Merry August 17th.

It was so effing hot yesterday that there was no way I was going to even attempt cooking dinner. So I called up Ben and Julie and asked if they wanted to go get sushi. We piled into my car at 6:00 and drove over to Tokyo Seoul, and remembered once we pulled into the parking lot that they're closed on weekends. The next goal was to go over to the new Thai restaurant in Moscow, where that really shitty place called Archie's or something used to be. They've got sushi, or they will, eventually. Julie, Toria, and I tried to go there once a couple months ago, only to be met with an empty bar and "We don't serve sushi on Mondays." WTF?

Since it was Sunday, we decided to try our luck. When we got there, a sign on the door read, "Sushi bar will open Wednesday, 8/19/08" (yet further proof that this Wednesday is going to be the best day of the summer). The waiter came out to tell us what was up: The chef is on vacation and he's coming back by Wednesday, and after Wednesday the bar will be closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, until another chef gets hired in which case they'll be open every day of the week. Things might change a bit in the winter, though, because he buys his fish from Seattle and there may be occasions when he can't get across the pass. So now you know.

That last part totally satisfied me, because I like knowing where my food comes from (thanks, Julie & the Trouts). Although I hope this guy's rig has some serious refrigeration capabilities, because 5 hours is a long time for raw fish to be hanging out in a car. I have faith, though, that this restaurant is not trying to slowly but surely kill off all of the sushi lovers in the Palouse.

So, armed with a wealth of knowledge regarding this new restaurant that managed to still disappoint us, we decided to trek over to Uniontown and eat at Eleanor's.

If you have never been to Eleanor's, shame on you. Sure, Uniontown is po-dunk and you can drive through it faster than you can say, "This town is smaller than Colfax," but it's a really nice little community AND... it's got Eleanor's!

My favorite thing about Eleanor's is the sign on the door that says you can't bring your firearm inside. Or, it's the free, homemade chips that get plunked down on your table, begging to get snacked on. Or maybe it's how nice the staff is, giving us free beer to try and interjecting comments in the most good-natured way. Actually, it's probably just the burgers. NOM NOM NOM.

When Julie, Ben, and I got there, we sat at the table by the air conditioner (the only table I've sat at, actually), sipped our beers and watched pre-season football on the TVs while we waited for our food. During this time, I grabbed a Christmas coloring book and these jumbo crayons, which were probably two inches around, and prepared to pick out a page. The guy working hollered from the kitchen, "If it's really good, we'll put it up on the wall!" We all laughed, and Julie said he was placating me, in the nicest way possible: "Notice how there are no other drawings on the wall?" Nonetheless, I picked what I deemed a "good" image, and set to work.

Ben told me I should put it on my office door, which I was totally prepared to do. After I colored the bear, sitting in a stocking wearing a striped Santa hat, I wrote, "By: Lauren Clark!" in the bottom right corner. Yes, last name and ex point included. Then I added, "Merry August 17th" near the top and a "We <3 Eleanor's" underneath.

But, like a hawk who'd spotted a mouse, the guy nabbed my drawing and tacked it up behind the bar. I was SO EXCITED. It is much better off hanging up at Eleanor's than it would be on my office door. Julie had me take a photo of it with her phone to show the blogging world (or, you know, whoever reads this):

So, if you ever find yourself meandering toward Uniontown, make sure to stop in at Eleanor's. The food is amazing and the atmosphere is cozy, and they hang my drawings on the walls. So get over there, order a burger, and say hello to my Merry August 17th bear.

An Open Letter to the Girls who Live Across from Us.

Dear neighbor girls,

I say this with respectful understanding and without attempting to channel a certain person who seems to get her kicks from hating on people younger than she, but ... I am so glad I do not live in the apartment underneath yours.

Judging from the youthfulness of your faces and the Omigod!s that pepper your speech, my roommate and I decided you must be sophomores and that this is your first apartment. Honestly, it was hard to believe you were in college at all. When I first met you both, and you introduced yourselves with your adorable, girly names and white-toothed smiles, I knew we could never be friends. It would just never work.

