Turn Turn Turn

To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.

The babe and I have a recurring conversation about death - or life - depending on how you look at it.  The babe wants to die in her 80s, and I would like someone to come interview me when I'm 110 because I'm the oldest person around.  The babe's reasons make sense - she doesn't want to live long enough to see all of her loved ones die, and she doesn't want to be alive when she can't really live anymore.

It's not that I want those things to happen - it's just that I need the time.  I cling to stories of people who are bopping around, mowing the lawn and gardening when they're in their 90s. There are so many things that I want to do, and I need all those years if I'm going to get to them all.

There are days when I feel just desperate about the fact that I don't have a garden, not even some herb pots by the window.  I wonder how I can dream of having land and a vegetable garden, how I can delightedly buy myself a copy of The Backyard Homestead when I didn't even make it a priority to rent an apartment with a south-facing window.

I'm daily traumatized by the fact that I don't write regularly, that I haven't acted in years, that I'm not in a choir, that  I haven't started my own baking/crafting business spent more time crafting, that I'm not a mom yet, that I've never learned to speak Spanish.

But then I try to calm myself by remembering back to this post I read a couple of years ago.  I don't have to do everything right now - in fact, I can't.  Asking myself to start a backyard homestead while starting a job at a large law firm would be like asking the universe to make it snow while it's 95 degrees outside.  We can't ask for all four seasons at the same time, but just because it's spring now doesn't mean it will be spring forever.

This is my legal season and realizing that it will not go on forever will allow me to really appreciate it for what it is.  Believing that there will be many, many years and many seasons in the future for me to do all of those things that pull on my heart strings helps me in those moments where I feel panicked about the things I'm not doing.

So I'm holding on to all of my dreams and desires and counting on the fact that I'll be around here long enough for their seasons to come.

The best way to a dog's heart is through his stomach

We've been feeding Jammer by hand.  Our trainer recommended it to address the resource guarding problem, and I've seen it in some guidebooks as well.

I guess the theory is that he'll learn that we're the yummy food ladies we're in charge of when he gets to have things. He gets each piece of kibble when we hand it to him.

At first I thought it seemed really irritating and time-consuming, but it has become one of my favorite things to do with him.

Maybe it's the leo in me -  I love having his adoring little face look at me expectantly, waiting for that next piece of kibble.

Of course, in these pictures, I've caught him giving the same adoring looks he gives to me - but to the babe!

Traitor.

Sigh.  I just can't bring myself to hold it against him, though.

Weekend with (In)Sanity Gal

Emphasis on the (in). Things are not sane around here - mostly because I've been crazy this weekend and have not done nearly enough work. But more on that later.

I went to my first meetup group with a knitting/crocheting group in DC. Everyone there seemed to be way more advanced than me, but I had a nice time and really just enjoyed having made the space to do something creative. And here's the beginning of the lovely (hopefully!) bag that I'm making! I'm struggling a bit with the part where I join the different colors, but I figure I can do it this way on this bag and then try it another way the next time.

I headed to the local library and checked out almost every book they had on dog training. Of course, they've mostly been sitting on the table since then. We've scheduled an appointment with a trainer next week to help us with some of the more serious concerns (read separation anxiety and resource guarding). I'm glad to have the books but more excited to have a trainer coming - I'm a person who benefits from a little authority. I think I'll feel much better having someone come in tell us what to do.

And then at some point, I had the painful realization that I have two weeks to write three papers, totalling 45 pages. I have not a single page.

PS - As I was writing this post, the babe came up behind me and asked what I was doing - I pointed to the title of the post. She giggled and, waving her arms wildly in the air, squealed "I SPEND EVERY WEEKEND WITH (IN)SANITY GAL!" What a nut.

Who doesn't love a lacy rabbi?

A friend came across this and felt that the babe MUST have it.

Oh, the racy nights...

Short

So it's short now - the hair, I mean.

The babe loves it, and there's been no complaining. In fact, it's been mostly talk of what an amazing neck I have.

Smart girl - using flattery to make sure I never grow it long again.

Blessings

The babe and I celebrated two years this weekend in beautiful Charlottesville, Virginia and marveled both at the glorious fall landscapes and at how very much we enjoy each other's company.

