ugh. tuesdays.

So many people hate on Mondays, but aren't Tuesdays the very worst? At least on Monday you can warmly recollect the weekend's happy memories (or hazy, depending). But on Tuesday, you're in the thick of the work week - trapped. Wednesdays are Hump Days, Thursdays are the early start to the weekend, Fridays are the weekend. But Tuesdays are Trap Days. Ugh. Tuesdays.

Thankfully, I have St. Knitterifierous on my side. I'm knee deep in the holiday knitting. I've made the back and front of a handbag I'm eventually going to felt. However, I have 1.4 million other projects and the LSAT to study for. The next 20 days or so are going to be interesting, to say the least.

And two big trips are on the horizon: Aberdeen SD and Cancun Mexico. I like to mix it up. Aberdeen is this coming weekend. It's Mr. Fabulous' hometown. I've never been to South Dakota before (well, I went once when I was inchoate, so that doesn't really count). I'm excited.

Cancun is a fabulous dream - a friend of a friend owns a house there and is renting it to us for dirt cheap. Dirty cheap, even. Apparently this lady went down there this weekend to see if it was still standing and whatnot but if it's all clear, I'll be knitting on the beach in April! Whee!

In other things, Mr. Fabulous and I joined Weight Watchers together. It feels good to have control over something that seems so simple, like it should always have been in control. I think it'll go well - Mr. Fabulous is an amazing cook and is competitive like me about things like this. Although I've heard this a million times before, it really does help to have someone being annoyingly on target to keep you on track (and someone to feel morally superior to when they're off track).

p.s. Today's ennui and general sense of saturninity obviously makes my sentence structure very short. Weird.

yeah, what?!

quotation marks You scored 53% Sociability and 82% Sophistication!

There is a lot more to you than meets the eye. You certainly get plenty of "action," but you'd be happier if those who lusted after you were more selective. You hate being used as a general intensifier; haven't these people ever heard of underlining? Italics? And yes, you remember the cruel words Mr. Joyce directed at you. But you let none of this get you down; those who abuse you are destined for a "special" reward, sooner or later. You feel particularly warm toward periods, commas, exclamation points, and question marks, and usually wish to have them next to you. Parenthesis can sometimes trouble you.

shaft, by way of chaucer

enjoy, kiddies:

Wha be tha blake prevy lawe
That bene wantoun too alle tha feres?
SHAFT!
Ya damne righte!

Wha be tha carl tha riske is hals wolt
Fro is allye leve?
SHAFT!
Konne ye?

Wha be tha carl wha ne wolden flee
Whan peril bene all aboughte?
SHAFT!
Verray!

Alle clepe tha carl ane badde mooder-
SOFTE!
Speken of Shaft bene I.
THAN KONNE ALLES WE!

He be a man konne unnethes
Namo save is mayde konnes im.
JOHN SHAFT!

i am that weird girl at work

It's official: I am the workplace loon.

I'm broke (as usual) and in desperate need of a haircut. I also loathe split ends. So, for fun, I grab small chunks of hair, peer intently at the ends, and snip the split ends. I do this with the door wide open, people. People walk past my office all day long, and I have zero doubt they all note the crazy girl staring at her hair with huge office scissors in her hand.

I realize that because I'm fairly quiet and work with a limited group of people here at The Law Firm, LLC, my reputation is entirely based on my quirks. From cutting my split ends to laughing for an inappropriate amount of time at an inappropriate level at emails my (wholly inappropriate) friends send me. Think about that - I'm quiet walking around, but they all hear me laughing maniacally behind the closed door. And I'm always printing/photocopying knitting patterns. Actually, I'm also "The Knitting Girl."

Ah, the sad thing is that I really can't help it. It's so soothing to divorce myself from my split ends. Knitting keeps me sane. And as for the laughing, I just have funny friends. What's a girl to do?

vive shame

So I met Mr. Fabulous' parents this weekend. It went wonderfully - we picked apples at the apple orchard, got lost in the corn maze, ohh'ed over pumpkins in the pumpkin patch. Mr. Fabulous' dad loved me. I got a little q-t with his mom, and that went great, too. She bought me pumpkin butter. Seriously the best meeting-the-parents trip ever.