Now, I remember being your age. I remember having people come over to party. (Except, my roommate at that time and I usually went out because we didn't want people messing up our place.) I remember playing music really loudly just because we could, and "not giving a fuck" if it annoyed anyone. And, of course, drinking liquor that someone else had purchased for us.

I remember how fun those days were, and I wouldn't want any college-aged girl to be deprived of that, but I have to say that I am eternally grateful that you live across the building, instead of next door or even underneath us, so that I can retreat to my bedroom and be spared the thumpthumpthumping of you blasting Top 40.

I will admit, I like the Lady GaGa song Just Dance, probably because I've never really grown out of enjoying poppy music that has a good beat. However, at 9:00 on  a Sunday, I don't particularly want to hear "Just ju-ju-just DANCE," unless I am playing it for myself. But I'm not. And I'm not hanging around with hot guys, drinking Busch Light, or getting ready to go to Valhalla, and I am certainly not going to the Rec Center.

Sure, sometimes when the song comes on my Shuffle at the gym, it's all I can do to not belt out, "I love this record, baby, but I can't see straight anymore!" And yet, even though I have a kind of unnatural love for this song, I don't want to be forced to listen to it. I sympathize immensely with your downstairs neighbors, because I know what it's like to have horrifically loud people living above you. In fact, when I was your age and doing the kinds of things you are doing, the two guys living above me and my roomie were even worse. They would constantly wake us up by having sex at 3:00 a.m. (not with each other), or playing country music at 8:00. It ruined the friendship we'd formed early on in our move downstairs from them. You are unwittingly driving away the people with whom you share a ceiling-to-floor wall, and that sucks.

But, I guess, as long as you're having fun and making memories, I can't be angry at you. I want you to have fun and live up your first apartment experience... just don't do so at my expense. As long as I can hole up in my bedroom and escape the sound of Miley Cyrus or whatever you're playing, I'm happy. Also, please don't start partying on weekdays. Thursdays are forgiven, and Friday is technically part of the weekend, but if you ever start pumping ZFun 106 on a Tuesday evening, I will have to knock on your door and then knock your lights out.

Sincerely,

your neighbor, Lauren 

Shout Outs & Stuff.

Numero Uno: The latest prompt on Word Grrls, a pretty neato site for supplying uncreative or lazy or just plain stumped people with writing prompts, reads thusly:

"You're back in time, Moses is building the ark and the leprechauns are doing everything they can think of to get those darned unicorns aboard. Nothing is working. They just keep frolicking around and laughing about anyone silly enough to be afraid of a little rain.

How do you get the unicorns on the ark, saving the species and changing the outcome of that old Irish jig?"

I'm not going to write on this, I just wanted to give a shout out to Daniel Taylor, of itwasmeteors.com, who has, IMHO, a superb sense of humor. He makes me laugh, me makes me cry, and he introduces me to other seriously awesome internet comics. Moreover, he has really inspired me to make my own list of enemies, because I think it could be such a nurturing experience. ...One day.

Anyway, when I read the Word Grrls prompt, I immediately thought of this:

source

Click for a bigger pic, or just click the source link.

This is, I think, my favorite IGAFU image. The first time I saw it, I laughed out loud, a lot, due to the sheer silliness and how adorable everything in this image is, even the dinos. Then, a minute later, I was really upset and saddened about the poor little unicorn. That's what Daniel's stuff does to me; it makes me happy and sad at the same time. Kind of like THIS COMMERCIAL. Ack. Gets me every time. (I am so emotional.) 

Numero Dos: I was on Etsy yesterday and came across this shop. The woman sells painted Scrabble tiles-turned-pendants.

