famous dessert

The best thing about my job is the food. There is always food at the food bank that is nearly expired that we have to get rid of. Much of it makes its way to my refrigerator, and later, my stomach. They don't pay me too well, but my grocery bill is miniscule. . .

This week's take was especially good: strawberries, blueberries, strawberry milk, a 5 pound bag of yakisoba noodles, organic tofu, parsley, lettuce, bananas, fancy cheese, and a fruit tart.

This fruit tart is the most beautiful dessert I have ever ingested. . . and it's delicious. . . and it's famous.

The company that takes the photos for Fred Meyer's advertisements donates the food to us after they have finished taking it's picture. The very fruit tart that I am about to have another slice of will be in the ads that come out next week. (When the fruit tart arrived, everyone was in agreement that I should take it home. Apparently, others believe that my vegetarian-ness means that I have an affection for fruit tarts that should not be messed with. I didn't argue.)

this tart, and my 2 degrees from Kevin Bacon, are about as close to fame as I get. . .

impeding cult induction

T, a good friend from high school, the only person I still keep in semi-regular contact with from my high school, is engaged. She's the first of my friends (not friends of friends or that girl who was in my English class) to be getting married, or as I prefer to call it, joining the cult.

I have a theory (that M attempts to pass off as his own) about how marriage=cult. I will not elaborate on it now. Suffice it to say, I'm not on Bush's payroll claiming that marriage is the answer to a crowd of social ills.

Despite my anti-marriage attitudes, I am excited about T's impending nuptials. She's great. Her fellow is great. They're great together. They've been together approximately forever - since our senior year of high school with a year-long break a couple of years back. For so long, they've been my model of a 'good relationship:' people who are whole and happy independent of each other who take tremendous joy from each other's company. During anti-relationship phases, I would think 'there are relationships like T and D's out there. Maybe I'll have one someday' & I would be a bit comforted.

So they have my approval, but it feels like this is opening up the floodgates. My friends are getting married. Time to start stocking up on superfluous appliances. . . maybe they'll be a sale on salad spinners this weekend.

Just desserts

E was up before me this morning. Proving again that she is much more generous than me, she drove W to the airport for a 7:30 flight. He's currently en route to Florida where he will be spending the next 2 weeks working at a Renaissance Festival with his dad.

He will be in costume.

The mental image of W clad in tights and a ruffled shirt serving mead to an anarchonistic mob brings me great joy. Maybe it shouldn't. Maybe I'm a horrible person. Maybe it feels vindicating that I have strangers telling me that I'm hot & he will have strangers speaking to him in Ye Olde English asking for a roast turkey leg and a mug of grog.

the pickup

I was riding my bike home after work, lost in my thoughts. At a stoplight, another cyclist pulled up beside me and said, "you're hot. Do you want to get something to eat?"

Taken aback, "I don't think so. I need to get home," was my reply.

"That was a horrible pickup line, wasn't it?" He answered. I cringed and nodded. "Do you have a boyfriend?" I shook my head no. "Can I try the pickup line again?"

"Okay. . . " I spoke tentatively, a bit more intrigued.

"Do you want to get something to drink and talk?"

I agreed. I couldn't think of a good reason not to & the level of self-awareness this fellow was exhibiting looked promising. So I spent some of this glorious 60 degree afternoon sitting outside Stumptown talking with N. I told him of my recent kung fu movie viewing. He has practiced kung fu for four years (He cannot yet run across water - I asked.) & is a big fan of kung fu movies. We spoke about the brilliance of Jon Stewart. We spoke about the wonderfulness of Portland. We spoke about the not-so-wonderfulness of our jobs. Not amazing, but good. We exchanged numbers and have tentative movie plans for next week.

So the whole episode seems like something out of someone else's life. I don't get picked up. . . at least not often.

On Stephen Chow

I recently discovered that I like Kung Fu movies. . .

