Spare any change?

me: meh.
i'm not looking to impress them, just make steve happy.
Brett: gross.
me: of all the people we spend trying to make happy in our lives, wouldn't it make sense to focus on someone who in turn makes us happy?
customer service be damned, i believe in karma

I'm lucky. So lucky. We haven't moved in together, and we don't have a routine, but it seems these feelings and evenings frequently unfold into a blissful pattern that we both love. He has told me he doesn't want me losing any more weight because he's scared my boobs will shrink, and I go to a yoga or boot camp class anyway, and show up at his door sweaty and insisting on taking a shower before he touches me. Instead, he insists that I am beautiful and don't smell like a gym at all, and I get peppered with kisses and dragged into his bed for 20 minutes of massaging my sore muscles before he finally lets me jump into the shower. When I am bathed to my satisfaction, we'll waltz out to grab some delicious dinner and maybe watch a cute movie together before tumbling back into bed and satisfying the other appetites we keep hidden until we're between the sheets. If this isn't love, I don't know what is... and I don't want anything but this.

I'm going to miss him when I go camping/crabbing for a week.

"For all of the times that we've head-butted, something was bound to go wrong someday." (It was totally worth calling sick for)

Things that are new:
While without a laptop for 2 weeks, I started a physical journal-- drawing, writing, poems-- or at least one of each. However, my laptop is now back and working--hooray!
Apparently, I garden now. Or really just rip out plants that my neighbor tells me are bad.
I love the west Seattle water taxi. One day, it took me to Tennis and Bonnie :-)
RENT is good. It made me cry. Buckets.

"I'd bet you a shot, if they were still giving them out since it's past last call..."
"I'll bet you a shot I could get them to give us a shot..."
"But then they might actually charge you full price..."

I can't read the rest, as it has rubbed off my hand. Oh, Irish bars with my Italian boy. And drunken nights in heels that lead to... oh my, were those hand cuffs?

Is it already April? It snowed in Seattle yesterday-- an April Fool's joke from mother nature, everyone said, and here I sit in a hoodie and slippers by the fire, trying to stay warm and fight the cold I somehow ended up with after donating blood last week. I'm finally getting comfortable with things at work-- not everything, for sure, but I do find myself getting home at a decent hour with some frequency, and I don't have the nightmares every night. That drove me nearly crazy for 6 months-- not even escaping the stresses of a new job in the solace of sleep, my #1 cure for any affliction. I'm bringing goodies in to work nearly every night I'm on, and seeming to build a bit of a rapport with my coworkers-- which I hope is genuine. And, hey, I haven't even killed anyone. Things are wonderful with the boyfriend, despite a few personal freakouts on my part-- or perhaps even inspired by such? He really, really gets me, knows when it will make a difference to spend 20 minutes driving me to work and making me a bagel, knows that certain growling noises mean I want a back rub and others mean I want a kiss. And best of all, if he doesn't ever get it, he pesters me until he does, as if he really does care about the well-being of our relationship. Am I worried he might ever get too close, too personal, too in-tune with me that I'll lose my individuality? Not at all. This also is good.

I've found a really good friend in Christine-- from our breakfasts together to cleaning up messes at work to being there in life's little crises, I'm really glad to have her in my life. She's one of the good ones. I'm taking some great shots with my new camera-- too bad I can't find the transfer cord and have gotten lax at charging the battery in a timely fashion, but these things will all come in time. I'm eating pretty healthy, even working nights (where I reputedly gained my Sophomore 15 in my first foray), and here and there I'll squeeze in some exercise. It's getting harder and harder to work out in the afternoons when I wake up to work, but I'm trying to not stress about exercising on work-days. Besides, I was pretty excited to don a new bikini in Hawaii and not feel at all self-conscious. I'm just happy with how things are, though I know I could use a tweak here and there.

The weather is a constant nemesis of mine, and I thought I was learning to ride through it-- literally, on my new hybrid with fenders-- but I worry that the illness that left me mute for three days may have been caused partly by riding in the rain with a cold. I'm pretty sure I caught SAD this year, and I know the sunshine in Hawaii helped (when it came out), but I'm still not ready to clinically do anything about it save maybe planning another warm vacation or two. I hear Vegas is 85 and sunny nowadays, and it's just so tempting to want to pack up and go on one of my 4-day-off stretches... maybe when I get my tax refund.

I'm still unpacking my room from a January move. This is like a treasure hunt, though, discovering things I forgot existed. I still have, for instance, the label from an $80 bottle of wine Steve and I shared in Boulder in 2007 half a continent and almost a whole lifetime ago. I brought out the rug that was supposed to be a Christmas present to my parents today, and I've made some good progress on it.

