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

Dear Creepy Old Men

'm just a painter and I'm drawing a blank

Dear Middle Aged Married Bar Patrons,

I see your wedding band. Don't think that I don't automatically check for those when assessing how I should approach you. It's cute when we exchange witty banter. It's even cute when you wink at me after I give you a cheeky smile as I walk away to place your order, and then nudge-nudge your colleagues. It's not cute when you comment on my body type or in a double-whammy of information seeking hypothetically remark upon my sex life with my boyfriend. Yes, I'm flirting with you and yes, when you flirt back, I will continue to reciprocate. It's called working for tips. I will not, however, give you my number or meet up with you for drinks later, you committed ass clown. I might be selling my personality for money, but that's it. If you're in the business of paying girls for their time, get a hooker, it's less fattening.

Love ;)
Cathi

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

Fate, \"The One\"

Got a body like a battle axe

Despite being generally trusting and occasionally downright gullible, there are a good number of things I don't believe in. Aside from the obvious, like Santa or the Tooth Fairy, Fate and "The One" tend to top my list.

When it comes to Fate, I'm a bit pigheaded about the whole thing, since I'm too lazy and philosophically retarded to actually define it. However, some people, after having a rough day at the office, consider it Fate when a song comes on the radio during the drive home that describes exactly how they feel. I'm more inclined to call that Mainstream Music's Ability to Appeal to the Masses, but then, I'm a cynic. And a communications major.

As for "The One", my stance on this is slightly more defined. Unless you define "The One" as "The One I've taken a lot of time to get to know and consider and have deemed suitable", the magic aura surrounding this mysterious person just doesn't do it for me. I won't discount the possibility that I might only love one person in my lifetime, but I do think it's profoundly depressing to think that there is one, specific person out there for you. There's a lot of people in this world, and the odds of that person being in your graduating class seems slim. Of course, that's what Fate is for. These things tend to go hand in hand, I've noticed. I'm just saying that even though I might not hear bells the first time I lay eyes on someone, doesn't mean that, after time has gone by, I won't hear bells or feel thunderstruck every time he smiles at me.

I'm also disinclined to acknowledge meaning behind coincidences or dreams. But hey, being a cold, hard realist is very In these days.

Monkee Men,
Cathi

TWENTY OOOOONNNNNEEE!!!

You're just a sad song with nothing to say

It's been a week of 21st birthdays, and let me just say now that one of them ended with nudity (not mine) and the other one ended with an irate Greek woman poking a bar manager in the sternum and calling him "little man".

I'm not entirely sure I have the physical capacity to become so inebriated that I can think to myself "Now would be a good time to divest myself of my clothing, and go sit on the couch where the birthday girl is sleeping". Never have I had to demand of someone "why didn't you stop me?!", nor have I ever discovered myself to be dancing to some phat beat without the intent of irony.

The story of Miranda's 21st began with a major aerial journey, included a famous Friday's Birthday Blow Job and some major rocking out to Wicked and My Chemical Romance, and was consummated with an unsuspected couch visitor sans vêtement. 

Jaci's birthday, however, is a tale of truly bad manners taking a turn for the worse.

I'm not certain where her birthday began, but I do know it involved a herpes-penis (or "spotted dick" as Mrs. Gianaris so aptly named it) cake. It eventually led to Two-Nine. You know, that little red door next to Potter's Place? We had some drinks, my first one was more Jack than Coke and utterly nauseating. My second one was a Miller Chill, which didn't taste as bad as beer normally does. This was, perhaps, helped along by the appalling Jack:Coke ratio. A third (or fourth, for some) round was bought as the cry of "last call!" resounded. A rude bartender walked out to the patio and yelled "Everyone get out!", which we assumed was sort of a joke. A few minutes later a nice bartender explained that they were, in fact, closing, but normally it wasn't this early and we technically had until 12:45 to leave. Mrs. Peterson said we'd be gone in 10 minutes, just long enough to finish our drinks. Less than 30 seconds later, a small man wearing an earpiece stepped onto the patio and yelled "Everyone get out now! The bar is closed!"