As the we were falling asleep last night, the babe said, "I never imagined that I'd want to spend this much time with another person."

Thank goodness for the surprises that love brings.

Taking it to the next level

Last night I dreamed about the Phillies for the second time. My unconscious mind is totally confused - having never before experienced this thing called sports. So, of course my dreams are not really about the sport. There's no baseball in them. It's just about meeting the players - fame (something my unconscious is very familiar with).

The first dream revolved around Shane Victorino - excitement about meeting him, his age (it was 22 - I was fascinated by how young he was), the babe's revelation to me that she wanted to have sex with him...badly. She denied this adamantly when I confronted her with it the next morning.

Not really her type, I guess.

And then in last night's dream, I had the opportunity to meet the whole team - I had caught them leaving their hotel and about to board the bus to head to NY. But it was very important that I go tell the others - I can only assume that meant the babe and some other Phillies fans or something? In my head, it was just all "Quick Lassie, we've got to run and tell the others!"

And so I started to, but then I got sidetracked because I saw Drew Barrymore.

So I obviously went over to get her autograph, but she was all annoyed because she was there to enjoy the World Series, not to give out autographs. But then she said okay fine - and then I got all shy and felt bad about bothering her and said that was okay, I didn't want to take up her time. And then she said really it's no big deal. And it seemed like she really wanted to hang out, which I was super happy about because - well, doesn't she seem like she'd be really fun?

So I totally let the Phillies down and didn't go get their fans - BUT Drew Barrymore was wearing a Phillies uniform, so I think that sort of makes up for it.

Yep. Plum crazy.

Smack

Enjoy the following email exchange between the babe and one of our friends from school:



To me and the babe:


So, what brand of tissues do you both like? Do you prefer scented or unscented? With Aloe or without?

I just want to be a supportive friend and buy you a box of tissues for when the greatest team in sports history wins the next three games to claim their 27th championship title. I know you'll be upset when that happens, so I want to be prepared and help out as best I can.



- [Yankee Fan]





And the babe's response:




Dear [Yankee Fan],

Thank you for your concern. Given that last night's game was basically a must win for your team, I am relieved you won it. I was worried about your mental health and the safety of all new yorkers. I was also worried that this would be another boring series where the Phillies crushed the opposition, despite predictions that the opposition should be better. I'm thankful the Yankees, the highest scoring team in baseball could eek out three runs over nine innings against a 38 year old pitcher. Thanks for providing us Phillies fans with some entertainment.

As for your concern about tissues, no need to worry. I don't know if you've heard about what Phillies fans are like, but you should check it out here and here. I think you can understand that we don't do tissues, we get mad. Anyway, I hope you enjoy watching the Phillies beat the tar out of the most winning playoff pitcher ever on Saturday night, while last year's World Series MVP shows how he got that title.

[The babe]


PS Do you think Derek Jeter or Alex Rodriguez will end up making any difference at all this series? Or do you think they'll continue to be their useless overpaid selves the rest of the time?





Because I am less practiced in the art of trash talk, I kept my response to a simple "pptptpbhpppth." Also, I prefer to maintain a more gentle approach lest I jinx my team. Never fear Phillies, I've knocked on wood on your behalf.

Missing the babe

The babe is away for a funeral.


This morning I got up and ate breakfast, did some schoolwork, got dressed and put on makeup, got my books and lunch together, and headed out to school.


I was at the elevator before I realized I was still wearing my slippers.

Tis the season

This is pretty much what the babe looks like.





Maybe a little less furry.

She's got something.

The flu?

A really bad cold?

A sinus infection?

The plague?


It's ugly whatever it is, and it is not appreciated here.

Bad Boys Bad Boys

I have always been a good girl. I still am. A rule follower, if you will - all about pleasing the teacher.

So I was something of an anomaly at the Red Lobster chain where I waitressed my first two summers of college. The servers running around the kitchen were about as different from me as you could get. The girls were loud, bitchy, and promiscuous. They had long acrylic nails, wore thick eyeliner, and took lengthy smoke breaks. They didn't like me. I think they thought I was snooty. Mostly I was just scared of them. The boys were potheads or thugs. They wore their pants low and thought very highly of themselves. They got into fights. I was shy around all of them, always more prone to recognize my own failure to fit in than anything else.