And I'm writing again. Maybe not thematically, but at least... physically.

I rolled over and squinted my eyes against the renegade stream of light peeking in through the curtains of the 29th-floor window, reflecting off 180 degrees of mountain ranges and skyscrapers like only a 9:30am beam of light in Vancouver can. That one stream of light, though, was enough to illuminate a saga strewn across the floor, leaving clues to the sort of trouble I had gotten myself into the night before. The hat I had flounced out to the brewery in lay on the floor next to my shirt and bra and an envelope containing a picture of a crying baby in Santa’s lap with a return address of the Delta police department. My pants and underwear had been tossed onto the dresser, and a new lacy thong that I certainly had not packed was lying innocuously next to my shoes. Two empty packets of lube lay next to a Canadian $20 bill, and three packets of organic potato chips sat on top of His pants. Seven Hershey’s kisses and one raspberry truffle were mixed amidst four black wine totes and one floating candle. Two stolen beer glasses, packed with pink tissue paper, rolled around on top of gift certificates for the Vancouver Home Show and free chocolates from a store in Gastown. In the corner of the room, a room service order form and Vancouver guide book sat unused by His shoes and jacket and a pillow that looked like something had spilled on it.

I rolled back over onto His shoulder and shared a closed-mouth kiss, the kind you use when you know your morning breath could probably kill a small animal. “Happy Valentines day,” I sighed, and closed my eyes contentedly.

I hate my life. I hate my job. I hate my boyfriend. I hate my family.

And yet I wouldn't have it any other way.

Except that I wish I wrote more insightful journal entries more often.

True to tradition, I don't think I'll sleep before I move this time.

What kind of a vegetarian goes to a Chinese restaurant but then doesn't know that all the tofu dishes are called "bean curd"? For that matter, what kind of vegetarian doesn't know what bean curd is in the first place?

More importantly: why would that give them the authority to then criticize me for not being a "real" vegetarian because I eat seafood, but then muse themselves about how they ought to change their own diet up as they are anemic?

I've discovered a bunch of nerds who like blogging, have a knack for writing witty reviews, like good food, and also like getting drunk. I've been using Yelp for years to decide which venues to choose, but only now have I started my own account-- it was useful to get some plans and some company on Christmas Day anyway, and I thought some of the people were cool. Cool in that "we're-all-secretly-geeks-and-writing-our-reviews-mentally-as-we-do-this-carbomb" sort of way. Whipping out an iphone and "friending" me right at the bar was a totally acceptable replacement for exchanging numbers. Besides that I don't have an iphone, I can't help but think these people might have a lot more in common with myself than I would initially like to admit. It could be a good thing.

I'm rolling with it.

I'm wearing the grey fleece hat this week
Not because he likes it
And not because the red one is outside on my snowman
Rather, it has a brim
So no one can see my tears
Unless they get close
Which they won't

Which is why I'm crying in the first place.

Maybe it's just SAD, but I really wish December didn't exist this year. It's just hard to turn off my emotions, as much as I try to be stoic.

What do I want?

This was a good weekend. Capped off by me getting more knitting needles and yarn. Yay! Hopefully I'll have a scarf done by the time it gets really cold!

...oh wait, it doesn't usually do that in Seattle. Oh well, I'll just wear a scarf to be fashionable then ;-)

I almost feel guilty reminiscing about how wonderful the last two days have been.

Almost.

Monday afternoon found me racing out of class and straight over to Steve's apartment, where Andrew and I conspired to make Jessie move here, then I promptly passed out at 5pm-- only to awaken at 8pm demanding sushi and insisting that there was a cheap alternative. After much interwebbing, Steve and I finally found the spot way down 3rd Ave, and ate at the place that bragged the title, "best way to serve octopus to a first-timer." So of course we had the octopus, a tantalizing martini, and 3 kinds of sashimi, and 2 rounds of Sake, and the spicy tuna roll, and Chemame (which is like buttered edemame), and then more of the delicious spicy tuna roll. Drunk and exhausted, Steve and I retired to do what young, drunk, exhausted lovers do.

