Come grow old with me, the best is yet to be

I'm engaged! *confetti*

A friend I've had since high school has always been unfailingly enthusiastic about his life. He's had more jobs than I can count and took far longer than normal to finish college, but he always threw himself 100% into whatever venture he was embarking upon. He would speak so convincingly about each and every new life path (each with its own 5-year plan) that despite the fact this life plan was different every 4 months, I believed him every single time that This Was It and it was going to be Awesome.

That sort of optimism is alien to me. I hold on to doubts and fears and when I look five years into the future for any given thing, I see a thousand paths of disaster lying in wait. I try to be optimistic that, well, my life's been pretty good so far, so the chance of a flash flood washing away all my belongings and ruining my newly painted apartment walls with mold is really quite slim; yet I still have that little voice going "yeah...but it could happen, so don't get too excited".

Being with The Boy is my greatest example of that. To be fair to my psyche, my tendency to doubt our future had concrete evidence (see: him breaking up with me for a month in 2010), but ever since we got back together things were wonderful. Amazing. Completely different than the previous five years. I could tell he was just as invested in our relationship as I was and I would tell myself that is was real, this was It, finally. I was 99% sure of us, and our 5-year (10-year, 80-year) plan. 99% is easy to round up to 100%, and it was easy to tell myself that the part of me that was holding on to the 1% possibility that something could go awry was just being silly and pragmatic, that I was only doubting because it'd be illogical not to. Because honestly, who's 100% sure of anything? Fools, that's who. Right?

But then it snowed.

The first snowfall of the season finally came, and The Boy was uncharacteristically eager about going downtown Naperville to walk around and look at the snow. It snowed, and with just the soft rustling of snowflakes filling my ears, he asked me if I wanted to marry him.

I unromantically asked him if he was sure, and his eager/terrified nodding persuaded me that he had, in fact, thought this through and he was, indeed, sure. We put a simple and beautiful ring on the fourth finger of my left hand, hugged really tight, and smiled like goons. While the world around us was freezing over and turning a beautiful and brilliant shade of white, the 1% left inside me melted away. And let me tell you, 100% is absolutely nothing like 99%.

Don't get me wrong, I know things could still go wrong. People change, life happens, and the possibility of Forever is not a guarantee. But right now, in this moment of time and this stage of our life, I'm 100% sure that this is what we both want, that we're 100% in this together, and 100% going to promise to try our best to make it happen.

Can Finally Rename The Bookmarks Folder From "Unmentionables" to "Marriage Stuff",
Cathi

Another belief of mine; that everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.

Thus sayeth the ever wise Margaret Atwood.

Stolen from luxury-idea.com

One mystery of childhood that I frequently pondered is why grownups' bedrooms were so frightfully boring. The walls were beige, or some pale blue, and other than maybe a wedding picture on a dresser top the only decorations were generic seascapes or perhaps a fake plant in the corner. The only form of entertainment I ever saw in grownup bedrooms were small TV's, so small they were hardly worth watching and always much too far away to be of any practical use. Their curtains were boring. The bed was always made. Clothes were always put away in a hamper, or else at the very least folded at the end of the bed. Why on earth adults would choose to live in such drudgery was beyond my comprehension.

For perspective, I always had wonderfully expressive bedrooms growing up. I blame the previous owners of the house I grew up in for fostering this tendency since birth. The room my loving parents placed Infant Cathi into had lime green shag carpeting and Pepto pink paint on the walls. The first time I was allowed to plan and decorate my room, I chose Aladdin as the theme. I had Princess Jasmine bedsheets and a reversible comforter (depending upon whether I was in a pink or purple kind of mood), I had a fuzzy, glow-in-the-dark Aladdin poster on the wall. I had Aladdin curtains. It was magical and I loved every inch of it. As a preteen I redecorated into a more moderate theme of "blue purple and green", but the room was alive. As a teenager I requested that all four of my walls be different colors, and I painted on the darkening shade that covered my window with cheap Jordasche nail polish and invited my visiting friends to do the same.

