Happy Valentines, A Day Late

Happy Valentine's Day, you guys. Being minus a computer at home means you get this a day late, but trust that I was thinking of you all. Because as you can read from years previous, it's not about being with some body per se, but it's about appreciating the love you have in your lives, in whatever forms it comes: Friends and family.

As for me, I had contented myself on not seeing the Scotsman, since he had his daughter this weekend. But Saturday morning I got a phone call asking me if I'd like to attend a Scottish and Irish Mid-Winter festival with them on Sunday, and hell yes was my answer. And the Scotsman, making all my dreams come true, WORE A KILT. When I saw him walk in the door of the convention center, I literally froze and was breathless for a moment. KILT. GUH.

"You're wearing a kilt," I said, stating the obvious.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he said.

Of course, since his daughter was there and, you know, we were in public and all, I couldn't really take advantage of the situation properly. Still...s'nice. We had a lovely day together, enjoying the music and dancing. There was a ceili session and the Scotsman and his daughter both Irish danced* with me, which was across the board AWESOME. And also possibly the way to my heart.

Evidence of the kilt (and believe me, I was kicking myself for not bringing my actual camera):



What can I say? Kilts give me a lady-boner.

So my Valentine's day was cozy, perfect, filled with kilt-wearing men, dancing, happiness and some roses. I hope yours was equally as satisfactory.

*He was pretty good at the ceili dancing, actually. He also Scottish Highland danced a bit for me. ALSO AWESOME. Swoons, people. Swoons.

My boyfriend can totally beat up your boyfriend*

So, The Scotsman? Just got his third degree black belt. Bear with me a bit, because I'm going to brag.

It was kind of a big deal this test, because he'd been waiting to take it for close to 9 years. He should have actually taken it about 4 years ago but between his own students and Tae Kwon Do club, not to mention his full-time job and family responsibilities, it kept getting pushed back and pushed back. So the fact that he was finally able to take it was pretty damn special and I was honored that he asked me to come and take photos**.

The test took over 4 hours, which I sort of can't wrap my head around. Don't ask me how he made it through the ordeal, because I would have given up after the first couple of forms and sat myself down with some girl-scout cookies or something and just been satisfied with my two degrees. But he kept going and going and was generally awesome the entire time.

The final portion of the test was the breaking. The Scotsman was the last to go and he was the one breaking the most boards. Prior to The Scotsman's turn, the other students (who were mostly testing for their first degrees) kept not breaking. And they were only trying to break one board. As each of them hit difficulties and had to re-try over and over, I got more and more nervous. Because The Scotsman was breaking 4 boards with his elbow, immediately followed by 3 with a kick, followed by 2 with a different kick (technical term). Grand total of 9 boards for those of you not adding along.

By the time The Scotsman got up there to do his thing, I was pretty edgy. A hush fell over the entire room as he set up the boards, and I overheard a little girl say with awe, "Mom, you HAVE to get a picture of this. He's going to break 4 BOARDS!"

The Scotsman's mom was biting her nails at this point, and I was holding my breath.

But of course, I had nothing to be worried about:



If you look in the mirror, you can see that it takes the strength of 3 burly men to handle the impact. Those boards? Completely broken.

The two kicks went perfectly too:



And let me just tell you, the cheer that went up afterward? Epic. After my heart started beating again, I realized that I had been silly. The Scotsman has been known to break up to 6 boards with his elbow, so those 4? Were like butter.







I might be just a bit proud, you guys.

And then, the next day, The Scotsman cooked me breakfast:



Wearing the belt, obviously. Because you kind of have to.

<3

*He wouldn't, of course, because that goes against the tenants of Tae Kwon Do. But he could, is my point.

** I'm fairly disappointed with how the pictures came out, actually. Too bad his girlfriend is an amateur. Ugh.

Diseased

The Illness: I'veGotAHotGuyInMyBed-itis

Symptoms: Warm cozy feeling, strong desire to engage in behavior best described as "snuggling," inability to keep hands to self, excessive giggling, blanket stealing, complete lack of will to get out of bed.

Course of treatment: In most cases, one of two options are available.

Cure 1 - Forcing subject out of bed, using brute strength if necessary. Cold showers followed by medicinal consumption of hot coffee and focusing subject's attention on "grownup responsibilities." Side effects include grumbling, pouting, heavy sighs, feet stomping, and sluggish behavior for the remainder of the day.

Cure 2 - Allowing the illness to "run its course." Subject should remain in bed for as long as possible. Good friends and understanding coworkers are essential to this remedy. Side effects include healthy glow, excessive smiling, daydreaming, happy sighs, facial muscles taking on a "sappy" expression, emotional behavior described as "obnoxiously happy."

GUESS WHICH REMEDY I CHOOSE, YOU GUYS.

