What do you do with a B.A. in English?

You go through 2 bad jobs, land an okay job, but you don't live out your dream of being an editor for St. Martin's press because you chose marriage and family instead of a dream job in New York.

You buy a townhouse that is dark all the time next door to chainsmoking rednecks, and since it's California, you have a house and no fun. Because there is no money left for fun when you're a single income family in California. And your single income is earned by a woman with a B.A. in English.

I have two pairs of jeans that are wearing out at the inseam, by the crotch. My favorite two pairs of jeans (same style). I haven't bought yarn since Stitches. I've been finishing projects like crazy.

There are a lot of good things, so I shouldn't be unhappy, but when you feel lousy, all you can see is what your life could have been if you'd made better choices.

There is nothing like a nerd...

I'll admit; I have a serious nerd fetish. My first crush was Doogie Howser, M.D., and as far as TV crushes have ALWAYS been the nerdy type.

I love painfully smart men. Men so smart that they are socially inept. I find it charming.

When I was in high school, I would scope out the local drum corp boys (the Santa Clara Vanguard, if you're in the mood for the uber-band geeky type). My mother is of the opinion that I over fished that pond, since I had 3 successive boyfriends in a row from SCV… Does that make me a groupie? I don't care. Nerds are where it is AT!

I find their enthusiasm/ obsessing over something refreshing; it's great that they're interested in something, and they don't care if everyone knows it. Many of them have low self-esteem, but a clear idea of their personal identity.

At some point, they resign themselves to being nerds and become more comfortable in their skin. These are the guys who decided to be in choir, band and plays in high school. No matter how much teasing and taunting, they did what they wanted to do and had a great time doing it. They were smart; choir and plays are where the chicks are, and if you've seen American Pie, you know how those band girls are. [MOM: I was a nice girl in band. Additionally, I did not march flute. Those flute girls are sissies and whores.]

I'll take both the Reluctant Nerd and the Self-Aware Nerd. I don't want to make them over, I want to revel in their charming nerd-ness. This is why I enjoyed the Vicki Lewis Thompson "Nerd" series. These nerds were my friends, co-workers, and the men I actively lust after. (Passively lust after? It's a thin line.)

Which leads to my opinion on Beauty & the Geek. I liked that there were some genuine nerds getting some airtime. I did not like the "makeover" side of it for them. They didn't need to look like they were in a boy band; they won over all the superficial bimbos they were teamed with by being themselves. All of the throwaway popular culture stuff that they were expected to "learn" and embrace won't be remembered in a year. To be honest, the only popular culture knowledge I have is from reading magazines while I'm waiting for my hairdresser.

Smart men are where it's at. Joss Whedon put it very succinctly when he had Willow's character state the truest truism ever, "I'm not ashamed, It's the computer age, nerds are in."

New Hair!

I woke up yesterday and realized that my hair was too long. It was on the verge of being frumpy. At a decent hour, I called her, telling her that I was desperate to get my hair cut.

She scheduled me in for 9:00 AM today, so I went in. We chatted, and I said that I wanted the same cut as last time; just about chin length with long layers in the front.

Going to the hairdresser is a full-service thing for me; any beautification that is in need of doing gets done in one trip. So, first and foremost, she managed to find a face on me after removing all the excess eyebrows. I love how she shapes my eyebrows, because they still look natural without that whole weird-shaped-bushy issue. Too bad I'm too lazy to perform eyebrow maintenance more regularly. This means seeing Suzy is a MUST for me. Otherwise, my face disappears under my eyebrows. It's a Persian thing.

So, my hair gets washed, we chat about how things are going, we talk about my parents, and then we go to The Chair.

The Chair was a place of much contention for me as a child. You see, Suzy has been cutting my hair since I was at least six years old. She cut it exactly how my mother wanted it done, rather than the way I wanted it done. This is how I kept a fairly classic hairstyle throughout the 80's , and didn't get my initials shaved into the side of my head like my best friend Ryan.

I shaved my head at the beginning and end of 7th grade (waaaay before it was cool), then took control of my hair when I hit high school. From then on, it has been my way, and I've been happy ever since.

Suzy is a great hairdresser; I have never walked out looking anything but smashing. I often forget this when I'm in the chair.

