Do you ever have a day when...

You go out for drinks with a girlfriend on a Saturday night, and, while sitting on the deck of a popular bar you're sure will attract all the happening people, you discover you're actually mingling in the spot where the Computer Club is meeting? The geeky guy crouching down to peer under your table is not attempting to see up your skirt; he's looking for an outlet for his machine. Move inside immediately.

You agree to play raquetball with your mom at the Y in K Falls? In spite of your attempts to duck, sprint, and basically flatten yourself against a wall, she still manages to "accidentally" thwack you with the ball several times.

You realize your 28 year old self is not so different from your five year old self? All you and a friend need for hours of entertainment at the lake from your childhood is a 50 cent beach ball. Little kids hop in the water, play for a while, and then leave with their parents. With no parent there to monitor your beach time, the two of you engage in an intense water volleyball competition with no end in sight. Hunger and very pruney hands finally lead you to reluctantly exit the lake...and head for the swings.

You're waiting to cross the street at the local grocery store, and a cute guy in an SUV stops to let you go? You turn to flash him a thank you smile, and he gives you a nice smile back. After reveling in the good moment for about a second, you take a noticeable stumble in the crosswalk as your heel slips off the side of your sandal. Proceed into store and pretend whole incident never happened.

You are totally engrossed in a book with an ending that takes you completely by surprise and moves you to tears? Try My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult. It's a little over the top at the end, but it still got me.

You decide on a whim to get a tattoo? It hurts. A lot. Luckily, you like the symbol you chose, even if you learn later on that one closely related meaning for it is Three Weird Sisters (and you have two kinda weird sisters).

You decide on another whim to get your ears pierced many years after your original piercings have closed up? Actually, your sister decides for you as she marches you into Claire's Boutique and announces to the assistant manager that you are there to get your ears pierced. The assistant manager gives you a look and scoffs as she returns to pricing merchandise. Your sister assures her that is actually why the two of you are there, so the women finally takes you seriously and helps you pick out earrings. You sit on a tall stool in the front of the store for the procedure, and little girls hover around to giggle and point at the old lady who is getting her ears done. The special cleaning kit you get is a hot pink bag that screams "I just had my ears pierced at Claire's!" As you leave the store, you shove the huge bottle of antiseptic solution in your purse and chuck the bright bag in the nearest garbage can.

Humiliation complete.

My sister Molly is having a baby boy soon, and I think she needs to know what she has to look forward to in a few years. While sitting in the bleachers at my friend's softball game tonight, I heard a strange noise on the sidewalk behind me. I turned in my seat, and there he was. A little six or seven year old boy, pants down around his ankles, privates on display, spraying the cement with pee. Funny enough, the door to the men's room was only about 15 feet away. Lots of people were standing nearby, chatting and laughing amid the action of the two softball games, but no one seemed the notice the unfortunate incident in progress. He managed to make a nice little puddle before his mother caught him, pulled up his pants while scolding, and gave him a little swat before moving him away from the scene.

For the rest of the game, Emily and I entertained ourselves by keeping an eye on the wet spot left by the rapidly drying puddle. When a woman who obviously loved the color green (green vest, green shorts, green shoes, socks with a green stripe...) walked by, Emily instructed me to watch for her to step in it. Nope. In fact, people avoided the wet spot as though they had psychic knowledge of its origin. Finally, near the end, a player from another team stood on the stain while chatting with her family; her dog stood by sniffing it suspiciously. At one point, she set her sports bag on top of the spot, and Em and I let out a resounding EWWWWWW with giggles.

What are little boys made of? Snips and snails and puppy dog tails (don't forget the urge to pee on the sidewalk). That's what little boys are made of.

Holiday Sales

Hello, hello! Long time, no blog.

This past month has been a whirlwind of fun travel, and I'm sorry to see it end. It started with a long weekend trip to see my family in exotic Klamath Falls, OR, followed shortly after by five days in gorgeous Maui to see my very pregnant sister, and then last week I visited my dear friend and family in Minneapolis. All three trips were absolutely fantastic and relaxing. Why, oh why, does vacation have to end? I have stories to share, but I'll have to write those when I'm not so sleepy. I need a vacation to recover from my vacations.

The 4th of July was gorgeous (a shocker), and I spent my evening with friends at a house perfectly positioned for watching Seattle's amazing fireworks display. While walking over to a neighbor's yard to enjoy an even better view, Emily and I passed a little wooden table set on the sidewalk with two adorable, pigtailed, little girls sitting behind it. The table itself was covered with an assortment of kitchen utensils. As we passed, one little girl shouted "Spark-lers!" and the other promptly followed with "LEMONADE!!!" We stopped and stared, mesmerized by their enthusiasm, as they continued to energetically chant in turn "Spark-lers!" (slight pause) "LEMONADE!!!" "Spark-lers!" (slight pause)"LEMONADE!!!" They were so cute, and we started to giggle. While we couldn't see any evidence of sparklers or lemonade on their table, we decided they had a business strategy we could fully embrace. At the next Fremont fair, Emily and I are going to drag a card table and our merchandise out to a bustling street corner. In our pigtails, we'll alternately shout "Spark-lers!" "LEMONADE!!!"