J was a line cook. He was loud and difficult and always in trouble with the managers. He had piercing blue eyes and ridiculously long eyelashes. He flirted with me through the metal rack where the cooks placed the food for the servers to pick up. I was surprised. And delighted. And confused. He was older - 23, and could've had any of the girls in there. Why was he flirting with the quiet 18-year old?

I'm sure that we can all imagine why right now, but let's remember that I was young and naïve.

I started looking forward to work, knowing that I would see him there. My heart fluttered every time I walked into the kitchen. I would catch his eyes and then look down, suddenly shy. I'd had a lot of boyfriends by then, and one for several years, but I was still a virgin. I knew the look in his eyes - it was pure lust. I'd never felt it directed at me. It excited me and terrified me at the same time. My boyfriends had been young and inexperienced like me. They had been sweet, shy boys that I met in band or on academic bowl (stop laughing - I'm serious). This guy - this was different. He'd been around. And when he looked at me, I felt suddenly naked and tingly and not quite sure what to do with myself. Being wanted that badly was like nothing I'd ever experienced.

It was intoxicating, and it scared the shit out of me. As much as I wanted to believe differently, I knew that J didn't care about me. And honestly, I think I knew that we had basically nothing in common. He had dropped out of college, had been in jail for drug possession, didn't really know his parents. I was…well, me. It was like my own little bad boy fantasy. I did relish in it for a bit. But after about a month and a half of my refusing to do the ultimate deed, he told me he was too old for that sort of thing. Virgins were not his style. Every so often I say a little thank you for my naïve good sense - it would've been an awful first time.

So we broke up. I went back to school. He called sometimes - he liked to talk to me on the phone. I assumed he was sleeping with other girls. And then I didn't hear from him for a while. About 2 months. I figured that was that - he'd met some other young girl and was seducing her. And then one night I got a call - he'd been in jail. Arrested for purchasing heroin for an undercover cop. Something finally clicked, and I realized that this was not the guy for me.

And I moved on with life. I dated other guys. I went back to my high school boyfriend. And then I dated girls. And eventually I met the babe. And I didn't think much about J (except of course to every now and then thank the heavens that I didn't have sex with him).

And then three days ago, I got a friend request.

Oh dear Facebook.

Yep, it was him.

First, I have to say, for those of you who don't know me in person, I have a REALLY common name. There are thousands of people out there with my name. In fact, on facebook, there are approximately 3600 people with my name. He must've really looked. I didn't even remember his last name - I mean, it's been 10 years!

So, I was shocked. Obviously. And then I thought - I bet he's the kind of person who wouldn't have any protections on his page. And, sure enough, I clicked on his picture and his whole profile came up. And then….

I was in NO WAY prepared for what I saw next.

The man is a radio evangelist.

Yes, you read that correctly. He's a DJ on a Baptist radio station. His page is filled with Bible quotes and admonishments to be Holy.

I'm still in awe. I keep remembering him saying, "Look, it's not that big of a deal. It won't hurt that bad. Just come on." THIS man is a radio evangelist.

Seriously?

I didn't accept the request. I think that's one person better kept a memory.

And thank goodness I've discovered what it's like to be lusted after by someone who actually loves me.

Max Capacity

We arrived in San Marcos, Guatemala, a small town* on the gorgeous Lago de Atitlan (Lake Atitlan) after being in transit for almost 24 hours from Tikal, Guatemala. We had been in three shuttles, an overnight bus, and a boat by the time we put down our bags at a tiny budget hotel. We immediately went in search of food and, after dinner, headed back to the room to collapse from complete exhaustion. It was around 7:30 pm and dark. We were using our headlamp to light the path in front of us and saw several fairly sizeable spiders on walls along the way. I began to acquiant myself with the realization that there would probably be spiders in our room when we returned.

I should pause for a moment to address spiders in general. I don´t like them. I´m scared of them - maybe irrationally. I know they do good things like eat mosquitos and bugs, but I really don´t want them close to me. And I don´t think they belong indoors. They totally gross me out.