On Saturday night, A and I saw Kung Fu Hustle, a Hong Kongian (Hong Kongese? Hong Kongish?) kung fu movie. It was showing as part of the Portland International Film Festival. It was amazing. . . and impossible to describe. Some action, some drama, some comedy, some romance, some good fighting, some good special effects. A story about poor folks in a housing development. A notorious gang wants to control them so the gay tailor, middle aged restaurant owner, a day laborer, stereotypical landlady (rollers in her hair, wearing a housecoat, a cigarrette perpetually dangling from her lips), & her drunken, frail, womanizing husband fight back. Conveniently, they all are kung fu masters. It is enjoyable to see dumpy old people beat up young thugs. And it was funny - laughing-so-much-my-stomach-hurt funny.

At the festival, they passed out a paper with information about the film, the director, etc. etc. etc. Stephen Chow is the director and star of Kung Fu Hustle. He made a movie a few years back, The God of Cookery, that is a cross between God of Gamblers and the Iron Chef TV series. I was unfamiliar with God of Gamblers, but I love Iron Chef. I even created my own mildly entertaining spoof of the thing for VISTA early service training years back. So I was expecting a lot. Such a promising premise: kung fu + cooking show= amazingness. Movie Madness, my favorite video store ever, had it in stock. E and I watched it last night. I was disappointed. It didn't help that I always fall asleep when I watch subtitled video at night, regarless of their quality. When it's a spanish-language film I can still sort of follow the plot with my eyes closed. My Mandarin sucks. There wasn't much fighting. . . the cooking was very cool though. The villian makes a mean assorted noodle. There were some amusing typos in the subtitles: "Dame you! Dame you!"

the 'rents

My parents were in town for 2.5 hours this afternoon. They spend every President's Day weekend at Cannon Beach with friends. They swung through PDX on their trip back north. It was nice to see them, to have them as a sounding board for my next life plan. My mom says "that is a good idea" & states why when she thinks I'm making good choices. It helps me articulate my decisions better. It's mostly comforting that she knows me so well. [She knew which college I would end up at while I was still agonizing over the decision. Her understanding of me hasn't decreased with time & distance.] Over a 3 o'clock meal (linner?, dunch?), I was talking about how the past few years have taught me that social services is not the career path for me. My mom didn't sound a bit disappointed when she encouraged me to pursue something analytical even though she & my dad have been social workers since they were my age. And my parents brought me pajamas. And a Daily Show tape. They are good people. I like living this close to them.

Their visits to Portland have become so ritualized. We always eat a Hoda's. We always go to Fabric Depot. We always stop by Movie Madness. I don't mind. They are places that I like to go to, that I am happy to share with them, that I would go to without them. It's just a bit strange. I've been here long enough & they've visted me enough that we have "when my parents are visiting, we always. . . " things. It's good to be stable like that, I think.

looking back

One of the six! essay topics on my BVS application is 'Describe your most challenging experience and how you coped with it.' Upon reading the question, the fall of 2000, my semester in Nicaragua immediately came to mind. Before I began writing, I opened up my journal from those months & began reading.

I had forgotten how miserable I was then. I am not one to only journal when I'm sad, so it's not as though I was only reading half of the story. I was so sad, so frustrated. I was tested & felt like I was coming up short. In restropect, I can say it was good for me, but I do not wish to relive it. I was out of my element in every way - there were no other people from west of the Rockies on my program, I was in a country where everyone spoke Spanish, where nearly everyone was poor. Nicaraguans suffering is so tied to the actions of my government. It hurt, making me feel tiny & powerless. And I was trying to teach my self to be independent and emotionally self-sustaining and to fall out of love with someone left behind. Hard lessons in any context. I was trying to figure out how to interact in an environment in which I was sexually harrassed by at least 75% of the men I interacted with. I was assaulted multiple times - hamdu-illah they retreated when I fought back. There was a long entry wondering if I could ever again interact normally with a man. There was a long entry wondering if I could be happy again.

After reading such things for two hours - about 2.5 months worth - my stomache ached. A tofutti cutie didn't cure it, unfortunately.

conversation, version 3.0

A few nights ago, I was chatting with F on the phone. We were discussing my application to BVS, which I need to get done this weekend. I'm not worried about my chances of getting in. It's a program that a friend did immediately post-college. I have a few years of service-related work experience on top of some good college grades, a few people who will say I am amazing, some great application essays (in theory - I still must write them), so my acceptance isn't in too much doubt, as long as get my application together. F is going to be one of those folks who tell them that I am amazing. The conversation that arose:

Me: I don't see why they won't accept me, as long as you don't tell them I'm a cannibal.
F: Yeah, they probably wouldn't accept a cannibal.
Me: Cannibals aren't a protected class or anything. . .
F: They should have a lobby group working on that.
Me: They should.
F: Yes, Cannibals for Exalted Status. CES.
Me: Excellent.