Just so you know, I'm sparklers and she is lemonade.

Does the fact that I like Guinness redeem me at all?

I've discovered that I'm a permanent tourist in my drinking life. Bring on the cosmos! Bring on the lemon drops! Bring on the lava flows! I'll take a margarita or pina colada any day. Gin and scotch....not so much.

After work yesterday, my coworkers invited me and a few others to a last minute martini party in one of their offices. I like vodka martinis okay, but I wasn't sure I'd ever tasted the gin version. One sip and ACK. That's exactly the sound I made. All I could taste was alcohol in the yuckiest sense. Not wanting to look like a wimpy girl in front of the boys, I gingerly sipped on my drink, trying to fool everyone and keep my lips from continuously pursing. Yes, I'm having a great time! Yum, this is delicious! I'd follow up each tiny gulp with a handful of chips or party mix or an olive...anything to make the taste go away.

Next up, a little bit of scotch. At least that has an actual flavor, but too bad it has to be of smoky old shoe leather. "How do you know what shoe leather tastes like?" one of my friends inquired curiously. I explained that I was basing my description on the scent of shoe leather rather than any history of snacking on it. I worked in shoes (part-time) back in my youth, so I should know. One of my other friends followed that with her observation that the scotch tasted like the smell of elephant poo, which she happens to like, so the conversation went along a whole new thread after that.

This is a bummer, because I always thought it was so cool in the movies when they'd mix scotch and water for a drink, ice cubes clinking in the glass. Now I'll have to refrain from yelling "Don't drink that nasty old shoe!" Not very cool at all.

Clumsy

OK, I admit it. I think it's hilarious when people trip and fall.

Most of my friends are nonplussed and express some dismay when they learn that I get a good laugh over this. I'm quick to add the disclaimer that my enjoyment greatly diminishes, and quickly transforms into concern, if someone is really hurt. Still, that doesn't stop the looks of suspicion that I may be pure evil beneath a relatively nice exterior.

This is on my mind because I got these looks just the other night, while out celebrating Cinco de Mayo at the bar with friends. Emily told the story from the recent Snow Patrol concert. While sitting in the dark tuning out the bizarre dramatics of the opening act, I distracted myself by watching a girl make her way up the stairs of the middle aisle in our balcony. Our row of seats was directly in front of her, and just as I was thinking this was a prime tripping situation, she went down! I couldn't help it. From the moment she hit the stairs, I was shaking with glee but managed to suppress it until she got up and started to walk away. As soon as the first giggle escaped, Emily turned to me and said "I knew it! I knew you'd laugh! I was just sitting here thinking wait for it...wait for it..."

Why is this so funny to me?

Considering my own streak in my youth, you'd think I'd have empathy for other unlucky stumblers. In my pre-adolescent and early teens years, I was a geeky kid, not yet comfortable in my body--skinny (the good ol' days), awkwardly long-limbed, with the grace of a newborn deer. I was pretty much always a trip waiting to happen. One notable fall occurred while visiting my grandparents in Spokane. My family had gone out to pick up pizzas for dinner, and I climbed out of the car with both boxes in my hands. Somehow, I missed the curb in front of me and started a slow flop to the ground while my family gawped in silent horror. Aware that the state of dinner was in my hands, I managed to land flat with my arms straight out in front of me, the pizza boxes sliding gently across the damp grass. The rest of my body took the hit. My mother, in all her maternal concern, shouted in alarm, "The PIZZAS!!" Seeing that they were still intact, she then asked if I was okay. Priorities, priorities.

To be completely honest, my streak never really ended. Yes, I've grown into my limbs, and I'm much more centered and in control, but I still take a frequent enough spills. One day, while walking between two cars in a parking lot at work, I ran into the curb again. Trying to stop the inevitable, I slammed into one car, bounced off, and smacked into the other before making contact with the pavement. A passing minivan screeched to a halt, and the kind driver rolled down his window to ask if I was okay. Thankfully, there were no pizzas (or car alarms) involved. I responded that I was "Fiiiiiiiiiine." My knees and pride only slightly bruised.

Another time, I was ambling into Target with my friend Jeremy when--you guessed it--I came into contact with my nemesis, The Curb. With nothing to grab on to, I went down hard with my arms flailing windmill style. Jeremy waved passing cars by while he helped scrape me off the concrete, and I hobbled in to the store's bathroom to clean my wounds. Then, I spent the next half hour walking through the cosmetics aisles, shaking with laughter, as I relived my embarrassing moment over and over in my head. The only truly upsetting part to me was that I'd ruined my favorite pair of red shoes on that darn curb! Those shoes are still in a bag in the corner of my closet, waiting patiently to be fixed.