So, my hair is in the middle of being cut, and I think, "OH MY GOD! IT'S TOO SHORT!"

Too short isn't really a big issue if you have straight hair. But for those of us with rebellious curly hair with a mind of it's own, it's a huge problem. You get into this weird, frizzy, afro-y place, and it's just not cute. Then I panic that I'm going to look like a Beatle, but weirder. Or just a long-haired boy badly in need of grooming- with breasts. I'm agonizing over how long it's going to take, whether I am going to need to wear some sort of hat to hide my shame…

…and it's perfect. It's magically EXACTLY the length I had hoped for and the style is fantastic. We're going to get pictures (because I can never do my hair the same way she does it), and I'll try to get a picture with it curly. If I get to it.

Something I noticed...

McDonalds has started putting the nutrition information on the wrappers of the food, as well as a little icon of Ronald McDonald jumping or skipping (basically, being active) and text that encourages people to get off of their butts and move.

Now, let me give you my fast food background. When I dated Zak, I ate at McDonalds almost everyday. If it wasn't McDonalds, then it was Jack in the Box, Taco Bell, Wendy's, whatever. I'm not saying that in that 2 ½ years all that I ate was fast food with him, but it was about 90% of the food we ate in each other's company.

Having said that, when I was dating him, I was grossly underweight at 90-95 lbs. (less when I was stressed out), so this whole "fast food makes you fat" thing wasn't working for me. I was working a desk job 30-40 hours a week, and going to college full time. The year and a half while I was in high school dating Zak, I was working 15-20 hours a week, and was super-involved in marching band, choir, and whatever else I could fit. Although I should have ballooned the instant I graduated high school, or in the year afterwards when I maintained la vida teenager, I just didn't.

Maybe it was my teen metabolism, maybe it was because being super-active (physically), especially while I was in marching band. As soon as I stopped dating Zak, I swore off fast food for about a year. Now I eat at fast food places 4-12 times a year, which won't make me horribly sick or fat. Here's where I find the lawsuits/ change in packaging painfully stupid.

Everyone knows that fast food is bad for you. Just like smoking. Maybe there should be a Surgeon General's warning on everything in a fast food restaurant, like on cigarettes. I'll even give two options, like the Surgeon General does for cigarettes:

[THESE ARE NOT ACTUAL SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNINGS. I AM NOT THE SURGEON GENERAL. BUT THEY ARE A VERY GOOD IDEA, AND QUITE ARTICULATE IF YOU ASK ME.]


SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Eating fast food has been proven to cause obesity, heightened blood pressure, and elevated cholesterol levels.

OR

SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Fast food contains high sodium levels, fat, and processed sugars.


Now, I understand that personal responsibility is not encouraged in mainstream American culture. This is why there are legal defenses for EVERYTHING. I'm not an extremist; I think in some cases these defenses are necessary, but Twinkie defenses are an absurd abuse of the legal system. Everyone gets a little crazy when their blood sugar plummets low enough. Some of us are even dramatic enough to shake and faint after yelling at people. (All the Hypoglycemics in the room please stand up, please stand up. [Okay, I know I'm not cool enough to quote Eminem on my blog, but it's better than me trying to pull off "Hypoglycemics, holla!"] )

What is even less excusable is someone deciding to breed and "not having time" to prepare real, nutritious food for their whelp and feeding them fast food more than once a month. Why have children if you don't take care to raise them properly? This is where the veritable list of excuses arises: high costs of living, etc. There is always time and there are things that you certainly can live without if you choose to have a child.

I'm not saying that poor people shouldn't have children, I'm just saying that proper planning (both family planning and meal planning) can prevent childhood obesity. And teen pregnancy. And Bird Flu.

Ok, maybe not Bird Flu. But who knows; maybe it can. * Raises eyebrow suspiciously *

I eat fast food, too. Just less than most people. It's the fries, man! Salty, potato-ey, goodness!

On a less socio-political note, we're seeing Gypsy tonight. Strippers + Musical theater = AWESOME!!! It's high-culture meets low-culture!

Thought of the day:

My labelmaker looks like an original Star Trek phaser. How cool is that? So, I set it to KILL! and then I make labels. Qapla!

I dream in color

I dream in color. My dreams are always vivid, whether they're really fun or absolutely terrifying.