I now type this to you from the bedroom I share with no one, in the apartment that is mine and mine alone. The bedroom walls are a lovely and tasteful grayish-green that I adore. The only entertainment in here is my bookshelf full of fantasy novels. I currently have an 8-picture frame hanging on the wall for decoration which still has the stock photos in it. Beyond sleeping and going through the vicious cycle of "get dressed and throw clothes on the floor" and "be angry at clothes being on the floor, pick them up" I spend very little time in here.

You know why? I've unlocked the secret of grownup bedrooms. I wanted this place to be peaceful and distraction-free because I wanted my bedroom to be a place for sleeping and resting. It is no longer my refuge from the rest of the world, the only place I have to express myself and be surrounded by things I love because I have an entire apartment just for that.

Suck on that, children! Just wait until you grow up and have nine hundred square feet to do with as you please! For the record, I've personalized the rest of my space with Guitar Hero band equipment, posters of places I'd like to go, and a china cabinet full of my speech and debate awards in the place of china.

Seid bereit, immer bereit

I often mention my uneasy relationship with emotions. As I continue to grow, experience, and change, I'm learning more about my relationship with my feelings and, um, my feelings about my feelings. I've learned that as a human being I deserve to experience the highs and the lows that come with life, and I'm learning to take ownership of whims both sad and joyful that can't be explained away by logic or circumstance

I read a blog entry fairly recently, and when describing her process of coming to terms with a life event the woman writing the post said "I wasn't ready, and then I was." I've had this tucked away in my head ever since I read it because it was at the same time succinct and profound, and it applies to anything that is scaring you (erm, me) about the future. It gave me permission to not be ready for some things, and it made me feel better about being 25 years old and not having achieved what I've internalized as a standard of success. I know that eventually, I will be ready. That moment just hasn't happened yet for some things.

I had a moment a couple days ago, though. It was a combination of things that had happened throughout the day which culminated in one quiet moment in my car where I actually exclaimed out loud "Oh my God, I think I'm ready." I immediately doubted myself because I'm not really a believer in Lightning Bolt From Heaven moments and this revelation would certainly qualify. Because I walk a careful line between psychosis and rationality I rigorously interrogated myself as I made my way to my destination, saying some things out loud to see how the words tasted in my mouth and how they felt coming back into my ears. I was skeptical of the fact that everything felt right and wonderful when verbalizing my revelation, so I've given myself a couple weeks to see if it sticks.

It's been a few days and neither nausea nor cold sweats have appeared but, other than this none-too-subtle blog entry (I often over-estimate my cleverness and under-estimate your, Blog Reader's, powers of inference), I'm sticking to my two-week gag order. I need time to construct lists and say things out loud a few more times to rationalize an unanticipated aligning of my internal clockwork. In the meantime, I'm stepping up my search for one-bedroom apartments back in my home 'hood and beginning a countdown to my first day back at The 'Brook TGIF.

The Make Up

Just you, me, and the stars

Years ago on a whim I drove Alex and myself westward on a state route until it was finally dark enough to see the stars. We parked next to a cornfield, lay down on the hood of my car, and were quiet for a while. It's one of those things that, beforehand I thought it sounded cute and romantic, and looking back it sounds cute and romantic, but at the time it was just kind of weird. It took us a really long time to drive to a place that was adequately filled with stars, I'm not sure Alex was entirely sold on the idea in the first place, the stars really weren't all that bright or plentiful, and once we got there it was simultaneously humid and a little chilly, so we didn't hang out there for long.

I know that I am not alone when it comes to the golden haze of memory and storytelling. While I can't (lovingly, with blurry but rosy edges) recall the psychological term, I do know there exists a proven type of nostalgia where we tend to white-wash our pasts. People yearn for the heyday of the 1950's when men wore hats, women baked cakes, there was always ice cream in the fridge, and children respected their elders instead of trembling with the remembered fear of the communist witch hunts, Jim Crow and lynchings, and the threat of Soviet invasion. It's not necessarily a bad thing on a personal level. I don't fault anyone for wanting to think they had a happier life than they really did.

