I am made of win

If we sweat all these debts then we're sure to drown

For anyone who doesn't know, I've been nominated for Best Girlfriend Ever. Sweet Christmas presents + infinite patience = I am made of win.

It's become apparent to me in the last 22 years that my face is, as They say, an open book. Taking my lack of emotional depth into consideration, I'd really hate to see the faces I'd pull if I was capable of feeling the full range of things. My freshmen year in college I was playing the part of fashion consultant for my roommate during a trip to Old Navy. This involved me sitting on a bench in the dressing room and giving her an appreciative nod or an unsure grimace when she came out in a new outfit. During this time, a little boy kept running out to show his mom the clothes she was making him try on, and as they were leaving the dressing area, the mom came up to me and thanked me, "Your facial expressions as you watched him come out every time really helped me make decisions!"

Yes, I'm that transparant.

Yesterday I spent some time with The Boy, and he mistook my quiet pensiveness for "grumpiness". To the contrary, I was feeling quite plesant yesterday, but was simply preoccupied with other thoughts. It seems that this preoccupation manifested itself in distant gazes, pursed lips, and a decline in my usual chattiness, which are often signs of grumpiness in your average person. However, if I was, indeed, grumpy, it would have been much more apparent. There would have been frequent sighing, plentiful eye-rolling, and the occasional derisive snort, all compiled with short, snippy responses.

My emotions, when I have them, are quite simple. Ironically, this often confuses those who have to deal with me and complicates matters.

I do, however, have a tendency to leave things unsaid. I've waxed eloquent in the past about my conversational retardation, and this disability of mine causes whatever "meaningful conversations" I manage to have to be painfully brief, to the point, and often leaves a lot of gaping "detail" holes. At the time, I simply want the conversation to be over, because I'm embarrassed to have to be having it in the first place, so the main points get covered, a basic conclusion is reached, and we're done. Later, however, I worry that I didn't say enough, that the little nuances of my simple emotions weren't conveyed properly, that the situation wasn't presented seriously enough, and I worry about it for a whole lot longer than I really should, and end up having a second painfully brief converstion that usually goes something like this:

"So... about that other conversation..."
"Yeah?"
"I just wanted to touch bases and, uh, make sure that we both understand what I meant."
"I got it."
"You do?"
"Yeah, I know."
"Oh...okay then."

I probably just need to put more faith in my conversational counterparts. It'd save me a lot of grief.

Underground,
Cathi

Oh look, it's that time of the month

If home is where the heart is then my home is where you are

I... suck at blogging.

It's not intentional, I swear. In the last month there have been dozens of interesting happenstances and amusing annoyances worthy of elaboration and articulation. I've even opened up the "new entry" page a few times and typed a few words, only to decide that whatever it is I had penned wasn't good enough. I think I'm mostly just out of practice.

My general life philosophy was demonstrated by a couple customers today. A dude was sitting at the bar top eating appetizers, and a woman wander over to a seat near him to sit and smoke away from the table where her friends were eating their dinners. She smoked about half a cigarette before putting it out and walking back. The appetizer man made some appalling sniffing noises, then grabbed the ashtray the woman had used and marched over to her table to complain that the cigarette was still smoking and it was bothering him. The situation ended on a bit of a "wtf?" note, but, as the woman muttered to her friends, "If you're sitting in the smoking section you have no right to complain about smoke."

*nod*

In addition to TAOG:D2K7, I have also been dealing with LOC:D2K7 (elongated as Living On Campus: Debacle 2007). I may or may not be living in a new room next term, depending on whether I may or may not have ruined the campus residency of my roommate. What I initially brushed off as youthful ignorance ("she's only 19, she'll learn") ultimately presented itself as depraved indifference, and I finally said "no more!". Once I know what's going on I think I'll create an entry dedicated entirely to LOC:D2K7. Until then, I can at least sleep at night knowing that, no matter what, I don't have to sleep in the same room as Creepy Cory ever again.

Aside to Creepy Middle Aged Man: I hope, that when I told you I was 22, that you felt as skeeved out as I did when you were hitting on me, especially since you asked after you told me your youngest daughter is 23.

Switching gears:

I know two people who have gotten engaged in the last two days and of three weddings happening in the next 6 months or so. 98% of the time, when talking to inquisitive bar patrons, the follow-up question to "do you have a boyfriend?" is "are you gonna marry him?"*. Needless to say, there's been a lot of talk about marriage going around. So much, in fact, that I had a nightmare about The Boy proposing to me during karaoke at Friday's (he sang "Nights In White Satin" by Moody Blues. It was a nightmare).

Don't misunderstand me. I'm all about weddings. Pretty dresses, free booze, an excuse to do the electric slide, and general lovey-dovey-ness all fall under "good ways to spend a day". I'm even all about having a wedding of my own some day. I'm just scared to death of getting divorced, which means any consideration ofactually getting married gives me the jibblies and induces musical night terrors.