In other news, sorry for being...well, sappy and obnoxiously happy around these parts. I should be keeping an even head about me, given all the complications, but instead I'm all singing with bluebirds on my shoulder and shit. Whatever. ISN'T IT A REFRESHING CHANGE FROM ALL WHINE ALL THE TIME ABOUT HOW I HATE MYSELF? Yeah, I think so too. We're going to go with it.

True Story

Cross-posted everywhere, because I can't sit still and this is the longest morning ever.

Meanwhile, Sarah Rose drops some knowledge

So as you can see by my previous entry, things are clicking away nicely for me and The Scotsman, as I've decided to call him here.

I'm one part giddy excited blushing school girl one part trying too hard to be practical. The situation is complicated, to say the least, and I'm trying to keep an even head on my shoulders...mostly for his sake.

Just when I was having an "Oh my god! Are we getting too attached too soon? Am I taking advantage of him?" moment, Sarah Rose dropped this truth bomb on me:

I guess what I'm saying is – if the shoe were on the other foot, I'd say you knew what was best for you because you're a grown woman. He seems to have his wits about him – so just ride the sweetest rollercoaster, which is called love and is made of cotton candy, sweet phone calls and weekly Wednesday dates :D

Maybe what we didn't understand when you first met him is that the universe might owe you for Brisket being such an a-hole. So maybe he was just the cover-band before the real show.

Well, if that's not salient advice, than I don't know what is.

Blush-worthy conversation

The Scotsman: [looking at my Facebook profile] Oh, this is a nice picture. I like this picture of you a lot.

Me: ...Thanks! That was taken at Seth's wedding. It was a fun day.

The Scotsman: You look very pretty.

Me: [forcing myself to take a compliment] Thank you.

The Scotsman: So you mean to tell me there's no one else interested in dating you? How is that possible?

Me: I...Well, frankly, I'm still reeling from the fact that you want to date me. So, no, I guess. Or if they do, I don't know about it.

The Scotsman: Good. So I get to have you. I mean, you know. If you want.


Me: I know.

===

People. It is like I'm in high school again. I can't stop grinning all goofy-like. Don't know what's wrong with me.

Leslie's Bachelorette Party

As you can imagine, I've got a plethora of pictures to go through these days, and very little time to actually edit and upload them.

So even though I'm posting these photos from Leslie's bachelorette party, I still haven't had time to go through the entire group I actually took. I probably have about 120 more or so to look at and edit.

But time is ticking away, so I thought I'd give you at least a little preview.




Bitches for life!







I had my brand new fake fish-eye lens, and I was anxious to test it out. (Hence the blurry factor)



Um, we drank a lot of wine at the Hibachi place. A LOT.



And then we headed to Ice Nightclub.









Leslie became very sad when the vodka ran out. But Kelly purchased a fishbowl drink and we kept the party going and got the dancing started:









More photos here. Hopefully in a few weeks even more pictures will appear in that set.

Back in the saddle

At lunch today, while waiting for my dining companion to arrive, I finally deleted all the text messages inexplicably still in my phone from Brisket.

Progress? Or sublimation? Not really sure if I care. In any event, it feels sort of liberating.

Holy Freak-out, Batman!

I was going to give you a quick write-up about my time in Chicago, but something happened last night that took precedent over the entire weekend.

Arriving home from Chicago, I had just enough time to shove some food in my mouth and run a brush through my hair before heading out to rehearsal. After rehearsal, I came home, exchanged some pleasantries with Gary (who retired to his bedroom), and flopped down on the couch. All I wanted to do was unwind a bit and watch the series finale of Battlestar Galactica. (which, WOW, btw). The kitties were all over me, curled up for some quality time after my weekend away. Things were good, Starbuck was tapping out the secrets of the universe, and I was chilling out.

Suddenly, Galahad perked up and dashed into the hall, to be quickly followed by Dill and Kayla. I didn’t think too much of it – I assumed there was a bug of some sort. We get a lot of moths this time of year and the cats enjoy chasing them around. I was also, frankly, pretty focused on the show. And then something dark in the hall flitted into my peripheral vision and disappeared again. Wow, I thought. That must be a pretty big moth. It happened a couple more times and just when I was starting to get suspicious of it, this flew into the room:



As I was lying on the couch, it flew directly over my head. It was a terrifying moment wherein I envisioned the bat swooping down and eating my face. So I did the only thing I could do: I bolted upstairs, screaming for Gary the entire way and praying the bat wouldn’t follow me.

Here’s the thing: I am a brave, liberated chic. I will kill my own bugs – spiders, beetles, those creepy-ass centipedes we get, even roaches (which I despise) – I can do it. I’m not particularly fond of wild mice or rats, but once faced with them, I can steal myself and take care of business.

But bats? No. Just…no. For one thing, they carry a lot of disease. Like, a LOT. Rabies, first of all. But also SARS and the ebola virus. Second, they fly. Adding wings to a rat changes the entire equation. Since it can fly by it’s own volition, has sharp teeth and claws, and can give me deadly viruses? It has an advantage over me.