And then I puked. All over.

I had been feeling a tad iffy all day long. I hadn't eaten very much and taken some medicine that morning. When I thought I was about to pass out, my dear Mr. Fabulous bought me a brat. I had some crackers. I thought, okay, this will settle my stomach. I'm just starving from all the walking + no food. Okay, I'm good, I thought. I WILL be good.

Then we got into the car to go home. Mr. Fabulous was listing off the various places we could go to dinner ("Chinese, Italian, Indian, Mexican, Thai...") I looked over at him as he was talking and said, "I am very carsick."

He took one look at me and yanked the wheel over to the side of the road and I opened my door and retched into the grass. Retched! In front of his parents! While sitting in the front seat of their car!!! Thank god I didn't do it IN their car - they were driving from Minneapolis to Sioux Falls back home to their wee South Dakota town. If Mr. Fabulous hadn't pulled over, they would have driven in a Puke Car. And we all know that the puke smell never, ever comes out of cars. Ever. It's like cat pee - although I think I could argue puke is much more disgusting.

Thankfully, his mom is a nurse and his dad is a farmer, so they're pretty down with the throw up. They were totally nonplussed, which I appreciated more than I can say. Unfortunately, we went for seafood for dinner immediately afterwards. I'm sure I was more than a little green all night, but after some ghetto (but good) fish and fries, we went back to Mr. Fabulous' for some cards. It ended well, but I have zero doubt I'll forever be That Girlfriend Who Puked.

Sigh.

I suppose it could have been worse, right?

Yeah, I think not, too.

Ugh.

It seems grossly unjust to not have an unlimited amount of PTO time from work to knit at will. I realize that statement is both whiny and annoying, but a girl can (indignantly) dream, right?

In other minor (and whiny) news, boys are hard. Not a new sentiment, but it always manages to catch me off-guard.

Today's happy picture - a baby alpaca.

no.

Is it weird that Lion Brand patterns make me angry? Why do they insist on amazingly, shockingly ugly patterns?

I think Lion Brand secretly hates knitters. Sure, we're the hand that feeds them, but you know they just want to bite. Hence, their shitastic patterns.

you know what i like? cheese.

Well, besides cheese, I also like being in mad crazy love, and knitting until my hands numb. Mr. Fabulous, my plucked-from-the-depths-of-perfection genderqueer honey has been occupying my brain and my time, hence, blogging has sadly fallen greatly behind. I've been a knitting fiend, though, and although my fabbo new cell phone takes pictures, I have no clue how to upload them.

For those like me with overactive imaginations, here are some descriptions:

1. Waterfalls scarf
Knit length-wise in light blue new wool thick-and-thin yarn, I put in some shots of a darker blue randomly. The fringe at the edges have both colors equally. The overall effect is water running around my neck and down my back. I get a lot of compliments on this baby, and threats of thievery from my sister. I like that.

2. Rainbow/Kind of Gay-Pride-y Hat
Black 2x2 ribbing shifts into a variegated rainbow thick-and-thin yarn (yeah, I'm on a kick). The rainbow is a little darker, so it's more subtle gay pride, rather that I'm Gay! Yay! kind of hat. Not that I'm Gay! Yay! is a bad hat to have, but you know what I'm saying.

3. Baby Sweater
Dark green mercerized cotton with some sort of crazy cool border/bottom. It's a top-down raglan, but I haven't decided what to do with the bottom yet. Nicky Epstein's Knitting Over the Edge has some cool ideas, but I haven't committed to any yet. We'll see, we'll see.

4. Washcloth Bonanza
My sweetie was all jealous of my friend Liz's knitting for her gf Kim. I asked him, "Well, what do you want?" He paused, looked seriously, and shyly said, "I really want washcloths." What a weird, practical bunny. So I'm currently in washcloth no. 2. He's getting some dishtowels and possibly a double-knit hot pad too, because I don't just do washcloths. He doesn't know what he's unleashed. Bonanza indeed.

