares on magazines without reading the lines. I hate what happened for making me feel this way. I hate myself for not being able to stop it.

I wonder what it's like for people born after 9-11. How do they watch planes? What do they see when they look up as an engine drones overhead? Does what happened even seem real to them? It barely seems plausible to me, and I saw everything they won't air on anniversary repeats these days. I struggle to incorporate it into what I know, and yet it's touching every part of our lives, from the war we're in to the way we think about little things. Planes and border crossings. Subways and double-decker buses.

Don't ask why a sci-fi show brought this all home again. That's why it's so good. It makes you think about the things you take for granted, and about how "normal" life feels now when it's really askew forever. It isn't normal for me to think about how I'd reach CB if it all went down while we were still a continent away from each other. Nor is it normal for me and everyone I know to view a plane as a possibility. None of this is alright. We still aren't okay -- as evidenced, I'd hazard, by the fact that two hours of a well written sci-fi debut leave me here, in my room, thinking about all the facts you push aside in order to continue with everyday life.

What a way to make a living

You know, there's nothing like getting the silent treatment from your boss to make your workday even better than it already was.

Seriously, I spent the day with an elbow propped on the desk, reading the New York Times Magazine online. My boss emailed me periodically from the next room. Sample correspondence:

"Are you around?"
"Yes."

Useful stuff, I tell you. I came in two hours late -- not my fault, the place I was applying to opens late on Tuesdays and doesn't say so online, dang it! -- and for a moment he looked like he was going to ask me where I'd been. I adopted my best Crawl Back To The Rock From Under Whence You Came stare, and he dropped his gaze and shambled down the hall.

This all was precipitated by a volley of hostile emails and online sparring yesterday. Over the weekend, I decided that I was no longer interested in reconsidering my resignation, as I'd been instructed to do. For the record, my boss's original response to my first resignation attempt was to say:

"No. I'm not accepting this. You need to reconsider. You need to spend the weekend thinking about this from a broader perspective."

He also refused to take my resignation letter, and so I stood there stupidly, letting it dangle from my hand until I finally dropped it on his desk. Later, he said he could respect -- well, no, actually, he couldn't respect my decision. Not really. Just so I knew.

Let me tell you: giving an employee grief when she's only been there for six weeks? Telling her that she's the only one who can help you re-energize and rebuild your organization? Thinking she's really thirsting after the responsibility of cobbling together a functional institution out of fragments? Knowing this is her first "real" job, which means she's already second-guessing everything about her decision and is too overwhelmed by your attacks to call you out when you cross the line? Not exactly the best way to convince her to stay, particularly when you follow it up with a second day filled with snide remarks like, "My wife says you aren't giving this enough of a chance," and veiled threats like, "I can fire you anytime I want to." Really? Can you? Then would you hurry up so I can leave your sorry butt behind?

Oh, I'm sorry. I'm supposed to care what your wife, who doesn't work here, thinks? I should feel bad because *TWO MONTHS* notice "isn't enough"??

So, over the weekend, I emailed again and said I indeed had reconsidered, per his request; now, my original offer to leave in two months had changed, and I intended to leave in three weeks. He ignored me for two days, but he was sick on Monday and I chose to wrap up the matter before he could get to me at the office. Let the email battle begin. Alas, the man tried to out-manipulate me, by arguing (incorrectly) that I'd promised to stay that long. He can definitely back you into a corner in-person, as evidenced by the two-hour attack I sustained on Friday...but he's a lousy e-manipulator. I won. He lost. And now, I'm getting the silent treatment.

Tomorrow, I think I'll follow SueBob's idea. Novels and/or DVDs at the workplace, coming up! Heck, I need to catch up on the first two seasons of BSG anyway.

For god's sake, it's like breaking up with a boyfrind. A needy, passive-aggressive, high-school boyfriend who winds up halfheartedly stalking you in the school parking lot until you finally have to employ vivid castration descriptions to make him leave you alone. I thought I'd finished with these creeps when I turned 18.

What really makes me angry is that I'm unemployed. AGAIN. No apartment, no cat, no freedom. Taxes to pay, car to repair, thyroid to medicate, and limited assets to do so. Stuck with the parents even longer, after 7 years of independence. No apartment, no cat, no freedom. But hell, anything is better than working where I am now. Even living with two people who harbor secret fantasies that you'll turn back into a precocious twelve year-old at any moment.

Visual DNA

An interesting take...what's yours?

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Don't you mess with me

Something tells me I'm not the only one in the building who despises our workplace.


Stupid, cheerful-ass Peeps. They probably deserved it. Nothing like skewering a shiny happy yellow marshmellow bunny, let alone spearing a pair, to really make your day better. Sadly, this did indeed make my morning.

The morning, that is, of the day after I quit my job.

Or tried to quit.

And was told I wasn't allowed.