There aren't enough (any?) groups with 'Exalted' in their titles.
Cannibals for Exalted Status - you heard it here first.

decadence

Last night, I took a bubble bath. Last night, I ate almond roca. Last night, I watched more Gilmore Girls on my laptop. I did all of these things at the same time - the laptop positioned on a chair wedged between the sink & the tub. It was glorious and decadent. It almost made me feel guilty. I thought about opening up a bottle of port to add to the festivities, but that felt a bit too indulgent. Also: hot bath + alcohol seemed like a recipe for dehydration, a state I'm not particularly fond of.

two boys

So my regular Wednesday night date with Ira was fabulous. Such a good episode. It was all one story, about a wrongly convicted man whose best friend worked for 20 years to secure his release from prison. It was heartbreaking & beautiful & the main characters all had beautiful caribbean accents. I find love stories about friendship (this one, The Shawshank Redemption, etc.) so much more compelling than romantic love stories. I mean, it's cliche at this point for people to go to the ends of the earth for their one true love. It's much more interesting when people do that for their friends, when there isn't an implicit emotional or legal obligation or promise of sex tied up in it all. And the story ended with a lawyer saying that if it all had taken place in a state that regularly excutes people our wrongly-convicted hero would have been dead long before his best friend figured out how the legal system works. . . why do we still have the death penalty?

After my date, W appeared at my house. He came to get the backpack that he left behind after the weeks-ago party. W and E chatted in the dining room as I wandered in and out, finally retreating to my room to sleep. And it was fine. I have spent much of the past week or so doing the mental and emotional work necessary to detach myself from that boy and what happened between us. I think I succeeded, which feels good. I don't feel compelled to yell at him, to be his new best friend, or anything in between. He's an acquaintance, one I have a history with, but one I don't expend an inordinate amount of energy on anymore. . . hooray!

so now I'm all Ira's. . .

recapturing my youth

I have been consuming media about teenage girls as of late. . . Last week, some Dawson's Creek. This week, I have the second season of Gilmore Girls out of the library. I come home from work & sit in front of the TV or my laptop & watch the Stars Hollow crowd live their lives, not living my own. I also checked The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants out of the library. It is apparently a big hit in the young adult fiction market. A story about four best friends who all look great in the same pair of pants & ship the pants amongst each other as they pursue their various summer adventures: visiting grandparents in Greece, soccer camp in Mexico, working at a horrible minimum wage job, visiting the divorced father. Yeah, so I suppose it means something that the protagonists in the TV I watch & the books I read are all 10 years younger than me. Even my current novel, The Life of Pi, is about a teenager. . .

More media: read my family's published discussion of movies here. [You'll have to scroll to page 8, there is some cheerful reading on an abortion controversy that you'll pass by.]

my twin?

There's an older fellow who comes into my food bank from time to time to get food for his church's food box program. Every time, he says "You look so much like Ingrid Bergman," & I vow to watch an Ingrid Bergman movie. I did see Casablanca over Thanksgiving dinner a few years ago. It was enjoyable, but strange. I knew half of the dialogue already - the lines are quoted so frequently: "play it again, Sam;" "here's looking at you, kid"; etc. etc. etc. This gentleman's favorite Ingrid Bergman film is Indiscrete. A library copy will be coming to me shortly. He was sure to tell me that it is a good movie, but not a life plan that I should follow. Intriguing.

So I look like Ingrid Bergman. . . not unflattering. There's a song on Mermaid Avenue called "Ingrid Bergman." It's one that I've never been to fond of. I'll have to give it another listen. . .

happy valentine's day

I woke up this morning coughing blood. The further joys of as yet unsuccessfully medicated allergies. It seemed strangely appropriate for Valentine's Day. . .