Of course, my self-designed sweater (that looks eerily like the sweater I bought in Eddie Bauer three years ago) is moving slooowly along. I'd like to front and be all, "that baby'll be finished before Christmas!" but I know it won't. The Christmas knitting is already a tad overwhelming. Hence, I've found great amounts of solace in this: 1-877-767-5648 (toll-free in US and Canada). I love the Yarn Harlot. I really do.

More on Mr. Fabulous: sexy, normal (NORMAL!), funny, and super, super hot. Did I mention normal? And hot? I'm deeply excited about being with someone who has friends and their own life and goals and I can bring into public without being ashamed. I'm super proud to be dating him. He's Mr. Fabulous! How could I not be happy? I'm going to start volunteering because I seriously feel like I need to pay back this karmic debt. It's a little scary to be so lucky.

AND two nights ago I taught him to knit. HE WANTS TO KNIT. Seriously, I think I just came a little bit typing that. He's really good and we're going a'shoppin' for circs and some worsted so he can do a ribbed hat. Yes, he's ready for that! Amazing, I know.

uber hot

why aren't today's knitting patterns presented in porn format? i feel cheated.

the first horseman of the apocalypse

gaze upon the horror with your own eyes!

disturbing, yet soothing

Choice tidbits from Minneapolis' Star
Tribune article on My Little Pony fanatics:

"Tamara Forsyth, 22, isn't the type of woman you'd expect to dress up like a pink pony. Forsyth has tattoos and piercings and her haircut is post-modern shaved.

"She's very alternative, as you can see," said her mother, Anna Simmons, of Winona.

But on her long train ride from Beaverton, Ore., to Winona, Forsyth cut little pink hearts out of cloth and sewed them onto a pair of pink cotton pants. In Winona, while visiting with her mom, she fashioned a mane and tail out of pink yarn. She became a punk rock version of her favorite pony.

Crossing her tattooed arms, Forsyth announced proudly: "I'm Snuzzle."

A cynic might think a punker like Forsyth attended to poke fun. She did not.

"I love the ponies," she said. In fact, she has more than 300 of them, most collected in childhood. She was partly drawn to them because of her aversion to Barbie dolls.

"I hated Barbie," she said. "Barbie creates an unrealistic role model for young girls. But for a little girl to play with ponies? It's not like they expect to grow up and be ponies."

She still plays with them on occasion. "I set them up in scenes and take pictures of them."
Not all her friends appreciate her hobby. "One friend said, 'They're scaring me, man. They're staring at me.' " "

Uh, yeah. She sets her ponies up in "scenes??" Sisterfriend, don't act like everyone's not into the SM lingo. What a dirty, dirty pony lover.

Also a favorite - a boyfriend of a pony fanatic says:

"I figure, if it makes her happy, I don't have any problem with it," he said. "I mean, it's just a toy. It's not like she's collecting severed fingers or something."

Why do I feel like he's said that many, many times? Maybe repeated that last bit over and over to himself? Sorry dude, your girlfriend is a whack job. Hopefully she's hot, but still, kind of crazy.

I realize those comments come from a girl who knits obsessively and loves Latin - but I just think that further enables me to recognize a fellow freak when I see one!

soooooo dirty

compliments of my friend Rich:

You know that someone in the editing department had a good, long laugh over that. Dirty. I love it!

on my way to urban legend

Distressingly, I've had hiccups three times today. I know that statement ought to be filed in the navel-gazing-pretentious-wanker realm of blogging, but good jesus, when I get hiccups I get scared. I worry, am I going to end up like that mysterious dude who had hiccups for seventeen years or whatever? What a complete pain in the ass that would be. I would really like to avoid that fate, or at least, fueling that urban legend by becoming it!



Me, only I'm not a white dude in a suit. The Twilight Zone-esque background is thoroughly correct, however:

ah, ick

From cnn.com regarding Rep. Rick Santorum's (R-PA) new book:

In the book, Santorum makes the case that abortion puts the liberty rights of the mother before those of her child, just as the rights of slave owners were put before those of slaves.

"This was tried once before in America," Santorum writes. "But unlike abortion today, in most states even the slaveholder did not have the unlimited right to kill his slave."