And you know what else? I don’t need that bullshit in my life. I’ve got enough problems as it is without disease-carrying winged creatures in my house.

Frankly, when faced with a bat in my living room, I turn into Martha Plimpton in The Goonies:


Rabies! Rabies!

So I have never been so glad that I live with a man than I was last night. I hurled myself into Gary’s room without even bothering to knock, and demanded he put his XY chromosome to good use.

Gary: [getting up, looking panicked] What’s wrong, what’s wrong?!
Me: There is [pant] A BAT IN THE LIVING ROOM. You need to take care of this.
Gary: That’s all? A bat?
Me: Whatta you mean, “That’s all?” What else do you want?
Gary: [chuckling] It’s just a bat.
Me: EXACTLY. GO GET RID OF IT. I can’t handle this.
Gary: What would you have done if I wasn’t home?
Me: I would have left. Abandoned the house and the cats and just left. Once a safe distance from the house I would then call the landlord and have him take care of it.
Gary: You know that bats are all around here, right? Like, they live in that tree right next door.
Me: I know, I’ve seen them, and that’s fine. They can live out there. They belong out there. But they do not belong in my living room, so get it out right now I'mnotkiddingsohelpmegodthisismyseriousface.

Gary chuckled his way downstairs and went searching for the bat. But he was unable to find it. “Come down and show me where it is,” he called up to me. By the mirth in his voice, I could tell he thought I had made the incident up. I creeped downstairs to help.

As we were driving to the fair a few weeks ago, Mike recounted how he recently was sent on an EMS call to our old apartment in Ardmore. Which, if you remember, we sort of loved, but was a dump. The reason for the call: The girl now living in Kelly’s old room had a cockroach crawl into her ear while she was sleeping. We did not have roaches while we lived there but if we had I would have picked up and moved, let me just tell you. At the time, I told Mike that I couldn’t imagine anything worse happening to you while you sleep. But I was wrong. Because as I was creeping down the stairs I remembered hearing on NPR that bats can bite you while you sleep and you will never know. You wake up with rabies, surprise!

I was also remembering a story QK told me about her mom – that a bat got in the house, and they thought they had got it out, but instead it hid, of all places, in their bed, burrowed under the covers. QK’s mom didn’t realize until she crawled into bed and was – I swear to god – lying on top of it.

There was no way in hell I was having either of those things happen to me. So I went downstairs to help Gary locate it.

“Where is it, where is it?” he kept asking me. “I don’t know where it is now,” I told him. “It was flying around the living room the last time I saw it.” And a few seconds later, it flew back in, causing me to haul ass back upstairs to the sounds of Gary’s laughter.

Gary managed to apprehend the bat within a few minutes, and release it safely into the wild. I am now freaked about how the bat got into our apartment in the first place. Best as I can figure, it squeezed in through one of the small openings between the panes of our old windows. Considering I’ve lived for 4 years in this apartment and never had a bat enter before, I’m going to consider this a freak occurrence. Either that, or the vibe of QK moving in is drawing the bats near. Not only does her mom have that bat story, but QK has a few of her own, as well.

Gary had made so much fun of me for this whole incident, but I don’t care. I feel very rational in my dislike of bats in my personal living space. And considering he did the dirty work and captured the bat, he has free reign to do so.

B4L

Oh promises, promises. Four entries this week, huh? How about two? Well, tough. You're going to take two and like it. I've got a lot going on. Namely this play thing. And I'm trying to watch the end of BSG 4.5 and a lot of my brain space has been devoted to trying to understand what the frak is going on with Kara Thrace (Yes, I know I'm a dork, and yes, I know that I am 12 hundred years behind the times. But I won't get a chance to watch the finale until Monday, so shut it). And also, I'm going to Chicago this weekend. Which I am very excited about.

==

So the theme for last weekend can be summed up in three words: Bitches for Life.

First of all, Melissa was in town, so I took an unprecedented two days off to spend time with her and Stephanie. The best way to describe our time together was British and Boozy. We essentially spent the entire time vegging out to anything the BBC has ever transmitted over the airwaves. We also drank a lot. We may have been a little ridiculous and over-the-top: On Friday we went to the beer distributor to pick up a case and walked out with, um, three cases. As in, one for each of us. Oops. We ate insanely well too: We had breakfast with the Doctor and Stephanie cooked us a full (vegan) English breakfast including beans on toast. Which made my heart sing and made me long for London.

The other big fun thing of last weekend was Haven's Bachelorette Party.



This girl is getting married so very soon! It's all exciting. I just had a meeting with Haven and Mike to discuss wedding photos, and let me just tell you: this wedding is going to be a damn good time. I may be nervouth about taking these photos, but god knows I'm going to be giggling from behind the lens.

The Bachelorette party began with the traditional decorating of the van and from there it was off to Coyote Crossing for a scrumptious dinner. And also some cocktails. And Sangria.