It's been a very long week. I was tempted to add my own adornments to the dart board, starting with my business cards and finishing with something of value, like the only company phone that works more than half-time, but instead I snapped this shot and skipped back upstairs. There's really not much else to write tonight. I quit. Or tried to. It's hard to quit when your fortysomething boss reverts to juvenile behavior. When I told him that this wasn't working out, I received a one-word response: "No."

Is it any wonder I've been fantasizing about Jaeger shots since noon yesterday? I'm going to go find some of those and then run over Peeps with my bike. Maybe back up and do it again for good measure. Are you ever going to receive the full story? Perhaps. It's just that every time I tell it, I get a little.bit.ANGRIER. And you know, I don't actually want to be known as "That girl who went postal on Peeps in the basement of our building and had to be escorted out by security." I always wanted to go postal on something far more deserving. Like the Wiggles.

Ayudame

Disclaimer One: if you're family, by blood or marriage, I'd appreciate it if you skip this one. It's definitely for friends and blog buddies only. Thanks.

Things aren't so good right now. I feel like a broken record sometimes, but I'm not sure what else I can do. I could definitely use some advice from friends here: say you have a job, and it's a foot in the door to a rather small, fairly exclusive field. But it's in a three-person office with a less-than-shoestring budget, and your job could really be filled by two full-time people, and you never even got trained officially, and at the end of the day you come home and realize just how upset you are because the slightest thing kinda makes you flip out.

But it's a job, a job with responsibilities, a job that might actually get you somewhere else someday. It's a job where leaving right now would be a terrible thing to do to them, because you're in the middle of a massive project that no one else is going to be able to pick up easily. And yet, you are tired. You are so very, very tired, and a little voice in the back of your mind is realizing that you've been tired for a couple of years now. Every time, you fight through it, telling yourself that you just have to grit the teeth for one last push, and then you'll finally get a break. That break? It still hasn't come -- and as stupid and weak as you feel, you just don't know if you can actually push through again because the exhaustion, it's maybe bigger than you. It saps your energy, drains your writing, makes you want to curl up and sleep until everything just resolves itself. You hate feeling that way. You can't fix it. But you're afraid to leave the job anyway.

So what the hell do you do? I'm too tired to think straight, and I keep traveling the same circles without finding a side channel out of here.

In the waiting line

Tomorrow marks three months since I first tried to close my bank account in the UK -- when I was still living in the UK. Since then, I've made at least five to eight phone calls -- always at midnight or later, thanks to the time zones. I've sent letter upon letter, completing increasingly ridiculous requests from the bank, including one which asked me to send a certified copy of my passport signature page because apparently I forged my own signature on the previous account closure letter. It's fantastic. Now, I'm being told I sent that to the wrong place, even though the last letter I received *and* the last person with whom I spoke told me to send it there. Oh, and apparently? I also have to cut my debit card into four pieces, shred my checks and return them to yet another part of the bank's nebula. And apparently? The fact that no one told me that once in the past three months, during which period I destroyed and threw out my checks because I didn't like having them lying around to tempt airport security checkers and passersby? That, apparently, is my own damn fault and means I need to write yet another letter explaning myself.

So, what do you do when your international bank refuses to close your account? Or when they try to send you to collections for mounting fees because your account no longer has money in it? (Hey, maybe because I was told to take it all out the first time I went to close it!) Anybody know a good lawyer out there? Hell, I'd settle for a consolation prize: a nice big bottle of whiskey to keep me company while I sit cradling the phone yet again tonight, trying not to think about how this might affect my credit, praying that just this once the person on the other end of the line actually has something useful to impart. If they don't, I guess I have to wait until next summer, when I fly back to visit CB and march into the nearest branch with my forty-fifth letter in hand and eighteen months of pent-up rage waiting to be unleashed on the nearest bank representative.

Seriously, this is ridiculous, isn't it? Or is it all happening because they can tell I'm American and want to make my life miserable? See, I know that's not true, but try waiting three months for an account to close and see how paranoid it makes you.

Digging my ditch

Last Friday, we went south of the city to visit a few old project sites, only to discover that one of our ever-rising creeks (thanks, development!) finally exhausted a client's already short fuse. He was tired of it eroding his property line and threatening the hundred year-old stack of sticks shed at the water's edge. So, he did what any rational person would do.

He made a pond.

And by "made a pond," I mean borrowed a neighbor's backhoe and dug a 10-foot hole in the middle of his yard, near enough to the creek that the crumbling bank is likely to collapse at any time. Surprisingly, officials noticed the sudden emergence of a pond where no such thing had existed previously, and they told him to fill the damn thing up again before they fined him.

But the pond, having been made, is apparently staying. The officials are probably too afraid of his massive pond-digging tools to mess with him.

His next door neighbor? That guy looked at the creek, looked at his sloping property, and decided, "Hey, I know where to build a great house! Right in the depression next to the creek!" Just to be sure he really enjoyed the full benefits of annual flooding, he made sure that nobody put any pesky stilts under his house. No sir, just wet, wet floors for that man.