While it ended on an amusing note (Mrs. Gianaris poking the guy and calling him a little man), I'm honestly appalled at Little Man's behavior. We were not drunk, for the most part. We were definitely not loud, or obnoxious. I don't even think any of us were laughing at any volume when he came out to yell. If he had asked us nicely, said the bar was closing early tonight and if we could hurry up and leave, it would have been disappointing, but nothing major. But to be yelled at like that, especially after dropping a couple hundred dollars and being completely tolerable, if not model guests, most especially when we hadn't even had time to start, let alone finish, the final round of drinks, was uncalled for.

In addition to the inability to get wasted, I also feel I'm incapable of such petty jag-offishness. Despite the fact that unless you're getting paid as an ass-kicker you're getting paid to be nice, I've found that people tend to respond better and adhere to your wishes if you treat them with respect. You greet them politely, apologize, explain what is happening, and then kindly ask for them to comply. They will be much more inclined to do your bidding, out of respect for you. Little Man has a lot to learn, it seems.

I'm also evil,
Cathi

Condescension, idiocy

I would die for you one time, but never again

Of all the various tones of voice a person can take with me, condescension is my least favorite. I can handle most other insulting ways of speaking, but an assumption of intellectual superiority mixed with pity has a special way of grating on my nerves. I can smile and be polite in the face of anger, annoyance, frustration, and even outright derision, but the instant the rate of speech slows down, the pitch gets sing-songy, and the eyebrows raise incredulously, my patience drops to zero.

There must be some unidentified gamma ray produced by The Spotlight that enlarges the ego and shrinks the empathy gland of those caught in it. Actors are more famous for their superiority complex than they are for their skill at their craft, directors even more so. Radio personalities are no different, notorious for their "my way or the highway" attitudes. While it's commendable to beat the odds and become one of The Favored Few in any industry that requires creative talent and skill, it strikes me as odd that those who succeed also claim intellectual dominance over those less marketable. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's the peons and "gofers" who make The Spotlight possible. It seems like The Favored Few should be nicer if they want their precious Spotlight to keep shining.

Of course, as a peon myself, my loyalties are somewhat Viva la Revolution in nature.

It's too bad reverse psychology doesn't work backwards. Which, I suppose, would just make it regular-type psychology, but how is it fair that it's only a one-way process? There's nothing more I would like to do right now than intentionally screw up this Jackhammers game since Il Dusche seems to expect me to, but, as satisfying as that may be, it won't endear me to The Powers That Be. And they have the Pen that writes the Paycheck, an no one messes with the payroll department. Except embezzlers, I guess.

Jackhammers,
Thrine

Weddings

I could write it better than you ever felt it

It's beginning to approach that time in my life where there will be a wedding every other weekend; ones that I'm invited to, at least, as opposed to me and my buddy Vince Vaughn looking for hijinks and hookups. It seems that after people graduate college, that nagging question of "now what?" often gets answered with "weddings!". With the recent engagement of our youngest cousin, Linda and I spent some time on our coffee date today discussing things like divorce, preparedness for marriage, and dress code. 

You know, the usual topics associated with the impending marriage of a relative.

This being said, I had my first legitimate "wedding plan" thought last night as I contemplated Kate's engagement. The train of thought went something like this:

-Hooray! An excuse to dress up!
-I can buy a new dress!
-Why are we expected to dress up for this sort of thing?
-What if people hate dressing up?
-For my wedding, I'm going to explicitly state that if a) this is an exciting opportunity for you to get dolled up and strut your stuff, by all means, knock yourself out, but b) if you're lamenting having to spend money on a new outfit, hate wearing collared shirts or uncomfortable shoes, then by all means, go nuts and wear pajamas and bunny slippers.
-Instead of having his/hers sides of the church, I could have dressed up/dressed down sides!

At this point, I drifted off to sleep and dreamed about an old friend getting blown up in a pick-up truck, but I think it stands as a milestone that I actually gave a serious moment's thought to an albeit hypothetical, but altogether real future wedding. It's a stereotype that all girls have their weddings planned out by the age of 16, but I've somehow managed to avoid the stereotypical. When I was younger I used to think that I never wanted to get married, because if it goes wrong it's really, really bad. However, I've warmed up to the idea of pretty dresses, fancy shoes, and obligatory spa days. I'll just need to be really, really, really sure first.

10 days until Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows!
12 Tage bis Miranda kommt nach Hause!
13 days until Miranda is 21!
14 days until Jaci is 21!
15 days until Warped Tour!
36 days until GenCon!
61 days until college: the final chapter!

Like Rats,
Cathi