I'm currently engaged in a struggle against the tangible threat of the cloying mist that is nostalgia and re-writing and misremembering my personal history. If you hit the "back" button just once, you will see evidence of a terrible, consuming heartbreak that honestly threatened my sanity a bit. Yet, in the short span of a five-hour reconciliation last night, my heart and mind are so willing and ready to forget the mess that was the state of my relationship in order to be truly happy that somehow, Alex came to his senses.

Last night has the makings of a cute, romantic story. Phrases like "I realized that, honestly, life sucks without you" and declarations of things like "I'm all in" were uttered, framed against the backdrop of a deserted Lake Michigan beach, the twinkle of the skyline all around us. There were brief moments of intense happiness, perhaps even giddiness, more often muted by serious discussion, hard questions, and apologies.

I think I'm happy. I think getting back into a relationship with him was the right decision, and I'm sure that once the proof of time has passed I will look back upon last night with a quiet sigh and a smile. In the meantime, you'll forgive me if I let my heart that was hardened over the last couple months be quietly cautious, viewing this wonderful thing that has happened with a measure of circumspection. I want to be happy. I want this to be as wonderful as I think it is. I want to believe that everything that was said was meant, and will be followed through. I want nothing more than for my life to feel both normal and great again. I just don't want to be hurt so badly ever again.

Looking up,
Cathi

Cigarettes and Cheap Champagne

Pretend we're the only ones alive in this town

I have a lot of weird notions about being a Grown Up, like how maturity means standing on the edge of a writhing concert pit and enjoying the band from afar. I calculated it once, though have since lost track due to numerous venues that didn't issue physical tickets, but I have been to at least 50 concerts in my lifetime. My guess would be closer to 60 or 65, but as I said, I've lost track. Most of my concert-going was between the ages of 16 and 20, as I've been to precious few in the last couple years (Hanson, however, has graced the docket at least once a year in the meantime).

I'm not sure why I stopped actively seeking out performances, and after the LBC concert last weekend I sure as hell cannot fathom why I've missed their concerts in the last year or so. I think perhaps that, given enough time, the memory of the adrenaline rush and sheer joy that accompanies these events fades to something mediocre.

Against all my Grown Up plans to lie low at the Double Door, instinct (and probably alcohol) took over once I was inside and I found myself diving head-first into the pit. I used to describe the pit experience, especially the LBC pit experience, as "feeling infinite", and last Sunday as my heart pounded itself out of my chest and my ears throbbed with the fast, tight, perfect mayhem that is Lucky Boys Confusion, I realized that it's been a very, very long time since I felt that good.

There are countless things in my life that make me happy, and a few that I would claim make me euphoric but nothing can or has made me feel so alive than throwing myself mind, body, and soul into a LBC show.

Not everything can be sunshine and rainbows, of course. My reawakening was also accompanied by a friend's very poor decision making. The aftermath of the concert has left me wondering if I'm cold-hearted, a bad friend, or merely a realist. I'm a firm believer in fighting one's own battles, and when those battles are the result of a night of heavy drinking, I find it difficult to muster up much sympathy.

And so my suburban equilibrium hums along. Don't expect to hear much of anything in my car or on my iPod but my boys in the five-piece band called LBC for a while.

40/80,
Cathi

With Hope and Virtue, Let Us Brave Once More the Icy Currents

All this we can do. All this we will do.

My whirlwind trip to our nation's Capitol was marked with both highs and lows, bouts of energy and foot-numbing fatigue, overwhelming emotion and petty annoyance, but, Interested Parties, it was worth it.

The preparation for the long car rides combined with the anxiety of undertaking such a big adventure had clouded my vision for the first half of our journey. Miranda and I had long conversations about boys, we mainlined coffee and energy drinks, we stood in lines in freezing weather until our legs shook with the effort, and it distracted me from the reason we had driven almost 800 miles in the first place.

When our new Vice President finished the words to his oath, a woman standing near me cried out "No more Dick Cheney!" and my heart gave a little lurch. My life is not generally wrapped up in politics. I don't spend very much time contemplating how the actions of our nation's top leaders are affecting me, personally. Until the old administration was finally, officially no longer in power, I hadn't fully realized how anxious I had been feeling. My shoulders felt 10 pounds lighter and tears involuntarily sprang to my eyes because I don't have to be afraid of my government anymore.