Naturally, of course, both the pond and the soggy house are our faults. Stupid third parties, trying to mediate. Should've just dredged the damn creek and buried the channel in concrete.

Meanwhile, a third party is busy sabatoging our tree plantings by using deer antlers to scrape away all the bark. In February.

I really want to be there when the person's in action, just to wander up and innocently ask where all the antler-wearing deer come from in the middle of winter.

Gotta love my job. Beaver management and landowner pacification. At least I'm never bored, right?

Constantly unfolding

Keeping busy is the name of the game these days, so I'm taking photography classes next month and starting a shoreline naturalist training program a little later. Not a lot else going on, but these did show up at work a few days ago:


He's a very smart boy. Not only are these flowers beautiful (and fragrant), but they're also sustainably harvested:


We aren't usually big on Valentine's Day, but this year I couldn't wait for a little bit of romance. Flowers and gifts do make a difference sometimes, especially when you know they put some thought into the why of the gift.


I've also discovered that we're a source of inspiration, which anyone who knows us should find unsettling. The maniacs wreaking havoc at Crate and Barrel? Inspiring? But I've had several friends tell me recently that whenever they're despairing over their LDRs, all they have to do is think of us. Presto! Instant mood elevator. Sure, this sucks, but at least we're not Eco and CB! These friends have spurred me to set a new goal: find a friend whose partner is even further away, ideally in a country where U.S. citizens can't enter legally.

Hmmm. Anybody know any couples separated by an ocean or two for at least three years?

It's just a little crush

Poor CB. He has competition.

Some of those pictures do not do Kate Walsh (aka Addison Shepherd of Grey's fame) justice, but seriously, she is the most smoldering on-screen presence since, well, I don't know what. Sure, it might have been better for my self-esteem to never realize how uniquely attractive some women can be without trying -- but I gotta admit, after marathoning my way through the second season, I sure do enjoy looking at her anyway. ;)

Sorry, love. We can now update my lust list to include Zach Braff, Jake Gyllenhaal, Natalie Portman and Kate Walsh. Hey, a girl can dream...

Just another day at the office

You know, going from zero bike miles per week to 14 bike miles per day probably isn't the best decision one could make. Although, I'm not the only slightly crazed outdoorsy person in my office. Here's how my first conversation went this morning:

Me: "Hey."

Alex*: "Hey."

"How are you?"

"Not so good." Grimacing, Alex tries to stand. "I kinda busted my ankle on a run yesterday. Check it out."

I admire his battle scar, which, judging by the large purple contusion around his entire calf, is likely more than a sprained ankle.

"How're you?"

I wince. "Not great, either. Did you know that sore glutes can actually make migraines feel pleasant by comparison, when you force those glutes to propel you up one of our city's finest hills?"

Alex looks sympathetic. "How're they doing?"

"Tight as rocks."

I look at him. He looks at me. I realize it is my tenth day on the job, and I am talking to a co-worker about my butt. In an entirely nonsexual, frankly off-putting manner.

"This isn't really a normal office, is it?"

"No. Not at all."

*not his real name

With love, from me

Dear Internet friends,

You are all lovely people. I can't tell you how much better I'm feeling after your calls, posts and emails. Just having you in my life makes it much, much easier to bear things of late.

Well, that, and getting to meet with landowners in a place I will never dare mention by name. It's always enlightening to see firsthand what happens when government agencies don't handle rural landowners with sensitivity. Namely, Operation Sneaky (no, I am not kidding), in which you drive the county off your property with some help from neighbors, then declare war on the resident beaver population while the county gnashes its teeth at your front gate. Damn beavers, damming everything.

We also encountered a recently exploded meth lab while investigating a giant beaver dam on a different site. Clearly, the mammoth proportions of the dam indicate a positive correlation between beaver production and exposure to methamphetamines. Drugged-out rodents with giant teeth are fearsome creatures.

And then, there was the guy who didn't have a phone, or electricity, and who's fondly referred to by his neighbors as "that guy who's always spending time in one of our finest correctional facilities." To quote one acquaintance, "He's a real nice guy. I'm just surprised you found him. I thought he was still in jail." He was sitting in the driveway when we showed up after trying fruitlessly to reach him on his imaginary phone. He didn't seem overly surprised to see us, just a little taken aback that we hadn't called.

So, here's to friends, meth labs, and beavers. And an extra toast to whoever finds me Googling for porn and drugs after I post this. Sorry about that, buddy.

Be calm, be brave, it'll be okay

Fuck. What was I thinking when I thought I could do this?

We haven't even been apart for two months, and there are fissures running the length and breadth of me. I can't touch him, hold him, kiss him, see him. The curse of multiple time zones means we're lucky to talk more than a few hours per week, and we usually can't help but catch each other right before bed or just before dawn.