I guess my point is, and I do present this to my questioners, if I find my own falls humorous and can laugh at myself, shouldn't that give me green light to laugh at others? There are plenty of comedians, movies, and TV shows (does anyone else remember Carrie sliding across the shiny floor of Dior in Paris on SatC?) that poke fun at human clumsiness. Whether they admit it outright or not, a few people have confided in me that they get an inordinate amount of pleasure when they see someone trip too. It happens to all of us, and I think we can agree that most of the time it looks and feels ridiculous. So, I have to wonder why such harsh judgments when I tell how I respond?

Future Fallers Beware! If you're on the ground, face burning with shame as you gather the courage to right yourself, and you hear a slightly suppressed chuckle, it's probably me. Learn from my mistakes and watch out for those nasty curbs. They'll get ya.

Do you ever have a day when...

You stop to buy champagne for a party, and while standing in line to pay, the clerk (who has a good ten years on you) instructs you and your friend to look up, so she can determine your age by the wrinkles around your eyes? She checks, and no ID is required.

You find out a lame show like the Real Gilligan's Island is sailing into its second season, while the funniest show on television, Arrested Development, hasn't even been renewed for next year? Save Arrested Development!

Buying a cute pair of shoes REALLY is a cure for the blues?

You're feeling pretty good about yourself and someone has the nerve to say to you, "Are you okay? You look kinda (tired, sick, messy, enter mad libs insult here)."

A comment someone makes gives you a glimpse of how they see you, and you are pleasantly surprised by the discovery?

You get exactly what you need to brighten your day? Whether it's a three hour, great conversation, coffee date with a dear friend, a humorous IM conversation with a sister or long distance friend, or fun banter with an acquaintance in a coffee line.

You notice that visiting another country or city shows you a different side of yourself?

You laugh and laugh over the memory of your botched attempt to play The Entertainer at a piano recital when you were twelve? You lost your way and, not knowing what to do, you played the same bit over and over again until, red-faced and burning with humiliation, you decided to end it. Not funny at the moment, hilarious now.

Your parents sacrificed more than you realized over the years?

The radio plays a string of your favorite songs of all time, and you feel as though you were destined to be in the car at that exact time so you wouldn't miss it?

You offer to help what looks like lost visitors on a college campus, and one of them asks you if you are a student there? When you answer no, he looks you over, lets out a rude bark of a laugh and and says, "I was just being nice." ( you respond that, hey, you could be a grad student, thank you very much)

You realize that your life is not, and never will be, the textbook case for happiness? And you think, "That's cool."

Party Time

In yoga, our very brief water/rest break comes early in class. It's a few moments of bliss that our teachers refer to as "party time."

Last week, I forgot my water bottle and had to buy one at the studio, which is what most students use. As I was hovering in the tiny, crowded entry way at the end of another grueling, sweat-dripping session, trying to put my shoes on, I knocked a picture off the door with my bulky bag. I was a bit annoyed about this, because a guy was sitting on the bench right there, flipping through a book, and he didn't shove over to give me extra room to move. It would have been easy for him to do so. I found a little space to put my stuff down and scrambled around to right the picture, and when I stood up, the bench guy had grabbed my water bottle.

"Um, I think that's mine," I said.

"Huh, are you sure?" he replied. "Because I set mine down here, and I don't know where else it would be."

"Yes, I'm pretty sure it is," I assured him hastily. And, we both took a quick look around the bench.

"Hey, isn't that your bottle there in your bag?" he said, rather snottily, with an accusing point.

Er...

Yes, it was. So embarrassing. I stammered out an apology. He strode off, and I skulked out to my car.

Match Tag Lines

I'm rolling on the floor laughing...

The final line of Chris's match profile now reads "One thing, if you know the difference between you're and your, accept and except, whether and weather, that's a definite plus!!"

This is in response to a recent email she received with the subject line "Not you're tipical guy".

Well, she thought, how typical.

Can I add dinner and diner to that?

Internet highway...

My friend Emily has fallen in cyberlove. In the course of two hours, communicating through email and IM with Mr. Right, she has experienced the joys and sorrows of a full on relationship. First, they started with flirty chatting and more of the getting to know you stuff they hadn't yet covered. Honeymoon Central. This was soon followed by a misunderstanding and squabble, which resulted in a major sign-off huff (with Em simultaneously swearing off men and Googling for mail order groom services). And, finally, the online apology and make-up.

Although she hasn't met him, she feels an intense connection, and they have oodles to talk about. She wonders if she is crazy. Sounds like an interesting guy, I said, send me his username so I can look at a pic and his profile. OK, she replies, but don't be alarmed by the gas masks.

Gas masks, eh?

The online dating scene is an interesting monster. I'm the first to admit that, once you're out of school and wrapped up in establishing your own life, meeting new people can be a challenge. However, finding a match on the internet highway of love is no afternoon curled up with When Harry Met Sally either. Reading a potential date's profile is an information exchange equivalent to a chat during a dinner for two, which can leave you awkward and with nothing to talk about on an actual first date. Or, if you get too comfortable exchanging intimate details over email, you may hit a slump and find it increasingly difficult to take the relationship to the next level. You have more to lose if you actually (gasp) meet the person and discover no chemistry. Your blossoming attraction could be doomed to a slow and pitiful death in cyberland.