I guess as a follow-up, TAOG:D2K7 turned out rather nicely. The Boy and I "had Christmas" early, and he accepted my insane gift with poise (and not too much sighing) and I was touched to the quick by the card he made me (and splashed around in puddles tonight in the gift he got me).

Being 22 feels a bit strange, like a new pair of jeans yet to be broken in.

Jibblies,
Cathers





*(for the curious: my standard response is "Well, I don't really plan on breaking up with him...")

The Art Of Giving: Debacle 2007

It's me and my +1 in the afterlife

Oh. Hello, Interested Party. Typically, all of my blogs get updated in the procrastinating frenzy of Finals Week Madness, except this term I had procrastinated so much in the previous weeks that I didn't actually have time to procrastinate when I needed it most.

In order to make it up to you, today's blogisode is an extravaganza of epic proportions. Today, I present to you:

The Art of Giving: Debacle 2007

The Boy and I are more alike than we are different, but the differences just seem to be more obvious. For example: I tend to regard most food as mere platforms to make my condiment consumption less gross, whereas he thinks that salad dressing "ruins the point" of salad.

One way in which we are alike is our mutual need to have all of our metaphrical ducks arranged in their little rows before taking action. This takes on a whole new, frightening level when gift-giving is involved.

A lightning bolt of inspiration hit me a few months ago when contemplating a Christmas gift for The Boy, but I realized it would take a good amount of duck aligning. Step One was making sure that The Boy wouldn't throw up in the agony of emasculation when his Girl gave him a pricey gift. A phone call was in order.

. "How would you feel if I got you something really nice for Christmas?" I asked him over a phone call one night.
. "How nice are we talking?" he asks.
. "Remember how Miranda got Nick a guitar for Christmas last year...?"
. There was a long pause. I figured he was going to tell me there was no way in hell he'd accept a gift on par with a guitar. Instead, his response was, "Well, I guess you could get me a guitar. I've been wanting to learn how to play and this would force me to practice..."

Boys are dumb. This is a fact that I, a girl, have been forced to accept over the last 21 years, but I had always sort of assumed that The Boy was above such silliness. Alas.

. "I'm not actually getting you a guitar!" I quickly cut him off before he could get too comfortable with the idea of a guitar, "It was an analogy. Like a guitar. Not an actual guitar."
. "But I don't play any other instruments..."

The conversation only went downhill from there. I'll spare you the painful details, Interested Party, but rest assured that it took all of my skill and cunning to get The Boy to understand my meaning while maintaining an air of secrecy.

I belong to a select group of people who suffer the misfortune of having their birthday fall regrettably close to Christmas. In the past this has meant getting "Birthday/Christmas" presents from my lame friends and relatives, or getting Christmas-themed gifts for the birthday, such as a box of candy canes or a tree ornament. Recently it has meant having to think twice as hard to come up with a list of things I want for family and friends who won't take "A hug?" for an answer.

And so, The Boy, duck-row-a-phile that he is, wants to make sure that the gifts he thinks he needs to get me are perfect. After drilling me for something I wanted beyond "Cake, cookies, pudding! Preferrably all in one!", much discussion has taken place as to what size, shape, color, texture, smell, aura, feng shui appeal, etc... my gift ideas were to have.

I drew the line in the sand of the Open Communication Beach when the phrase "What do you... well, this will ruin the surprise, but..." left his mouth. "Stop!" I cried, "Don't say it!". He protested, of course, but I stood firm and refused to hear anything more about the subject.

This entire process, of both giving and receiving, has been exhausting. Next year, we're taking a pledge of Gift Abstinence. I've decided.

There is more to TAoG:D2K7, but my wee fingers are as exhausted as my emotional resources.

Martin Out!
Cdizzle

Without A Trace

Stick your heart inside of my chest, keep it warm here while we rest

I'm not entirely sure which cause to blame for my extreme fatigue today. One option is the fact that in the last 48 hours the only solid food to make its way into my belly has been a bagel and some crackers. Another likely option is my decided lack of sleep last night. Any combination of those two to varying degrees is enough to make me cranky. Today, however I was outright drained, and I'm pointing my nimble finger at complete emotional exhaustion.

I watch a lot of crime drama-- you know, Law and Order, NCIS, Without A Trace-- and so my Worst Case Scenario trigger is a bit sensitive. To be fair to Mass Media, I've always been a little bit panicky, if only quietly and privately. It's not unusual for me to convince myself that the noise in the kitchen is a knife-wielding maniac, or think that because my dad hadn't emerged from his bedroom an hour past his usual wake-up time that he must be dead.