But - here´s the rub - I don´t like to kill them. I´d like to say it´s because I feel some gratitude for their spiderly services or apprecation for their worth as God´s creatures. But that´s not it. Killing them requires me to get close to them. So coming upon a spider always presents me with an immediate uncomfortable dilemma. I want the spider gone. Now. But I don´t want to kill it.

Even my family´s penchant for camping didn´t make a difference. I remember once when I was about 13 standing in a campground bathhouse and realizing that a spider was sitting on my shoulder. Flicking it off, while maybe the easiest and quickest response, would have involved touching it. What I clearly deemed the more appropriate response was to scream and hop around wildly while trying to take my sweatshirt off without touching any part of myself with the spider-infested shoulder. Of course, when I got the shirt off, the spider was no long on it, meaning that it could be anywhere. Thus more hopping around and screaming, shaking out my hair, writhing around in the hopes that anything on me would fall off. Ridiculous behavior. But the truth.

Over the years I learned - out of necessity - to kill spiders. Like when I´d find a spider in my room at night while my parents were asleep and would have the good sense not to go wake them up. And then living in my own dorm room and then apartment and having to fend for myself.

But I hate it. I always hate it. I scream and gasp and jump around. My heart beats like crazy. I get hot and flustered and when it´s over, I have to sit and recover myself.

So back to our room in San Marcos.

I entered with resolve. I knew what I had to do - look around, locate the offenders, kill them. Quick and dirty, stiff upper lip and all that.

First one spotted - bigger and closer to the bed than I would´ve liked, but forge ahead I must. Shoe in hand I went towards it. Fast little bugger. And...got it. Maybe. Where did it go?!

Ack! Did it come back to life?! No - that´s another one! Got it!

Breathing.....oh holy lord.

I spotted a big one in the corner by the ceiling. Big. This one would require a chair. And no room for errors. A missed whack could result in a giant spider crawling directly above my head or worse - falling into my hair. Dear God in Heaven, give me strength.

My resolve started to weaken.

I spotted another one close by and killed it. The babe looked concerned. She would just as soon close her eyes and leave the spiders be, but even she had never seen this many in one place. They just kept coming.

Melt. Down.

I stood in the middle of the room holding the killing shoe and a wad of paper and cried. The babe held me and said we could find another place to stay in the morning. I cried harder. How did everyone else staying here deal with this? What was wrong with me? Why did they bother me so much? The babe soothed me as best she could.

I ended up killing 4. The babe killed one. Four others got away, left to roam around the room unchecked. But there was nothing to do. We had to stay the night at least. So, after checking all of the sheets and pillows and blankets, we climbed into the bed. I had a headlamp wrapped around my wrist in case I needed to get up or check anything out. (Turning on the table lamp would have involved groping in the dark for the switch - unacceptable.) We tucked the covers around ourselves and pulled them over our heads as I cried into the babe´s neck. She rubbed my back and told me everything would be okay, and in the midst of my semi-panic, I was grateful to be with someone so understanding.

We slept horribly - both of us. It´s difficult to sleep pressed up against another person with covers tucked all around you. And that doesn´t even take into account the barking dogs or the rooster or the evangelical sermon over loud speaker at 7 am.

But we made it through the night. With some of the previous day´s exhaustion quelled, things looked a bit better in the morning. We decided to stay - mainly because we were in the jungle and were pretty sure that every other place would be the same. But we changed tactics. For the next two nights, we stayed out late - til after 9 - to allow the spiders time to find their evening resting spots. Then we came back and made a bee-line for the bed. No looking around. Just brush the teeth, shake out the pajamas, put them on, and get into bed. Tuck the covers. Fall asleep.

It worked, for the most part. I only had to kill one other spider. But we were glad to leave, glad to get a good night of sleep without fear of spiders. But I also felt sort of proud of myself for pushing through, for going out of my comfort zone. So proud, in fact, that a few nights later in the cloud forest, I happily walked up to one of the guys running our hostel and said, "There´s a really big spider in our room. Would you be willing to come take care of it?"

*I use the term "town" loosely. It´s basically a few hotels and restaurants at a dock.