This is why I've encouraged Emily to meet this guy and meet him as soon as possible. Who needs the drama of tonight unless she's 100% sure she's interested in sleeping with the guy?

Fit Kitty

Every night, while I'm performing my pre-bed ritual of brushing my teeth, washing my face, etc, Kitty does her nightly workout. My Kitty eats a lot, but she appears to be pretty weight conscious. Her routine goes something like this. When I head off to the bathroom to start getting read for bed, she watches me (my apartment is so small that she can pretty much see me from wherever she is) , and, within moments, she's sitting in the doorway meowing like crazy. When she first started this, I had no idea what was going on. I tried petting her and making comments like, "Be quiet, Kitty!" but that didn't stop the noise. Finally, out of sheer frustration, I once made a quick turn and stomp to fake like I was going to chase her. She went tearing off. Within seconds, she was back meowing until I pretended I was going to chase her again. Now, we pretty much do this every night, and I think she loves it, because sometimes she'll just continue dashing around from room to room, flipping over dust balls and the hallway rug in her wake. As is true for most of us, I think Kitty lacks the motivation to just take a quick jog around the house. She needs the threat of a big scary human chasing her to get her going. I must note, however, that she only likes the fake out chase. If I actually try to chase her around the apartment, she'll stop abruptly and stare at me like I'm out of my gourd. Whatever.

Another Kitty quality I find quite amusing is the frustrated noise she makes when I'm not letting her do what she wants. For the most part, she always has the same serene facial expression and a one pitch meow. However, if I refuse to pick her up when she is insisting, or if I have to continually remove her from the bed when I'm trying to make it, she does this little annoyed rumble in the back of her throat. It reminds me of Cartman on South Park when the kids are making fun of him and he's about to blow, which is quite fitting since Cartman has a cat named Kitty too. It cracks me up every time.

So, I know that the Oscar's are rigged and lame--yet, I'm usually glued to the TV for at least part of it-- but I am absolutely 100% refusing to watch them this year due to no Paul Giamatti nom for Sideways. The Oscar judges need to get a clue, in my opinion. I find all the celeb award shows sickening anyway. From Jan-March, it feels like there is at least one on every week. How often can we celebrate ourselves people? I hope I have lots of money someday so I can create an annual award night for outstanding teachers, firefighters/emergency response teams, social workers, activists, inventors, etc. who make an impact on peoples lives. And, I'd send them all home with $10,000 goody bags too. How cool would that be?

My sister Molly has asked me to be her doula when the baby arrives in September. At first, I was honored by her request and the idea of seeing my sister into this next phase of her life. So, I said yes I would be her doula. Then, we started talking about the details. I envision a doula as a person who is there to support you and help you (and your partner) out while you're giving birth. A birthing doula. Molly prefers to stick to the traditional definition which is something like "head servant." On the phone, she started in with a list that included making her breakfast, driving her around, doing laundry, and scrubbing floors. She wants me to come before the baby is due so I can start in on my doula responsibilities while she is still one. Also, she was quick to point out that a doula is supposed to be a non-judgmental person in a new mother's life (uh-oh). Hmmmmm. I think I may have to bow out of this gig for "creative differences." Now, she calls me up and says "Hello, my doooooooolaaaa" just to taunt me.

My youngest sister, Brynna, is wrapped up in and wants to discuss who is going to be Molly's maid of honor when she and Joe marry. She's worked it out so we each get a turn to be one, presuming we all marry, in a family wedding. With this doula task looming, I told her it's fine by me if she wants to be Molly's (Molly clearly has no choice), as being a maid of honor equals a lot of work. Also, my recent, and very limited, track record seems to suggest that I could get on a roll of being axed from weddings. Go Megan!

Brynna is also busily designing proud auntie t-shirts for us to wear when mini-Molly (won't know the gender for a while) arrives. I know, I know, I know that no matter what they will be pink and involve tons of glitter.

Cosmopolitan Girl in Purple Pants

As I was heading out of my Bikram's yoga class in all my sweaty glory on Sunday, the instructor tells me that she doesn't know why, but at the end of every class she gets the Indiana Jones theme song in her head. I think she pictures herself in the hat, cracking the whip that will drive us all in to shape. Hmmmmm. The secret thoughts of yoga instructors. All I know is that I'm about 10 years away from being a pretzel, and I want a better theme song.

Tonight I'm sitting here typing in my brand new purple velour pants (super comfy), birthday compliments of my friend Shannon, who tucked them in to a very cute Cosmopolitan Girl gift bag. I am now referring to them as my New Age Wear, since Shannon felt compelled to buy them in response to my protestations that, even though I'm interested in woo-woo New Age kinds of things, I will never ever buy in to the woo-woo fashion of flowy, often purple, outfits. Thanks, girlie. This is how a childhood crush in Elvis turned in to a full blown collection of paraphernalia--Elvis afghan and all.

