Bring me java. Bring me Joy.

It frightens me,

2006-04-28T09:47:00.000-07:00

in the middle of my graphic design education, how difficult it can be to produce a truly original thought.

Overheard in the checkout line at my super gay supermarket:

2006-04-22T19:24:00.000-07:00

Cashier: Hey, how're you? Are you having a nice weekend?
Man: Well, I had a rectal exam yesterday.
Cashier: Oh, um, I'm sorry to, er, hear that.
Man: Nah, it was pretty good actually. I haven't had sex in, like, a week.

It's amazing

2006-04-10T17:56:00.000-07:00

how many thoughts initially run through your head when you pick up a baking dish that just came out of a 350 degree oven. It's amazing how none of those initial thoughts are "Put it down, you fucking idiot."

In related news, it really hurt to type this.

I can think of little else

2006-04-04T10:02:00.000-07:00

I find more curious than the Asian people on the MUNI underground trains who are so obviously sleeping when I get on the train, yet spring up and out of their seats at precisely the moment we get to their stop.

Unless, of course, they're not getting off at their stop after all and only spring up when they realize they've been asleep on the train for the last four hours.

You know what's funny?

2006-03-30T22:14:00.000-08:00

I don't even like lattes. Or coffee, for that matter.

2006-03-29T15:59:00.000-08:00

As I sit here at my kitchen table studying the difference between uncials and half uncials (and other such important calligraphic history nuggets) I can't help but think: I'd drown a puppy in my toilet bowl for a mojito with a splash of extra lime.

I haven't got a single thing to say!

2006-03-28T09:46:00.000-08:00

Subtitle: A Letter To My Best Friend Connie

I thought I'd sit down and write you an email, but the truth is that I don't even have anything to report! In light of this, I'm just going to ramble for 8-10 minutes and hope you don't put your head through your computer monitor anywhere in the process of reading it!

I go back to class today after a very uneventful Spring Break. (I think I'm going to call it Spring Broken). A large part of the break was spent doing homework or thinking about homework. What happened to the good ol' days when you could hop a plane to Cancun with 18 of your closest friends and drink for five days straight? Not that I'd ever want to do that, but I'd like to think I at least have the option.

I got a new printer yesterday. This is probably the most boring think you've ever heard, but I'm an unrivaled loser so it has been the highlight of my life thus far. It prints up to 13" x 44" and it cost me $300 that I don't really have to spend. Isn't it sad? Remember when I used to blow my money on genuinely important things like messenger bags and winter scarves? I'm not going to lie, though. I thought for a second about how many decent pairs of pants I could have bought instead. I should write a letter to my former self telling him what a failure I've become and warning him not to make the same mistakes.

That is a direct Will & Grace reference. I watch Will & Grace every day. At least twice a day. TiVo records it for me any time it is shown anywhere in the known universe. I think I'm trying to delude myself into thinking that it's not really ending this season. I get sad when I think about it ending. Not really sad for myself, but sad for the cast. Sure, Megan Mullally has a talk show lined up and I'm sure Eric McCormack will be going right back to the stage, but what about poor Debra Messing? What else can she put on her resume? Ned and Stacy?

I really don't want to go to class today. My teacher looks like Paula Abdul would have had she not had any work done and acts even crazier. I've already told you that she hears voices in her head. Well, I found out the week before break that she's been giving me C's on my projects because she thinks I'm Andrew. I'm so glad she grades based on who we are and not on what we do. Also, Andrew has a unibrow and I'm not quite sure how to interpret that.

See? I didn't have a single thing to say! Now tell me what's going on in your life. I think this is one time when it's safe to say our lives are not running parallel. Unless you got a new printer too. And then we can give them matching names!

love you bye!
Taylor-

ps...I'm so posting this on my blog. You know, two birds, one stone, blah blah blah. It's not like there's anything private in there about you. Oh, have the crabs cleared up?

I just helped J do the crossword puzzle.

2006-03-23T21:23:00.000-08:00

I suppose "helped" is a strong word considering I really only contributed the words boa, angora, and catalog.

I suddenly feel gayer than Christmas.

2006-03-23T18:12:00.000-08:00

When I just tried to leave a comment on someone else's blog I was prompted with a set of four characters and a field in which I was supposed to type those four characters to prove that I am a "real person."

Well, apparently, I am hardly a real person because it took me several tries.

2006-03-06T11:46:00.000-08:00

So last night was Oscar night.

From my observations I've ascertained that only one thing was hotter than nude-colored dresses (or buff or cream or oyster or honeysuckle or whatever you want to call it): being completely insane.

Exhibit A: Lauren Bacall. I don't care if she's 432-years-old. She was crazy last night. Or having a stroke. Or something.

Exhibit B: The team that won for March of the Penguins. Great movie. Seriously demented people. There must be some rule in the Oscar handbook that bans the toting of plushies onstage for an acceptance speech. If not, I'm sure there's one now.

Exhibit C: Charlize Theron. Jac said it looked like she had a penguin on her shoulder. What the fuck was that? I'm sure whoever was sitting behind her was pissed between the up-do and the fashion-don't.

Exhibits D & E: Diana Ossana and Larry McMurtry (Adapted Screenplay - Brokeback Mountain). Why was she audibly sighing during her speech? I was waiting for her to say, "Fuck it, man. This shit is boooooring." And he looked like one of those picture books you played with as a kid when you could mix and match heads, torsos, and legs from different people. Someone mixed maitre d' with cowboy and it wasn't even remotely funny.

So there. That's my Oscar recap.

That would be a really good reason!

2006-03-03T11:45:00.000-08:00

The truth is that I've just been preoccupied. Not busy, just preoccupied. Sometimes I just need to prioritize and sometimes things like school, the Olympics, and blue raspberry snow cones (not necessarily in that order) come before blogging.

It's worth talking about, though. It's weird how something so public can suddenly feel so private. I imagine this is what it would feel like to have your porn discovered by your parents. Minus the naked men. I think. (Kate, have there ever been any naked men in my blog?) It's an almost unfounded feeling, though, because it's not like it was stashed in a drawer or under the mattress or some other ingenious hiding place. People, we're talking about the Internet here. The World. Wide. Web. It's world-wide! I'd have had a better shot at privacy wearing my daily thoughts on a sandwich board and walking around Times Square (mostly because people would inevitably think I was just advertising MEN'S SUITS!!!! 75% OFF!!!! BUY NOW!!!).

But then I wouldn't be heard. I don't know why we feel like we need to be heard. Those of us who blog, we just need to be heard. Why? We want people to read our thoughts and ideas and opinions and anecdotes and daily bullshit and we want feedback or validation or something. Oh, and we want hits! Hits and links! "How many hits did you get last week?" "Did you see who linked to me yesterday?" More links equals more hits equals more readers equals more validation. It's funny then, isn't it, when we get that one reader we weren't expecting? How could anyone be unexpected (see: World Wide Web)?

I suppose I don't really fall into the category of a "blogger" anymore, because, well, that would entail actually keeping up with this thing. Those of you who have been along for the long haul know that I have a habit of just letting these fall into desuetude. In the past, when I've stopped writing, it was mostly because I no longer needed the validation. Maybe that's a little sad or pathetic, but it's true.

Since I've been with Jac my need for this validation has been next to null. He fills what used to be a big, ugly, gaping void the size of Lake Superior (it's the largest of the Great Lakes, you know). So maybe now I don't need to put so much weight on this thing and use it simply to share my thoughts with the friends that I don't talk to very often (yeah, that would be all of you...).

I've got to be honest, though. Snow Cone season has only just started out here and Jac doesn't know how to work the ice shaver, which puts me on ice-shaving double duty. If it comes down to posting here or making another blue raspberry snow cone then you won't be hearing from me. A boy has to have priorities.

Nancy is right.

2006-02-08T09:47:00.000-08:00

On two accounts, really. One, that it is my birthday. And two, that I haven't written in a long while. I could give the tired excuse of being busy (which is legitimate, really), but I won't.

I will, however, share a quote with you that fell from J's lips this morning after I'd opened up my shiny, new belgium waffle maker and we were flipping through the accompanying catalog.

I wouldn't buy an espresso machine with a coffee maker attached. I don't buy connected appliances. If one breaks then it's just like having a dead baby twin stuck to your head.

Just stopping in

2006-01-11T08:19:00.000-08:00

to let you know that I'm out of town.

I'm coming to you now live from Brooklyn (via Connie's laptop). I arrived here yesterday from my hometown in Massachusetts. I'm leaving Brooklyn tonight to stay with J at the lovely home of a couple of friends just outside of the city. Then, I'll be back in San Francisco on Monday.

I must go now though, because I have to calculate the logistics of trapsing through the city with a nine thousand pound piece of luggage.

Be back soon!

Well then.

2005-12-30T08:51:00.000-08:00

I wrote a whole Christmas entry yesterday complete with photos and everything. That entry (thanks to my own endless supply of stupidity) will never be seen. Maybe I will get around to repeating myself later.

I'm pretty sure most of my friends hate me right now. I currently have 20 voicemails and I've yet to listen , much less respond, to a single one of them. Actually, I'm pretty sure my friends don't hate me because this is pretty common for me. I'm enjoying this quiet time terribly. I've left the house once since Christmas. I plan to go out for a bit this afternoon but just to get a few things necessary to finish up a couple of late Christmas gifts.

I'm going home for a few days in one week exactly. I'd love to say that it will be nice to get out of this city for a bit, but that would be a lie. I really like it here. I've yet to have that feeling of containment. Fortunately, I'm meeting J in New York after my stay at home.

Ugh, before I know it I'll be back in class.

Here's the real sad Christmas truth:

2005-12-25T07:16:00.000-08:00

It's 7:17am and I've been up for almost exactly one hour. I want to run into the bedroom, jump onto the bed and shout "It's Christmas! It's Christmas! Santa came!" but I don't think sleeping boyfriend would like it. I hope this abolishes any thoughts of my dark Christmas spirit.

We had a very nice Christmas Eve. I spent $9.99 on a CD from iTunes just so I could buy Kelly Clarkson's O Holy Night. We made candy (buckeyes --apparently a midwestern thing because I'd never heard of them. I made one shaped like a penguin and named him Quigly the Peanut Butter Christmas Penguin). We also made an apple pie and a cherry pie. Then we watched The Phantom of the Opera (at my urging), Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events (at J's urging), and Spanglish.

And now it's 7:25 and not really much later than it was when I sat down here. I don't think I've had this much excitement about Christmas since I was a kid. This is our very first Christmas together and I hope that we have many more just like this one. It really has been perfect.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and have a very nice day!

People.

2005-12-21T10:22:00.000-08:00

Christmas is like 12 seconds away. Those of you expecting Christmas cards from me, well, don't. Here's the sad Christmas truth: After making a total of 70 hand-cut, hand-made, hand-embossed (and one hand-feathered --don't ask) cards I couldn't give two shits less about my friends and their lack of Christmas cardage.