After dinner, it was time to head to the secret location of...Montana West!



Yes, there was line dancing. And yes, Kimmy and I were brave and went out and tried to do a line dance. We weren't particularly good, but whatever. But the main fun began when we ordered Haven a Montana Margarita.

Now, I've had personal experiences with this particular drink, and let me tell you it is awesome. Essentially, you get the hot bartender to give you a shot, but the people at Montana West do it...creatively.

Haven had no qualms about hopping on the bar and doing her bachelorette duty.





That bartender was hot too. Damn.

After the shot we were all feeling high in spirits:



And after making Haven do a few more bachelorette stunts, decided it was time to ride the bull:











LIKE A CHAMP. Kimmie and Justine also took a turn on the bull:





After the bull, we headed to Reed's and at this point I stopped taking pictures because It's hard to take photos when you're drinking and dancing. But let's just say that Haven had a good time.

Meanwhile, over on the faux Brit hacienda (I don't want to think about how many languages I just butchered), Stephanie went and got themselves tattoozled in serious fangirl fashion:





WHOA. That Dalek is totally going to exterminate me, but the Tardis will sweep me away just in time. ROCK.

Hitting home

I've been reading and rereading many zines of late (THESIS OMG), and last night I came across a quote that took my breath away:

For years I loved with heartbreaking intensity. Desperation. I opened up fast as possible. Quick, quick, see me before it is too late. — Doris 23

Well, yeah. I can relate to that, just a bit.

Things with Brisket, as you may have gathered, are weird. A few weeks ago we had The Talk. I hadn't intended on having The Talk, but a conversation about respecting me and my time morphed into that and let me just tell you, if I owned a TARDIS I would go back in time and prevent it from ever happening, just so I could continue being blissfully ignorant. We're on different pages. Possibly in different books altogether.

And yet...I can't bring myself to completely let go. I don't think he can either. There's too much I like about him. I can list his faults over and over and over: his immaturity, his selfish behavior, his unwillingness to grow up. But all I can remember is how well we connected, how attractive and special I feel with him, our stimulating conversations, our passion, how for months we couldn't get enough of each other.

I would give anything to get back there. Even if it was false.

We took a break for about two weeks, and I get the impression that since The Talk he's been purposefully holding back so as to avoid and prevent me from getting hurt. I also have a (completely unfounded and irrational) suspicion that he might have someone else he's messing around with — which is 100% allowed per our agreement from back in the day to "keep things casual."

Since The Talk, the ball has been in my court. He left it to me to decide if I wanted to Just Be Friends or continue Doing Whatever It Is We're Doing. I am in control. I've opted to try to continue Doing Whatever It Is We're Doing, because I am deranged. I know I shouldn't settle or compromise.

But I know other things.

I know that I am too emotional, and a serial monogamist. I've never casually dated anyone. I've only been in serious relationships. I know I take things too seriously, too deeply. I feel it all. I know that I need to learn to relax and not hold so tight. I think, on some level, all this bullshit is supposed to help me, to teach me how to be casual and simple when it comes to men. Get back to basics.

I also know I am unwilling to go back to where I was before Brisket: Lonely, alienated, the odd girl out. Celibate. Pathetic. I know how hard it is for me to find someone I like. I know my past follies and crushes and how disastrous they all turned out to be. I am unwilling to give up on someone I find to be intellectually stimulating, attractive, funny, and who (miracles of fucking miracles) actually finds me attractive as well. I haven't had that for FIVE FUCKING YEARS. Why should I give up on that so easily? I refuse to be that girl again, standing alone while everyone else is paired up around me, all happy in their love. Fuck that noise.

I'll take what I can get. I should be damned GRATEFUL.

I can hear you. I hear you ALL, shouting at me through cyberspace. Telling me that I'm a beautiful flower, that I'm awesome, that he sucks. Telling me that you love me, telling me that I'm wonderful. Telling me he doesn't deserve me.

You're right. He doesn't deserve me.

But I want him.

I should have him. If I'm so much better than him, I should be able to have him, right? He was supposed to be my reward. My reward for Prince Fucking Charming and for having to deal with lecherous men, for having to listen to men make careless and hurtful remarks, for all the nights spent alone, for all my doubts. I want him to want me. Why can't I have this thing, this one thing?

I know he's ultimately wrong for me. I know I don't want him to be my boyfriend.

I want it to be the way it used to be. Intense, giddy, saucy. Fun. I'm trying to let go, relax, to retrace my steps.

Whatever.

Here I am. Things are fine. I fall too hard, I'm setting myself up for disaster, I give too much, and I'm being stupid.

Deep breath.

Tomorrow I begin again.

I am...

...overly sentimental.

...unwilling to give it up.

...too forgiving.

...craving attention.

...needy for affection.

...fooling myself.

...comforted in the knowledge that he is also fooling himself.

...stupid.