Movie not worth seeing: The Wedding Date. It's bad. Really bad. Not only is it a confusing and blah story with no chemistry between the lead characters, but it turns out the production company sent out a bunch of copies with poor color quality. I had more fun counting the number of color changes throughout the film than watching this sad attempt at a love story. Actually, I'm plain mad that movie makers demonstrate such blatant disrespect for their audiences and allow people to unknowingly spend $9 for two hours of total crap. Ugh. I would like to speak to someone about this.

If I ever have enough money to start my own business, I'm going to open a clothing shop with pretty dressing rooms and nice lighting. I think I'd make a fortune. I can't count the number of conversations I've had with women, today especially, with stories that end with her standing in the dressing room, fighting back tears, and feeling hideous. I am no stranger to staring at myself in dismay under lights that accentuate every flaw either. The recipe for a major meltdown. What kind of sales strategy is that? If you look semi-okay in our store, imagine how great you'll look in the light of day!

I need to go to sleep, but I'm wrapped up in the perfect movie marathon on TBS. Just finished Serendipity (I'm a sucker for sappy movies), and now it's on to Parenthood. I ADORE it. Primarily because it reminds me so much of my childhood friend, Beth. I remember renting it with her in middle school, and we thought it was hilarious. We watched it all the time and quoted lines to each other. "Gee Grandma, you got short!" "I'm shrinking!" "Bummer..." We'd laugh and laugh. I wish I knew where she was so I could call her in the middle of the night to remind her of this.

There are moments when I very much wish I could go back, just for an instant, so I could own these memories fully. Happiness in the middle of awkward adolescent misery. It's like I only get part of it, because the feelings and confusion I had at the time about myself and my place in the world are now so distant, like a part of me that is filed away for good. I can remember, but I can't be that me anymore. So weird. It's unimaginable at 13 that when you're 28 you'll wish you could go back to visit your old self.

"Mommy, what was that?"

"It's an...electric ear cleaner..."

"It was kinda big."

Grandma: "It sure was!"

It's my birthday, and I'll bowl if I want to

Just wanted to thank my wonderful friends for making my birthday bowling bash so much fun! It was so nice sharing my day with you, and I love all my gifts. I feel like my game is really going to pick up now that I have my lucky bowling shirt. Goodbye 78, hello 100.

Today is a very special day. My friend Elizabeth had her baby! Unfortunately, getting through to her at the hospital is what I imagine it's like trying to call a celebrity at a hotel. Once you finally guess the right code name, the line is always busy. Not that I have any experience stalking celebs, of course.

Now that the baby is here and well, I have so many questions shuffling around impatiently inside me. I'm wanting to get the lowdown on this labor business. Is it the worst pain you'll ever know? Do you really scream hateful things to your husband while twisting his arm off? Did you poo on the delivery table? Does the baby have a conehead, yes or no? All very important things to know. Seriously, I can't even imagine what it's like the first amazing moments you meet your baby. How cool is that?

The good news is that now everyone has stopped asking me if there is any news. I can return to strolling through the hallways at work and riding the elevator like a normal person, staring uncomfortably at the floor numbers without having to talk with anyone. Relief.

What can I say? The miracle of life is a hard act to follow...I'm going home to watch "The O.C."

Traffic Calming Devices Ahead

In suburbia, specifically Mill Creek, WA, those words on a sign are a short version of "Watch out for the massive speed bumps ahead, otherwise your car is toast!"

So, I have a new car now. Two buyers were competing for my 7 year old Ford Escort and I finally had to let her go. Which means I had a bit of cash to put down on a super cool Scion TC. I love my zippy new car! Although, we are slowly getting used to each other. I've had a few bumps during this first week.

I made my first passengers (three guys) scream while parallel parking. To be fair, I suppose it was justified, although I only slightly tapped the car in front of me while pulling in. And, after driving a manaul for seven years, how was I to know that gently tapping on the gas would cause the car to shoot backward? Then, last weekend a guy in a Honda hit me while trying to merge into traffic from a stop. Didn't even bother to look. Granted, he didn't hit me hard, but I was steamed as I pulled over to check out the potential damage. As I was getting out of the car, I noticed that he had his right blinker on to turn down a side street and disappear, and that is exactly what he did. Hmmph. Luckily, no damage to my car. And, finally, I nearly killed my friend Crystal and me (on her birthday no less!) by starting to switch lanes when I didn't see the car next to us in my blind spot. Again, quite fortunately she screamed "Car!" and I swerved and we lived to see another day. Two sets of screaming passengers in one week is not a great track record so far

Anyhoo, the car really is cool and modern, and I get to motor around with more authority than an Escort could ever wish for. Let's just hope our adjustment phase is about over.