I had this awful dream that we were transporting this woman to a battered women's shelter, and there were like 10 cars driving there (so that we could lose her husband on the road, she could switch cars, etc). But the van I was driving died. So I had to pedal to get this huge van to move, and I could see her husband in the rear view mirror. So I am pedaling (like a bicycle) to get her to the rendezvous point (a bubble tea restaurant in Oakland), where I sit with the Saturday knitting group and have a leisurely tea.

As the husband was walking in to intercept us, I wake with a start. To find Niki sleeping LENGTHWISE in my spot, head on my pillow and EVERYTHING. And then he yawns in my face with butt-breath. Blech.

So, I cuddle up to Andrew, hear my radio turn on (because the buzzer startles me and gives my morning a harsh start), and think to myself, "Just 5 more minutes…"

I overslept. By about an hour. So much for what I thought was 5 minutes.

Anyway, I was only 20 minutes late to work. Explain how I could manage to get myself out the door in 7 minutes when it normally takes five times that long.

In other news:

My [allegedly] paternal grandmother is having alleged cardiac problems. There is true and reasonable doubt on both counts. Here is why:

(a) My aunt and uncle joke that they found my father in a shoebox on the front stoop. They treat him like it, too.

(b) He doesn't look like ANYONE in his family. No resemblance AT ALL. Sam and I look like him, but he is the odd one out. If I get around to it I'll scan the "family" photo that we all took when we went to Iran in 1991. Sam, Dad, and I all stick out. And nobody looks like us.

I also doubt that she is actually having cardiac issues NOT ONLY because I am admittedly an evil bitch, but also because my grandmother is a hypochondriac for attention. If one person is sick and getting attention, so too is my grandmother. Insensitive of me to say so? Yes. True? Also yes.

I LOVE MY JOB! (Part 1,000,000)

A parade (15) hot firemen just strolled by my office. If they start dancing and taking off their clothes, I may never leave here. Ever. I am magnanimous enough to volunteer some stripper music (the stuff from the Full Monty will do, right?), if they're in a dancing mood.

Thought of the day…

There isn't a word in English for a man whom a married woman is having an affair with. I propose "Manstress". In Spanish, the term is "Sancho." Vote "yes" on "Manstress".

Inanimate objects are out to get me

Today was an unusually quiet day. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, this means I get to catch up on all of the administrative stuff that isn't time-sensitive. Like filing. Hole-punching. Making photocopies. Dealing with the e-mail system to make the search functions all that they can be.

So, needless to say, I can do all of these tasks without utilizing 100% of my brain. This leaves me to daydream, make lists in my head, plan my weekend, whatever. Oh yeah, and sing.

Yes, I sing in my office because I CAN! I sing softly, because the walls are so thin that if I were to fart, you could smell it in the offices next to me. This does not mean that I farted in my office and then ran next door to see if I could smell it, I am using hyperbole. [Mom: I NEVER fart. I am the PERFECT example of what a lady should be. You have not failed as a mother.]

So, while I'm alphabetizing stuff for easier filing, which is a necessity at this point. If you saw how much filing I have to do, you would cry. I am 5' 1 1/2", and the filing I have to do, if I were to stack it all on top of another is ALMOST as tall as I am. Good thing I'm not that tall, right? (Just for the record, there is enough work to keep me working 20 hours of overtime a week, MINIMUM. But I LOVE my job!)

Anyway, I'm singing the alphabet song, because I am so lame that I can't place the letters without it. Like, I know "U" comes before "Z" but what are the letters right before and after?

I bet you're singing the song, too. We've all been indoctrinated since preschool to sing this song. So enjoy it; I do.

So, I get up to go and wash my hands before I go home for lunch and I turn on the water. I find out that it is SCALDING hot (!) as I put my hand in it. My hand did a terrific impression of a lobster, post-boil, and turned an angry shade of red. From being under the water for a fraction of a second. Ow!

Ok, fast forward to late afternoon. I go to my friend, the photocopier. We've spent hours and hours and hours together. We are the closest of friends. He works hard for me, I refill his paper. It's a mutually satisfying relationship. So, today's job for Mr. Photocopier (we have a working, professional relationship) was a bunch of short copies; all 3 pages, stapled. Not hard, right?