It's quiet and rainy here tonight, and suddenly I don't know if I can fight hard enough to get through this. Two years? Twenty-four months of this? I feel like my whole world is coming to pieces. I'm just scared that without meaning to, we'll drift apart. We're busy people, busy by nature, most satisifed when we're flying between half a dozen tasks and events, brains chattering at dizzying speeds. When we live together, it's hard enough to "be" together for any amount of time. When we're apart? Like any couple in an LDR, we fill the hours to avoid thinking about the hurt and the loneliness -- but in cramming the waking life full, we don't let ourselves have time to miss each other. It's a double-edged sword: it doesn't hurt as much, and it's probably the only thing that lets us slog through every day without collapsing -- but it almost means we have to detach to survive. And what if we can't stop detaching? What happens when we get to see each other for a whopping two weeks this summer, and then go apart again? And again? And again? What if we grow apart without meaning to? Without realizing the space between us until it's too late?

There aren't any easy answers. It's happening to more and more people we know: if you aren't fortunate enough to share the same career interests (and, sometimes, even if you are), you may be bound for a time apart should you marry young. We knew it, and we knew it, and we knew it...but then it comes down to the wire and you realize that what we knew doesn't compare to what it feels like when it happens. But what are we supposed to do? Is one of us supposed to give it all up, which doesn't do anything but sow seeds of resentment that spring up overnight like dandelions? Is it even possible to find a middle ground where we can both do what we like without going apart for what we love?

Fuck. Sometimes I wish I could just be happy doing anything, and it kills me that I can't. And yet, I get frustrated when people suggest that this is the problem. No one ever asks why he can't give up his path. It's like it all comes down to me, the onus is on me, the problem is me. And the only one who doesn't see it that way -- even when I'm questioning whether they're right -- is him.

In the end, maybe that's why this has to work, even if it hurts in ways I didn't think were possible. Because the only one who understands me is eight thousand miles away. And I'd be a damned fool to let that keep us apart without a fight.

Warning: temporary depression ahead

Sometimes, I miss my husband more than I ever thought possible. Like now, when I work an 11-hour day, completely alone in the office, trying to organize and run an entire auction on a budget that might not even allow for real letterhead.

In the future, I'd better be able to look back on the last two years and say, "Oh yeah. Now I see the reason for all of that," because if I can't? If I can't, then I don't really know why I'm perpetrating self-inflicted torture now by moving back overseas and trying to establish a career in a field that's alternatingly invigorating and insomnia-inducing. For real. I don't know if I'm going to sleep tonight because I'm so worried that we can't even afford the postage for the freaking bulk mail solicitations I need to send.

I miss him so fucking much.

Let's go exploring

I'm sorry for leaving you in suspense for so long (and the fact that anyone cares is really sweet).

But yes, I have a job. An Official Title job which entails real responsibilities, as there are fewer people in my office than fingers on one hand. The position includes orchestrating our annual fundraiser auction (scheduled for spring, and no work done yet! Eeep!), co-organizing the volunteer projects; doing public outreach, presentations, etc; digging into restoration policy; and a few other things. Hence, the slight panic: this is a serious, serious job. I insisted I never wanted to be an admin assistant again, and it remains true -- but I'm realizing that the perk to admin was that I never really had to be held accountable for anything. The worst I could do was transfer a few phone calls to the wrong desk or missplace something of moderate importance, like our housing bills. Now? Now, I could singlehandedly throw an organization into chaos by double-booking the auction venue or wrecking the company truck. (Have I mentioned that both trucks are stick shifts, which I can't drive? Do you SEE why I'm working on my first ulcer?)

As strange as this may sound to anyone who's been in the workforce for awhile, it also feels very, very odd to have a "real" real job. This isn't something I can leave in a year to finish grad school (that comes later), or something I can just do on a whim to keep me occupied in between classes. More than anything else I've done, this feels like serious adulthood, and I'm feeling a little ambivalent about it. While I'm thrilled to actually be in the field I wanted and to have a job which will challenge me by making me stretch in a dozen directions at once, I also feel a little wistful. So much for doing the over-romanticized coffeehouse job while writing my novel between shifts. No spontaneous "pack it up and travel" moments coming soon. I'm really envious of people who can do those things, but I think I learned this year that I can't. I need more structure, as well as a role that feels like it's really "doing something"...and I'm a little disappointed in myself as a result. I'm afraid I won't finish that novel, or do that traveling, and even though I know those fears are exaggerated right now, they still nibble at me when I'm lying in bed. Here comes the nontraditional student in grad school, the mortgage (if we can ever afford one), the itemized taxes and IRAs and scheduled vacation time. Part of me's relieved, and the rest wants to run screaming to the nearest bar...which probably explains why I spent Friday night in the tub with a giant Bloody Mary.

At the same time, I'm totally stoked about this job and think that it will be a perfect way to launch the environmental policy career I'm hoping to have. This is going to let me get involved with every aspect of an organization, and it's a group which straddles the nonprofit-government border while also working with the private sector. I wish I could tell you all about it, but I don't feel like getting dooced anytime soon...and with such a small office, you know I'll have stories to tell.