Actually, that's a lie. I sent four cards. Four of them. One to each person from which I'd already received a card. And one to Kate, because she's special and lives in Canada and sometimes I forget which countries celebrate which holidays and I was afraid she might miss Christmas if I didn't remind her with a Christmas card. Also, just for the record, they were leftover cards from J's set last year. Because that's just how over Christmas cards I am right now.

Last night J called me a scrooge after I told him that I had the nearly uncontrollable urge to be unnecessarily rude to the entire staff at The Container Store just because they were all so fucking filled with holiday cheer.

I still love Christmas. I promise.

I am done, done, and done.

2005-12-16T10:42:00.000-08:00

School is through and I can't help but think I've managed at least three A's. I'm pretty sure I got a B in Art History through the 15th century, but that is fine.

Now, one might think that it would be time to relax or do some holiday shopping or maybe even clean this slovenly hole that we usually call a home, but no. No, not so much. This is because, as I've said before, I seem to have a combination of rotten bananas and refried beans inside my head where a brain should be and actually thought it a good idea to agree to make a still undetermined number of rather stylish hand-cut, hand-made Christmas cards for a friend. Oh, and he'd love it if they could be FedEx'd today. This would not be such a hassle if, oh, I don't know, I was getting paid or something.

I will now show you my final photography assignment (which was not my final. That was a photo essay bound into a book that I was very pleased with, but have no desire to upload). I bit the bullet and did a self portrait. It's not great, but I'm pleased with it. It's very me, I think.

Almost in the clear.

2005-12-15T16:24:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is my last day of class. I just submitted my art history paper online and, believe you me, it feels great to have that big, ugly, Romanesque Vs. Gothic monkey off of my back. Now I just have to take one last photo for photography.

In light of this sudden and recent slowing down of all things academic, I've found the time to go back to my every day To Do list and see what's left to be done before Christmas. Upon opening up the file (I keep my To Do list in a Notepad document on my desktop) I found this rather cryptic item:

Buy that one last thing for J (You know, that thing)

Needless to say, I haven't the slightest clue what that thing is.

I don't have the time for java or joy.

2005-12-04T09:07:00.000-08:00

Two more weeks of school left and I have roughly four million things to do, including but not limited to making and binding three books, designing and comping a shopping bag, shooting a photo essay, laying out an article about Orlando Bloom (I never thought I'd tire of looking at his pretty face), writing an art history paper, and throwing J an enjoyable birthday party (which will include handmade mini pizzas to each guest's liking, an orange orange cake, an alternate, more palatable dessert, and a very fancy card made by moi).

Also, I'm getting fat because I've eaten nothing but toast and Haribo Gummy Bears for a week.

I accidentally got drunk

2005-11-29T21:25:00.000-08:00

during my lunch break from class today. That was pretty cool up until I had to go back to class and cut straight lines with my Xacto knife.

In other news, J's birthday is about a week away and I haven't really decided what I'm doing about that. I know for sure we're have some people over for a Make Your Own Pizza party. Also, he's requested a birthday cake that his mother used to make him when he was very little. It's an orange cake. With orange filling. And orange frosting.

Hi.

Now,I know you think this cake sounds disgusting, but I'm here to tell you that you can't even begin to imagine how disgusting it is. I know because I made a test cake last week. He thought it was wonderful though, so I'm going to have to make him another one because it's his birthday and I'm, like, supposed to do what he wants or something. Naturally, I will have to make a different, more palatable dessert for myself and our guests.

Also also, I've decided that it would be stupid for me not to use far too much food coloring and make the cake, filling, and frosting garishly orange.

I'm almost always out of the loop.

2005-11-27T10:41:00.000-08:00

Like, way out of the loop. For those of you who might find yourself in the same place I submit that Fiona Apple's new (if you consider nearly two months old "new") album is a must.

Thanksgiving is gone,

2005-11-26T17:29:00.000-08:00

much unlike the turkey carcass sitting in my refrigerator. I'm pretty sure that we've cut all of the meat off of it, but J is not. I'm basically just waiting to walk in on him with the thing clutched in both hands, teeth to the bone. He can be like that sometimes.

This was actually the first Thanksgiving for which I cooked a real turkey. Last year (my first year cooking for the whole holiday by myself) I cooked a breast only. That was, in and of itself, an experience involving tears, dry heaves, and an email addressed to Mother containing a photo of the raw, dead bird.

This year I cooked a "young turkey." It looked very much like an old turkey (I suppose), but much smaller. I thought I was going to be okay, but started to tear up the moment I tore open the plastic. And then the tears started to fall. And then I went into the ugly cry. And then I whipped around from the kitchen sink, look at J from across the room and shouted Why am I crying? He came over to hug me and then I whimpered He was only a young turkey! Just a young turkey! and cried some more.

And then I got over it and we ate him.

It's Thanksgiving, people.

2005-11-24T09:44:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving.

Also, Whitney Houston is a crazy bitch.

2005-11-23T11:22:00.000-08:00

That's all.

J's birthday and Christmas are dangerously close to each other.

2005-11-23T11:13:00.000-08:00

I know that people with birthday's close to Christmas generally dislike combining the days. He knows that I'm po'. Last night he told me that all he wants for his birthday is for me to take a self portrait. This is not going to happen for two reason: a) I've already purchased his birthday present and b) I have a better chance of taking a photograph of Big Foot, The Loch Ness Monster and a sober, respectably dressed Tara Reid having tea together than I have of taking a good photograph of myself.

It's a sad day.

2005-11-22T20:11:00.000-08:00

My favorite black messenger bag broke today. It wasn't very fancy, just some old number from the Gap, but I'd had it since high school. The strap ripped completely off of the side (which, I might add, speaks volumes about the amount of shit I've been forced to carry to class with me this semester) and is definitely irreparable. This, of course, means I must now head out and find a replacement. My friend Andy insists that this does not mean I have to go and find a replacement but that I should actually just use one of the other two perfectly put together black messenger bags I own. I know, the audacity. He clearly doesn't know that every man should have at least three working black messenger bags at his disposal at all times.

I believe he also said something to the effect of dismantling my messenger bag collection and using the fabric to clothe some third world country or something, but I stopped listening.

I once went to school with a girl named Heather.

2005-11-22T08:30:00.000-08:00

Heather had inordinately large elbows. Thus, we called her Heather McElbows.

Dear Lindsay Lohan,

2005-11-21T15:17:00.000-08:00

Why am I just now for the very first time hearing your song Rumors? Why do I love it so? Why does this whole thing make me want to bludgeon myself like a baby harp seal?

Love,
Taylor-

ROME

2005-11-20T20:57:00.000-08:00

I make, like, really good microwaved popcorn. Also, I'm drunk.

J went on a field trip today.

2005-11-19T23:59:00.000-08:00

He went to look at donors. That's what the field trip instruction sheet said to call them. You can call them donors all you want, but they were really just cut up dead bodies. It was a trip for his Anatomy for Artists class. He'd been excited about it for weeks. I'd been dreading it. I just knew he'd come home and want to talk about how cool the dead people parts were. That's why I was surprised when he walked in the house drained of color. I think seeing something that graphic and that real has the power to change a person. He said he'll never forget the smell of the formaldehyde. He's been talking about it all night. Despite having shed the offending clothes and showering, he was convinced he could still smell it. I'm sure that'll pass.

None of this explains why I'm the one who can't sleep and he's the one snoring like a grizzly bear in the bedroom.

Maybe it's because he's snoring like a grizzly bear in the bedroom.

This reminds me of when I first moved in with him. I ended up on the couch almost every night. I hadn't yet gotten used to sleeping with another person. Every sound and move he made upset my sleep. I would move to the couch and resent every second of it. Then, when he woke up and realized I wasn't in bed, he'd come out and get me. Every night I would wonder if he'd come or if he'd leave me there. I think that pretty much sums up the entire first incarnation of our relationship. There was so much resentment and so much uncertainty. Things are so different now. I will gladly fall asleep out here on the couch because I know that he'll come and get me when he realizes I'm not there.

I saw a guy on the train today.

2005-11-17T20:13:00.000-08:00

He was wearing a belt that must have been a good six or eight inches too big for his waist, but it was not fed through any of the belt loops on his pants, so the only way he could keep it from falling to the ground was to stand with his legs spread apart. I've never seen anyone put so much work into looking so stupid.

Today is Leanne's birthday.

2005-11-17T11:50:00.000-08:00

Leanne is one of my very best friends. Fortunately, Leanne and I operate under the understanding that we don't have to talk every week to know that we'll always be friends. This is fortunate because I'm a horrible person and very rarely call the people I love.

Leanne and I met the first time I went to college. I used my medical history to score a single room in one of the better dorms at the school. Leanne probably got her room because she's hot. She had a roommate though. I was actually friends with the roommate first. Leanne scared me. She was blonde, pretty, and smart and, therefore, represented everything I'd learned to hate in high school. After spending some time in her room, though, I learned that she was blonde, pretty, smart, and also one of the most amazing people I'd ever met.

Leanne allowed me to start over. I'd just come out of high school and I'd just come out and I really just needed to start over. I needed to feel out who it was that I wanted to be exactly. Leanne listened to my whines about unrequited "love" and complaints about the people I couldn't stand and she always told me when I was being unreasonable. She came to my performances despite how boring they probably were and she came to my dorm room despite how much laundry was piled up on the floor.

Some of my most fond memories are of the nights in my room. My bed was famed for being the softest and most comfortable in all the dorm. I will always remember those nights with me in my desk chair or sitting on the floor and Leanne on my bed, usually hugging my fish pillow.

Happy Birthday, Leanne! I love you!

The weather reports here in San Francisco are ridiculous.

2005-11-16T16:08:00.000-08:00

We were watching one of the more ludicrous (and therefore our most favorite) reports last night on the 11 o'clock news and right next to the high temperature for yesterday (84 degrees) there was an animated graphic of an exploding thermometer. Mercury was erupting from the top of the thermometer! Apparently thermometers here in the Bay Area only read up to 80 degrees.

After seeing the exploding thermometer graphic J added that it was actually better than the forcast from the night before, which had fire all over the map.

We watched The Interpreter last night.

2005-11-12T13:17:00.000-08:00

I realized that I really, really want to be an interpreter at the UN. Then I realized that I can barely speak the one language with which I was born. Then I realized that we had Teen Titan Hero Popsicles in the freezer.

You win some, you lose some.

I do most of my thinking in the shower.

2005-11-12T08:34:00.000-08:00

Considering I'm only ever in the shower anywhere between 20 and 40 minutes a day, I feel as if the odds are against me.

This morning in the shower I thought about what I'd just thought about. I'd thought about the homework I wanted to have done by the end of the day. I'd thought about how very badly I needed to do dishes and tidy up. I'd thought about how I've been using extra dish soap lately so that I might get through the current bottle faster so that I might be able to try the new Dawn Direct Foam because, in the commercial, when you depress the pump a little foam vacuum cleaner comes out and cleans your dishes for you. I'd thought about how long it's been since I weeded the garden. I'd thought about which meat I needed to take out of the freezer because I couldn't possibly serve my boyfriend sandwiches and pasta salad for dinner two nights in a row. I'd thought about taking the trash out, but not until I made sure all of the recyclables had been properly sorted. And then I thought about a) how fucking queer I am and b) how much I really despise the things that I, as a 23-year-old, think about on a daily basis (or, inversely, the things that I, as a 23-yearold, do not think about on a daily basis).