Let's not forget the excellent noun, santorum, as coined by the lovely Dan Savage:

Santorum (n)
the frothy mix of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex

Rick is just so gross. I feel sorry for that frothy mix of lube and fecal matter - it's getting a raw deal by being hooked up with this asshole.

knitting is even tougher than i had hoped!

I want everything these people have to sell.

On a completely unrelated note, I've had so many salt water taffys today I can feel my eyeballs vibrating in their sockets. Apparently I should cut back. Duly noted, eyeballs, duly noted.

beautiful

Beautiful.

While our boy Karl may not have sold us out to the British, he sure as hell is worthy of a Benedict title if he did, indeed, gave out Plame's name in retribution for her husband's NY Times article.

Treason

(from yourdictionary.com)

1. Violation of allegiance toward one's country or sovereign, especially the betrayal of one's country by waging war against it or by consciously and purposely acting to aid its enemies.
2. A betrayal of trust or confidence.

[Middle English, from Anglo-Norman treson, from Latin trditi, trditin-, a handing over ; see tradition.]

Now, while I'm not sure that he violated definition number one (unless he secretly loves theIraqi insurgents), he sure as shit is knee-deep in definition number two.

oh london

I heard about you, London. I'm thinking about you - I wish you guys the best of health and safety today and while you sort out this horrible mess.


I heard on the BBC this morning that the streets are filled with people, and that the feeling in London is dazed and surreal as everyone walks about in the streets without cars or buses, everyone on their cell phones, assuring their families that they're okay. That sounds exactly like New York on 9/11. I am so, so, so sorry to hear that scene is repeating itself. What a horrible history to repeat.

This is from that big design show in Milan this year. A knit fence. There are no words.

sweet.

You are DNA. You're a smart person, and you appear
incredibly complex to people who don't know
you. You're incomparably full of information,
and most of it is useless.


Which Biological Molecule Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

pride and shoes full of blood

Minneapolis Pride was this weekend. It was surprisingly lovely - on Saturday I joined my father at Loring Park (he was manning the Multiple Sclerosis booth), and he and I walked all around, looking at the booths. He spotted and instantly feel into deep love of the Utilikilt, which I told him not to buy, "because Dad, you can't come to Pride with your gay daughter and go home with a skirt. You just can't. Mom'll kill me." However, I think he's slowly breaking my mother down into accepting the kilts someday presence in the family manor. Funny, considering this is a man who resolutely avoids pinks, salmons, purples, and anything vaguely "girly."

Sunday I volunteered for the Red Door Clinic and lured people in for the candy, and made them stay for the free HIV and syphilis testing. Really, really fun.

That said, aside from all of the fun and pride and condoms and whatnot, my feet declared war against me. ME, of all people. Don't I lovingly rub them nightly with that peppermint foot cream from Bath and Body Works? Don't I gently use my foot brush regularly to keep them clean and pretty? Don't I exclusively buy them Dansko and Born and other expensive shoes?

Yes, yes I do all that, but apparently it's not enough for the little fuckers. My sandals cut so deeply into my feet from walking around on Sunday, I have two angry gashes that require neosporin (or however that's spelled), bandaids, and flip flops (so nothing rubs against the gashes, neosporin, and the bandaids). Really, they look brutal and feel even worse.

I just don't know what to do with my feet anymore. They insist on cutting themselves like teenage girls and filling up their (expensive) shoes with blood. Maybe I should try counseling, or new peppermint lotion.

impossibly charming

I sincerely love my nieces and nephews.

However, because there are SIX of them (three girls, three boys), I'm always anxious before they come over. Frankly, I dread their arrival.

It always gets better once they burst through the door though. The youngest are twin girls, and it's just incredible how aware they are of each other. They're still babies, but they will reach out and hold each other's hand. If I'm standing next to my older brother (their father) holding Twin1 while he's holding Twin2, Twin1 will inevitably reach out and rest her hand on her sister's shoulder, or maybe pat her sister's back. It's so fascinating to see them doing these seemingly learned behaviors like holding hands and patting backs, and realize that it's innate. And admittedly, they are very, very good looking babies (I think being born via C-section and not through the birth canal helped to not squish their heads into weird shapes).