If my life were a movie, it would have telegraphed my death within the hour. Thankfully, my life is not a movie. I am still alive.

thanks, R 

such geeks we are

Last night, I was holed up in the living room, watching a Dawson's Creek tape E found in the basement. I said 'E, all I want to do tonight is watch terrible television.' She found tape of Dawson's Creek - the difinition of terrible television. The episodes were taped off of the WB affiliate in Peoria, Illinois. I didn't question the provinance of it - supplied by god, perhaps? - I saw the episode where Joey & Pacey first have sex. So much angst. So satisfying. The dialogue, which I remember being superarticulate pales in comparison to Gilmore Girls, currently the best thing on the WB.

Meanwhile, E was reading phanfic, Phantom of the Opera fanfic. Her cackling frequently disrupted my viewing, as did her vocal outrage at such euphemisms as 'root of his lust' & 'secret womanly place.' Gross. . .

exhausted

my body & mind feel like they are on the verge of collapse. Many reasons, no reasons. I moved thousands of pounds of food today. My newly discovered muscles will be reminding me of it tomorrow. I will ache and know that people ate dinner tonight because of my efforts. I taught 3 people how to be a receptionist. Something new on their resumes; maybe a job awaits them. I taught non-English speakers how to use a paper shredder. A little babuska was scared at the noise.

Chlortrimoton is the latest of my allergy medications (#5 - still no relief). It is not a good morning pill. Sleep-inducing. It seems to be drying out my skin & not my sinuses -I haven't been able to breath properly in a year and a half. The first medicine I tried made my mouth taste salty for weeks on end. I felt like a minor character in an Allende or Garcia Marquez novel - the woman who could only taste salt. Not very fun. The fellow sociopath I was kissing at the time was not a fan.

and the windy sunny bike ride home will do me well. . . wake me up enough to eat more of E's lasagna, inducing food coma.

get out of my head, wretched song

I am a good boss, most of the time. I let the people I supervise control the radio station. Most days, it switches from hip hop to light rock & back several times a day. Lots of horrible Ashley Simpson. I hate her. The is a long tradition of pretty girls who can't sing having hit songs. While I don't agree with the sentiment, I accept it. I just don't think Ashley's cute enough to justify the constant playing of her unmelodic yodeling.

Anyway, for the past few days, the country station has been the radio of choice. Never something I've listened to much. I have generally preferred my country with an alt- preceeding it. I'm finding most of it surprisingly okay. Not something I'd seek out, but tolerably enjoyable. There's this one song, 'Bumper of my SUV' that is played constantly that has been in my head for days. The sentiment, the words, the delivery, the melody, all of it is gross. I especially hate how she alludes to Marines in Hiroshima. They weren't there - we dropped the bomb to avoid a land invasion of Japan! Every time this song comes on, I want to yell at the radio, "lady, if you stop driving your gas guzzling car, maybe we wouldn't have war & people wouldn't be angry with you. Maybe you shouldn't be making judgments about mini-van drivers & their schooling choices if you don't want people to be assuming things about you because of your bumper stickers." Such rage. Such rage. The lyrics follow:

"Bumper of my SUV"

I've got a bright red sticker on the back of my car,
Says: "United States Marines."
An' yesterday a lady in a mini-van,
Held up her middle finger at me.
Does she think she knows what I stand for,
Or the things that I believe?
Just by looking at a sticker for the US Marines,
On the bumper of my S.U.V.

See, my brother Chris, he's been in,
For more than 14 years now.
Our Dad was in the Navy during Vietnam,
Did his duty, then he got out.
And my Grandpa earned his Purple Heart,
On the beach of Normandy.
That's why I've got a sticker for the US Marines,
On the bumper of my S.U.V.

But that doesn't mean that I want war:
I'm not Republican or Democrat.
But I've gone all around this crazy world,
Just to try to better understand.
An' yes, I do have questions:
I get to ask them because I'm free.
That's why I've got a sticker for the US Marines,
On the bumper of my S.U.V.