In other news, Mother has turned another year older this very day. I'm sure she'll have more fun than her 23-year-old son could ever even dream up.

I am not a photographer.

2005-11-11T07:48:00.000-08:00

I will never be a photographer. I enjoy taking pictures, but I'm not very good. I have to turn in a portrait at class today. I took over 100 pictures of J. The one I chose for the assignment I really quite like. The truth, though, is that anything with even slightly developed motor skills (a category in which I very rarely fall) could take a good picture of my boyfriend. I will show you mine.

Before I go to bed

2005-11-10T00:32:00.000-08:00

I must say that the absolute highlight of my otherwise lacklustre day was when the 300 pound girl wearing the Playboy halter top turned to me during class and said Isn't the book cover supposed to be five by seven? and I said Yep and she said But five by seven is a square. Glorious!

It's really a wonder I managed to find a boyfriend

2005-11-09T23:54:00.000-08:00

because I'm equal parts awkard and unkind when being hit on by strangers.

A guy started talking to me on the train last night. He asked my name. I politely told him. He asked what I was studying. I politely told him. He asked if I was on myspace. I politely told him no. Then he asked for my email address. I told him that I do not have an email address. Instead of politely telling him that I was not interested in furthering our relationship beyond train seat neighbors, I told the most transparent lie. I could have sooner convinced him that I didn't have a nose or that I'd slept with his mother the night before. When we got to my stop he muttered something about seeing me around and I said "What are the odds?"

Obviously, I saw him on the train today and probably will every day until I admit to having joined the 21st century and signing up for an email address.

Right, then.

2005-11-09T23:47:00.000-08:00

I don't really know how to get things done here yet. I remembered that I'd moved a bunch of my old posts here already a while back so I figured this was the logical place to start anew. Eventually I'll fill in the gap. Fortunately, I really only update once every 15 years or so, so that project shouldn't take long.

Maybe some day I'll make this thing look not ugly, too.

Today is officially my last day at work.

2005-08-10T07:54:00.000-07:00

I'm actually going to miss a handful of people a lot.

Everyone else, as far as I'm concerned, is just a filthy cake-grubbing whore.

According to my graphic from yesterday,

2005-08-09T10:44:00.000-07:00

tomorrow is now today and Wednesday is, in turn, tomorrow and tomorrow is my last day of work. I'm inclined to believe that it was this bit of information that caused me to spring out of bed and skip up the stairs into the shower at 5:30 this morning.

Okay. So. I am going camping. I have never been camping in my life. Sometimes, when people ask if I've ever been camping, I say that I have, but what I'm really referring to is the time I stayed in a cabin in Oklahoma when I was very young. The cabin had a full kitchen and two bathrooms, though (it also stands to be noted that I accidentally left my new blue crayon at that cabin. I think I cried the whole way home. I was tight with my crayons).

This time, however, I'll be sleeping in a sleeping bag inside a tent. I'm going because I think this is my last chance. If I don't go camping this Sunday, I may never be able to go camping ever again for the rest of my life (how often does the opportunity to camp come up?). Also, Angel with be there, along with our friends Vodka, Rum, And Tequila.

There will be a girl on this camping trip who is rumored to be painfully snobbish. It is my goal to out-snob her.

I will do whatever it takes. I will bring 6 different pairs of shoes and 4 different belts for the one-night stay ("Which combo says 'Trees are hot, but not so hot that I would actually touch one' more?"). I will bring my own cooler for my own personal top-shelf vodka. With it I think I'll bring a shaker and a martini glass ("Oh, no, I wouldn't drink your Smirnoff, but if I knick my knee I might need some to sanitize the wound."). I will bring an entire rucksack (because that's what you bring when you go camping, right? A rucksack?) full of Aveda and Kiehl's products ("I just don't know what this gorgeous, woodsy air might do to my skin and hair!").

Wait - I forget. Am I trying to out-snob her or out-gay her?

So I did not die this past weekend.

2005-08-08T13:56:00.000-07:00

I may have spent a little extra quality time with the toilet bowl, but, much to my own disbelief, I did not die.

You might have thought that was too much information, but it wasn't. I could very easily have told you what color it was or what it tasted like. That would have been too much information.

In related news, I'm leaving in one week. To say that I'm packed and ready to move across the country would be akin to saying that I'm a mathematical genius or, for that matter, that I could even do simple multiplication. That's to say that it would be a bald-faced lie. I am not packed. I am not ready to go. If I talk about it too much, though, I'm going to either a) stop breathing or b) stop breathing. So, yeah.

In further related news, I've shortened my stay here at work by two days, bumping my final day up to Wednesday. For those of you who might need it broken down, I've created this schematic.

And here's the part where I do my little dance. For those of you who might need it broken down, I've created this schematic.

I've been trying all day.

2005-08-03T12:11:00.000-07:00

I tried to write something witty about the gay hanky code.

I tried to write something articulate about my take on strength and weakness.

I also tried to avoid licking the Dorito residue off of my fingers.

I've failed on all counts.

I just want to get naked, crawl into bed and eat a snow cone.

In an attempt to justify

2005-08-02T12:45:00.000-07:00

why I'd called my school advisor thirty-three minutes before my scheduled phone-in appointment I said, "I'm so sorry! I've been very busy at work and lost track of time - er, you know? In the opposite direction?"

She said, "Mhm. Right."

So, I might not be the most neatly folded scarf in the display, but I do have a bright and shiny new schedule for the fall semester. I'm only in class three days a week (Monday, Tuesday, and Friday) for a total of twelve and a half hours (my Art History Through the Fifteenth Century class, while I'm sure no less spontaneous-eyeball-removal inducing, is online and, thus, does not require me to be not naked).

This may or may not be the best time to discuss the fact that I'm most certainly going to be 43 by the time I get my BFA.

Okay, I'm over it.

I finally managed to have

2005-08-01T12:58:00.000-07:00

an even slightly productive weekend. I have less than two weeks in front of me in which I have to find the time/energy to pack up my life once again and move, once again, to the west coast. In light of this, I forced myself up into the attic on Friday. I'm not sure that "attic" is the proper word to use, though, because, judging from how hot it was up there, it must actually be an open portal to Hades.

Some people look hot when they're soaked in sweat. I just look bedraggled.

Despite wanting to die a thousand times over, I settled myself down and started cutting open the boxes that contained all of my kitchen stuff. From this experience I ascertained two things: 1) I have too much kitchen crap and, 2) I know how to pack about as well as I know how to, say, pilot a jet plane or, I don't know, pleasure a woman.

I think one of the Great Unanswered Questions is "How many pairs of kitchen shears is too many?" I did the math. I played out all possible scenarios. I've come to a conclusion. Four pairs. Four pairs of kitchen shears is one pair too many. Rubber spatulas, though? You can never have too many rubber spatulas.

Now, my inability to pack was clearly evidenced by the innumerable broken glasses, plates, bowls and mugs I found. Much unlike learning to fly a jet plane or navigate a vagina, I feel like packing is a skill with which I'd really like to become a little more comfortable.

Then again, perhaps the broken glasses, plates, bowls and mugs are really just physical representations of the state of my heart when I was packing them all up.

I just had this conversation with my boyfriend:

2005-07-30T19:16:00.000-07:00

J: I have a flashing vacancy sign on my head.
Me: I can't cast any stones. I'm pretty bad too, as you know.
J: I have a fried egg for a brain. Yours is still in its shell.
Me: My shell is definitely cracked. Just wait 13 years when I'm your age. I'm going to be wearing a bike helmet and drooling. I hope you still love me with my bike hetlmet.
J: Are you going to tape cut-out pictures of Kelly Clarkson all over it?
Me: I don't know yet.

Obviously my blog has been hanging around with the newspaper I work for,

2005-07-28T09:46:00.000-07:00

because I now have to post a correction to one of yesterday's stories (for the record, I believe that the newspaper I work for should have a Corrections sections. It should really have an entire section in which we would be able to print all of the corrections and retractions from the previous day's issue. Oh, and when you paid to have that obituary of your poor dead Aunt Eloise put in the paper and we printed an ad for Zu Zu's Bead Shop instead? Yeah, we'll fix that in there too).

I received an irate phone call from Connie last night. She was calling to inform me that the scene at the swing set did not go down when I was a senior and she was a junior. Apparently, this took place when I was a sophomore and she was a freshman. She feared that people might think her to be "the ass hole of the world" if they were lead to believe it had taken place her junior year.

So she was two years younger. Big whoop!

I then received a text message from her that read, in its entirety, "k have crabs."

Now, I could only assume that she had meant to send "I have crabs", which, for the record, she doesn't (at least I don't think she does), but it's a long-running joke of ours. Then I couldn't help but laugh out loud because it said "k have crabs" which could be read as "Okay, have crabs" which is just downright hilarious! Like I need her permission to get crabs or something! I'll get crabs whenever I damn well please, thank you very much!

I had a very good night last night. Can I just say that and then no more?

You know it's not like me to complain,

2005-07-27T12:29:00.000-07:00

but it's oppressively hot in my office today. It's the hottest day of the year (currently 95 degrees - feels like 100+) and our air conditioner is broken. It was working fine yesterday. Go figure.

I did get a banana popsicle, though. I love banana popsicles. It's too bad I got halfway through and realized it wasn't banana, but really pineapple. I do not love pineapple popsicles. I'm very allergic to pineapple. I'm actually also very allergic to bananas. I might be more allergic to bananas than I am pineapple. I'm not allergic to banana popsicles, though. I am, however, allergic to pineapple popsicles. My throat is itchy and, if I'm at all lucky, closing up as we speak.

I just know that there's an SAT question somewhere in that last paragraph.

Okay, so I don't really care about the lack of air conditioning or the banana/pineapple popsicle or even my imminent death. What I really care about is that today is my Coming out Anniversary. Five years ago today I told my then and now best friend Connie that I do not like vaginas. She was (and still is) about as supportive as any one person could ever be. I truly believe that it's because of her that I am who I am today. I love her and cherish our relationship more than she'll ever know. Also, she's hot.

And now that I've said all of those nice things about her, I'm practically forced to share a related story that consistently mortifies Connie to this day.

I was a senior in high school. Connie was one year behind me. We were at a local hangout one night and had decided to make the short walk up the road to a nearby school's playground, just as we'd done many times before. We liked to swing on the swings. We'd been swinging and talking for a little while when, suddenly, Connie stopped. I slowed myself to a halt and we sat there on those swings on that warm summer night. She turned to me and said, "Have you ever just wanted to kiss a friend?"

I said, "Nope!"

I just cracked open a fortune cookie

2005-07-26T12:34:00.000-07:00

and the fortune reads : If your desires are not extravagant, they will be granted.

All of the sudden, life seems a little less worth living.

My left eye was sore when I woke up this morning.