It sounds rather drastic to proclaim it that way, but it's surprising how even the littlest emotions given time to fester and plant roots can so affect your life.

The Boy doesn't understand why I, and the millions of others who traveled to D.C. just to be there have such starry-eyed love and hope and respect for President Obama, and I've struggled in the past to rationalize what is, quite frankly, an irrational gut feeling. I think that anyone who listened to his speech would understand. The last 7 years have been ones filled with doubt, with fear, with uncertainty. We've been thrust into war, told that we are to fear The Other, had our freedoms taken away, been subject to cruel scrutiny, and been generally told that We Are Not Good Enough and everybody else hates us. President Obama gave us our dignity back. We are strong. We are resilient. We are still hard workers and we are still worthwhile. We are not a nation of quitters. We do not have to apologize for being who we are.

We don't have to feel sorry for ourselves anymore.

Our new President got to where he is not necessarily because we believe in him, but largely because he gave us the power to believe in ourselves again. Together, we shall overcome the shadow that was cast over the United States by the Bush administration. By helping each other, by working hard, and by never giving up, we will get through this.

That, my friends, is why I cried as I stood at the base of the Washington Monument, and why I, and millions of others, set out on ridiculous journeys these last couple days. So we could be there with him, to take part in the day where fear was replaced with hope, and we were told to carry on.

44,
Catherine Elizabeth

Found: One Diaryland Blogger

If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: I suck at blogging.

I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm sure that you, Interested Party, don't mind too much. I, on the other hand, actually mind a lot. It bugs me that I can't seem to find the ability to write competently about either the trivialities of my life or deeper thoughts about the world at large. Recently my attempts at entries have gone like this:

So the other day I saw this thing and I was like "man, you know?" And I mean, I know stuff, and you know stuff, but....wait what's my point?

It's a problem.

My candidate won, and all signs point to a decent first couple months in office. I've been rather pleased that, pretty much the instant the election was called, all of the petty bitching and ignorant moaning evaporated (at least in my parts of the world). I'm excited, Interested Party. I realize that my guy is still mere mortal, and even worse, a mere politician, but I can't help feeling a tingle of hope and happiness whenever I spare a thought to his transition into office. The people he's choosing for cabinet and practically-cabinet positions warms my heart in so many ways. Science might get credibility back. The environment might be important again. Education might become more about the kids and less about the test scores. Foreigners might become our friends again. We might not have to live in a culture of fear anymore.

I couch all of my hopes with the modifier of "might", since, well, we can't know. But the right people are being put in the right places, so hopefully the machine will work according to plan.

Wee Martin turned 21 and I, myself, turned 23 not too long ago, and it's quite frankly creeping me out. We're old, folks, and the passing of my birthday has put an extra sort of pressure on my shoulders to Grow the Fuck Up. Sure, I have 3 jobs, all of which Iknow aren't "real" in the way my mind has classified job choices. Sure, I pay my mom rent every month and I buy my own gas and by and large purchase my own food and will have my student loans paid off in their entirety in two more months. By many measuring sticks, I'm doing just fine.

By my measuring stick, however, I'm failing. Most of this is due completely to a lack of effort on my part, and I tell myself that once I really start trying, I'll get that "real job" and my inner life-angst will be assuaged. Perhaps this is true. I do tend to be fairly lucky when I put some elbow grease into it.

I'm going to be honest right now, Interested Party, which is a rarity for this here blog. Not that I'm ever dishonest, but I am frequently vague and very often frivolous in my postings here, ignoring things that are actually happening in my life and mind. I've been slacking off in terms of real-job searching and apartment-leasing because I'm waiting to see what The Boy wants to do once he graduates. I decided a long time ago that while I don't know where I'm going, what I'm doing, or how I'm going to get there, I do know that I want him to be there with me.