I lied

I told you I'd be back tomorrow and here it is 11 days later and I'm just saying hello again. Woops.

I blame life. I've been so busy living, I haven't had a chance to write about it! But I've got a bit of time and an internet connection to at least do some minimal catching up.

In spite of all my complaining about the heat and the wind and the sand, I had a wonderful time in the Outerbanks. The benefit to all that sandy madness was that a two minute walk over the dunes brought us face to face with our own slice of ocean heaven. Maybe not our own exactly, but shared with many fewer people than some of the more popular beaches.*

The Babe taught me to boogie board (or whatever you call it), which opened up a whole new world of oceany goodness. The babe delighted in my squeals of glee every time I caught a big wave and rode it all the way to shore. What had I been missing all these years?? Rather than pining for the lost time, I'm committing myself to a future heavily speckled with boogie boarding!

We left the campground a night early, slightly embarrassed by outr lack of beach ruggedness but desparate for a good night of sleep. The next day we finished the trek to Atlanta and turned over the pimp-mobile to our dear friend K, who was driving back to DC after a summer working in ATL.

We were staying with my mom and her husband and anxiously awaiting the arrival of my sister, home from a year in France. After a horrible delay in Chicago, she made it home to us and much graduation celebration ensued. The sis graduated with highest honors from Ga. Tech, and we marked the event with a cookout.**

After a couple more days of catching up with the sis and some other folks in ATL, we woke up at the crack of dawn, donned our heavy-ass backpacks***, and the sis drove us to the airport to catch our flight to... Guatemala!

* The oddity of this beach was that people could just pull up in their cars, so they formed long rows and then sat down in their beach chairs behind their SUVs. I thought it would be annoying, but it turned out not to bother me at all.

** Where my dad and his wife joined us. I thought it would be incredibly awkward. I haven't experienced a social event with my parents and their respective spouses, but it turned out okay.

*** Well, the babe's isn't that heavy. She's done this whole backpacking thing before and is kindly refraining from shouting "I told you so!" as I realize little by little how many things I brought that I don't actually need and may never wear.

O-oh! Herro!

So, in case you haven't guessed, the summer jobs (both the public defender and the big firm) took up a little bit of my time. And by little bit of my time, I mean basically ALL of my time. When I wasn't working, I was doing journal stuff - substantiating and working on my note. Of course I had a little bit of time to spend with the Babe and a friend here and there, but it really wasn't that much.

But that's not what we're here to talk about. That's boring. Jobs are hard work, but mine were good as far as summer legal internships go. Hopefully I'll get an offer at the firm, but that's not really worth talking about right now either. What is, you ask?

VACATION!

That's right - I only worked 9 weeks, so I'm partway through FIVE weeks of vacation.
I finished work on Friday, turned in my note for publication on Sunday night, picked up the rental car on Monday morning, and by noon the Babe and I were headed for the Outer Banks in North Carolina. We are apparently the only people on the East coast who have never been, so we were thoroughly looking forward to it.

Side note - we were driving this swanky ride.



Hot. I know.

Our plan - 4 nights at the Oregon Inlet campground, run by the National Park Service. We got in at around 7 and set up our tent right next to some dunes in some ridiculous wind. Thank god we listened to the campground website and stopped to buy extra-long tent stakes. Holy lord. And thank goodness the Babe has a good tent. I've never seen anything like it. Wind wind and more wind.

Note the way the wind is pressing the rain fly up against the tent.



The wind was constant.* Sleeping was a bit of a struggle with the fabric of the tent constantly flapping against itself. No matter how tightly we pulled the tent - and we re-did it several times - flap flap flap. In the end, we left a night early and stayed in a hotel, which was the right decision for a number of reasons.

So it was windy. Everywhere.

Let's re-visit the tent site.



Notice anything missing? Ah, yes.

Trees. No trees. Not a tree in sight. Hardly even any shrubs. Just sand. And grass. And more sand. Blowing at you.

So no trees = no shade. None. The tent was sweltering, and the only relief from the beating sun was to sit in the car with the windows open. And then we thanked god for the white behemoth.