2005-07-26T11:45:00.000-07:00

It honestly feels like I got punched. Also, my lid is puffy and droopy. I really couldn't think of what it could have been, so I asked around at work. The general consensus among the women in the office is that it's either a stye or the onset of conjunctivitis. It was suggested that I apply hot compresses or even a hot chamomile tea bag. Based on the size of my eyelid and the amount of pain I feel if I press on it, though, I'm inclined to think a gopher has climbed up into my eyeball. So, basically, I'm not sure if I need hot compresses or an exterminator.

I've moved roughly 216 times in my life. Approaching my 217th-ish move, I've decided that I will not wait until the very last second to get myself ready to go. In light of this decision, I spent some time in the closet this weekend. It's been such a long time since I've spent any serious amount of time in the closet (ahem), so there was a lot of work to do! J and I decided that if we each managed to sort through our clothes and get rid of the stuff we're not going to wear anymore then there might be more than an iceberg’s chance in Hell of all of our clothes fitting in one ~~city~~ house.

I'll tell you one thing, though. If I have to throw away my extra lowrise bootcut jeans with the silver-studded leg seams and back pockets then he has to throw away at least a few of his ten million ripped-up, stained t-shirts.

After culling the less-needed items from wardrobe, I found myself with 2 huge trash bags filled with hardly-worn, overpriced clothing.

In related news, there should soon be an onslaught of smashingly dressed homeless people in the north shore area. Don't be alarmed, but consider yourself warned: That guy with the beard that walks around downtown will still beat you up if you look at him funny, despite his new army green 5-pocket corduroy cargos.

I am not eating cake right now, as evinced by my less-than-sunny disposition. Today is the annoying girl from the Classified department's last day an

2005-07-25T12:47:00.000-07:00

I am not eating cake right now, as evinced by my less-than-sunny disposition. Today is the annoying girl from the Classified department's last day and there's cake to be had. The cake is scheduled to be cut somewhere between 3:30 and 4. Now, I leave at 4. If I don't get a piece of cake before I leave I'm going to be pissed. I wonder if it would be rude to cut a piece for myself before the annoying girl even gets to see it.

In unrelated news, I don't know why I even watch Shark Week on the Discovery Channel. I was having panic attacks in my bed because I was having flashbacks to the one time I was in the ocean. I was carried and thrown in, as I would never have entered of my own accord. It was a brush with death, in retrospect.

Also, I learned that white sharks frequent the waters in the San Francisco area. This, of course, prompted a conversation in which I urged J to stay out of the water. I told him that I just don't have the time to be worrying about him getting eaten by sharks. Furthermore, I told him that bull sharks have been known to venture into fresh water and that maybe even the shower was a bad idea.

Then he promised me that he would not shower until I get there, to which I responded that he had my permission to shower, but that he must be extra careful until I can get there and make sure that the shower is bull shark-free.

See, he really needs me around. For the important things.

And for the record? I miss him so much right now it hurts.

When I was a very little boy,

2005-07-20T10:54:00.000-07:00

I used to go out after the rain had passed and comb the fence in my back yard. I was looking for snails. They were small snails that couldn't have been any bigger than a popcorn kernel. I would find as many snails as I could, pluck them off of the fence, and put them into a little plastic bucket. I would then grab a hammer from Mother's collection and bring it to the bucket. Those poor snails probably never saw it coming. They probably didn't expect me to take that hammer and smash them all up in that little plastic bucket.

For the record, I absolutely believe in karmic payback.

Margie Girl was let go yesterday.

2005-07-19T12:37:00.000-07:00

She'd made too many mistakes. She was truly a liability. Had it not been for the vigilance of others within our own company and the companies involved in publishing our newspaper, there could have been numerous occasions where she would have been the singular reason that we did not publish a paper on a particular day. In the newspaper business, it's generally a good idea to actually publish the newspaper.

Despite all of the complaining I did, I suppose I can say now that she's really not an awful person. She wasn't so bad. With a little more time she could even have been a real asset to the company. She was not an unintelligent woman and some of what we do here is actually quite abstruse. In saying this, I think I might actually miss her!

...

I'm a wicked good liar, huh?

Margie Girl was the bane of my existence. She has the mental acuity of a rubber spatula. A monkey could do this job, people (in fact, I think one does - she sits behind me)! Also, she dropped fetid bombs in the lady's room. Good bye Margie Girl! Goodbye to you, your rubber spatula brain, and your fetid bombs!

I am all alone in the office.

2005-07-19T08:06:00.000-07:00

Everyone else is at a company meeting. I have been allowed to miss the meeting because I am leaving the company in a matter of weeks.

I've turned my radio up a little too loud. I've unbottoned the next button down on my shirt. Next I think I'll sit my bare ass on Mouth's keyboard and rub my hoo hoo dilly on her phone receiver.

Yeah, that's what I'll do!

Okay, so remember what I spoke about on Saturday?

2005-07-18T09:38:00.000-07:00

It's definitely getting worse. I've really done well, all things considered. I made it almost six months without ever feeling like I really needed it.

For the record, I no longer feel that way. I need it. Now. Yesterday. 12 days ago.

I went to see Fantastic Four yesterday. I could tell you what I thought about the movie, but all I'd really like to talk about are the thoughts that were running through my mind re: the three hot men in the cast. I'm actually not even going to lie about it. Even Jessica Alba (whom I typically don't like) was turning me on in that skin-tight just-enough-cleavage blue number.

Even watching the news isn't safe. I turned on the news this morning to find that my usual moderately-attractive-in-that-news-anchor-kind-of-way news anchor was out for the day and had been replaced by a young-and-kind-of-too-cute-to-be-a-news-anchor news anchor. I realized that I may or may not have a serious problem on my hands when I started to lick the television screen.

Okay, I didn't really lick the television screen, but that's only because I was in a rush to get out the door. I suppose I'll really have a problem when I actually stop and make the time to lick the television screen. I'm not there yet, people, but I don't know how much more of this I can endure!

Also, it seems that something I said a few days back has been misconstrued. I don't want to quit blogging. I think I just want to move to a new place. I'm so over Diaryland, people. If I do move, I'll be sure to tell ~~both~~ ~~all three~~ all four all five of my readers (Hi Con and Bits and Kate and Chris and Mare!) where to find me next.

Also, okay, I get the point people! More than 2 people read this thing. I promise not to go anywhere any time soon (blatant lie, by the way. I'm so picking up and moving to a new location soon).

Once, when I was a senior in high school,

2005-07-16T06:27:00.000-07:00

Mother called me into the kitchen. When I sat down at the breakfast bar she started to tell me a story. She was a young girl. She'd crept into her father's bedroom while he was sleeping and found his stash of dirty magazines. She, along with some of her friends, took those magazines outside and behind a large rock. They were curious. They wanted to know all about these forbidden pleasures and no one was willing to indoctrinate them so they took matters into their own hands.

I sat and listened to this story, all the while wondering why I'd been called in to hear it. Then she said, "I found your porn under the bathroom sink."

She'd found my porn under the bathroom sink!

She'd found my porn under the bathroom sink?

A) I didn't own any porn. B) Had I owned porn I would have been smarter than to hide it under the bathroom sink!

Obviously, I denied ownership. She said she'd already been to my brother and that he wouldn't claim the magazine either. She wasn't mad, but wanted me to know that these types of publications objectify women and depict them in a less-than-flattering light. I was mortified that she didn't believe me! I begged her to believe me! I was afraid that she'd think less of me.

Now I love to rub that story in her face. The proof couldn't have been any more in the pudding (and by pudding I mean the fact that I don't like naked women in any light. In fact, if there are going to be naked women in the room, I'd prefer there to be no light at all.)

I was thinking about porn today.

I don't really think about porn. I don't like porn. I didn't see an honest to goodness porno movie until I was a freshman in college. It was straight porn and very bad straight porn at that. I'd just moved into my dorm and only met the girl down the hall a few days before, but I'd known her roommate since the summer. She invited me over to watch straight porn and drink red wine out of red plastic SOLO cups. We sat in bean bag chairs. I don't know which of the three I found least appealing: the porn, the SOLO cups, or the bean bag chairs.

I didn't see gay porn until the following summer. A guy that I may or may not have been dating at the time invited me over for a movie. He might have said movie, but I was still in my salad days and, thus, probably wouldn't have picked up any such inflection in his voice. Even then I knew that "Come over and watch a movie" is the universal euphemism for "Come over and get nekkid", so I never really expected to watch a movie, but I really didn't expect to walk into the living room and find 4+ naked Czechs getting all sorts of nasty on the television.

I wouldn't consider myself conservative, but the thought of watching other people have sex has never turned me on. It's all just so contrived.

So why was I thinking about porn? Because my boyfriend lives 3,119.59 miles away (you know I just Mapquested that, too) and I keep thinking that there must be some way to allay at least one aspect of this anguish. Unfortunately, though, I still refer to my own private part as a hoo hoo dilly, so I don't think I'm ready for the big guns.

I'm considering a second move in the near future.

2005-07-15T16:49:00.000-07:00

We all know I'm moving back to San Francisco (largely in part to fact that I only talk about it every 9 seconds and, oh, also the giant digital countdown I've raised here in town).

I'm also thinking that it's time to move off of Diaryland. Under three different names I've been here for five years (note how I'm skillfully omitting the first time I moved off of Diaryland, posted two and a half times, then dropped off the face of the planet).

I'll decide if I really want to move off of Diaryland after I make my real life move. I don't really know what that move is going to make of my little corner of the Web.

Note to self:

2005-07-15T08:24:00.000-07:00

Witch hazel and hydrogen peroxide are not the same thing.

Liviasgarden was really trying to be helpful when she suggested I try a little witch hazel to ameliorate some of the itch I've been experiencing from my recent monthly manscaping. What she doesn't know, though, is that I'm a complete monkey. A monkey who, for some inexplicable reason, managed to make it 23 years thinking that witch hazel was just a fancy name for hydrogen peroxide.

Believe you me, you do not want to be splashing hydrogen peroxide onto your freshly-shaven hoo hoo dilly! I have, however, duly noted this as a potential form of torture as I'm a firm believer that one can never have too many methods of torture in one's repertoire.

After applying some aloe gelly (that's what it says on the bottle. Aloe gelly. I've never been partial to the word jelly, but there's something about gelly that really upsets me) to the afflicted area, I did have a few minutes of relief, but the itch persists.

At this point, even cinnamon & raisin oatmeal sounds like a good idea.

If I had a million dollars

2005-07-14T10:56:00.000-07:00

I would pay The Barenaked Ladies to stop singing that wretched song.

I usually try to exercise at least a small amount of restraint here.

2005-07-14T10:32:00.000-07:00

There are certain things that I feel should be kept sacred. Some things just aren't meant to be laid out for anybody with access to Google to see. There was actually even a recent article about this notion.

Having said that, I'm now going to tell you that my naughty parts are itchy. I performed my monthly grooming two days ago and now my naughty parts are itchy. I always just tough it out, but I wonder if there is anything that could be done to alleviate the itch.