Tomorrow is my second day, and I'm already going to be alone in the office all week. In that time, I have to select two or three venues for the event while remaining mindful of our microscopic budget, and I also need to prep all of our PR materials and start identifying potential donors. So much for easing into things! But life is good, and I just hope I can perform well enough to convince them to keep me. On the bright side, I do get to keep the eyebrow, the jeans, and the bike-to-work habit. I may be getting dragged into full-blown adulthood, but I have a healthy clump of my less-responsible side clutched between my fingers. Aren't you thrilled you get to come along for the ride? ;)

Shout it out

One guess what finally happened today, based on these two back-to-back reactions.



Let's see...utter elation (note to self: do not be elated often, as it looks like I could frighten children and small dogs with that expression), followed by actual situation setting in...well, I'll let you stew on it. ;) Full meditation on the event coming tomorrow.

New reasons to keep vomiting

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!!

I'd heard they were doing this, but I really didn't believe it...And I just love our smug president and his, "Golly gee, I don't pronounce words so good anyway" garbage. The leaders of the free world, ladies and gentlemen!

Ugh

Stomach flu today (or food poisoning, but who cares enough to be decisive?). It's almost 6pm, and this is the first time I've been able to sit up for more than 10 minues in a row...so I'll get back to blogging when I'm not semi-delerious.

Life lists

Most normal people are in bed at 12:40 am. Me? I make a life list for your reading pleasure. Or mine. I've just realized there are a lot of things I keep saying I should do, but then I forget about them until the next time a bright idea flashes through my head. Now, I have to actually think about doing them. Not necessarily a bad thing.

Getting my fix

I don't do sci-fi.

That said, holy crap, how can a girl become so addicted to Battlestar Galactica? Two multi-hour marathons after my first episode (#1 of Season Three), and I'm hopelessly ensnared by the drawn-out plots, the juicy ethical questions, and the inexplicably *hawt* Lee Adama. The best part is that every time I mention it, I out another friend who's also hooked. It's like some sort of virus running rampant over the airwaves.

Stupid DVD series. I get rid of my tv, but I still have my DVD-RW. I really ought to throw it out...but then I'd never find out who the last five Cylons are.

SOTU

You know, listening to the SOTU became easier this year for two reasons:

1. Fewer smart-ass smirks from Dubya
2. The SOTU Drinking Game

After his third or fourth reference to "the American people," I was too entranced by the spinning Senate floor to care. Gotta love the dramatic atmospheric shift this year. No more wild applause or u-rah cheers, and a lot of painful silence when he clearly expected praise. So, what was my favorite part? The long, drawn out praise of Nancy Pelosi, clearly intended to forstall actually embarking on a lame duck speech, or the standard cream filling (in which we praise various random people for random noble acts) which came at the end this time -- because he had not a damned thing to say and didn't want to wrap up with, "Please don't hurt me." Personally, I think it was the Cheney-Pelosi glare wars. Good stuff, people.

But what was up with the near-groping of our new Speaker of the House? Between her and Angela Merkel, I think we have a problem.

Where do I draw the line?

I have two job interviews this week. One seems promising; the other less so. I should be excited -- and I was, but there's a catch. A silver one.

I reluctantly drove to my tattoo and piercing parlour today to have a clear glass eyebrow barbell fitted. That way, I can keep the hole open without jeopardizing the interview, on the offhand chance that anyone in nonprofit land still balks at the sight of metal in skin. Sounds perfect, right?

Except:

I fucking hate it.

In addition to being mind-numbingly ugly, like I'm some kind of land fish dragging around a small memento of my last encounter with a fisherman, it also draws lots of attention to the slight irritation around the piercing itself. Skin, understandably, isn't keen on being rubbed, and it's in constant contact with my barbell. So it's red. Usually, this isn't a problem. Now? Now it looks like I have MRSA.

The aesthetic ugliness aside, my real problem is something I didn't anticipate feeling: a severe sense of loathing and resentment that my potential for a job might be gauged not upon my qualifications, enthusiasm, potential or experience, but upon a millimeter thick piece of metal that spends half its time lurking behind my fringe. You know something? I can do these jobs. I am talented enough, hard-working enough -- I'll be the last one at the office if that's what it takes. But this little piercing here? It's part of me. You may not get that, but it is. It means a lot to me. I wore it through hell and back this past year, and I've transitioned from viewing it as an interesting accoutrement to a vital portion of who I am and what I stand for every damn day.

Tattoos, piercings, hair color, unusual clothes....news for ya, people: they don't affect job performance. My brain won't implode because I have a piercing; in fact, my academic performance has increased since its arrival. But cramming us all into the same neutral spaces and stifling any hint of personal expression does hurt the workplace. We are who we are. You may not have a single piercing, or you may be tattooed from elbows to knees. It doesn't matter to me, as long as you can file my taxes/tinker with my car/fix my aching back. I will wear a suit, even though I dislike them. I'll put on makeup, file my nails, maybe even consider heels. This? This is too far.