I also decided a long time ago that my life is flexible. Whether by chance or design, I am an extremely mobile person. Because I'm living with my mom, I can pack up and leave at any time. Because my BA trained me for a field that, literally, has officeseverywhere, I can probably find a job anywhere in the country. Because my "paying for college job" was/is at a national chain, I can get an immediate position that'll earn me a livable amount of money anywhere in the country. Therefore, whether The Boy has given any thought to what he wants to do, where he wants to go, or if he expects me to be there with him, I'm ready at a moment's notice to move off to the East Coast with him, or find my own way wherever the opportunity presents itself if things don't work out like the chick flicks.

My point? I'm not sure, Interested Party. I'm at a weird place where I'm not sure if my conscious inaction makes me feel better, or worse. On the one hand, because I'm choosing to be where I'm at in life, I'm not a loser, because I know that once I choose to get a real job and choose to get my own place, it'll happen. On the other hand, how pathetic is it that I've consciously done nothing since I graduated because I'm waiting for some guyto make up his mind (let alone some guy who's notorious for indecision and apathy).

I don't know I don't know. So much going on in my mind and so little I can do about it because of my decision to wait and see. In the meantime, Boy things have been unusually wonderful, which is a nice change-up from previous months, and I'm happy, by and large, with my life.

The good news, Interested Party, is that I always find time to post an end-of-the-year recap and New Years wish list of things to pass, so I won't be absent from here for too terribly long.

Deep breath,
Catherine Elizabeth

Well State'd

It turned my whole world around, and I kinda like it

You know a team is a bit jaded when their "inspirational song" is the Dixie Chicks' "Not Ready To Make Nice".

Right now my life consists of a series of countdowns, and the latest event to get checked off the list was the Illinois Intercollegiate Forensics Association's State Tournament. It was one of those events that ultimately weighed in on the emotional-experience continuum at "bittersweet". I'm going to blame it on that Suburban-Equilibrium I've discussed in the past. When something amazing happens, something else needs to balance it out to make sure life don't get too too.

The person responsible for typing these words to you today is the 2008 IIFA State Champion in Parliamentary Debate, an honor I share with my esteemed debate partner, SB. We were hardly expecting to do quite so well, and I feel like my mental process whilst standing up on the stage during the awards ceremony should be documented.

One thing you have to understand is that at forensics competitions, when announcing awards, it always sounds like this: "In Whatever Place, from Some School, So and So!". You also have to understand that the team SB and I were up against were from Northwestern University.

So there we were, standing up on stage, a little dumbfounded in the first place that we managed to get there.

This is insane, this is crazy. The presenter is talking. Listen....Listen...
"In 2nd place, from North..."
Shoot. Well it figures, this was only our 4th tournament everanyway.
"....western University..."
...that's not North Central. What's happening? The boys from the other team are shaking Judy's hand. Why does the rest of my team out in the audience look so happy? Sarah's looking at me. I'm confused.
"And your 2008 IIFA State Champions in Parliamentary Debate are from North Central College..."
That's me! That's us! Sarah's still looking at me. Um what do I do? Hug Sarah. Smile. Remember to smile. Don't throw up. Walk. Keep smiling. Shake Judy's hand. Oh, get hug from Judy. Take trophy. Don't cry. Keep smiling.

It was a bit intense. The moment was bittersweet because even though SB and I kicked a bunch of ass, two of our good friends who should have been standing up there, being state champions, were not. It's a little difficult to be happy when you know that you just lived the strange, alternate universe version of what really should have taken place.

The Boy and I are in a bit of a fight, but I'm not sure if he knows it. The problem with being good at talking about stuff I don't know a scrap of information about is that the ability to talk about personal issues gets sacrificed, so for now I'll just be content to be upset with him and assume he'll figure it out eventually. I'm a girl, it's allowed.

10 Days until No More School
11 Days until Lazy Week Extravaganza
33 Days until AFA-NIET
45 Days until NFA

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...")

Sappy Wobblies

I'm glad I didn't die before I met you

I have a very busy life, Interested Party, and while it may come as a shock to you, between sporadic blog updates, bar tending, and 17-hour naps, I somehow find the time to write in an honest-to-God pen and paper journal.