I just asked Bitsy about it (yes, we can talk about my itchy nether region out loud at work) and she said that I should be using aloe directly after. She also said that I might want to go home and apply an oatmeal and water mixture. The only oatmeal I have at home, though, is cinnamon & raisin. I don't know if that's the same thing.

A part of me thinks it's a little sad that I'm 23 years old and I have to learn about shaving from my boss. Another part of me thinks that my father might have been a little put off had I asked him how to groom my man bits.

I used to think I was ugly.

2005-07-13T06:28:00.000-07:00

Genuinely hideous. I hated myself on the outside. I would dream of ways to change how I looked. I felt physical pain in my stomach every time I looked at myself in the mirror.

Having a hot boyfriend has fixed that.

Now I can say with all sincerity that, when I want to, I can look pretty damn cute.

That fact alone is what makes me think that, on some subconscious level, I decided to look like crap today.

Totally unrelated bit that I didn't even plan on writing: Love is a Battlefield just came on the radio and I couldn't be any more pleased than I am right now! I'm all about Pat Benatar right now and I love every second of it. God give me the strength to not get up and do my Love is a Battlefield dance right here in the office.

I just went up into the attic

2005-07-12T15:59:00.000-07:00

to locate some of my kitchen stuff that I'd like to bring with me back to San Francisco and, while I was exploring, I found six broken irons. Six broken irons.

There is a place where irons go when they die and that place, apparently, is my attic.

I must have gotten all of 14 seconds of sleep last night.

2005-07-12T09:01:00.000-07:00

War of the Worlds was, for me, terrifying. I don't know if it was the whole Aliens Conquering the World thing or the fact that I couldn't help but find Tom Cruise exceptionally attractive, but something did not sit well with me. Actually, it was definitely the bit about the aliens. Tom Cruise can be a creepy, domineering nutbag and still be hot. I'm okay with that.

Obviously, though, the aliens are going to get me. Maybe they didn't last night, but that's only because we didn't have any lighting last night. There are, however, thunderstorms expected for the next week and I fully expect to be abducted (again) soon.

Perhaps I would have gotten a better night's sleep had I used the SLEEPTRACKER Watch. I learned about this dubious little gizmo yesterday morning from my friendly morning news anchors. The watch allegedly tracks your movement throughout the night and then, when it senses you're at the perfect moment to wake up (based on movement), it sounds the alarm. Hello? With my luck, I'd fart in the middle of the night and that damn alarm would go off.

This morning I learned about the Anti-Jetlag Diet. They talked it up as if it was some simple diet that would completely eradicate jetlag and, naturally, I thought that this might be a good idea for my move back to San Francisco (can I just say here that me + jetlag = ugly? The last trip I took out to see J I never really managed to get on West Coast time, which, unfortunately, resulted in a lot of passing out and drooling down his back while we were lying on the couch watching movies). Upon further inspection of this diet, I learned that it requires more than just, say, eating nothing but cucumbers for two days prior to the trip. It requires "Feast Days" and "Fast Days" and, while I could definitely get behind a day of feasting, I have little to no interest in fasting.

Lastly, and not at all related, I'd like to thank my dear friend Andy for supplying me with my new mantra: People are like slinkies: Not very useful, but still a lot of fun when they fall down the stairs.

I'm having t-shirts made up as we speak, people.

It's a grey, wet day,

2005-07-08T07:13:00.000-07:00

I'm listening to Tori Amos, and Margie Gal will not be in the office today. I'm almost tempted to say things are going well.

I did have to endure a "heart-to-heart" with The Deaf Dock Man this morning. He's lonely. He's ugly. His friends don't like him. He's going to die alone. (These are all his words, not mine) Does anyone know how to say "You make me want to drink battery acid" in sign language?

And now, because I've said something negative, I will follow up with something positive.

Two reasons why I love my friend Angel:

1. While sitting at the bar in our little Mexican joint last night, she picked up a cup containing flowers that couldn't have been any less than six inches tall and said, "Hey, it's like a shot glass!"

2. While playing Trivial Pursuit 90's Edition (also at the bar), she read me some question about the U.S.S.R. Government, flipped over the card to find the answer, saw Mikhail Gorbachev, and couldn't figure out what a ballet dancer had to do with the Communist party.

In a related story, I hear Mikhail Gorbachev can do a mean pas de chat.

Connie and I complain. A lot.

2005-07-07T09:03:00.000-07:00

All of this kvetching sort of belies our pretty amazing lives. A week or so ago we decided to make a concerted effort to stop and realize how bad things really aren't. I proposed that, within each daily email, we had to include at least one positive thing that's going on in our lives. Well, now that Con has a new job, it seems as if we won't be having daily email correspondence any time soon. This is putting a real damper on my Drive Towards Happiness. In lieu of the Connie emails, I think I'm going to have to put some of my happy shit here.

First of all, I just counted (I know, it's shocking. I can count. Maybe next I'll learn how to tell time!) and I only have 29 days of work left, assuming I work every other Saturday. Twenty-nine is not so bad, people. At least that's what I chanted this morning when I had my letter opener pressed to my jugular.

Second of all, my turkey and muenster is on wheat today, and not rye like yesterday. I'm partial to wheat, so that's a good thing.

Third of all, I'm down 2 pounds from where I was 2 weeks ago (138.5). This is good news, obv, because I'm losing weight. It's kind of bad news because I was actually down 4 pounds a week ago. I suppose one can only expect to pack on at least a couple of pounds when you spend an entire Saturday eating and drinking. I did manage to shut myself off (albeit a tad late) after exclaiming, crestfallen, from the backseat of Connie's car, that I had "eaten all of the dip." (I suppose the fact that I couldn't even take a short car ride without toting along the chips and dip says a lot, either about my inability to exercise moderation or the fact that I'd had a few too many peach bellinis, strawberry daiquiris, and/or some creative beverage that we aptly nicknamed Cement (pronounced SEE-ment, preferably with a southern accent).

Lastly, my hair has looked superb the last two days. Really fantastic. It's a shame that such perfect hair should be wasted on the people here in this office, but if I were to put a positive spin on it then I could say that I'm actually doing them a service by raising the quality of aesthetics their lives.

I feel better now, don't you?

We just had a moment in the office here.

2005-07-06T11:36:00.000-07:00

It was one of those moments where Margie Gal asked one of the four million questions that she asks five bajillion times a week. These moments are painful. These moments are like having a root canal without novocaine. These moments are like running through a briar patch, then falling into a pool of nail polish remover. These moments are like falling nine stories from you Florida summer apartment's balcony and not landing safely on an awning.

These moments are so painful that, in an attempt to somehow balance the pain of listening to her ask her question, I started punching myself in the head and yelled "I'm punching myself in the head!"

Now my head just hurts.

So I hate to come back like this,

2005-07-06T09:51:00.000-07:00

(and I have been away. Not really "away", but away. Also, did I just imply that I was at some sort of rehab, because I wasn't at any sort of rehab, unless you consider surplus alone time and enough Double Stuf Oreos to make Kirstie Alley say "No thank you, I've had my share." some sort of rehab.) but I just sat here and listened to Mouth for 12 minutes. I suppose "listen" isn't the correct verb, because I didn't actually catch any of what she said. I did, however, make note of her cotton/spandex shirt that could only be described as light mauve, with its third and seventh buttons no where to be found. Classy. And, no, it does not match that hot pink trench.

Some 362-year-old woman was just in the office to pay her bill. I was half-tempted to direct her to the classified department so that she could place an ad for her missing teeth, but I bit my tongue.

I bite my tongue around here a lot. It's really a wonder that it's still attached.

I'm not speaking to one of my dogs.

2005-07-01T12:39:00.000-07:00

She chased and killed a little baby bird in my backyard yesterday. It was really very terrible and, admittedly, still a little hard to talk about. Let it be known, though, that the little thingy received a proper burial behind the garage. I dug the hole and Mother placed the deceased into it (wrapped in newspaper, natch. We don't touch dead things). The mound was marked with a stone. There wasn't a dry eye between us.

Also, before I'm lambasted about it, I know that she's just a dog and I know that some dogs do that kind of thing. My dogs, however, should not be doing that kind of thing. I'll get over it. I just need some time.

Connie is home for the weekend and you can absolutely color me excited. I haven't seen her properly in months. I managed to see her for all of 15 seconds last March when I was in the city but that's just not enough Connie for me! We're meeting for dinner tonight and having The 5th or 6th Annual Connie & Taylor Fourth of July Celebration Cookout tomorrow.

Also, I'd like to think that we'll be celebrating more than all that independence crap. I'd like to think that we'll also be drinking to Connie's recent graduation from NYU as well as her new job that starts on Tuesday. My Connie doesn't just have crabs, she's also all grown up!

For the record, my Connie does not have crabs.

At least I don't think she does.

Happy long weekend all!

Saw Bewitched last night.

2005-06-29T12:35:00.000-07:00

Bitsy and I had spoken yesterday afternoon about potentially going and then, after careful consideration (read: checking the TV guide), decided that another night would be favorable.

Around 7:00 I received a call from my dear friend, practically in tears. Her new upstairs neighbors thought that it might be a good idea to play the soundtrack from Grease over and over again. Now, we love Grease. We do! but, as Bitsy put it, "You can only ra-ma la-ma la-ma ka dinga kading-a-dong so many times!" In an effort to salvage what little sanity she has left, we went to the movies.

I really enjoyed the movie! It was really very cute! Natch, Nikki Kidman was just perfect, but isn't she always? She's charming and witty and beautiful and probably thanking her lucky stars that she and Tom separated before he went completely over the edge (Katie, sweetie, you're in my prayers every night)!

The absolute highlight of the movie for me, though, was seeing Kristen Chenoweth on the big screen! She was insanely funny! I heard that, after seeing Kristen in a performance of Wicked, Nicole approached her and told her that she enjoyed her portrayal of Galinda/Glinda so much that she would have a role created for her in the Bewitched movie. What a smart girl Ms. Kidman is!

For the record, Bitsy arrived home to find the sounds of Rydell High still emanating from above. I'm sure Tears on my Pillow took on a whole new meaning.

My mind is like a community pool.

2005-06-28T12:54:00.000-07:00

It's very noisy up there, there are a lot of things swimming around, and you just know that those bubbles aren't coming from the air filter.

(Okay, analogies aren't my thing. So shoot me.)

It's true, though. Just over 6 weeks until the move and I can already feel the slow but gradual degradation of my psyche beginning. It happens every time I move, so it won't be anything new for me. Clearly, it doesn't get any easier. I think Bitsy summed it up quite nicely in an email this morning:

"You can do it, all you have to do (besides pack up your life yet AGAIN, move to the opposite coast, prepare yourself for school, prepare yourself to take care of [J], prepare yourself to say goodbye to your family as you've known it your whole life, and leave me here to slowly diminish into a pile of the typical Lynn poor grammar street trash) is focus on what is to come!"

Yep! That's all I have to do!

Obviously, I'm excited to go. That part's not worth talking about (right now). A part of me, though, is beyond scared. What if I'm making the largest, most asinine decision of my life? Don't get me wrong - I love him. And I know that he loves me (something I couldn't have said 6 months ago). He's just - well, so many things. He's not easy. That's probably the most succinct way of putting it. I think I love him more because of that, though. There's something heroic about it, I think. Love against all odds.