In other news, my darling younger sister is pregnant! This is still a shock to the big sister's system (isn't the oldest supposed to procreate first?), but our family is very excited at the prospect of a baby. I can't believe that by September I will be an aunt. I will, however, be an extremely cool aunt and probably will end up finally having to tell the kid about the birds and the bees when he/she is 18 or so, because my sister just isn't up for these kinds of conversations. The thought of our littlest sister (who's 20) having any sort of sexual encounter causes her to huddle in a corner with her hands over her ears. Of course, at the rate that society is going, the kid will probably be able to tell me a thing or two by the time she is 8 and wearing thong underwear. Side note: I'm convinced right now that the baby will be a girl.

My wonderful friend, Elizabeth, is expecting her baby any day now, and I can't wait to meet the little man. The due date was Tuesday, and she's ready to go. We also work together, and she had her last day in the office a week ago, Now, people I hardly even know at work come charging at me purposefully to demand "Any news yet? Any news yet?" No pretense of "Hey Megan... how are ya?" Just, "Any news yet?" When I leave my office, I end up darting furtively through the hallways, jump into empty elevators only (elevators mean extended "Any news yet?" conversations), and play deaf when people are shouting the question at me from the third floor balcony. I'm ready for the baby to come so I actually have some news! :)

I have been a horrible blogger over the past few months, but I am going to try to be better at it. It's so fun to write, and I'm just being lame. So, more to come soon...

My cozy little apartment now feels like home. It belongs with me now in a way that no new place does in the beginning. For me, settling in requires that I first go through a series of emotional ups and downs about my new space. I love it. I don't. Where is the dish soap? I like it. I don't. Why did I do this? This is a good change. What was that noise?

Now that those feelings are settling, like my belongings from the final three boxes that I recently unpacked, I walk through the front door and feel myself here. Familiarity. Attachment for the kinks and charms of my tiny, undoubtedly temporary, home. Built in the 50's, the apartment has lots of character and fun detail. Great shelves built into the wall that separates the closet-sized kitchen from the living room. Rich hardwood floors that badly need refinishing. A bathroom with a pink bathtub, sink, and toilet, where I can still see the TV in the living room if I need to take a pee during a favorite show. Heh. The down sides are the thin walls that give me full audio of the upstairs neighbor clomping across the floor and the howls of her uppity cat when he's left alone. Or, the aspiring musician next door who plays guitar and sings the same verse of Weezer's Island in the Sun over and over while I'm making pancakes in the morning...and other times too. I'm getting pretty good at singing the back-up hip-hip though. Quite a few bathroom repairs. No dishwasher.

Oh, and no mail. In the two months since I've been here, I haven't received one piece of forwarded mail from my old address. This isn't a huge problem since my friend and ex-roommate dutifully collects and delivers my mail to me, but I finally decided to call the post office to find out what is going on. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi, I changed my address a few months ago and my mail isn't forwarding.

Post Office Guy: Did you receive confirmation from the post office?

Me: Yes.

POG: What's your name and address?

I tell him.

POG: Oh, that's so and so's route. He's way behind on his mail forwarding lists, so that's why you haven't been receiving your mail.

Me: I see. Will it start forwarding soon?

POG: Well, I always remind him to catch up on that, and I'll remind him again. He's really bad about this. The good news is that he's retiring soon, so this shouldn't be a problem much longer.

Me: Okaaaaaaay...Well, thanks.

POG: Sure. Bye.

Oh my. I guess I shouldn't be surprised not to receive an apology or assurance of better service from the post office, but still it's strange to me that a complaint like this is treated so lightly over there. Sorry you're having a problem, but luckily it will be resolved once this dude retires.

In other news, I went out on my first blind date the other day. Naturally, this wasn't a typical blind date since it wasn't for me, but for my friend Chris in Minnesota. She recently met a guy through her dating service who lives in Seattle but is planning to move to MN in the next couple of months. They started out chatting online, then talking on the phone, and the next thing you know she's asking me to meet him to make sure he's not a creep. After all, why waste any more time? So I, being a good friend who doesn't want to see her good friend with another creep, arranged to meet Mr. Maybe for a lunch date. The whole scenario had the potential to be god awful awkward, and truthfully I was a bit nervous about it beforehand. He's a nice guy, and we managed to find enough things to chat about for a couple of hours. No creep alerts went off in my head, but it's impossible to determine chemistry for someone else. To make it all about me, me, me, happily I found the whole thing pretty painless, and now the prospect of going on a blind date of my own at some point isn't so scary.

Is anyone else getting a tad bit sick of Jude Law? He's very cute, but I feel like he has to be in every movie right now. And, if he isn't IN the movie, he's narrating it. Over exposed. I don't like it.

I can't believe the holiday season is upon us! Piles of presents to purchase. Decorations and lights to go up. Holiday drinks to enjoy. Festive cards to send. Family drama to endure. Lots of cookies and treats to....er, buy.

While shopping with my mom in Klamath Falls this weekend, I contemplated a t-shirt with the words "I need a hug" on it. I mean, sometimes a girl really does need a hug, but is advertising that particular want on a shirt worth the $6 investment (or risk)? While it's entirely possible that the shirt will increase your hugability, it is also entirely possible that the only people who will take you into their warm embrace are the ones you'd prefer to have a few feet outside your bubble. Everyone else will just look at you like you're a freak. Maybe it's safer to quietly request a hug from someone you know when the need strikes, rather than have the words written in glittery letters across your chest.