Now, these genuine-journal (let's call it my GJ, for lack of a more creative acronym) entries tend to be more emo than my internet journalistic endeavors. This is mostly because I earned the privilege of omitting the "-teen" suffix from my age description and realized the World Wide Web is not the ideal place for angsty, spur-of-the-moment ramblings. Part of it, however, is when I get melancholy (I want everyone to know I spelled "melancholy" correctly on the first try), it's not always when I have immediate access to a computer, let alone one connected to the Interweb, so it's handy to have a GJ stuffed in my messenger bag when said melancholy inspires bursts of rhetorical creativity.

I've noticed a trend, however, and it's that I never feel particularly compelled to write when I'm happy. Probably because I'm too busy eating buffalo wings, frolicking in meadows, and listening to LBC during these blissful times, but also largely because I take happiness for granted.

I plan to remedy that tonight, so pardon me, Interested Party, while I indulge my Scientologistisc side and jump up and down on your e-couch for a few minutes (if you don't catch the reference, go back in time a few years and get out from the rock you've been living under. I am the Spongebob to your Patrick. You'll thank me when you're older) (and if you didn't catch thatreference, well, not everyone can be as hip as I).

An acquaintance from high school asked me a few weeks ago if I was "still with that guy", and when I responded positively, added "you should marry him. For insurance purposes." Ignoring the multiple layers "insurance purposes" could hold, I instead focused on his use of the words "that guy." That Guy is, with no hesitation, the best damn thing in my life to date (commence animated hand gestures). I've always been generally reserved, emotionally as well as in other ways, and it's sort of come as a shock to me that, after the beginning stages of "gee this is fun" progressing into a nice plateau of "gee, I could get used to this", I find myself more in awe of That Guy as each day dawns.

I find myself reluctant to use the word "love" in public, most notably because I've heard tales of married people who suddenly fall "madly in love" with an extra-marital person, and realize they never really experience "true love" before. However if "love" isn't the word to describe the warmness and fuzziness that settle into the pit of my stomach every time That Guy is mentioned, or something reminding me of him catches my notice, then I'm not entirely sure I'm emotionally equipped to deal with "true love" (and now begins the couch-mauling).

My point, now-bored and probably throw-uppy Interested Party? I'm happy. I'm happy we don't fight (something recent events with the BFF have made all the more profound [no offense, Poncho]). I'm happy we can have intelligent conversations. I'm happy that we laugh together. I'm happy that I have That Guy in my life.

Feel free to berate me Mass-Media style for my outburst. I probably deserve it. But you know what?

It's okay. I'll take it with a smile.

Bright Eyes,
Cathi

Berlin, Christmas, worries

Don't want to be here in the future

It's been approximately two and a half days since I returned from what I'm thinking about calling "Sausage Fest 2006", because I love subtle innuendo where it has no place. I talked myself hoarse while narrating my pictures to dad and Linda, and discussed the differences in restaurant culture with a manager at work and I'm already trying to find different topics of conversation. I'm going to give myself until Christmas to talk and/or gush about my trip, and after that I'm going to try to move on. No one likes the annoying kid who begins every anecdote with "Well, when I was in (insert exotic and exciting locale)...". Like band camp stories, but not quite as lame.

When I was in Berlin, Germany...

...I had to pay 2 euro 50 cents for 8 ounces of water at restaurants
...I spoke a good deal of a German/English hybrid, and am still having problems speaking/reading in English-only
...a large bird escaped from the zoo which required Politzei on bicycles with nets to yell "HALT!" at pedestrians
...I saw a lot of really depressing, but really, really cool places and buildings
...no one would apologize if they ran into you while walking
...I smuggled a half dozen little packets of single-serving Nutella over the border
...the Reichstag (parliment building) went on lockdown while we were on a tour
...the Lostprophets rocked out and I chatted up two members of The Blackout
...some girls and I got stranded a couple miles away from our hotel mere hours away from when we were supposed to leave for the airport due to false promises of a 24 hour train system
...I really, really, really missed people here

I've never been entirely sure that I understand what "jetlag" is or feels like, but I do know that my body has never, ever woken itself up naturally at 7:30am, especially when my only obligation of the day starts at 5:30pm.