He tells me that he wants to spend the rest of his life with me. I'm at the point now where I can say the same to him. Unfortunately, the math doesn't add up. As things stand, the rest of his life isn't going to be the rest of my life. Let's say he has 15 years. That would make me 38. 38 is still young! I might have to start my life over at 38. This worries me.

Granted, these worries could be all for naught. Medical discoveries are made every day. Additionally, another 15 years probably feels miraculous to a man that was originally given 6 months.

Also, there's the part about saying goodbye to my family as I've known it. I don't think that part's really hit me yet. It will, though. Probably when my parents' divorce actually comes to fruition. It's just pretty miserable in my house right now. Absolutely no one wants to be there. There's a lot of negative energy flowing and it's affecting us all. Mostly, I worry about Mother. I know that she's going to be happy and that she'll finally be able to live the life that she deserves, but it's not easy for her. I know how much it hurt when my 1-year relationship ended. I couldn't imagine that times 28.

And, to top it all off, a baby bird died in my backyard yesterday! It's just all too much for me to handle right now! I think it's time to pull the cover over the pool, lock the gate, and call it a day.

The soap in the men's room at work smells like feces.

2005-06-27T10:46:00.000-07:00

No. Really. It smells like actual human excrement. I know that I'm known to hyperbolize. I know that I can be dramatic and that, sometimes, I make things out to be far worse than they really are. This is not one of those times. This soap smells so much like poop, in fact, that I'm not entirely convinced that the manufacturer of the soap didn't go out of its way to make it smell like poop. I'm not happy about it.

A woman called in this morning. I'd like to share with you now a transcript of that phone call.

Me: Good morning, circulation, this is Taylor.
Ms. Adler: I DON'T KNOW IF I HAVE THE RIGHT DEPARTMENT BUT IF I DON'T THEN JUST TRANSFER ME AND I'LL STOP TALKING AND START OVER AGAIN I AM HARD OF HEARING YOU SEE AND MY NAME IS (muffle muffle muffle) AND I LIVE AT (muffle muffle muffle) APARTMENT C7 AND I DID NOT GET MY PAPER TODAY I USUALLY GET MY PAPER AT SIX AM BUT I DID NOT GET IT TODAY MY NAME IS (muffle muffle) AM I GOING TO GET MY PAPER TODAY I AM HARD OF HEARING YOU SEE SO JUST SAY YES OR NO AM I GOING TO GET MY PAPER TODAY?
Me: Um. What's your address?
Ms. Adler: I AM HARD OF HEARING YOU SEE JUST SAY YES OR NO.
Me: What's your address?? I didn't hear you.
Ms. Adler: I DIDN'T GET MY PAPER TODAY I USUALLY GET IT BY 6 AM.
Me: What's your address???
Ms. Adler: JUST SAY YES OR NO I'M HARD OF HEARING YOU SEE.
Me: NO!

I <3 my job.

I'm not overweight.

2005-06-24T07:27:00.000-07:00

I just want to put that out on the table before continuing.

I've put on weight.

For some reason, people within a certain weight class are not allowed to say that they're putting on weight. Whenever I say that I've added a few pounds people scoff. What they don't understand is that I'm not saying that I'm fat, but that I merely weigh more than I did, say, a few months ago. And this, people, is the case. Weighing in at a whopping 140 pounds, I'm 10 pounds heavier than I was a few months ago.

When I was visiting J in San Francisco last month, we were standing in the bathroom (naked, incidentally), and he said, "Ooooo you're putting on weight!" Naturally, I denied this vicious accusation. Then he said, "Yes you are! The proof is in the pudding!" and he grabbed my belly (he didn't do that at all, but if I had been the one accusing him of putting on weight that's what I would have done. Get it? Pudding? Ha!). He did, however, in a very cute, non-insulting way, tell me that I have most certainly filled out since last December. Obviously, I knew this. I have put on weight. But, people, let's tell the truth here. Could you eat essentially nothing but chicken finger subs and Double Stuf Oreos for 5 months and not put on a few?

I've set a goal for myself, though. I will lose those 10 pounds before I re-cohabitate in August. Granted, I also promised myself that I would have a fair amount of money banked before the move but we can't have it all now can we? Despite the fact that I actually weigh half of a pound more than I did two days ago (I think this may or may not have something to do with the fact that I ate two lunches yesterday), I feel like I've made some really great strides.

Firstly, I've eliminated all soda from my diet. In fact, I really only drink water. This is a rather large feat for me, being someone who doesn't like the flavor of water (and I don't want to hear that water doesn't have a flavor or that the flavor is "refreshing" because "refreshing" is just as much of a flavor as "blue" or "green" and we all know that those are flavors.).

Second, as of this week, I have been bringing my lunch to work with me every day. This actually satisfies both promises, eliminating the chicken finger subs and saving roughly $50 a week. Unfortunately, Bitsy thwarted my reduced-fat-money-saving plan yesterday when she suggested a plan of her own: We could split my homemade lunch at 9:30 and then split a small vegetarian hummus sandwich for lunch. Though I had evenly divvied my turkey and Muenster on wheat, Double Stuf Oreos, and Cape Cod chips, come noon we still ended up ordering both a vegetarian hummus sandwich and a proscuitto and mozzarella sandwich.

Better luck today, people.

What I should really do is have some more surgery. I lost 10 pounds after my surgery and that was when I didn't even need to lose weight. Yeah, surgery would be a hell of a lot easier than cutting back ok on the chicken finger subs!

Every morning when I wake up,

2005-06-23T12:42:00.000-07:00

I say: Okay Taylor. Why? Why should you get out of bed this morning?

It typically doesn't take much to get me out of bed. A favorite outfit could do it. Something of interest to discuss with Bitsy could do it. A new favorite song that I can't wait to listen to could even do it.

I lay in my bed for eight minutes this morning because I could not think of one single, solitary reason to do anything otherwise.

Bitsy has always said that she thinks she's on a reality show. She's convinced that there are hidden cameras tucked away in our office and that, if she completes one year at the company, she will be awarded with a million dollars. I can't help but agree. I also can't help but be pissed off for being forced to endure the pain and agony of this obvious television experiment with her.

These people here? They don't really exist. I'm telling you right this very second that people like this do not exist. They're actors and I think they've been tipped off. They've been briefed on all of the things that would drive us crazy and do those things over and over again, day after day. This, obviously, is a ploy to ruin our chances at winning the million dollars.

Mouth has earned her moniker a thousand times over. There is absolutely no imaginable way of getting her to stop talking. Even flat-out telling her to stop talking only incites a sotto voce monologue. Complete and utter disinterest is also ineffectual. I was sitting at my desk reading my US Weekly when she came in and started yammering on about something. One would think that since I didn't once during that entire "conversation" utter a response, look up, or show even the slightest spark of interest, she would stop talking to me. No. Not so much, people.

Margie Gal has gone from muttering under her breath to having full blown, audible conversations with herself. She is horribly unprofessional 100% of the time. She wears black or tan jeans to work every day with white tube socks (rolled down over themselves at the top) and black ballet slippers. She calls the customers "hun" and "honey" despite being asked to stop numerous times, and has recently taken to asking customers for their "zippy" instead of their zip code. Also, she has the mental capacity of a lint roller. One covered with lint. Not even a new one.

I haven't even gotten to the supporting cast:

The Deaf Dock Man who likes to tell me about his sex-capades with hooker-like women

The Elevator Driver Man who is roughly 416 years old

The Mentally Challenged Man who Empties my Trash who is often doing something akin to karate or interpretive dance when I come in every morning

The wicked receptionist we call Attila (Tilly for short)

Sundry drunk homeless men

And more!

One might argue that this is a learning experience for me. That this will teach me acceptance and patience. To those people, I say, "Go fuck yourself." I have learned all that I possibly can from this place! I accept that these people are not at all like me and anyone with anything less than the patience of Jobe would have committed bloody murder by this point. Please. Someone. Anyone. Help me.

This morning, the weatherman said:

2005-06-21T07:46:00.000-07:00

"It's going to be a beautiful summer day! Don't you just want to reach out and squeeze the sun's cheeks?"

No, Pete Bouchard. No, I do not want to reach out and squeeze the sun's checks. Instead, I'd much rather reach out, grab the sun, and shake him violently a la Louise Woodward. First of all, why does it need to be nine hundred thousand degrees today? Why? Is that really necessary? (Okay, so it's really only going to hit a high of 87, but that's still far too warm for me). Second of all, Sun, could you please hurry things up? Do we really need a total of 24 hours in a day? If you would just move a long a little quicker then maybe these next eight weeks would progress in a more bearable manner.

Reason number 9,734 on the list of reasons why I hate my life right now is because I had to sit at my desk this morning and listen to The Deaf Dock Man tell me all about the cream his doctor used to remove the hair from his back.

That story, however, paled in comparison to the one I was forced to endure yesterday. Let's just say that it involved The Retarded Man Who Empties my Trash Can, a laxative, and a "metal rod."

Exactly two weeks ago, I said to Bitsy, "This has got to be the longest week ever."

Exactly one week ago, I said to Bitsy, "We were wrong last week. This is the longest week ever."

Today, I said to Bitsy, "We were wrong again last week. This is the longest week ever."

I've been told that today is officially the longest day of the year. HURRY IT UP, PEOPLE!

If you haven't gathered already,

2005-06-21T05:32:00.000-07:00

I get bored at work sometimes. I suppose that's just one of the, um, perks, of working in an office where we have maybe two to three hours of work a day to split between four people.

I find ways to keep myself entertained, though. Last week Bitsy and I taught ourselves Finnish (counting and basic phrases). We played MASH today (I'm going to be a neurophysicist with paper mites for pets). I check my email alot (read: A LOT). Also, I like to think of the many ways I could take my life with common office supplies.

Sometimes, though, I actually do productive things, like sketch. I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, an artist. Though my drawing skills continue to improve I still have a long way to go. I have a favorite subject in the office. I love to draw Margie Gal. I draw her over and over and over again. It never gets old. And every time I draw her I find something new. A new curve in her bloated cheek. A playful bounce to her intestine-like braid. These are the things that keep me coming back time after time.

And now, I share with you, Margie Gal.

Please make special note of the black scrunchy, the beaded dreadlock, and the buffalo plaid shirt.

I'm actually in the middle of

2005-06-20T12:07:00.000-07:00

writing an honest-to-goodness real entry right now, but I had to jump in quickly to say that I just saw a photograph of Mouth's 3 daughter's and I thought I was looking at something out of National Geographic.

In lieu of a scan, I provide you with this as reference.

I have the most amazing friends.

2005-06-17T06:21:00.000-07:00

Last night I went out with my friend Angel. Angel has recently returned from a trip out to California. While in California she spent some time with a girl with whom we went to high school. This girl has had a rough life. She's had a brain tumor. She had pneumonia, was in the hospital for six months, lost a lung, had a feeding tube insterted into her throat, and was actually pronounced dead for 42 minutes. Now she has to carry a small oxygen machine with her everywhere she goes. Just after getting all of this information from Angel, she went on to say, "That girl is such a hypochondriac!"