Tuesday morning was the perfect opportunity for a Crackrina feast, of hazlenut swirls that were just sweet enough to be a breakfast pastry but not a dessert, Verdura quiche, orange raisin scones, and fresh fruit and yogurt and granola. I went out bike-map searching and shopping, Steve paid his goodbyes to Zillow, and then we met up for a fabulous afternoon bike ride. We explored the path running north along Elliot Bay, seeing the "cleanest" grain processing plant in the USA, getting a local totally lost with Steve's GPS, then making our way up the worst hills in Seattle along what should be renamed "mansion ridge" in Magnolia all the way to Discovery Park and the old lighthouse at its western peninsula. There, while snacking on goat cheese and sesame crackers and grapes, we watched the sun setting on the Puget sound, kayaks buffeted in the waves, barges running in and out, and even three seals calling and playing with each other. It was a scene out of a movie, until 5:00pm hit and 30 joggers and bikers and couples descended on our perfect spot. So, we continued on to the Chittenden locks, saw the fish ladder, and walked across to Ballard, where happy hour and delicious sweet potato fries awaited us at King's Hardware. Full and sore from battling 15 miles of hills, we caught the bus home, robbing the same local we had gotten lost earlier of a spot on the bus's bike rack-- we hid our faces when the bus passed her.

Today was lovely as well. I woke up very rested to a business phone call for Steve-- who had forgotten that 10am is really 7am Seattle-time-- and spent the rest of the day in and out of sleepiness. Profuse cuddling, reading a good novel, insisting Steve send out emails, pitas and hummus, napping and more cuddling, and finally at 4pm I roused for real. I made the demanding 1.5-mile-uphill bike ride to my own home, where I did a bit of cleaning and some working out and catching up with my roommates and general life-organizing. Now I'm showered and rested and ready to go pick up Steve, make some quesadillas, and go back to bed early in honor of a 4:30am airport run I'll be making. Yes, he's heading down to Santa Barbara to make one month's rent in 6 days of working. I'm trying to be very supportive, but I'll miss him bunches.

So sue me if the last two days have been amazing. Shouldn't everyone enjoy 2 days off in the middle of the week as much as any old weekend? Even if it's because your company laid off 25% of their employees? I refuse to feel guilty over so much happiness, regardless of where it came from.

I've renamed the bakery nextdoor to Steve's luxury apartment from the original Macrina to Crackrina.

"If you have to work, that's fine, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to have a Friday night."

Those words were still echoing through my head as I woke up at 5:45am to start another 12 hour shift.

So, what, my friday nights can now be truncated to dragging myself out of work at 7:30pm only to cry and scream for another 2 hours? You get a Friday night, but you don't care if I do? When my "Friday" night falls on a Wednesday, you're happy to let me cater to your desires, but I'm just an inconvenience to yours?

This isn't really the time or the place to address this.

But I did want to vent that I forgot both my keys and my wallet and my lunch on the way to work this morning. So I'm hungry, tired, and locked out. This might excuse everything.

I just took one of the worst beatings of my life from the healthcare field.

And that was only after my 13-hour hospital shift.

I can't believe I haven't posted in so long. There has been so much inspiration in this city-- I guess most of it has been "off-line," as it were, though. I'll go through 3-4 day stretches of working 12 hour shifts and only going online to check the "important-looking" emails, then on my days off I'll stray as far from technology as I can. Here's the quick and dirty: I like biking everywhere, I love my new boots, and I hate living 2.5 miles and 3 huge hills away from Steve. I like happy hour, I love my new job, and I hate my struggle against seasonal affective disorder. I like my new house, I love Beth's pumpkin soup, and I hate waking up to work when it's still dark out.

Projects in the works:
East Coast for Thanksgiving
New Skirt-- handmade.
Rug for mom and dad.
Long overdue photo editing.
Pumpkin carving.

Every so often, I need to throw on a thong and some jeans that are more spandex than anything else, a top with more cleavage than fabric, and some eye makeup, and hit the floor.

The Salsa floor, that is.

There's just nothing like spinning and twirling and dipping and sometimes even soaring through the air in the arms of a guy you can trust to catch you. It makes it easy not to fall. I missed doing aerials-- I don't remember the last time I did them, but I have a hunch I journaled about them because I was so psyched. I'll remember Rock Salt for any future endeavors-- besides two dance floors, it sported an awesome view of the lake starting just six inches from the smokers' balcony. Beautiful!

Of course, at the end of the night, there's also nothing like going home to a stuffed tiger. They're a good second-best for hugging.

me: woah, a jew going to med school, weird, huh? ;-)
J/K i know you're thinking of Lauren Ginsberg
Sent at 11:37 PM on Sunday
Josh: lolo
theres only like 4 jews that i know of in my class of 150 actually
so WAY TO STEREOTYPE
me: YOU STARTED IT
by being jewish
duh
Josh: hahahahahahahahaha
toche
u finished it by being BLONDE
me: yeah well, your MOM is blonde
Josh: nope
just u
me: that's what she said...
Josh: hehe
b- for the timing but a for the line
me: you're a line
HAHAHAHA GOTCHA
Josh: your moms a line
me: I'll line your mom
Josh: LINE THIS
me: :-)
Sent at 11:43 PM on Sunday