'Cause I've been to Hiroshima,
An' I've been to the DMZ.
I've walked on the sand in Baghdad,
Still don't have all of the answers I need.
But I guess I wanna know where she's been,
Before she judges and gestures to me,
'Cause she don't like my sticker for the US Marines,
On the bumper of my S.U.V.

So I hope that lady in her mini-van,
Turns on her radio and hears this from me.
As she picks up her kids,
From their private school,
An' drives home safely on our city streets.
Or to the building where her church group meets:
Yeah, that's why I've got a sticker for the US Marines,
On the bumper of my S.U.V.

a conversation (version 2.0)

So E & I have been spending much time gossiping & giggling. It seems like there is a drama explosion right now, between what we are experiencing personally and the dramas of our friends. If it were Dawson's Creek, it would be brilliant, but the whole real life dimension & fallout is not the best. The best dialogue of the night:

E: So, at least our dramas don't involve sexually transmitted infections.
Me: Or fetuses.
E: Although...no, actually, I'm not going there.
Me: Going where?
E: Well, I was going to observe that fetuses could be construed as an STI...
Me: E!!!!
E: That's why I didn't want to go there, but you insisted! I am innocent!

There you have it, folks, E (not me!) hates babies. . . and freedom.

a conversation

me: Good morning. How are you doing?
intern: I'm alright. My back is sore.
me: I'm sorry to hear that. Did you do something to yourself?
intern: [super casually] Yeah. Last night, I had sex with my best friend on the bathroom floor.
me: [dumbfounded] Oh. . .

new best friend

Someone posted last week on craig's list looking for a knitting partner. Needing to keep working on my quilt, I replied & said that I would like to join her. We met up last night & it was good.

She's 60 - which surprised me a bit. Are old people supposed to know about craig's list? She's hip, though, someone I would like to be when I'm 60. She has respectable taste in movies - she recommended The Woodsman & Maria Full of Grace. She knows Mike of Mike's Movie Madness fame. It was a great chat. It is refreshing to interact with people of a different age. It makes my self-absorbed dramas seem insignificant.

I was talking about how everyone seems so transitory right now. Among my circle of friends, my 16 months in Portland makes me feel like a long term resident of this city. Her response was, "my friends don't move away. They die. My husband checks the obituaries every morning to see if any of our acquaintances have passed." It put me in my place.

I hate only being able to share the occasional e-mail or disembodied voice telephone conversation with my friends spread from Berkeley to Bilboa. But I can take some solace in knowing that they are just far away.

They are not dead.

the brother can write

my brother's writing amuses me:

from his review of Anchorman:
"In an era without cable news networks and the Equal Rights Amendment—too bad we only got one of those—"

From an upcoming piece in which my family discusses movies:
"Here to present their thoughts on the best, worst, and overlooked films of last year are Pam, who gave me the Iverson, Greg, who gave me the Long, and Rachel who gave me a graphic novel about lesbians for Christmas."

If there is any justice in the world (doubtful) this fellow will have a job in media awaiting him come May.

fashion police

I almost got in a fight with an old lady a few minutes ago. She was complaining about the clothing of a few of my interns. Tight pants. Gaps between shirts and pants. Showing off small of the back tattoos. Nothing that I find out of the ordinary, but things that offend her, that she says provoke the clientele into harrassing these women. I told her that I do talk about dresscode with everyone here, that we discuss how tanktops are inappropriate, that you shouldn't wear anything here that you wouldn't want your grandma to see you in. And a few ladies seem to enjoy the tight revealing clothes & since I greet them as they walk through the door, still wearing parkas, I don't catch it.

The old woman was a long-time volunteer who was angry about seeing such things. Choice quotes: "maybe the state shouldn't be funding this program; it doesn't look like people are learning anything." & "I know women never deserve to be raped, but with the way they dress sometimes. . . " So angry. So angry.

I hate enforcing rules that I don't agree with, but now I get to. I now have to make regular rounds, checking up on my volunteers' attire, ensuring that they aren't baring what they shouldn't.

god, I need a new job. . .

party pieces

There was a party at my house last night & it was good. Some moments - I'm trying to piece it all together:

we smashed the liberty bell - 'twas amazing. There's something so equalizing about blindfolded people swinging and missing at a pinata. And people liked my toys. . .