Our first day on the beach, we bought a little tent shelter and spent several hours frantically re-staking it every 20 minutes or so as the stakes were suddenly ripped out of the sand and everything flew around wildly. Eventually we gave up and just sat in the sun. I got burnt.

Tomorrow I'll fill you on the wonderful parts of the trip. That's right. It wasn't all sandy and windy and hot. Well, actually it was. But the ocean itself - Glorious!

*A yearly regular at the campground told us that the wind level was very unusual.

Tagged: Best and Worst

Laughing tagged me, and to thank her, I proceeded to fall of the face of the planet - as least as my blog was concerned.



I'm back, at least for the moment, and I won't make a bunch of excuses for my absence. I'll just say that I've been insanely busy. And a lot of it has been good. And some of it hasn't. And that leads us right into Laughing's tag - the best and worst of the first. Except for me it was the second.



I thought about it for a while - since she tagged me about 2 weeks ago, and I'm just posting now. What were the best and worst moments of Law School Year Two?



There were a zillion best and worst moments in my personal life, but I'll still with law school life here.



Best: I gave a presentation in my feminist legal theory class with my dear friend T. The topic was prostitution, and as we began our research, I became really interested in what was happening with young girls and the market for virgins. I was borderline obsessed, and I spent way more time researching than was necessarily merited. I watched documentaries and read blogs, and I think the babe got sort of tired of hearing about it. T and I talked about it all the time. And then we put together this totally kick-ass powerpoint presentation with documentary clips and quotes and numbers and pictures and all sorts of stuff. And we created an interactive portion of the presentation so that we could promote discussion about what it means to be a prostitute and whether people would or would not choose the job as compared to other jobs, like being a medical guinea pig or a porn actress or a secretary or a hired killer or a nude model. The presentation went amazingly and the other students were really interested in it. When we finished, one of them said that it was amazing, and I realized that, like me, they hadn't really known about a lot of this or thought about it before. It felt so wonderful to have shared all of that information - to have opened other people's eyes about what goes on with young girls in this country every day, to have really good discussion about the tension points between victimization and autonomy. It was one of the most proud moments I've had.



Worst: It's hard to pick out a worst moment - I think because the whole year sort of blends together in lots of really awful moments. It's easier to pick out a great moment from there. I'm aware that not everyone feels that way about law school. I envy those other people.* At any rate, I think what I'm going to single out as my worst moment was actually two days during reading week of second semester. I got a journal substantiation assignment, and it was the longest one I had ever had. I had been out of town the weekend before, so the only time to do it was the first couple days of reading week (which isn't actually a whole week). I really don't enjoy substantiation in the first place, but this took hours and hours and hours. Somewhere between 12 and 15 total, which maybe doesn't seem like that much. But when every moment I spent on it felt like a moment that I wasn't spending studying for the three exams that I had coming up, it felt very, very long. I finished it; the jury's still out on one of the exams. And the one that I didn't do so well on - well, I can't really say it was the journal's fault. I don't know. But it sure felt that way at the time.

Because I waited so freakin' long, I'm not going to tag anyone, but if anybody decides to do it, let me know.


*By envy, sometimes I mean hate.

we iz gooberz

Too much lolcats and a penchant for silly has destroyed mine and the babe's ability to speak - so much so that on the way home from the park yesterday* the babe turned to me and said, with a note of pride, "We've spoken correct English all day."

Maybe it was finals insanity, maybe the stress of law school in general - who knows. But for whatever reason, a person with their ear against the door of our apartment might hear any number of the following phrases:

I'z tired. I'z redy for bed.

Uz my favorite. Uz da best evah.

I no wants ta do dis no more!

I ruvs u.

Das no gud. Das bad.

Dis poopy.

I think you get the point. We realized it was out of hand when we noticed ourselves and each other saying these things in public. Around other people. Very bad.

So we're trying to cut ourselves off from lolcat/baby talk. It's harder than it seems. But sometimes you just have to suck it up and work hard if you want to keep your friends from throwing up in their mouths every time they see you.

* The park was our longest jaunt out of the apartment since mother's day weekend (when the moms were here). Though it required intense willpower, we peeled ourselves off of the couch and away from the television so that we could enjoy the sunshine.