This Christmas is going to be a really lean one, at least on my end. The money situation is kind of dire and so my gifts for the very, very immediate family are super lame and somewhat inexpensive. I'm aware that it's "the thought that counts" but I still feel like a bad loved-one, even though I did put an excruciatingly large amount of thought into the gifts.

"Sexy Back" is my latest guilty pleasure.

Making a cake with one of my favorite people on the planet was one of the best belated birthday gifts I could have hoped for. The cake is delicious and the company was, as always, fabulous and reminded me that I don't see her nearly enough. I guess one of the bright sides of Alex running away to a big, fancy university is that I might see ol' Shiny Hair more often.

This entry is pretty long and somewhat pointless, but just one more thing before I peace out: Is it better to pretend that the inevitable isn't going to happen in less than a month, or is it better to worry about it because it is, well, inevitable? Fears about the near future have been slightly assuaged by a somewhat offhand comment about the far future, but make neither point in time any less scary.

Bust a move,
Kati

Reminding myself about the people in my life

If the silence takes you then I hope it takes me too

Do you remember when you gave me the nickname of Stabby the Clown?

Do you remember when you walked around downtown Naperville with that decoration you stole from the Arabian Nights homecoming dance dangling out of your fly?

Do you remember when we stayed up almost all night eating as much crap as we could, popcorn, extra-chocolatey hot chocolate, pretzels, frozen pizza, chips, and whatever else we could get our hands on, and then watched House on Haunted Hill with massive stomach aches?

Do you remember when we talked about bees?

Do you remember when we would go sledding down the barely imperceptible incline in the front yard, and that was thrilling enough?

Do you remember when you came to visit me at school even though we had only hung out together once or twice before, and how it wasn't even weird?

Do you remember how I always had something witty to say whenever you showed up, but really just wanted to throw up the whole time?

Do you remember when I dragged you three blocks in the freezing cold after we saw Blue Man Group just so I could take a picture of The Man Hole, and you accidentally yelled "sick!" just as a gay couple walked by?

Do you remember when you almost crashed the car when I said "I'm holding a joint right now!"?

Do you remember when we traded pants at Rachel's birthday party?

Do you remember how we were so sure the school system had a conspiracy against us when we were at last placed in the same class, they divided up the 5th grade and you got moved?

Do you remember when we set up a brownie stand in your backyard to sell them to golfers, and Ms. Rzeppa was the drink cart lady and she gave us a free pop to share?

Do you remember when I told you that you looked good, and you told me that it looked like a clown threw up on me? Yeah, thanks.

Do you remember when we would take walks at obscene hours of the night, and I would never wear shoes, and then complain about my stupidity?

Do you remember when you wanted me to be in a Michelle Branch music video you were making, but I didn't know any of the words?

Do you remember when we were driving back from the movies, and we sang our hearts out to "Shine" by the T's, and you commented upon our three "fucking" years of friendship?

Do you remember when we were at state for Group Interp and the senior girls convinced you to try on a Hooters shirt, and you struck a hilarious sexy pose that haunts you to this day?

Do you remember when we would just drive around aimlessly, windows down, talking about life, sometimes belting out a Disturbed song or Barbara Ann?

Do you remember when we lit those leaves we put in the Walgreens shopping cart on fire, and my neighbor came out and yelled at us?

Do you remember going to get our ears pierced together, and I decided to go first and then passed out, thereby shaking you up and terrifying that little girl?

Do you remember when we would eat at Taco Bell almost every day, and that time you made "fire cheese!"?

Do you remember sitting in your bedroom and listening to "Graduation" by Vitamin C and crying, wondering if life after middle school would be the same?

Do you remember when I could convince you to ditch your option period and come to Taco Bell with me, and we'd sit and talk and bask in the glow of being deliquents?

Do you remember when I loved you? Oh wait, that's right now.

Ressurecting memories from ashes,
Cathi









Awkward moment of the day:

Scene: I'm being a DJ, Wes comes into the studio and begins looking at the away messages of the people on FM89's buddy list.

Wes: Let's see what you're doing.
Auto Response from Dusted Pyxie: I love you.
(pause)
Me: Uh, apparently I love you.