E's crush ignored her for much of the night. . . not so cool. When he arrived, he talked to me for the first 10 minutes or so - not seeking E out. Throughout the night, he held forth on various topics: a friend whose hand got cut in half, economics of transnational corporations, etc. etc. speaking to crowds of strangers & playing very little attention to the girl he kissed two days before. . . lame.

Thoughtful guests for the most part. Most showed up with beverages and snacks. I woke up this morning, dreading hunting down half-empty bottles throughout the house. There was one empty in the living room & a broken wine glass in the front yard. Not bad at all.

L created a ring toss. Empty beer and wine bottles and sparkly jelly bracelets that were in the pinata. Watching the tipsy attempt the ring toss was quite amusing. Silly drunkenness.

Towards the end of the night, I went into my room. W was lying on my bed. It made me angrier than it probably should have. "You don't get to lie on my bed anymore, kid," I told him. It crossed some sort of line to see him in my bed that we had shared. I think I've been doing surprisingly well with transitioning to friendship with him. It felt like a triumph that I could have him at the party, that E got to see him, that I could graciously deflect some out-of-the-loop folks questions: 'are you still with him?' & have them be impressed with my ability to have him in my house. I'm trying to be the well-adjusted one. I really shouldn't be expected to react well to him in my bed. . . right?

A feminist book group was created. I am really excited at this prospect. I think more structure and discussion with my reading would serve me well, keep me from atrophying academically. My fingers are crossed that the woman who took the e-mail list will remember the plan. She thought she had lost the list at one point in the night. It was in her pocket.

liberty bells, liberty limpets

I am no good at paper mache.

E and I have been slowly constructing a liberty bell pinata for our party tonight. E takes off for Philadephia a week from Sunday - this is her bon voyage fiesta. . . The pinata is not so bell-esque. I have taken to calling it the Liberty Limpet. E has taken the lead in construction: building the frame, doing most of the layers, using shellac & modge podge to give the beast some sort of hardness. I've helped with a few of the paper mache layers. It has about 6 layers of gluesodden newspaper on it now. . . there's maybe time for one more to dry before this evening. It's still not super sturdy. We will not be bashing it with a baseball bat, but with a broom handle. The smaller stick seems appropriate for our not-so-strong creation.

And the prizes are amazing. I have been searching the $0.50 sections of toy stores & have found some amazing things: pencil sharpeners that look like noses - you stick the pencil up a nostril, skeleton army men with attached parachutes, tiny plastic half-woman half-scorpions, boucy balls that look like eye balls, spongy capsules that become farm animals when put in water, those plastic fortune telling fish that the toy store in my hometown used to tape to the birthday presents they wrapped for free. I am going to be diving into the grass as soon as the pinata breaks to get my hands on all of these goodies. . .

I just hope it isn't raining tonight. . .

the night of living vicariously

I had given E permission to wake me up whenever she got home last night. This was going to be the night that she told her crush, that she did, in fact, have a crush on him. I hoped she would come home brimming with happy news & wake me up to spread her happiness.

I woke up at 2:30 am of my own volition. I saw the light on in her room, which made me nervous for her. No happy news? She heard my half-asleep stumbling and found me. We sat on my bed and chatted. My fears were unfounded. They had a good night: E serving as goth subculture tour guide, driving around foggy southwest in search of a cemetary, etc. And E, being superbrave, told him of her crush. And they kissed some. And E was confused by that, telling me that she wanted clarity. I think that a kiss is a very clear message. If you kiss, it generally means there is some sort of shared affection . . . isn't that clear enough for now? She's leaving town in a week anyway. . . a bit of happiness and fun before she goes to save the world (or at least organize some Pennsylvanians).

I'm so happy for her. Our girl is overdue for a crush that pans out. I have forgotten the joys of vicarious love-drama. It is fun & about all the drama that I need right now.

And I get to tease her mercilessly. . .

ewww. . .

At the end of the state of the union address, during the mingling, George W. Bush kissed Joe Leiberman. I saw it. My housemates saw it. We were watching PBS. They don't make things up.