They are SO COOL! I am obsessed with them (weird, I know, I can hardly believe it myself). They're super cheap, especially considering they're buy 2, get 1 free. After shipping, you get three pendants for 15 bucks! I love love love them. So much, in fact, that I agonized for an hourover which three to get. I went so far as to Photoshop the images of the pendants I liked so it looked as if the pendant being worn in this image:

was the pendant I was considering buying. This may sound kinda goofy, but it actually helped me narrow down my 5 billion Maybes into 3 For Sures. I'll let you know which ones I purchased if you're interested, or you'll just have to wait until you see me roaming around Avery, perpetually wearing one of three of my forthcoming pendants.

Scrabble tiles!!!!!!

Numero Tres: Julie and I had one-on-one Coop Coffee time today, after our one-on-one f.mark experience, and it was very, very nice and I enjoyed myself immensely (and I think she did, too, considering I am now 95% sure she doesn't hate me [just kidding, J-Squigg!]). HOWEVER. I would appreciate it if Toria and the Trouts (ooo, that's a new one) would COME BACK because I miss them all very much. And yes, I know, I ditched out of two f.mark-and-Coop experiences, but still! I'm selfish! Soooo, come back soon!

Numero Cuatro: I am so excited for school to start. Julie is going to be on the third floor, I get two batches of fresh-faced-men (you know, like fresh-faced freshman? Doesn't work? Oh well.), I get to take (hopefully) awesome seminars, and frankly, I'm bored as shit. I need some structure and some assignments and some demands! I gotta get back into the swing of things! Moreover, I can't WAIT for Wednesday. A) Because it's the first day of Orientation (with a capital O)and I am really eager to meet all the incoming MAs and PhDs and really really eager to speak on my Panel of Awesomeness (maybe that's what we should call ourselves?) and B) Because it's supposed to be 73 and cloudy! YES! Do want!

My widget says (as of about a half hour ago; it's gone up five degrees since then):

That is too hot for me! I love the warm weather, I really do, but it's a BITCH at night. I slept so badly last night because it was just way too hot. And I'm a big whiner and come the end of September I'll be like, "Waaaah, why isn't it a hundred anymore? Waaaaah."

But right now, 73 is looking glorious. Yay, Wednesday.

Numero Cinco (el último numero, te lo prometo): I effing HATE it when guys work out upstairs at the Rec Center. Just go downstairs with all your male buddies, dude! I hate because they screw up the machines. There was a guy up there yesterday who was using, like, every machine, and he'd put the seat and the handles down to 1 and the weight at some ridiculous amount, between like 100-130 pounds. And then I had to go in after him, move the seats to 5 and the handles to 9 (even when I've got the chest pad on the row/rear delts machine [which I loooove, btw] all the way forward, I still have to reach out to grab the handles. I am little and therefore discriminated against) and move the pin waaaaay up into the girly-range of weight lifting. It's SO ANNOYING. I mean, it's bad enough that the seats are like impossible for me to move up. When I have to go from position 1 to position 5, I get very irritated. Stop messing with the girls' area, men! That's what I say. Go downstairs where everyone is 6 feet tall and lifting at least 130 pounds and leave us upstairs to be short and ... delicate, if you will.

You're Outta Control.

Ever since my last BB post, I've been thinking about my obsessions. (And why I have so many.) Earlier tonight, I was watching CSI and a breeze wafted through the open sliding glass door. It smelled like Pullman in the summer -- like crisp, dry wheat.

It's so hard to describe scents, isn't it? It's tragic, too, because it's tedious to try and describe something solely with similies. Something always smells like something else. Good thing everyone knows what wheat smells like.

Anyway, so I was sitting on my couch and this breeze came into the apartment and I was like "Wow, I really love that." It was kind of a mini-epiphany. It's never really occurred to me how much I love the smell of Pullman in the summer. Maybe it was because a tiny part of me remembered this is my last summer here. Maybe it was just the right time, and place, and state of mind for me to realize, "Oh yeah, that's marvelous."