I am all settled into my new place. Learning to live on my own after many years of cohabitation has been an adjustment. I love shaping my own space, but it's weird sometimes having many hours of just me. My mind has an endless number of thoughts, and analyzes everything thoroughly, during long periods of quiet time. It's strange but good for me, I think.

My single friend Chris is trying the online dating scene, and her stories provide me with endless entertainment. After her married friends set her up with a man in a Tigger polo shirt (as in Winnie the Pooh) a few months ago, who she shared nothing in common, she decided it was time to take matters into her own hands. Not yet brave enough to give cyber dating a whirl myself, I admire her ability to cheerfully put herself out there, and we spend lots of time rehashing her experiences.

One prospect sent her a pleasant initial email, but, when she opened the photo he attached, she found herself staring at a black and white "arty" picture of a bushy-haired, scruffy beard man, dressed in camoflauge, holding a gun in one hand and a bunch of dead ducks in another. Yikes. Another evening, Chris gamely engaged in a brief online chat with a man and, finding they had a few things in common, planned to talk with him again later. He followed up the next day, in stalkerish fashion, with six emails before their prearranged chat time. To my chagrin, she compared him to me by saying that I hadn't even sent her six emails in one day while we were planning our trip to L.A. Hmph.

Not to say that all her experiences have been bad. She's had a few good dates too and has connected with interesting people. However, the one thing that never fails to dishearten her are the guys with sentences like "I like many activitys" or "Chily is good" in their profiles/emails. After all, if a guy can't be bothered to take a few minutes to proof his writing, what does that say about him as a date? So, a word of advice gentlemen (or gentleman, depending on how many are reading this). Spellcheck. And, don't even bother to point out my own spelling errors here, as I, my friend, am not trying to pick up the ladies with my prose.

Tonight, hopped up on chai tea and unable to sleep, I realized that I haven't dished in a while. These past few weeks have been incredibly busy, and, although I'm sure I have one or two blogworthy stories to tell, it's all gone by in a crazy blur. My sister came for a visit from Hawaii; one of my closest friends got married; I took my trip to LA; and I've been spending every free moments painting, packing, and cleaning in preparation for the big move to my new apartment.

Overall, Chris and I had a great time in LA. Disneyland is timeless and a blast at any age. I felt like a kid and had as much fun as I did 10 years ago. Except, I seriously wanted to jump ship from It's a Small World. A few words of advice, don't do it. Spend those ten precious theme park minutes on something else. If you absolutely can't stand not knowing what you're missing, experience the same effect by asking your friends to stand around and sing an annoying verse over and over again while you sit in the bathtub at home.

In our few days, we visited the Getty (gorgeous!), Mulholland Dr, Santa Monica, Venice Beach, Redondo Beach, Mann's Chinese theater, and an ancient bowling alley. The weather was wonderful, and we fit in lots of time by the pool and ocean.

In Cali, I learned that a) driving in LA isn't much different from Seattle, except that people are horn happy there. A simple trip to the grocery store three blocks away (driving, of course) is chock full of beeps! honks! and urrrrs! Seattlites are much too polite for this kind of behavior, preferring to careen dangerously around sluggish drivers, casting terse looks and nasty glares. b) Each freeway/highway is known by about five different names and may be referred to by any of these at any given time. Highway 1 is also known as Pacific Coast Highway OR Sepulveda...but not always. Sometimes, Sepulveda is just Sepulveda, a road completely independent of Highway 1, and it's hard to figure out why and at what point that happens. Unaware, Chris and I discovered this while driving circles--totally lost--around a place called Torrence late one night in search of dinner. Yikes. c) Smog is yicky and can make your throat scratchy, but it may be a reasonable trade off for reliably warm and sunny weather. d) The lack of ozone becomes painfully apparent when a 15 minute walk on the beach turns any exposed parts tomato red, forcing you to wear the same full coverage t-shirt two days in a row to hide glaring burn lines and scarlet skin.

Most importantly, I am now aware of a little something called free scoop night at Baskin Robbins. It's an annual thing, and our friend, Jesec, told us how he and a friend successfully obtained three free scoops, in spite of a late start, last year. Thanks to him, I have several months to come up with a strategy for the next one.

People keep asking me if I saw any celebs, and I have to say no. I'm starting to think that maybe it's not in the cards for me, since pretty much everyone in my world has by now. I can't say I care much. But, it is a little sad having zip to share when others launch into their stories--even Chris. After saying goodbye to me at the airport, she saw a current celeb AND stood in line with Dylan of 90210. Me? Nada.

Such is life.