I know there are people out there who don't understand why it matters, and that's fine -- but it does. Lord knows I wish it didn't, but I've been sitting in front of the bathroom mirror for much of the last couple days trying to work up the nerve to take it out...and I Can't Do It.

So. It would appear that we are at an impasse, my little glass imposter and I. And here we sit, in a long detente with no resolution in sight. It's just a stupid hunk of metal, but it matters.

I'll be right beside you, dear

So, how did that last night go?


That was the view from our hotel window, with lighting assistance from Picasa (thanks to Joanium for turning me onto the program). When I opened the door, CB went straight to the view; for two hours, we sat in front of the window as gulls swept past, their wingtips nearly caressing the glass. You live here long enough and almost fail to notice how beautiful it is. I remember now.

Dinner was amazing. We found a quiet Italian bistro tucked into a corner of Pike Place. On a snowy weeknight, the half-empty restaurant became a perfect place for lingering glances and easy conversation.


The next morning, as we sat at the window of a cafe across from the Market, I realized I hadn't let it hit me yet. It was just what I hoped I'd be able to say.

I never got cold wearing nothing in the snow

Can you believe this? In Seattle. In January.


At 9am, the streets were silent. Actually, silent is not the right word. They were devoid of everyday workweek sounds: rushing traffic, pulsing energy. Instead, side streets like this one became community centers, as if this modest snowstorm was our own little blackout, impelling our impersonal city to bundle up and come out to play, dressed in its brightest scarf and hat.

Everywhere I walked, throngs of children skidded past on anything slick enough to move: plastic sleds, snowboards, dinner trays. Parents formed casual phalanxes on the hilltops, using group strength to deter the occasional ambitious 4x4 driver who approached. Today, all of the streets in our neighborhood were for people. And even though you weren't here, I felt surrounded by friends.


We don't have snow like this in Seattle. Ideal snowball-snow. The satisfying, dull thock of compact powder as it strikes the alluring telephone pole, the electric stop sign. Perfect targets in a monochrome world.

Tonight, the rain returns, and great clumps of snow are plummeting from the roof as I write. The day itself was rather crap: job applications unanswered, evil British banks determined to dog me from abroad, creeping anxiety I didn't quite manage to ignore. But this morning? This morning was a gift to savor for every moment of my long, lingering walk up and down the slopes of our hill. Because for that deceptively brief stretch, I forgot that anything mattered at all.

Sinking in

Half the time, I convince myself that nothing's changed. When I'm driving across town to visit a mutual friend, and there's no one in the car to share my ire at the latest bulletin on NPR, I tell myself it's because you're at work, or staying home, or maybe biking out on the Burke. When I'm not sure where you are or what you're doing, I pretend it's because we want to surprise each other, talk about our days over dinner that night.

The other half, it's 2:30 in the morning and I wake up. Your pillow: it's cold. Your side of the bed: empty. Your warm chest rising and falling against my skin is a whisper in my dream.

I think, this can't be right. It's only been three days. I have approximately 60 more sets of three days to go. A few weeks later, they'll start again. And again. And again.

Sometimes, I wish I could start a blog just for us, one that let me tell you everything ; right now, I feel like I'm opening our windows to let the world see through the panes.

My writing is shit right now. My brain on automatic. The incredibly kind parking attendant at the airport took one look at my mascara-streaked face (what was I thinking, wearing that?) and waived me past the line, even though I'd validated my car much earlier, when I hadn't guessed I'd spend 20 minutes behind the steering wheel without starting the ignition.

I know it's going to pass. It is already: I reorganized our room today and visited a few friends. I'm crashed on their couch right now, trying to convince myself that this post won't be as embarrassing to read in the morning. Please forgive me if I dabble in melancholy the next few weeks. I promise to regale you with equally as many good stories, even if they take awhile to come.

Things I never envisioned explaining

Parental Unit (Male), riffling through this week's edition of the Stranger, which I mistakenly left on the coffee table:

"Look, they have their summarized takes on all of the 2008 presidential candidates."

Proceeds to read a few out loud to Parental Unit (Female), who is pointedly ignoring him. Reads anyway.

Dad: "Barak Obama: junior senator from Illinois; bestselling author; totally fuckable former coke and pot user."

Mom: "What? Former what?"

"Coke and pot user."

"Oh, yeah, that. It was all over the news a few months ago. We heard it already."

Dad, perplexed: "Yes, but what does 'totally fuckable' mean?"

Me: contemplate lengthy, detailed explanation which would include summaries of Dan Savage and Savage Love, as well as the 'Barak Obama Does Your Mama' satirical piece. Think about the latest letters to Savage Love, which included graphic descriptions of wives-of-cuckolds being 'bred' in front of their mates.