...going to get my heart broken.

...doing it anyway.

Lady Shoes

Before I ask for your help, a story:

My life has become quite hectic and busy this past week, which is good because I needed some distraction and rehearsals and friend dates have been kind enough to provide this for me. However, it has left me precious little time to do much-needed grown-up things such as my laundry.

This morning I found myself in my bathrobe staring despondently at my mountain of laundry, trying to figure out just what in the hell I would wear today. Now not to be gross, but normally I would just try to find an outfit that I had already worn that was still relatively clean and just recycle and wear it again. Stop looking at me that way. You know you do it too. However, this laundry predicament of mine is massive and I may have already done this once or twice. Shut up.

So this left me with two very polarizing options: Dressy or dowdy. I could go to work in my pajamas, or some sweat pants or something. Or I could pretend to be girlie and dress up a bit, wearing one of my dresses or a skirt. I opted for the dressy.

But this itself also presented a problem, because most of the tops I wear with my skirts were already dirty, so it was slim pickings for the skirts I could actually wear. I ended up going with a light blue, very spring-like skirt that I can pair with my white shirt, miraculously clean and somehow unworn in this whole laundry debacle.

But now there's a new problem, namely that I have no shoes to go with this outfit. I need white shoes, ideally, and even if I chose to go with black shoes, I don't have any that stylistically match the whole ensemble. See, it's times like this I truly hate being a girl because for real, wardrobe, BITE ME, it shouldn't be this hard to get dressed in the morning. Also, my god, it's 7:30 in the morning and I haven't had coffee yet.

ANYWAY, I only have one pair of white "dress" shoes. But. They're sandals. And, um, vinyl. And have a HIGH clear, stiletto heel. Yes, you read that right. Clear stiletto heel.

So this is how it came to be that I came to work this morning wearing hooker heels. Mikey Likes It even commented that I need to be dancing on a lighted platform.

I tell you this to remind you that I am so, so awesome sometimes.

===

Ok, now my real reason for writing. I need your help finding a new pair of black heels.

I have a certain weakness for black heels, especially for the Mary Jane variety. It got to the point that when I was living with Kelly, she would tell me that I was not allowed to buy another pair until I had thrown a pair out. But, over the years I've calmed myself down and now I only have three pairs of black heels.

One pair in particular, though, I've loved. I bought them for myself on Valentine's Day two years ago at Boscov's. They were on sale. I think I got them for $10. Simply put, these shoes were awesome. Rounded toe (I am staunchly anti-pointy toe when it comes to my heels. They make my feet look weird.), perfect-sized heel, Mary Jane-esque in the sense that they had the suggestion of a t-strap, but not really. They showed off cute toe cleavage, and went with everything I wore from jeans, to dresses, capris to skirts. They were damned comfortable too. I wore them all over the place. I could go for hours in them.

But I wore them down pretty hard, so hard in fact, that I don't feel like I can take them to get repaired. So I'm stuck hunting for a replacement pair.

I am unable to find anything to match their awesome.

These are the closest I've been able to find. However, mine have a higher heel, and there's a little T-strap coming down from the middle. I know I'm being picky at this point, and I might as well just suck it up and buy these. But if anyone sees anything like the ones I'm looking for, let me know!

A change is as good as a rest

After I wrote yesterday's entry, I felt pretty stupid. Like, way to bitch endlessly about being, of all things, cold. Seriously, that's my biggest problem? That I'm tired of winter? Oh, fucking woe is me.

So I had a talking to with myself. "Self," I said. "It's damned BORING being depressed. It's time to sack up, ho, and move on. There will be a MINIMUM of emo angst and a MAXIMUM of cute new hair cuts."

And that's what I decided to do. Because what I really needed was a change of some sort. I needed to shake things up. And thus, a long afternoon of consulting with girlfriends and figuring out hairstyles commenced. I began with an announcement over Twitter. Soon Stephanie linked to this photo and it gave me some pause. Because despite being in the clutches of cracked out Scientologists, I've always though Katie Holmes is quite pretty. And she looks super cute in that haircut right there. Could I possibly pull that off? I mean, I'm no Katie Holmes, that's for damn sure. And it was so short. I haven't had hair that short in ages.

I consulted Sarah via GChat. "BOB IT," was her immediate suggestion.

Still, I hesitated. I have a vivid memory of the last time I seriously chopped my hair. I was dating 80s at the time. It was Valentine's day and on a whim I asked the hair dresser to cut my hair to chin-length. I was feeling cute, and looking forward to my date that night, hoping that 80s would like it. But he didn't. His reaction was less than favorable. I believe his exact words were, "Why did you get my mother's haircut?!"

It was a tense Valentine's Day, to say the least. I felt wretched for days, until QK and Becky gave me (and 80s as well, I suspect) a talking-to.

So I worried. What if getting short hair gave me pig-face? What if I looked like an ugg-o? What if short hair was a mom haircut?