Let's recap:
Brain tumor
Pneumonia
One lung
Hole in throat
Oxygen machine
Died

"That girl is such a hypochondriac!"

I. Love. My. Friends.

I was faced with a decision this morning:

2005-06-14T12:44:00.000-07:00

aloe vera toothpaste or seaweed toothpaste?

We had, apparently, run out of good ol' fashioned toothpaste and, instead, were left with two of Mother's latest purchases. Mother has recently become organic obsessed. She thinks nothing of spending $17.99 for a loaf of bread or $34.19 for butter or $114.00 for boneless chicken breasts. She eats 2 tablespoons of virgin coconut oil a day (which, for the record, has the flavor of coconut but the consistency of ear wax). I guess I can't knock the virgin coconut oil, though, because it has allowed her to lose 16 pounds. While she has gone a little overboard I think it's actually good for her (beyond the health benefits). It gives her something to do and, in a sense, something to believe in.

My father couldn't be bothered by the toothpaste dilemma that I had to deal with. He has an obsession of his own: the critters in the backyard. They're still there. And, while he's captured a fair number of them, they persist. He's often found sitting quietly in the backyard or perched in an upstairs window, scanning the lawn for any movement. I've made it more than clear to him that he's not allowed to kill them and, thus, he usually carries his trophi- er, captives off to a wooded area and releases them...except for the one morning when he just pulled over and opened the cage on someone's front lawn. Three birch trees does not a wooded area make. Even though he's seemingly channeling Wil E. Coyote I think it's good for him. It gives him something to do and, in a sense, something to believe in.

For the first time in 26 years, my brother says he's moving out and, by golly, I think he means it. He's spent the larger part of those 26 years refusing to mature and neglecting to pick up the very basic skills that we all need to make it in that big, bad world out there. But now, here he is, making an actual effort (he made fried chicken the other night. While I ended up with a mouth-full of flour after my first bite it was an effort nonetheless). He's been spending some time at his soon-to-be pad fixing up whatnots and painting thing-a-ma-jigs. While I think the little match under his backside has been lit by necessity and not of his own accord, I think it's good for him. It gives him something to do and, in a sense, something to believe in.

So what do I do? I go to work, I go home, I eat my weight in Oreos, and I go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat. I guess that's not fair. I spend a large part of my day thinking - thinking about what's to come. I think about where I'll be in 2 months. Where I'll be in a year. Where I'll be in 6 years. Where I'll be in 15 years. And, yes, I think that's good for me. So I guess that's what I do. And that future is what I believe in.

Two things that worry me:

2005-06-14T07:12:00.000-07:00

No. 1 - A friend of mine is getting married. When I told Connie about the upcoming nuptials she asked, "Well, does she have a date yet?" and I said "Duh, Connie, I'm pretty sure she's bringing her fiancee!"

No. 2 - Today is Flag Day. We were just talking about Flag day and what it is we're celebrating exactly. Somewhere in the midst of this conversation I said something about "the creator of our flag, Betty White."

I was abducted by aliens last night.

2005-06-13T05:06:00.000-07:00

At least, I'm almost 100% certain that I was abducted by aliens last night.

I woke up this morning with an acute ache in the tip of my right index finger. I did not have this pain when I went to bed and, obviously, I didn't do anything to injure it in the middle of the night.

So, obviously, the only logical explanation I can come up with is that I was abducted by aliens and these aliens planted some sort of tracking device into the tip of my finger underneath my fingernail.

This is so obvious because, obviously, I'm a superior specimen that they would be interested in tracking.

I. Love. People.

2005-06-08T10:59:00.000-07:00

I am in no way being sarcastic either. I just love people. I love situations that allow me to interact with people. I especially love being around people who are a) wrong, b) stupid, c) mean, d) old, or e) any combination of items a through d.

I love fighting with the customers that call me at work. I've found particular pleasure lately in calling/sending out bills to people who haven't paid for their subscriptions. I like telling them that they're wrong. That, no, they have not paid and that, yes, they must do so before I personally come to their home and relieve myself on their front lawn (I've yet to tell anyone I'd relieve myself on their front lawn but OH how I'd love to).

I practically got off on telling a woman that I was not going to send out a newspaper for her today. She told me that she didn't receive her paper yesterday and that she didn't think she'd received it today. I asked her if she'd checked for it and she said, "That's a waste of time!" I asked her if she said that it was a waste of time because I didn't think we lived on a planet where going out to see if your own newspaper that you just called to complain about had actually been delivered would be considered a waste of time. She replied, "Yes."

I. Love. People. They just fascinate me.

Exhibit B:

How about this guy? "Being bizarre is not a reason to keep somebody out of this country or lock them up." First of all, I beg to differ. Second of all, even if being bizarre isn't enough to deny entrance to the country or put them in jail then that hair-do should be. And, I suppose, if the bizarre thing and the hair thing isn't reason enough then maybe toting sundry weapons (one of which appeared to be bloody) should be!

Lastly, Bitsy told me a story about a woman who was four-months pregnant and jet skiing when she got stuck on a sand bar. Hello? Hello. Isn't that something that you girls are taught by your mothers at a very young age? They teach you the birds, the bees, how to shave your legs, how to insert a tampon, and that riding jet skis while pregnant is bad, right? Apparently not, because, in an effort to locate this news story I found this post over at www.pregnancy-info.net. Apparently this is a common misconception.

PEOPLE. PLEASE. I love every second of it.

Reason No. 2,719 why I should never have children:

2005-06-06T09:28:00.000-07:00

At a friend's barbecue on Saturday night I encouraged another friend's 5-year-old son to swipe his finger through the very large flame of a candle. I suppose, in hind sight, that maybe 5-year-olds shouldn't be going anywhere near open flames but I know that it doesn't hurt me and, therefore, shouldn't hurt him.

I don't know why I don't like children. I don't ever remember liking them. I didn't even like them when I was a child - I recall thinking that they were acting like children which, I guess, was appropriate at the time.

Once, I told a little girl on the beach that she was ugly. I don't really know why I did it (besdies the fact that she was an unattractive thing). She was crying. I think she might have gotten stung by a jelly fish. I don't know. Whatever.

I also hit a little boy in the face with a shopping bag once when I was in New york. Technically, he walked right into it, but in his defense I saw him coming and didn't swerve.

When he and I first started dating he told me that he would really like to have a little boy someday. I'm not sure if I actually said "Go fuck yourself" but I'm sure I said something along those lines.

I'm wearing new shoes today!

2005-06-01T10:57:00.000-07:00

Except they're not even remotely new. They're 2 years and 11 months old. I know that they're 2 years and 11 months old because I bought them from Banana Republic on my very last day of working there (along with roughly four thousand other things - the discount was not to be wasted).

I don't know how I managed to forget that I owned them because they're perfectly nice cap-toe oxfords that I might have worn maybe once before but, unfortunately, they're black and not brown and, at this point in my life, I would give up food, water, sleep, and sex for new brown shoes.

Do you like how I slipped sex in there to give the illusion that I'm actually having it on an even semi-regular basis?

In related news, MY FEET HURT LIKE HOLY HELL.

I like it when the homos call me at work. It's so rare that I get to have contact with my own kind. One just called. He was all deep-voiced and professional at the beginning of the conversation but I could hear his voice change as he slowly realized that he and I were of the same ilk. Silly queer.

Lastly, I'd like to say that I'm in need of an entirely new outfit for an upcoming affair and the thought of it has me teeming with all kinds of good.

Before I talk about my weekend

2005-05-31T10:10:00.000-07:00

I'd like to say that either Steve Jobs thinks I'm totally hot or I have some other secret admirer. I came home to find a $15 iTunes prepaid card waiting for me. Who? Who loves me so much that they'd send me free music? I must know!

And here is my Mouth kvetch for the day: She has been moping around the office all morning because she lost her friend's desk organizer. Whenever someone walks into the office she says, "Have you seen it? It's metal? It's like this? You know?" and then she points at something metal, like the filing cabinet or a desk drawer pull. Yes. Yes, Mouth. I've heard of metal. I'm familiar with metal. I know metal. Gah!

Okay, so hi. I somehow managed to force myself onto that airplane yesterday afternoon. Mentally, I think I'm somewhere in-between time zones but physically I am most assuredly back in this Godforsaken place.

I had an overwhelming sense of being home the moment I stepped out of the cab and started the familiar walk up the hill to 457 #1. That feeling only increased as the weekend went on. I think feeling so at home had a lot to do with the fact that the weekend didn't feel at all like a vacation. It was as if I hadn't even left for five months. We did dishes and weeded the garden and went shopping for body wash and shave creme. Nothing at all out-of-the-ordinary.

(We did see that new Star Wars movie. He laughed at me because I sat through 2 hours of alien races, alien spaceships, and alien weaponry only to walk out of the theatre in disbelief of Natalie Portman's pregnancy. I'm sorry, but that bitch was not carrying twins.

So, yes, I will be back for good in just two and a half months (as everyone is so quick to point out), but that doesn't really make it any easier.

I'm home.

2005-05-31T05:41:00.000-07:00

I'm back in Salem.

I will be at my house in San Francisco in twelve hours.

2005-05-26T10:37:00.000-07:00

Tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelve hourrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrs! Gah!

That's, like, 15 million years from now.

Yes, I'm whiney today. I'm tired! I was up late packing. And I just don't think it's fair to make me wait twelve hours.

I'm excited and anxious and antsy and if I don't find some place to put all of those things for the time being I just might explode into little bits of Taylor.

This is completely inane and I don't care because it's wasting time (albeit 14 seconds).

On the bright side, I'm going to sleep extraordinarily well tonight because, finally, I will not be alone.

The Bathroom Bombardier,

2005-05-25T11:23:00.000-07:00

henceforth known as Margie Gal, just startled me. I was quietly sitting at my desk minding my own business when, out of nowhere, she started saying "shit fuck oh shit fuck fuck shit oh fuck". Do you know why she started spewing expletives with a fervor that would make someone with Turrets stand up and clap? Because she minimized one of the windows she was working with. This just bolsters my belief that the woman is actually unlearning the things she's already committed to memory.

Also, when I just coughed she said "God Bless you" and I said "That was a cough, but thanks!" and she said "Yeah, 'cause you could use it."

I don't care if you're ninety-twelve years old lady - I'll hit you.

And now she's sitting at her desk bobbing her head up and down to Mary J's Family Affair. I'm not sure if she's gettin' crunk or percolatin', but it is not pretty.