"Daughter? Honey? Do you --"

"What? No, Dad, I don't read that kind of stuff -- jeez, I mean, the thing is, there's this gay columnist, hey, has anyone seen my front door key? I think I dropped it somewhere last night. Better go look because you never know who might...um...pick it up...off our...um, floor."

Storm front coming

Seattle is experiencing a cold snap right now, the kind that leaves pedestrians huddled on corners with hands pulling their collar flaps tight. Last night, just before the latest front's arrival, my dad came inside and said, "We may want to reconsider our plans. There's a sea of black rolling this way. I'd hate to have you caught out in it."

The tide is in this morning. It marks the arrival of an unexpected part of our lives, a physical separation we anticipated but still thought we could stave off for awhile longer. I'm still not sure exactly how I'll manage to put CB on "our" flight tomorrow, especially knowing that there will be an empty seat with my name on it next to his. But despite my discomfort (and, okay, denial), quiet confidence sits deep at the base of my chest. If we didn't do this, we might not make it. By doing it, by allowing ourselves to follow the paths we feel compelled to take, we're doing exactly what we think is right, precisely what we need to be together for the long haul. If it doesn't work, I'll go back to England. But it is going to work. We believe in our decision; we will be there for each other every single day, even if it's not in the traditional way; and we will change our plans if either of us senses even the slightest warning sign. We are going to be fine.

So the next time an acquaintance asks how we're doing, wearing an expression that tells me the person has already decided our outcome, I'm going to ram the heartache and tears down my throat. I'll turn to the person with a "Why should you ask?" smile and say, "Good. We're good."

We are good.

Talk to you in a few days.

Spinning my wheels

*huff* *huff*

I'd write more, but I'm still catching my breath after biking all the way up freaking Fremont today. That hill was a lot shorter when I got to turn on 41st. Those last nine blocks? The deceptively gradual grade? My knee wants its cartilage back. My lungs are apparently capable of having seizures.

*gasp*

The sick part is that I really enjoyed it. I even chased after someone who passed me on a road bike. Probably won't be doing that for another week (by which time I hope to regain feeling in my quads), but at least I know I still can.

*collapse*

Are you getting somewhere

Sorry, sorry! I'm relieved and surprised that anyone's expecting me to post, but I also feel bad for failing to meet my self-imposed deadline. Things are just a little hectic around here. I'm not coping well with the husband's impending absence, and so everything else (phone calls, emails, holiday cards and blog posts) has fallen by the wayside. It should pick up once he's away, as I'll be trying to find things to do that fill the lonely hours. For now, I've been trying to brainstorm some New Year's resolutions...

Resolution One: Prove to the world that my career title is *not* Permanent Admin Assistant. I have more job applications floating around my field now. Getting into that world matters to me: I need to discover what my options are within it before I determine whether I should be going back to school for a policy degree, a resource management degree, or something else altogether. I also can't imagine doing anything else at this point in my life, which I thought I'd never say. I'm a little depressed because I'm running into the "You are over/underqualified" trap, and no one seems to care that overqualified can also be interpreted as will be the *most* qualified and yet still willing to work for crap to gain a little experience. C'mon, people!!

Resolution Two: Do everything I can to keep this LDR functional. This includes lots of handwritten letters, spontaneous gifts, daily phone calls (stupid time zones), and the occasional racy e-photo. ;)

Resolution Three: Finish my damn book. I got stuck in December when we decided I was moving back, but CB insists that it's worth finishing and I just need to think up an approach to a sticky conflict/catharsis chapter. I want a finished draft by mid-year and a "real" draft by December so I can inflict pain upon friends and potential agents just in time for the holidays.

Resolution Four: Bike more. Headwinds, psychotic Seattle rain and crazed drivers be damned.

Resolution Five: Find ways to be less stressed. This should be easy, what with the career uncertainty, LDR, current housing situation and fear of writer's block looming in the background.

Resolution Six: Change the current housing situation. We all love our families, which is why we don't live with them.

Resolution Seven: Bird more (new hobby), improve the ever-inadequate Spanish, actually send my thesis to people who were promised it last summer.

Resolution Eight: Stop feeling like I need a laundry list of resolutions.

Posts over the next few weeks will either be embarrassingly emotional, sporradic, or schizophrenic. With four days to go before CB flies back to England, I'm holding it together -- but every time I think of that impending drive to the airport, I feel more despair than I ever imagined I could bear without breaking. We will be fine, but that doesn't mean I have to be right now.

So this is the New Year

Death Cab running through my head...

On the first day of the new year, my brother's futon snapped in half, the rain returned, and I spent most of the day curled in a ball on the bedspread trying not to think about how quickly Coalescent Boy's departure is approaching.

We decided that our most monstrous 2006 hadn't quite left. We realized we had failed to burn the traditional New Year's candle.

It just flickered out. Goodbye and good riddance, 2006! While it had its moments, I can't say I'll miss it. Here's hoping for brighter days to come. Regular posting to resume on January 4th.