Spotty

I look like a cheetah. Only not pretty. Tired of having skin the color of the underbelly of a fish in mid-summer, I decided to take action and make an appointment for an air brush tan. I've never had luck avoiding streaks with the self-applied products and find laying in a tanning bed quite frightening. To avoid sun damage and personal stress of do-it-yourself-tanning, I figured this was the way to go. I went in not knowing what to expect, but I was determined not to come out as orange as an Oompa Loompa.

Initially, I was pretty happy with the color and the natural look of a non-streaky golden tan, but as the week wears on, I've noticed that it is fading unevenly despite my attempts to stay moisturized and avoid exfoliants. In certain lights, the skin on my legs look patchy, and, when I use toner on my face and neck, the cottonball turns brown. I thought enduring 20 minutes of standing naked in a small curtained booth while the technician, armed with a spraying device, calmly commanded me to "Put your leg out as though you're doing a lunge...Perfect! (spray)...turn your leg so your toes are pointing out...Perfect! (spray)...turn around and put your arms out with your hands against the wall, please...Perfect! (spray)" was enough punishment for my vanity. Apparently not. At this point, I think I would be better off scribbling on myself with a tan Magic Marker.

I am happy to report that I am writing this post on my new laptop. Yippee! I surprised myself when I discovered that this is the first computer I've ever truly owned. I am making headway, through furniture and electronics purchases, in my quest to become an adult. First, I retired the old futon this year and bought an actual bed. Major step. Now, I have my own computer and can stop using my roommate's. And, in a short while, I will move into my new apartment, where I can paint the walls any colors I want, and will become responsible for the first pet of my very own, Kitty. Good times.

Friday the 13th

Having been born on a 13, I associate the day with celebration and happy surprises, rather than bad luck. I looked forward to this one because it marked the release of a long awaited movie, and Elizabeth and I had hatched a plan to make the day an event. We decided to buy tickets early, head to a favorite restaurant for dinner, purchase many sugary treats and settle into the comfortable old theater to enjoy the film.

While our plan went off without a hitch, the entire evening was touched lightly by the bizarre. Our dinner was delicious as usual, but our company in the dining room was distracting. We sat near a man and a woman whose conversation was impossible not to overhear and whose relationship was difficult to determine. Friends...roommates...friends...roommates? The two seemed to know very little about each other and tossed out casual phrases like, "Just trying to look out for ya, man." Or, "You know what I mean, buddy?" Near the end of our meal, the mystery was solved as they chatted about leaving their children with his mother for the evening. Married. Even more baffling than the conversation was the way the woman rested her plate on her rather large bosom while she scooped up mouthfulls of food. I guess the best way to avoid having food end up on "the shelf" is to eat off the shelf.

We walked into the theater about 20 minutes before showtime, armed with our Sqworms (I'm addicted to the Trolli version of nuclear Sqworms) and Reese's sticks, and briefly debated finding seats before purchasing the required popcorn and coke. It's all about food, of course. Assuming that greater Seattle would be lined up for this much anticipated film, we were prepared to head in and quickly scope out the best available seats before they were taken. Instead, we walked into a completely empty theater and giggled for about five minutes. We could choose any seat we wanted.

Not only were we the first people in but we were also the last out. Happily, the theater filled right before showtime, the movie was as good as expected, and we were still glued to our seats as the clean-up crew trudged in after the final credits. It was so good, in fact, that we decided we must see it again immediately. For the first time in my life, I saw a movie in the theater twice in a row. Something I never expected to do. Fun, fun, fun!

Perhaps as punishment for hiding out in the bathroom until we could enter the theater again, we had Interactive Theater woman sitting next to us during round two. For every touchy comment made onscreen, she'd let out an audible "Ouch!" For every good joke or funny moment, she wanted to make sure that everyone heard her enthusiastic, "That's awesome!" And, she had a different loud and seemingly unnatural laugh for humorous scenes. I'm sure we quickly became the problem row. With every sound from Interactive Theater Lady, either Elizabeth or I would let out a noisy sigh or quietly confer on how we could climb over the woman and her date, without making a spectacle of ourselves, to find other seats. I even tried giving Ellen's international signal for that's annoying (sharp head turn and stare), but the woman was truly oblivious to our irritation.

Of course, the obvious question is why. Why do people do this? Are they conscious of it, and, if so, are they aware of the effect it has on other moviegoers? And, why weren't we brave enough to for either one of us to ask the woman to please stop? Instead, we stayed rooted to our seats in mostly silent annoyance.

Around midnight, Elizabeth dropped me off at my car in the parking garage at work. As we approached my floor, we heard faint sounds of music and Elizabeth rolled down her window to confirm that we weren't hearing things. Sure enough, on my level we encountered a man riding a bicycle, slowly making laps around and around, while he used both hands to play his flute, gorgeous notes echoing as they bounced off the concrete walls. Crazy moments like that make me fully appreciate being alive. It was the perfect end to our wonderful and surreal evening.

By the way, I highly recommend the Garden State soundtrack. It's full of great music! If you can, don't read anything about the movie before you see it. It will be even better that way.

BTW, my friend Craig informed me that a guy at his work drives a car covered in little Matchbox cars. It's not only animals!