99% of the time good ol' Left Brain steps in rather quickly and rationalizes the situation, and 100% of the time (thus far) LB's instinct has been accurate ("calm down, it's only the dishwasher/a sleep-in morning, stupid!"). However, a lack of contact combined with the phrase "He decided to walk back around 3am, and that's the last time anyone's seen or heard from him" effectively silenced LB and the irrational panic of the heart took the wheel.

Things eventually worked themselves out, and I'm feeling a bit silly about the whole thing. If anything good came out of the situation, it really solidified any lingering doubts I might have had regarding emotional attachment. It also taught me to wait for vocal confirmation before I embark on a 30 mile trek.

I suppose it also goes to show that if I want to continue to function in Life, emotions better back the hell off. They're simply exhausting.

Thanks Poncho,
CB

Colbert

There will be no white flag across my door

Anyone who thinks The Colbert Report is legitimately right-wing and/or conservative is probably a bit of an idiot. In this same vein, anyone who thinks his bid for presidential candidacy is probably also eligible for the short bus (I'm looking at you, Federal Election Committee). I personally don't find his show that amusing, the "I'm A Bigger Conservative Blockhead Than Bill O'Reiley" gets old pretty quickly, but I do appreciate a good running-gag, and announcing presidential candidacy is a pretty decent one.

What irks me is how far Colbert (the character, the actor) is taking his joke. When you confuse the FEC into thinking you're truly running for president, you're obviously doing something very right. As an obvious Bleeding Heart Hippie Liberal (and if not, an extremely sado-masochistic Money Grubbing Conservative), this is the demographic Colbert appeals to, more specifically the young BHHL's. The historical problem with third parties in the US is that they take away votes from whichever main-line party candidate they are closest in values to. Young people are dumb, and young people who would consider voting for a fake candidate are probably liberal. Young conservatives don't have nearly the amount of imagination or cynicism to vote for a joke. So why's he attempting to maneuver votes away from his apparent party of choice?

I doubt it'll go that far, but with mainstream media and governmental agencies taking Colbert (the character) seriously, I'm starting to get concerned.

And for my next trick: I will figure out how to talk about "cultural lenses" without sounding like a racist!

Flipz!
Cathi

Letters

If I'm flying solo, at least I'm flying free

Dear SLT Professor: I'm not entirely convinced that you're allowed to declare yourself victorious when 20 out of 32 students show up for class, despite having told everyone class was optional. I'm pretty sure we're all there because going to class is habitual and the key to good grades. Not because of mystical manipulative powers.

Dear Roomie: When is it my turn for my boyfriend to live with me? I'm starting to feel a little left out.

Dear Hair: I know we've had our ups and downs, and I know you're under a lot of pressure to grow longer, faster, but if we could find some sort of compromise where you do what I tell you to, that would be great.

Dear Alex: Du hast Recht, wann du geschrieben hast, dass wir eine "beiderseitige Faszination" mit einander haben. Dich liebe ich mehr als ich kann sagen, und ich bin verruekt nach dir. Ich vermisse dich gerade jetzt, und will mit dir sein. Danke fuer die Erinnerungen, frueher und kuenftig.

Dear TGIFriday's: Please hire more bartenders. We're dying.

Dear Brain: Buck up, laddie. Hard times lie ahead.

Gag me,
Cathi

Brevity

We're worth fighting for

I like to think that I have a pretty good grasp on the English language. I know the function of subjective clauses, can use words like "tawdry" or "misanthropic" without blinking, and have been able to read and write going on 17 years now. I also like to think that my mind is capable of being, at worst, adequately deep and analytical.

Blah blah blah, so I can pwn you in Scrabble and tell you which "a/effect" to use. To what end?

Apparently my gifts are display models only. Like the tawdry leg-lamp from A Christmas Story, my skills sure look pretty, but serve no real function. You would think that one such as I would have a lot to say about, oh, Hamlet, but AP English can attest to the fact that I only had about 300 words to spare pertaining to the play. Verbally, I'm characteristically long winded. On paper, I'm little more than a haiku. Perhaps a limerick on good days.

Writing is, however, a passion of mine, and I like to spend time making lists (to-do, pro/con, top 5, etc...) or chronicling my life via this here blog or pen/paper. I find it especially helpful to write out my thoughts on issues that I would find otherwise difficult to give voice to (ex: Dear roomie, your big creepy ex-boyfriend, while welcome to sleep over, should really not be left alone to scar me for life be more careful about his sleep apparel...).

That said, I have a lot of important decisions coming up in my life that seem to necessitate a minimum amount of intellectual and emotional certainty. So, being a creature of habit, I sat down to detail my precise thoughts about a number of things. What I plan to do about a career. Where I want to live. Where I see myself in 5 years. How attached I am to That Guy. Things like that. Important things. Things I apparently don't have complicated opinions about, as it took me all of half a typed page to get everything down.

Either I'm very sure of what I want in life, or my emotions are so deep they lend no language. Let's go with the former.

Blackout,
Cathi