It's the most convincing argument against gay marriage that I have ever seen.

my housemate can beat up your housemate

Housemate L, not to be confused with a previously mentioned L (why can't there be more people with U,X,Q, & Z for their first initials in my life?) does Poekelan, an Indonesian martial art. She tested last night for her green sash.

I watched for 30 minutes of her 6 hour test & was amazed. The main part that I watched involved each person testing (there were 6 I think) fighting one person. This was all happening simultaneously in a not too big space. So much kicking, punching, slapping, rolling about on the ground. Like a low budget live action Hero happening inches from me. And most amazingly, the jabs, kicks, etc. didn't do serious damage & sparring couples never collided into each other. Housemate L says that only one person left with a black eye.

Housemate L now has a green sash. I will no longer get annoyed when she reminds me clean up the tea I spill on the counter - she ruins her white bread toast in it on occasion. . . she could totally take me.

deep talks

I had two intense discussions with the wrong people yesterday.

W and I met up after work. What was going to be coffee turned into an early dinner. Hoda's=deliciousness, even if their lentil soup is strangely lemony. The interaction was much better than I expected. True, I didn't go into my "you hurt me, jerkface. Never treat anyone like that again" speech. One can't do that in a restaurant, or at least I can't.

[E's theory is that car rides are ideal for such speeches. You drop someone off. Before they get out of the car, you say what needs to be said. They can freely leave or they can stay and talk. I think it's brilliant, but I'm not about to invest in a car just so I have a convinient way to make my brave speeches.]

We talked about movies and work and mutual friends. And then things got deep. I found myself talking about how I want to live more consciously, why new age-y religion turns me off, and how through teaching seventh graders about the historical Jesus, I am learning that Jesus was an amazing man - someone I think I should learn more about. He means so much to so many; what do they see that I don't? I'm not sure why that all came out with W. I wasn't planning on such things. I don't enjoy small talk. I like having friends with whom I talk about real things. I'm just not sure that I want W to play that role. I think we might work as friends better than we did when romantically linked. I don't care as much, which is liberating. We're meeting up to watch some basketball on Thursday. . .

I need to meet more people in this town who like sports. . .

After my theology class, which was good this week, a classmate tried to engage me in conversation. Tired and worried about missing my bus, I wasn't too into it. Especially when he started talking about how a loving God could cause AIDS. I can't believe in a omnipotent god because, given the state of the world, that god would be callous. I hate the idea of a callous, vengeful, uncaring god. But this man believes in a loving God - and that AIDS is god's plan to bring the world back into balance. Maybe that's true. If there is an omnipotent loving god, why doesn't he just make half of us born sterile & artificial conception impossible? That seems kinder. But this guy wouldn't stop. It's not like I particularly want to believe in a conscious god; I'm happy with my notions of a unconscious binding agent (like flour?) in the universe. If its good enough for theistic Buddhism, it's good enough for me. Yet he felt he needed to convince me of his beliefs. . . I thought Unitarians weren't supposed to be like that.

. . . and I missed my bus.

my physical vessel

Some notes on my body:

my knees are bruised. . .
I went over the handlebars of my bike yesterday afternoon. I was trying to get something out of my bag. I noticed a bit late that there was a stop sign. With the one hand I was using to steer, I grabbed the breaks. I was a bit overzealous & crashed. It must have been quite the sight: bike-riding woman crashes for no apparent reason. Pedestrians came rushing to my aid, but it was my ego that was bruised more than anything.

I spent a while on Saturday fixing up my bike - getting the seat to the perfect height, angle, etc. And now it is all out of whack again. . . sigh.

I am losing weight. . .
Without any intentional effort, my body has shed about 15 pounds since August. I managed to shrink myself over the holidays. I suppose its good. It isn't a medical issue at this point; my doctor isn't worried. Aren't I supposed to be happy about losing weight? Isn't that some sort of girl rule? I'm neutral & perplexed. I haven't done anything to make this happen. I eat and don't pay much attention to it. I move around and don't pay much attention to it. I rarely step on the scale, so it took a while, about 3 months, for me to figure out that my clothes weren't all getting stretched out. And now, clothes aren't fitting as well.

So do I gain weight or buy new clothes or spend hours making alterations?