But if they start talking in some whacko twin language, I'm going to be seriously disturbed.

the silence

I work with a lovely, lovely woman. Let's call her Coworker. I like her so much, I even threw her a baby shower (more on that later). The one thing that really confuses me about her, though, is her conversation style. I expect pauses between speakers occasionally, but Coworker just waits for me to speak. All the time. Incessantly. She pauses so much our conversations become The Elizabeth Show, where I just blather on and on and on, make myself laugh, and work out therapy-like things. It's SO odd. I tried pausing once to make her speak when we were on the phone, but the pause went on for so long I just caved. I couldn't handle the expectant silence. Why? What is that all about? What is she waiting for me to say???

Coworker's baby shower: I knit her a simple lavender raglan sweater and a matching cloche-shaped hat in some cheapo superwash stuff. Cute, simple, easy. Now, I expected the ladies at the shower to react with something like, "hey, nice work Elizabeth! Wow, you knit that? Neat!" You know, the normal kind of response to knit gifts.

What I got was nice, but completely scary. One woman pounded on the table with the flat of her hand as she shouted, "EVERYTHING here today you will THROW AWAY, but THAT, THAT YOU WILL KEEP FOREVER." Another woman said in a hushed voice, "I hope my present isn't opened after yours. That is truly magnificent." Um, what? I mean, thanks, but jesus christ, ease up, okay? Coworker told me after the shower, looking at me dead in the eye, "When my daughter is too old for that sweater and hat, I'm going to mount it and frame it so she can see it when she's grown." What? What is wrong with these people? It's nice, I appreciate it, but holy fuck, it's kind of freaking me out. Everyone at work loves me now. Did I infuse that sweater with airborne crack? Apparently so.

The sweater pattern, by the way, can be found here. Please note its utter simplicity. If I had done fair isle, NO, intarsia color work, I have zero doubt someone would have shit their pants. Ew.

The hat is here. Again, so easy.

like the babysitter's club, but different

"I can't come to dinner right now, Mom! I've got my secret club meeting tonight! Don't worry, we're a club that's all about SAFETY, Mom!"

The Globe and Mail has moved their "Safe Sex Club" article into their big money archives, so here's the gist:

Small town Canada: Kids in the "Safe Sex Club" log into their computers, drop trou, and spank spank spank away for their respective safe sex partners.

Wow, back in my day, girls were all embarrassed about changing in front of one another in front of the locker rooms. I'm sure with the advent of the Safe Sex Club, that's all changed, right? Teenage body angst is gone? Yeah, right.

I always suspected the hot jocks and their hot girlfriends did shit like this. Sweet confirmation!

sunday night

On Sunday evenings, I tend to dread the thought of work in the morning. Right now I'm coming up with creative ways to get out of work:

1. I'm sick, "hack hack," i.e. The Classic

Okay, that's about all I have. Really, does one need more than that? I think not.

That said, I know I'll be rolling into the workplace. I need the money.

Although, frankly, I knew girls in college who used Craigslist to hook themselves out. Now if only if women would pay out like the menfolk...

Ehhh... maybe not.

i almost beat up the cardiologist... and that would have been the nicest thing for us all.

So a new, distressing development to all my lovely Graves' Disease stuff is that I'm getting crazy heart palpitations. Again. Now, there's been many Graves' symptoms that have been bothersome post-radiation - like the fatigue, the hair loss, the seemingly unavoidible weight gain. But heart palpitations? I'm sorry, but there are some body processes that should just work, and your heartbeat is definitely one of them. Logically enough, I decided to go to an internist and get this shizit all checked up and out. My mom, who just about knows every doctor in Minneapolis, told me to go to this one clinic. I checked it out, it looked good. She gave me some names. when I called the clinic, of course, those docs were booked until the second coming.

"But you can see Dr. Stevens. He's our on-staff cardiologist," the receptionist said (not his real name).

"Is he a more senior doctor?" I asked. I really wanted to see an old bastard doctor, one who knows what's going on.