My life list

Birders have "life lists," or lists recording the first sighting of any bird that's "new" to them. Since I am barely a birder, I thought I'd start my own life list of of 26 things I hope to do in this lifetime (since I turn 26 this year and all). I'll add an item a year, or more, or less. Who knows? Maybe you'll even see a few checked off before you get bored.

Life list, in no particular order

1. Shave my head
2. Parachute out of a plane
3. Complete RAMROD
4. Do STP
5. Ride the Kettle Valley Trail
6. Backpack through the Hoh Rainforest. None of this dayhike crap like I always do.
7. Do at least 50 cumulative miles of the Pacific Crest Trail
8. Start three day eventing
9. Write and publish four novels. Good ones. And by “good,” I mean, the NYT doesn’t hate them “good,” not sells like Daniel Steele “good.”
10. Become a Master Birder (yeah, I know. Bad title.)
11. Spend 4-6 months traveling through South America
12. Buy a house in the city. By city, I mean Seattle. Yes, I know this might mean saying goodbye to one of my kidneys. And a lung.
13. Be able to look back on my career and feel that I made a tangible difference in Northwest conservation.
14. Never forget to fight for the forgotten parts of society.
15. Keep tutoring inmates. Try hard to field questions from skeptics without becoming frustrated or complaining that nobody “gets it.”
16. See (and howl with) honest-to-god wild wolves.
17. Write at least one essay that would make Barbara Kingsolver or Annie Dillard proud.
18. Become as close to fluent in Spanish as a gabacha can be.
19. Take better pictures and someday purchase the equipment I need to be a legitimate photographer. Print the ones that are good enough already and try selling them. Or at least framing them for the house.
20. Keep up the tango lessons until I can walk backwards with the best of them.
    
21. Love CB openly, honestly, and unfailingly for the rest of my days.
22. Stay vegetarian.
23. Begin investing in real estate before 30 to build a secure future.
24. Find a reason to laugh every day.
25. Commit to practicing yoga well enough and long enough to actually maintain a healthy back.
26. Understand that I’ll never feel like I’m doing enough, accomplishing enough, or living up to my own expectations. Find a way to be okay with that.

Bouncing around

Ah, nothing like spending six hours in traffic getting over the pass to let you know you're back in the Northwest. We would pick the night of the major windstorm to drive to Wenatchee. Seattle streets? Not a pleasant sight in heavy rain. I'm pretty sure that the whirlpool on the corner of Corliss and 40th sucked down a bicyclist.

It took us an hour to get from Phinney Ridge to the I-90 entrance in SoDo, and then we spent an additional five hours rumbling up Snoqualmie with our new chains. Want to test the strength of your marital relationship? Try hooking up chains in freezing rain on a dark I-90 onramp, sandwiched between two snorting semis, sharing a single pair of gloves and relying on a trickle of light from one decaying flashlight. I'd also recommend letting the person with no snow driving experience remain at the helm so she can spin you halfway across the road just after you leave the summit. Hey, at least I remembered to steer with the spin in time to stop a foot away from the snow-encrusted guard rail. The guy in the SUV who blitzed past us earlier? Not so lucky. After I slowly steered the car back in the right direction, we found him facing the wrong way, up to his grill in snow. Apparently, he'd done this before: he had a shovel in his hands and was lustily working on the buried front wheels. Good to know our state has such fabulous drivers.

By the time we reached the east side, we were barely functional. We greeted our monster tortoise, who is about ready to outgrow the pen we thought capable of holding him for five years, and staggered to bed. Since then, it's been a lot of random errands, family time and job hunting. Let's not talk about that last one, mmkay?

Lots to write about regarding our L.A. adventures, but that will come soon. We're off to the west side again on Wednesday for a major basketball game, and hopefully my car won't pull any figure skating moves this time.

Rolling out

Twelve sacks of clothing
Eleven presents (padded)
Ten security restrictions
Nine hours of flying
Eight hour difference
Seven o'clock bus ride
Six checked bags bulging
Five nasty snacks
Four in-flight films
Three hour check-in
Two excess bags
And one day left until I move home

We're off to LA for a few days and will be hopping around Washington after that. Updates coming whenever I can. Catch you on the flip side.

Jingle my bells, baby

I am so excited. For the first time, I actually was able to buy CB a "real" (e.g., something I know he'd want) present. I saved the dregs of my grad school stipend from the final term, which gave me enough to spring for a pair of tickets to a big-deal UW game that's happening over the break. Since it's our last long period of time together for awhile, I wanted to do some things that he'd remember -- and seeing our current b-ball roster play a top-10 team is about as good as it gets for him.

Alas, since he's my wheels this vacation, I had to tell him early...but I'm pretty sure he doesn't mind. ;) I just found out that the tickets arrived at home, safe and sound. Now, all I have to do is hope we don't have any more freak snowstorms on game day. 'Cause I would be leading a frontal assault over the Cascades to get us there by hiking trails, and I'm not too keen on getting my game gear all frosty.