I'm Thinking Hank Azaria (as in The Birdcage)

Two lesbian females in search of Manservant to perform following activities:

1. Make breakfast/brunch of veggie-filled egg scrambles, french toast, pancakes, coffee, etc and serve two said females in bed, particularly on weekend mornings.
2. Turn off lights when said females got into bed without remembering to turn them off.
3. Check whether front door is locked when said females are in bed and can't remember.
4. Carry said females on back when they are tired after a long walk/hike/day at the beach.
5. Act as jumping hug receiver from said females when something exciting happens.
6. Additional duties assigned during finals on an as-needed basis.
7. Light housework, including unpacking groceries, washing dishes, killing bugs.

Possibility of sperm donation to be discussed at a later date.

Salary negotiable.

This isn't a funny post

My dear friend T asked for an update on the crazy jar.

So, full disclosure:

The jar sat on the counter for about a week with 2 quarters in it.

But the other day I took the quarters out and put the jar back in the closet.

This semester has been a tough one, emotionally. And the last few weeks have been particularly difficult. There's been a lot of crying, a lot of feeling crazy, and a lot of projecting. For those of you who don't do the therapy lingo, I'm talking about having a feeling about myself and then pretending like that feeling is actually coming from someone else. It's a super fun thing to do when you're in a relationship.

The thought process goes something like this:

Ugh. I feel like shit. I'm so tired of feeling like shit. I don't even know why I feel like this. Everybody's stressed out - why can't I just accept it like they do? What is wrong with me? I'm so annoyed with myself. I must be annoying to be around. The babe must be so tired of dealing with me.

See what happened there?

The last sentence. I put feelings into the babe's head. And then I wrote a blog post with the premise that the babe must be so tired of dealing with me.

And it was funny, because sometimes sad things are funny.

But then sometimes they're not anymore. They're just sad.

So no more crazy jar.

I'm not saying I'll stop projecting because that's a work in progress. But I'm not going to support the behavior with a change jar.

My therapist would be so proud.

Puttin' my money where my mouth is

During college a couple of the girls on my floor started a swear jar. Have you ever heard of this? Where every time you use profanity, you have to put a quarter in the jar? Right.

I avoided their apartment like the plague - I would've been broke in about 20 minutes. But I think they bought themselves dinner at Chick-fil-A or something at the end of the month. Ah, Chick-fil-A....

Anyway, I think they were trying to encourage themselves to quit cursing. Which I don't really see the point of. But I guess some people think it's important to have clean mouths. Whatever. That's not my point.

My point is...I'm capitalizing on the idea. Until finals are over (that's a little less than a month), I'm going to start a crazy jar. Every time I get bitchy or irrational or obnoxious or hysterical with the babe, I put a quarter in a jar. And at the end of finals, she can buy herself something nice.

Like a massage.

Or maybe a car.

It was bound to happen

I have a blog crush.

For those of you I've been reading all along, I don't know how to tell you that it's not you. I hope you won't take it too hard.

It's just that a new blog came into my life, and...I'm smitten.

Maybe it's because there's part of me that longs for the life represented in this blog. (Hat tip to the babe for her belief that crushes - mine in particular, apparently - are more about personal identification than desire)

At any rate, meet The Pioneer Woman.

To call her blog a blog is really a misnomer. It's more like an online magazine, with sections on photography and writing and cooking and homeschooling and home improvement projects. And beautiful photos. And long stories about her life.

But lots of blogs have that, you're saying.

I know.

But do lots of blogs have a woman who lived in LA and was studying for the LSAT, happened to meet a cowboy, fell in love and followed him to a ranch in Oregon, where they had 4 children and lived happily ever after?

No! No, they do not!


Really, it's much like the story of a young Washington DC law student who met an organic farming girl, fell in love and then...stayed in law school...hmm...

But a girl can dream, can't she? Of a house in the country with my love, where we have a garden and renovate a beautiful lodge? Where I make amazing dishes and cupcakes with fondant? Where we have precious children, and I'm an amazing photographer? Where the babe wears chaps? :)


Ah, babe, I guess you're right. It's all identification for me. Now, what do you think of these? ;)