About three quarters of the way though, my stapler runs out of staples. (I have to staple the originals, since the feeder won't staple them when they're done being copied.) I reach for the magical supply cabinet of goodness, and find these wierd, bent-in-the-middle staples. I reload my stapler, staple one original, and then - I'm shooting blanks! There are staples IN the stapler, but none of them are coming out!

I look at my treacherous stapler, and begin to swear softly under my breath [Mom: I NEVER swear. Ever.] I take the staples out of the stapler, and while I am putting the staples away, ready to call it a day at 5:45, I see the BRIGHT RED box of "standard" staples. I put them in the previously treacherous stapler, and he begins working just fine again. It turns out that I am the stupid one, not the stapler. Damn! [Mom: read "Gracious, me!"]

So, I drive home, and my Tivo isn't working. How does one live without Tivo? I shudder at the thought. I call Tivo tech support, and we fix the problem in less than 15 minutes. What was the problem?

I turn on the TV to catch up on some Law & Order, and there is a yellow screen, with cartoon pieces of paper blowing in the wind. But paused. It was all very abstract and post-modern. But alas, nothing was paused and none of the Tivo functions were, well, functioning.

The solution? Unplug the Tivo. Wait 60 seconds. Plug the Tivo back in. Problem solved.

At least my shower wasn't evil. It was just the right temperature (aaahh...), and my laptop seems to be operating normally.

Ok, time to eat and watch Criminal Minds.

I don't write poetry

I like to read. I like to write (poorly, as you can find for yourself throughout the archives of this oh-so fine blog), but for the life of me, I can't write poetry.

I was blog-surfing and found tomes (virtual tomes) of angsty teen poetry. I missed that one; I was more into singing angsty Broadway in the shower. Still am. Part of me just wonders why I don't really delight in writing poetry.

The sad thing? I don't particularly enjoy most poetry. I've heard a few verses here and there, but give me witty repartee between well-developed characters anyday. The writing on the early seasons of West Wing have this feel. Extra Jasmin points [to be awarded a special prize... eventually] for multiple musical theater references.

Instead, my "talent" (if you could call it that) is re-writing words to showtunes to make them suit... well, whatever. A glass of port adds to my "lyrical genius" [my own words, dripping with sarcasm].

I love deconstruction. Deconstruction of texts, movies, TV shows. It's so much fun. But not poetry. Except for limericks, which are the BEST!

A Sidenote:

Why is good fanfiction so hard to find? I mean, I could write it myself (and have in the past), but I just don't want to. Not when I'm in a reading mood.

Also, watching Hugh Jackman get beat in a belching contest (on the Kids' Choice Awards) with Justin Timberlake is shaming. I can't believe that scrawny little twerp beat him in a belching contest. A display of manhood, if you will.

I think it was rigged. There is no WAY that Hugh could have been out-belched by a little kid. Just so you know, I was utterly devastated when they announced the winner.

Not that I need to justify myself, but I watched the Kids' Choice awards SOLELY because Jack Black was hosting. I didn't realize that so many adult celebs were on it.

For my fans:

Tonight I will be performing from "Little Shop of Horrors" in my most frequent venue. Seating is limited, so run- don't walk, to a shower enclosure near you.

Stream of consciousness: read at your own risk.

This is such a disjointed post that I'm warning you ahead of time. This is stream-of-consciousness. So close the window now if jumping from subject to subject distresses you.

I'm really good at setting goals and achieving them. Really. I am the worst designer, though. My designs are fine; I'm just reluctant to write them down. Mostly because I don't have time, and when I do have time, I would rather knit something else than type up what's in my head.

If only there were a sync cable so that I could plug myself into my laptop and just transfer my ideas, so that I could happily knit along, watching my Tivo, while I put the designs down for general use. But I have to write down the two patterns I promised Melinda for Maryland Sheep and Wool, which I will be attending this year. (Wooo!) That's going to get done this week, really.

Andrew is visiting his brother in Florida, who is opening a brewery... today. Or yesterday, EST. So it's me, Mom, and the schmoopies for the weekend. I have to take the dogs out for a walk; we couldn't take them to the park to run out their energy and they're starting to go stir crazy from the rain.