But I couldn't chicken out. Because regardless if it looked good or bad, I had to do something. I was tired of my same old hair cut. Blah, blah, blah. Worst case, I would wear headbands for awhile. And my hair grows fast.

Mustering up courage, I took the Katie Holmes picture to the stylist. Her eyes lit up. "You're doing something drastic!" She peered at the photo and squinted at me, lifting my locks and examining them critically.

"Your hair won't look like hers," she told me. "Your hair grows differently, so it won't lay quite like that. But I know what you want. We'll make it piece-y and fun. Flirty. Layers." She spun the chair, turning me to consider me from all angles. She lifted a lock of hair and indicated with her fingers where she would cut. She caught my eye in the mirror and lifted her eyebrows as if to ask if it was OK.

"Do it," I told her. "Balls to the wind, do it now before I change my mind." And with that, she snipped.

When she was finished, the stylist next to her gasped. "You look like a completely different person," she told me.



I sort of can't believe I did it. That photo doesn't give a good indication, but there are lots of little flirty layers. My hair is so short, I can't pull it up into a pony tail. Washing it for the first time this morning, I put far too much shampoo in my hair out of habit, and half of it ran down my back, having nowhere else to go. Styling my hair this morning was also an experience. I had no idea how to get my round brush around such short tresses, and there was a lot of contorting and fumbling with the hair dryer. I'm sure the cats were laughing at me.

The reaction so far has been quite favorable. Most people say that I look younger, that it suits me, that it makes my face thinner. And you know what I have now, guys? A jaw line! I sort of forgot that I had one!

Still waiting for Brisket's reaction. He's bogged down all week with midterms, so I won't see him until the weekend at the earliest. I texted him last night, "I HOPE YOU LIKE SHORT HAIR BECAUSE I GOT MINE CUT AND THERE'S NO GOING BACK." He texted me back that he does indeed like short hair and that he was sure I looked wonderful.

Security

Brisket: Tell me!

Me: No, don't worry about it.

Brisket: Come on. How am I supposed to secure you if you won't tell me?

Me: [pause] Because it's not your job to secure me. These are my insecurities and my hang ups and therefore its my job to get over them.

Brisket: I could help. I could, you know, reassure you, or whatever.

Me: You could. And I would believe you for about 2 hours and then go back to my hang ups.


==

Brisket and I had this conversation the other night whilst cuddling. I forget how we got to this particular point in the discussion, but the main point is this: I confessed to having a great number of insecurities about myself and concerning him.

I know that these insecurities, for the most part, are ridiculous and nonsensical. Like, how I think he must be imagining he's with someone else when he's with me. Someone prettier and thiner.

And before you all start yelling at me in comments, I KNOW. I AM FULLY AWARE THAT THIS IS ABSURD AND MISGUIDED AND I AM A BEAUTIFUL FLOWER, OR WHATEVER. I know it's stupid and so wrong you could sing about it. This is why I refused to tell Brisket about this particular doubt. It's wrong. I know it's wrong. And yet, I slip into this insecurity like a comfortable sweatshirt. I'm so used to feeling that way, that when confronted with someone who obviously thinks I am pretty, sexy, and rad that I must question it instead of taking it at face value.

I've talked about this before. And I promise you all I am really trying to work on this about myself. To develop more confidence in my abilities, in my looks, in who I am.

I'm writing about this now, because I feel like I've reached a pivotal point in my life, where many aspects are finally coming together. I feel like I am on the brink of some major awesome. But I also feel like this major awesome is dependent on me and the ability to assert and believe in myself.

It began at Imbolc. At one point in the ritual we were invited to go to Brigit's well, dip our hands in and purify ourselves. Then, if we felt the need, we could go to Brigit herself and seek guidance. There were two Brigits present at this point - one for healing and one for inspiration. I sought inspiration first and then sought healing. When it was my turn, the healing Brigit held out her arms to me and drew me close.

"And YOU," she said, pulling me closer, "You are so strong and don't even realize it. You have to remember that you are perfect, in and of yourself. The Gods and Goddesses created you and made you perfect. To deny this is not only to deny yourself, but also them. Relax in your own being. Trust in your perfect self. Do what you need to do to be healthy and happy, but remember that you are perfect. Trust in this."

Well, I don't know what Brigit said to other people that night, but what she said to me was right fuckin on with what I needed to hear.

CUT TO yesterday Mikey Likes It and I getting into a conversation about, of all things, cosplay. He kept on insisting I could pull off a Silk Spectre. He was being so adorable in that guy-friend way by trying to tell me that I had a nice bust line for the costume without sounding like he had been checking out my boobs. At which point I noted that while I may have a good-sized chest, what is below the chest prevents me from wearing the costume, namely, my fat roll. He sighed at me heavily, "Katie," he told me, "you need to take a hatchet to that insecurity tree of yours."