"Oh my god! He's definitely senior," she laughed.

In retrospect, that should have bothered me. That should have been ominious. I just took it as a sign I was seeing some old dude. Christ, did I ever.

Dr. Stevens was 45 minutes late, but I was knitting and happily away from work, so I didn't really mind. Well, I did mind, but I really wanted to see someone about my heart. When Old Man River walked in, he was also Mr. Combative. I'm no dumbass. I know what's up with my Graves', my treatment, my body. I became Ms. Combative, and I thought I was doing rather well explaining myself and making myself heard. Apparently he thought so, too, because then he started with the, "You are a VERY well-spoken young lady. A VERY well-spoken young lady." I was sort of suprized and a little embarrassed, so I just said, "Um, thanks."

This is when shit started to get weird. Old Man River then said, "NO! You are a VERY well-spoken young lady. You're a decent person. And you know what? That's hard to come by these days. You're VERY intelligent."

I was definitely weirded out. He was super intense about all of this. I said, "Yeah, thanks. I'll pass it along to my parents." I didn't know what to say.

Then he said, "I'm going to listen to your heart now." He yanked my shirt up, pushed my bra aside, and laid his stethoscope on my heart. I was like, "Okay, old doctor. He's too old to be hitting on me, right?" It didn't feel sexual, it was just... fucking weird. Like, a little warning before you start pulling on my clothes? I usually get more warning from girls before we sleep together.

He listened. I'm sure my face was priceless. He said, "I can't really figure this all out in a 15 minute time slot. I'm going to have to give you a complete exam." I thought, what kind of exam? Why do I feel like he wants to give me a gyno exam, too? We talked a little bit more about my Graves' shit, and he said, "Okay, I'm going to call this in. Are you married? Single? What?" I knew he meant he was going to call in his dictation and that he actually needed my marital status because that's a part of that. So I said, truthfully, "I'm single and I live with my parents." He called his dictation in.

Now maybe it's time to recap some things:
1. When he walked in, I was knitting a baby hat. Very domestic of me, I know.
2. I was wearing a super cute skirt. Very femme of me, I know.
3. We've already established his opinion of me as a "VERY decent, VERY well-spoken, and VERY intelligent young lady."
4. I'm single, and like a good girl, I live with my parents.

I was cruising for what came next.

He got off the phone, looked at me, smiled, and asked, "So, you got a boyfriend?"

Instant ultra-discomfort on my part, "No, I'm not dating anyone."

His smile turned knowing, "But can you cook?"

I almost went ape-shit. I wanted to stab this man. I mean, he doesn't fucking know me! And do I cook? Fuck you, Old Man River!

I smiled sweetly, "Well, actually, I'm a lesbian, so things are a little different for me."

His eyes just about popped out of his fat fucking head.

"ARE YOU SURE?" he asked.

"Are you sure you're a straight white man?" I asked back.

He took a different turn at this, "You know, my niece says she's a.... (hands twitter) ....a lesbian, and I say, why classify yourself like that? Why not just be normal?"

Stabbing him was becoming a better idea by the minute.

I looked at him dead in the eye, and said, "I guess the ONLY thing that ANY of us can do is BE OURSELVES. I can only be myself. Can you understand that?" The "you total fucking moron" at the end of that was implied.

He stood up, walked out of the room, and didn't talk to me for the rest of the appointment.

Fuck you, Old Man. I win. Fuck you.

When I got home that evening, I told my mom, "Yeah, I saw Dr. Stevens today." She almost busted a gut and said, "What?!! That man should be retired. He's about 85-88 years old!"

Yeah. He should be retired.

I'm just glad I stood up for myself, that I didn't just take the shit he dished out. I don't care how fucking old you are, you don't get to treat me like a second-class citizen. And do I cook? Yeah, I eat pieces of shit like you for lunch.

(Billy Madison flashback, "You eat pieces of shit?" Too funny)

Even though the tenor of this post is self-rightous anger, I'm actually laughing as I write this. What an old bastard! I'm glad to have fucked with his head. Ahhh... bigots are so stupid.

i can handle random.

this quiz gets points for being so pointlessly random. it tells me nothing about myself or the world at large - but i was still compelled to take it, and even more compelled to post it.