I want to go to Vegas again; this time, I'm going to NOT pull my groin walking. Girls can pull their groin muscles, right? I want to see Blue Man Group. And Avenue Q again. I will go prepared to the Star Trek Experience and not be mocked by a Ferengi again.

Work is great; I'm having a lot of fun there, but I am so tired today. Good thing it's Friday. They set me up with a second screen to work on side-by-side, and I must say that it is oh-so luxurious.

We need to do some work on the house; I want to paint, but we have this fugly wood paneling on one wall in the living room, and one side of the staircase. My aunt is giving me all of my mother's counted cross stitch (which she has been hoarding for close to 15 years), so I'm trying to figure out how and where to hang it.

I love croissants. Buttery goodness.

Ok, going to bed now.

FO'ing like a Mo'Fo' and Knitting in Public

I've been on a crazy sock kick; AND I've finished 8 projects so far this month. Woo!

Knitting in Public
There was a thread on KnitFlame about how it's innappropriate to knit in meetings. One idiot woman posted that one should ask EVERYONE in the meeting's permission to knit through a meeting that the other members of the meeting ichat/gossip/play solitare/doodle/sleep through.

I think not. It's not because I'm a raging individualist. It's because it helps me focus. I knit in such a way that isn't distracting, and most meetings I knit through are the ones that are on my time (i.e. mandatory lunch meetings). Some meetings are appropriate to knit through, some aren't.

Don't tell me whether I can knit through things that I pay to attend. And I do. I knit through college, I knit through movies, and I knit through theatre. It's what I do.

I had this horrible journalism professor in college who had convinced herself that I never listened in class. Her class was useless; it was all about the "good ol' days" when she was a high-profile editor, not about how to interview or how to write a good article. I suppose that's what you get from someone who only has a Bachelor's degree. (This criticism has a point- the college has a policy of "only highing the highest accredited people in their field". All my other professors actually taught. Her journalism class was sitting around, wasting four hours of our lives each week chatting about how it used to be.) This particular professor also told me I was wasting my life by getting married. Oh, and she's such an independant thinker that she started smoking, andsmoked two packs a day to "fit in" with all of the other editors. Way to march to your own drummer, lady.

Anyway, the last week of class, we were talking about judgement in selecting photos, and she referenced a comment she had made the first week of class. None of her "stars" [read: "favorites"] knew the answer, and I let the silence hang in the room for a good thirty seconds before I looked around the room, looked her in the eye, and gave her the correct answer.

What did her dumb butt say? "Wow, all this time I thought you weren't listening."

I didn't answer with, "Wow, it's not like you're teaching."

Just for the record, of all of her "stars", none of them can hold a job that can feed them or clothe them. The moral of this story? People who think you aren't listening aren't saying anything worthwhile.

Oh yeah, and at my lunch meetings, everyone thinks it's cool that I can knit and talk, and not look at my knitting. Boo-yah!

Success! (And 2 FO's!)

We got a note from the vet telling us that Niki was due for his bordetella vaccine (for Kennel Cough), so Andrew and I strategized.

We decided, since the dogs love riding in the car now, we would do a "happy vet" visit, then take them straight to the dog park afterwards.

Yesterday, I met Andrew and the pupples at the vet and we had the GREATEST experience. It took a little bit of coaxing to get them into the back room, but
Andrew and I both left the room and panic did not ensue. We went straight to the dog park and all was well. We dropped the dogs off at home and went out for Ethiopian food (which was A-FREAKING-MAZING!) with the DMC crowd (formerly the Hopf crowd). Then back to the DMC for Dr. Who, which I promptly slept through.

This morning we had a 9AM appointment with our vet, whom we LOOOOVE. She's been our vet for a little over 6 years now, which really says something. Especially since we drive across town to see her. I digress.

We get there, and everything goes so amazingly smoothly that I can't believe what I'm seeing. I had to help keep Niki standing when he got his temperature checked (Niki was trying to sit for treats, our method of distracting him). Elphie was super good. They both got their Kennel Cough immunization, so we can take them to obedience classes now.

We take them to the dog park after, things go great. Such a good day. Today is knitting, and that should be good. Let's just say that the dogs are whipped puppies and are napping right now. :)

FO's:

I made a hat to match the scarf that I finished, AND I started and finished the Confetti socks (Tess Yarns). Woo!