CUT TO today on the phone with QK having a reading. We were on the topic of Brisket and she was encouraging me to keep it light and fun, just like we have been. "What is important for you to get out of this, is the confidence and the boost to self-esteem he is giving you. Which you needed." She paused for a minute as if listening to someone else whispering. "And for god's sake, use it. Drink it in and believe in it. Like, he's not lying to you. Stop being so...negative about yourself." She spat the last three words out as if they tasted bad. It was as if she had been there for our conversation and knew exactly what had passed between us.

I think the universe is trying to tell me something. And I'll be damned if I don't listen.

Comments disabled because yes, I KNOW. I am working on it. This post is part of me trying to work on it.

Internet, let's play dress-up

Here's the deal: Against my better judgment, I've agreed to take part in a one-night-only performance of a one-act play written by one of my Rosemont peers. I say "against my better judgment" because I've protested being cast considering that I:

1. Can not act
   
2. Will be unable to get the lines out without laughing, because they're hilarious, and
   
3. Have to "cry" and be "frightened" with a certain degree of authenticity.

You see, a few months ago I took part in a script in hand reading of another play written by a Rosemont grad, and that apparently cemented me as an "actress." Which, let me repeat, I am not. There's a bit of a difference between reading with some inflection and actually, you know, acting. Still, Jillian, the playwright, implored me to take part in her show. "I have the perfect part for you! It's small! You'll like it!"

Of course I show up to the first table reading and discover that I've been cast as the whiny strumpet. I have to tart it up all over the place and plaster myself on the men in the cast. I have to say ridiculous lines with conviction and defend my character's erotic poetry. I have to CRY on DEMAND. Thanks a lot, Jillian.

ANYWAY, considering that I will suck for the duration, I might as well suck while looking good. Which brings me to the dress up: I need your help picking my costume.

The play takes place in the 1930s at a party. I've discovered, however, that the majority of 1930s dresses are slinky and dowdy, neither of which seems suitably sex-potish for an erotic poet nor anything that would particularly flatter my body type. Since we're not being entirely period, I'm drifting a bit more towards the 40s wear. And while Rosemont has offered to cover the expense of the costume, provided they can keep the dress afterward, I've decided to just buy it for myself, seeing that I have weddings to attend later in the year and will need a dress for those occasions.

Here are our choices:

The "Stop Staring Lula" Dress.



I like this dress. Swanky, sultry, shows off curves. Good for post-show wear as "little black dress" staple.

The Stop Staring True Blue Dress.



I love, love, LOVE this sweet little dress. However, I feel it might be a little too sweet and also creeping too close to the 50s for the purposed of this show.

The Stop Staring Red Lana Dress



Vampy! However, I'm worried about the crossing fabric across the bust line, which traditionally doesn't look good on me.

The Red Siren Dress



I like this one, but it feels a bit dressed down for the purposes of the show. Like, I need something a bit more fancy. For a point of reference, the men in the show will be wearing tuxes. So I feel like I might need to gussy up a bit more. Something like...

The Lace Maria Dress



Va-va-va-vooom! I like this one a lot. I'm just worried about looking, uh, too thick in it, you know. But the site seems to imply that they make the dresses for girls of all sizes (Bless you, Daddy-Os!), I'm just hesitant because internet shopping for clothes is always tricky.

So there are your choices. Let the voting begin! And feel free to suggest alternatives that you find on that site or elsewhere.

Oh, and for anyone who wants to come see me make an ass out of myself, the performance of "Murder!" a One-Act Murder Mystery/Comedy is on March 21, Rosemont's Main Building, 8PM, FREE.

Jiggly Bits

Recently, I noticed that I'm sort of...squishier than I used to be. Like, I've never been a bean pole or cut or anything (I've always been a bit plump), but I had skimmed down last spring (It all went to hell in late summer), and then re-adjusted slightly while I was in the UK because I was walking everywhere. But as the cold months blew in (along with the holidays), I have found myself where I am every winter: Curled up with something starchy and/or cheesy to help pack on blubber for these cold, cold winter months.

Not helping is the fact that it's also hibernation time — I get so lazy and blue this time of year. It's dark, it's cold, all I want to do is hunker down under blankets with books and kitties.

Normally I would let this phase pass and come spring jump into action eating better with more fresh produce and going out and doing shit. However...Brisket.

I find myself getting quite self-conscious. Like, using candles not because they're romantic, but because provide softer light and my cellulite isn't as easily visible. Doing that ridiculous stomach-suck thing to make him think that I do not, in fact, have a squashy fat roll of sadness around my middle.

Brisket, of course, hasn't said anything nor behaved in any manner that would make me think he's noticed nor cared if he did. Someone once told me that sexiness is about confidence, which I believe is true. If I work what I got, he won't notice what I don't have (namely, a tiny waist). However, it's hard to be confident when we're snuggling and all of the sudden his hand finds his way to my stomach and ohmygod he's TOUCHING the ROLL and the CREASE and Christ, I'm all lardy and oh god oh god. And then I have a mental freak out followed by a mini come-to-Jesus with myself, all silent and secret-like in the space of 25 seconds so he won't think I'm a neurotic freak show. Which of course, I am.