Packing List v.1.0

2005-05-24T10:49:00.000-07:00

For Plane

--------------

Plane Ticket

MP3 Player

-Wicked Soundtrack

-American Life

-Breakaway

-Stop All the World Now

-Out There Live

-Want One

-Want Two

Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain

PRINT May/June issue

Thursday

--------------

Black Ben Sherman shirt

Brown Houndstooth Express pants

Friday

--------------

Ratty AE Jeans

Navy Blue/Grey Sisley long-sleeve

Saturday

--------------

Giant Martini Glass filled with Krystal (Beyonce just came on the

radio)

Blue-green BR light-weight sweater

Bright green Structure shirt

BR Cargo pants

Sunday

--------------

Striped Gap Shirt

Grey Gap zippy hoodie

Dark BR Jeans

Monday

--------------

Re-wear a pair of jeans

Blue/brown French Connection shirt

Shoes

--------------

Black Kenneth Cole

Brown Kenneth Cole

Grey AE Sneakers

Also

--------------

Black socks

Blue socks

Grey socks

Green Socks

Underwear x 6

undershirts/sleepy shirts x 5

Sleepy pants x 2

Black Belt

Brown Belt

Navy Blue Belt

Also Also

--------------

Watch

Phone

Phone charger

MP3 player charger

Toiletries

Quarters

Please tell me what I'm forgetting!

I'm wearing brown argyle socks today.

2005-05-23T07:29:00.000-07:00

If there was ever a day to wear argyle socks it's today. Also, I'm wearing my brown wingtip Doc Martens. As much as those two things make me happy, the state of affairs on top of my head somewhat cancels them out.

I need a haircut so badly that (other than the poorly-styled mess I'm sporting today) the only styles I could possibly eke out are either this or this.

Also, I have a cut on my finger. I might have to have it amputated if it doesn't fall off first. I've been sitting here all morning thinking about how differently I'll have to live my life without a left middle finger, all because I was careless when I cut open the toy car prize from my box of Trix.

On a more positive note, it's Monday. I'm leaving for San Francisco on Thursday
(for the long weekend, not to stay) and I've learned from experience that you really can't get to Thursday without going through Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. So the only way I can get through these next three days without slitting my wrists with the sharp edge of my tape dispenser is by telling myself that I'm almost there.

All I can say about

2005-05-20T06:32:00.000-07:00

last night's late-night entry is: hangover hangover hangover.

At work, nonetheless, but only because I'm leaving at 11 today anyway.

I went out to dinner with Mother and Bitsy last night. I thought it might be nice to finally take Bits out for her birthday and we thought it might be nice to invite Mother as well. She has a lot going on in her life right now and a fun night out at one of her favorite restaurants in the city was most definitely in order.

I suppose this might also be a nice time to offer a public apology to the nice bartender girl that I so rudely shook my empty glass at to indicate that, yes, I did in fact need another mojito. I am not a glass-shaker by nature! Her mojitos were just so good!

And then, thoroughly disappointed with the restaurants advertised Disco Night Thursday, we loaded into the car and put on Mother's Get Down tonight: A 70s Explosion CD. I thought I was having a good time in the front seat when Vicki Sue Robinson came on until I turned around to find Bitsy in the back seat singing, dancing, and wearing Mother's straw garden hat.

Let me just say that, as fun at that CD was last night, when I got in the car this morning? It was too early to go anywhere even remotely close to Funkytown.

mojito mojito mojito

2005-05-19T20:42:00.000-07:00

MOJITOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOS!

I weigh one-half pound heavier this morning than I did yesterday morning.

2005-05-18T07:42:00.000-07:00

I like to weigh myself every morning, just to make sure I'm not wasting away again. Also, the new scale in my bathroom blinks and has my name on it. Truth be told, I'm a sucker for things that blink and have my name on them.

Sometimes, when Bitsy and I are bored at work (read: every moment of every work day), we like to play Let's Pretend. Like, the other day we pretended that we were going to open a day care center! We thought we'd open it on The Lynnway (a very busy, traffic-y street) and organize games of Marco Polo out in the front yard. And then Bitsy came up with the idea of the Scissor Relay Race, which I am totally behind. We'd feed them nothing but gummy worms and Jolt soda and then, to induce nap time, we'd probably have to give them whiskey and a muscle relaxer or two.

I think it would be wicked fun!

Happy First Anniversary

2005-05-17T08:31:00.000-07:00

to all the Massachusetts married 'Mos! See people? One year later and nothing catastrophic has happened. People aren't spontaneously combusting. Entire cities aren't getting swallowed by the very earth on which they stand. Naked men are not having sex in front of classrooms full of children. Tony Danza did get a talk show, but I'd like to think that's completely unrelated.

Last night was the series finale of Everybody Loves Raymond. I do not love Raymond. I don't even like him. But I watched the show because, let's face it, I can't afford to be any further out of the loop. I know that the show had quite a following though. While discussing this with Connie last night she called the show "one of the most relatable" on television. Considering the show was about a married couple and Connie is a 21-year-old single woman, I suppose that says a lot.

Although, just moments later, Connie called both Madeline and Eloise "fucking bitches", so we're not talking about a girl playing with a full deck of cards.

I spent the weekend

2005-05-16T12:30:00.000-07:00

recuperating, doing laundry, and eating more food than any 5'9" 135 lb. person ever should. Bottom line: I'm feeling better but my weekend was more boring than an episode of Joey.

Because of this, I will tell you a story from Bitsy's weekend.

The punch line of the story is that Bitsy had "dead people mud" on her foot. The story, which surpasses the punch line, is that she had to go to a burial service on Saturday. At the end of the service everyone stepped up to the hole in the ground (a small-ish hole. Just large enough for the box that held the urn that held the ashes to fit into) and threw a handful of dirt down in. I've personally never heard of this tradition, but I'm sure it carries with it some amount of symbolism.

The symbolism? Completely lost on Bitsy, because she was not having the dirt at all. Feeling that it might be rude to be the only person at the service to eschew the dirt-tossing ritual, she eventually mustered the strength to approach the hole and, with her foot, kick a little bit of dirt into the hole...except she must have miscalculated somewhere, because she ending up losing her balance and falling into the hole. She was knee-deep in the ground and probably could have been in a much worse position had she not grabbed the deceased's headstone to catch herself.

So to recap, she walked up to the hole, kicked dirt down onto the remains of the dearly departed, fell down into the hole, and braced herself on the tombstone of said departed.

For me, this story is every bit as funny as it is completely irreverent.

"Condominium resident Ron Fleming

2005-05-16T07:52:00.000-07:00

said he was walking through the parking lot when he saw what appeared to be a rolled-up carpet falling from several stories up. Then he heard someone yell that a woman was laying on the 10-foot by 6-foot green canvas awning about eight feet off the ground.

"You don't expect someone to say to you, 'There's a woman on the awning,'" Fleming said.

HAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! I CAN'T STOP!

I apologize, truly.

Why is it that

2005-05-14T09:39:00.000-07:00

a 70-year-old woman falling off of her balcony and landing, relatively unscathed, on an awning nine stories below her is one of the funniest things I've ever heard? Why? This story is old. This poor woman plummeted to what could have been her death days ago and I still can't stop laughing about it!

Obviously, this story would not be at all funny and, indeed, tragic if she had died.

But she didn't! This lady did not die! She toppled off of her balcony (while cleaning, reportedly), plunged nine stories and landed on an awning!

Dear Satan,

Get the vodka chilled, I'll be there soon.

Yours,
Taylor-

Proof that I am deathly ill (and I can't believe I'm going to admit this):

2005-05-12T08:43:00.000-07:00

Today I'm wearing a black Ben Sherman shirt, brown houndstooth Producer pants from Express, a black belt, and brown shoes (J.Crew).

I wanted to die a thousand deaths. I'm very sick right now and the proof is, as they say, in the pudding. My get-up today is the pudding.

I don't know if it's allergies or a sinus infection or the black plague or what, but it's hitting me hard and getting worse by the day. This morning I woke up, got out of bed, bent over to pick up a t-shirt, and snot dripped right out of my nose and onto my big toe.

And when I die next week I'm going to take the lady upstairs’ advice and have my epitaph read: See? I really was dying.

The lovely Kate was kind enough to offer to send me hot tea. I said that I've found water not to mail well so she should just send the tea minus the hot water. Then she said that maybe she would just send the hydrogen and the oxygen particles and let me make the water and the tea myself. Then I said that I would love for her to send me H's and the O's! Then Tiffany said she heard Heather has a crush on Bobby!

Lunch time.

There are certain everyday sounds that I really, truly love.

2005-05-11T09:13:00.000-07:00

I love the gloop-glop sound of stirring pudding or cake batter. I love the sound of turning through the pages of a book, either slowly and one at a time or rapidly, like a flipbook. I love the sound of particular keyboards - I will always test-type on a keyboard before I buy it to hear how it clicks and clacks, not feel how it types. I love the sound of hard-heeled shoes on long, empty, hard-surfaced corridors. And I love the sound of hair being snipped with sharp scissors or even razored (you know, to add more shape and texture). Tires on gravel and flags in the wind and hot coffee being poured!

There are also sounds that make my ears bleed and my brain hemorrhage and my stomach do flips that would make the Russian gymnastics team jealous.

Obviously, I hate the sound of people coughing. Especially the same person coughing over and over again. I hate the sound of someone chewing gum - I've never chewed gum in my life (a fact some people find hard to believe). I hate Mouth's laugh (sounds like an automatic weapon: ah---ah--ah-ah-ah-ahahahahah) and the Bathroom Bombardier's laugh (think Wicked Witch of the West). I also really hate the sound of children laughing. I know that makes me sound like an awful lemon puss but it's true! Lighters being lit and matches being struck and plastic bags being crinkled!

I find myself saying "I'm sorry, what?" a lot today because I'm focusing less on the prattle that's happening here in the office and more on the sounds around me.

I guy I work with is getting married.

2005-05-11T06:31:00.000-07:00

His fiancee was in the office with him this morning. She was wearing an aquamarine t-shirt tucked into grey sweatpants (the kind with the elastic waistband and the elastic cuff at the bottom of each leg). Natch, the outfit was completed with a pair of white reebok sneakers. I honestly didn't know people like that still existed.

I think the people over at PETA should rethink their platform. Who cares if Jennifer Lopez's clothing line is using real fur when there are people out there sporting elastic waistbands? I would line up to throw stones for that cause.

I've been annoying myself for two days straight now. I've been feeling a bit under the weather lately and have developed a cough. I'm not going to lie about it. I hate people who cough. Incessant coughing makes me want to slam my head up against sharp corners.

Something that I can't help but find amusing: The Runaway Bride Action Figure. "Get your RUNAWAY BRIDE Today before they RUN out. Limited supplies and first come first serve only. Comes complete with Towel, Vegas Baby tee-shirt and jogging pants."

I'd like to think that Mother enjoyed her special day.

2005-05-09T08:05:00.000-07:00

The highlight for her was probably the dinner that I lovingly handcrafted.

The highlight for me was probably when I yelped "I just got hit in the eye with lobster and I'm not NOT happy about it!" at the dinner table.

I believe my most favorite Mother's Day memory of all-time was the one when I was very, very young and thought it might be nice to make breakfast in bed for Mother. I made her a bowl of Apple Jacks and a cup of coffee, except I just put the coffee grounds into a mug of hot water. Mother, the sweet lady that she is, ate that bowl of cereal and drank (a few sips) of that coffee as if I'd just prepared a 4 star meal!