You're a little gold key, and you unlock other
people's hearts. Your kindness and willingness
to be there for those you care about lets
people open up to you knowing they will be
accepted. People will rely on you, but be
careful not to give more than you have.

What sort of key are you and what do you unlock?
brought to you by No comments:

yes, i know, i'm psychic

in case you were wondering, "is it essential for me to see the drew barrymore/jimmy fallon movie fever pitch? will my life be a hollow shell without that romantic comedy in life?"

i'm here to say: no, my friend. it's not essential. it's not even recommended. drew barrymore has great hair and accessories, however. if you're really into hair and accessories and don't need plot or substance or even coherent thought in a movie, then by all means, go see it. but again, for everyone else - not essential.

thank you. consider my public duty fulfilled. i'll now go back to rogue knitting and setting things on fire. well, i'll knit. the fire part, not so much (not at all, actually). i sounded tough, though, right?

the best of youth

overheard coming out of best buy today:

16-year-old off-season snowboarder to his eerily similar looking off-season snowboarder friend:

"dude, milo's mom is still pretty hot even after them. i bet she could pop out a few more and still look good."

ah, youth.

loyalty comes at the worst possible time...

the countdown has started at work.

the weekend of july 15th i head to lovely ontario to find an apartment, tour my (my!) school, meet some professors lurking around.

i'm thinking about leaving the law firm around late-ish august.

naturally, now is the only time that i have ever, ever felt guilty for leaving a job. i've worked since the tender age of 15. in fact, i was so eager to work i got TWO jobs at 15. the first job - hostess at perkins. yeah, not so much. much to the manager's chagrin, i just stopped showing up for work. i hated that job, i was extremely frightened of the old, wrinkled waitresses who reeked of smoke and whose hands trembled. i can still hear his voice on the phone, exasperated, "i don't care that you quit, i just need you to tell me these things." sorry, perkins dude. the second job - dissembling computers for recycling. that was fantastic. the recycling plant consisted of me, some jaded hipster guys who read foucault and introduced me to things i'd never thought about (like pinups and penis piercings. obviously, i was way more fascinated by the pinups. go figure.), and juvenile delinquents court-ordered to do community service who totally hated me. i just liked ripping things apart and throwing shit around in bins. for a 15 year old, there are few finer things.

but i digress. my previous job was horrid. i was terribly sick with grave's disease but didn't know it, and thought i was just having a mental breakdown. not so fun. this job started along the same vein. i was still sick (pre-radiation), and the work was looking to be about the same thing - gloried file clerk.

but now, oh, now it's morphed into a lovely research gig where i learn about industries and companies and people and finances and write research reports for attorneys. that sounded somewhat dull, didn't it? i like it anyway. i like being asked by smart people, 'hey, what is X all about? what can you tell me about it?" then finding out all about it and defending my research. i like making senior partners in the firm acknowlege that i'm smart, that i'm thorough, that i know what i'm doing. i like arguing with litigators. i like using my brain and then pushing people around. really, what's better?

i wouldn't feel so badly, however, if i didn't already know that i'm leaving when my supervisor is all worked into a lather about my preggers coworker/friend who'll be popping out her baby in a few months. i know that i'm going to leave them short. i know they've dumped a shitload of training into my brain, and they're encouraging me to get my mba. they were really good to me when i needed to cut back my hours after my second dose of radiation.

i guess i just need to accept that i can't please them, that my loyalty is ultimately to myself. maybe this is all a sign that society has done a fantastic job of molding me into the type of woman who wants to please everyone, who doesn't want to make anyone mad, who doesn't like to upset her superiors. fuck that, i say! i'm going to grad school. i'm going to be a professor. fuck, i hope to be the kind of professor who has the reputation for being super fucking tough and super fucking smart.

now if i could only shake the residual guilt...

sigh.

i want, i NEED

this is the only car i've ever wanted in my whole life.

europe seems so far, oh so terribly far away...