All of this by way of saying that I've signed up for this* in May and starting TONIGHT, DAMNIT, I am beginning training. Jiggly bits shall be no more.

Any help and motivation you can give me — aside from 80s telling me I'm a fatty because I know I'm a fatty, I mean something constructive — would be appreciated.

*The 5K. Not the Half-marathon. I'm not completely insane.

Said and unsaid

I came to the realization that I haven't really been blogging much. And when I have blogged, it's been mostly photos. Which, is cool and all, but as Mare said to me on Saturday, "I like your writing."

Partly, I've been just busy and boring, not having anything too exciting or earth-shattering to write about. The regular holiday bustle, running to and fro getting ready for my last semester in school (!), helping my brother out, and your general winter blahs.

On the other hand, I've been censoring myself. Because there is something going on in my life, but I'm unsure about how to share it or if I should. I've made coy hints, which most of my friends in real life were able to decipher and guess at, despite how subtle I thought I was being. For the first time, I've become hyper-aware of certain readers and possible readers and I'm trying my best to balance it all and figure out what I want to divulge to who.

It's stupid, because the whole reason I started this thing was to write and share and be uninhibited and I sort of hate that I now dread coming here to write things because I have to leave huge chunks out or I'm left with very little to write about and then I feel like I'm cheating all of you readers and doing cop-out posts, but on the other hand it's my damn blog and I can write or not write about whatever the fuck I want to and when I damn well please, and clearly I am a woman with Issues Already so leave me alone.

So. Deep Breath.

There is a Boy. I shall henceforth refer to him as Brisket, for no good reason other than I like the sound of it, and also I think it's funny that I'm referring to him as a piece of meat. OK, it's not that funny. WHATEVER, PEOPLE. My blog, my nicknames. Shut up.

Brisket is not my boyfriend. This is an important fact, and I want to be very clear about it. I have not the time nor the emotional space for a serious boyfriend. I get annoyed whenever Gary refers to Brisket as my boyfriend or "beau." Beau especially, because seriously What The Fuck? It's not 1909, nor are we sipping mint juleps on the veranda, and I've always hated that word. It's stupid.

I've come to the conclusion that Brisket and I are more than just dicking around, though. Originally, I thought that it was going to be a quick fling, a couple of weeks of fun and then we'd part ways. Or he'd get sick of me or meet someone hotter or whatever. But it's been some months now, so obviously we get along and like each other and it's fun. There's no good term for what we're doing. I don't have a definition. I'm OK with not having one. For simplicity, when he's come up in conversation, I've referred to him as This Guy I've Been Seeing, which might well be his Indian name.

Brisket, a.k.a. This Guy I've Been Seeing, is cute, practically too cute for me. Brisket is also a huge dork, which may explain why we get along so well. I chatted him up with some sexy sci-fi talk. He bought me a Battlestar Galactica DVD for Christmas, and he starts sentences out by saying things like, "In this dimension..." Make outs and swoons, people.

I feel good, we laugh a lot, and I'm having a lot of fun. Those are the things you need to know. And as long-time readers of this blog can attest, IT WAS ABOUT FREAKIN TIME, because I was well on my way to Homely Spinsterville and now I feel like I've made a nice detour to GettinItOn Datestown or wherever.

I feel so much better having cleared the air. Let's never keep secrets again, Internet.

Coming to terms

Gary cornered me about it the other night.

"I think you're just fooling yourself," he told me.

"I'm not," I responded.

"But you are. I hear you all the time."

"You hear me? Oh, god." I was mortified.

"No, that's my point," he explained. "I hear you laughing. I hear you talking. I don't hear other things."

"So?"

"So, I'm saying that—"

"Look, I know what I'm doing. I'm not fooling myself. And when I'm ready to call it something else? I'll call it something else. Until then, I know that I feel good, I know that my life is full, busy, and happy."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"But you're fooling yourself."

Sluggish

One of the posters on a social site I lurk on once posted the following observation about herself: "Yeah, I'm a lazy slug, but I leave a trail of glistening slime wherever I go!"


I've always sort of identified with that, for some reason.

Then my horoscope this week:

Taurus A recent National Geographic article reported on nudibranches: colorful, oddly shaped slugs that live in the sea. The members of a typical species, Nembrotha kubaryana, are whimsical blobs of neon green swirled with orange and purple. The slugs are "blind to their own beauty," however, because their eyes can only register the difference between light and dark. The "blind to their own beauty" thing reminds me of you, Taurus -- especially these days. Would you do me a favor and acknowledge your own charms more aggressively?

All right, FINE. In light of recent developments, I guess I'm not half bad.

Maybe.