Then I went and got all obsessed with it.

So I was like, okay, I'm just going to write about this. Then maybe it'll all get out of my system and I can go about life like a normal person, instead of running around and pouring love into a squirrel splayed out on a fence slat or a scarf around the neck of some girl because I feel so much love and desire and passion for stuff. It's not that I'm exorbitantly materialistic or anything, I just enjoy looking at things. I enjoy smelling, touching, getting involved. Must be the Taurus in me. So, I'm going to put it all down for you to read and maybe you'll be like, Hey, I'm obsessed with that, too! Or maybe I'll inspire you to write your own list!

My Unofficial & Incomplete List:

The smell of Pullman in summer. Duh.

Look Ma, New Hands lotion from Bath & Body Works. I feel like, somehow, I should save this for later in the list because I adore it so much. Like how the best song on a CD is never the first track. But I gotta get it out: I'm obsessed with this shit!

I am a compulsive lotion purchaser. On more than one occasion, I have stepped back, surveyed my bedroom and bathroom, and thought, "This has gotta out of hand." But have I ever stopped? Nooooo. I buy way too many lotions because they smell good, because the bottle is pretty, they're on sale, they are thick like butter. But I always hate them for some other reason: the bottle is too big, they are sticky or greasy, they wash off too easily, I get sick of the scent.

But then I found Look Ma, and it was like all was right in the world of my hands. First, this shit is expensive, so you know it's good. Just kidding. Seriously, I love it because it isn't greasy. As long as you use a reasonable amount (which is a teeny bit because it goes a long way), it just soaks right into your skin, and stays there for hours. Reapplication is hardly necessary (unless you wash your mitts). It's not oily or slimy or anything! I don't ever get it all over my steering wheel! It's got paraffin in it, so it's very spa-like to use. That's a horrible description, but you know what I mean. ...Right?

It also smells marvelous, and the scent isn't too overbearing. One of my favorite memories goes like this: I was at breakfast with Tony and his family and I whipped out one of my teeny, 1 ounce tube of Look Ma. Tony's dad started sniffing around and was like, "What is that?" I kind of got embarrassed and said, "Um, my lotion?" He asked to see it, I handed it over, he sniffed it, and was like, "It smells really good! Kind of citrusy." Yeah! Then he asked, "Can I use some?" HA. HAHAHAHA. I was like hellz yeah, dude! It was so adorable and made me supremely happy.

Also from Bath & Body Works (I spend way too much money there)... Wallflowers! These are THE BEST way to make your home smell pretty. If you don't know, Wallflowers are little wall plugins that heat up and diffuse the oil contained in a screwed-in little fragrance pod. (Who knows what they're actually called??) Candles suck in comparison to what a Wallflower does for a room. The tops of the normal diffusers, which are part of either the Signature Collection or Slatkin & Co., quite literally look like a flower:

But that's a little too foofy for me. I prefer the White Barn New York diffusers, such as that which is pictured above. And Vanilla Coconut is the best. When I lived alone and was having compy troubs as well as getting oodles of shipments of books from Amazon and Bedford/St. Martin's, I became amigos with the DHL guy. And every time he came by, he was like, "It always smells so good in your apartment!" And it was always Vanilla Coconut. (I really like Sensual Amber as well [ooooer], but VC is most delicious.) This is one of the perks of being a girl, I believe: everything around us always smells good. Except, you know, after you go to the gym. But that doesn't count.

Bare Minerals, ya'll. I am ashamed to admit how long I lived in other makeups. I can't believe I didn't just try this stuff like 6 years ago when I was first introduced to it. It baffles me to know that every woman in the world does not wear this stuff.

It's a powder that you use as a foundation. AND a concealer! Yes. It IS as good as everyone says. Believe the infomercials. (I know, I never thought I'd say that, either.) It IS inexplicably creamy for a powder. You really CAN sleep in it. In fact, I believe Toria does, every night, and she has fabby skin. If you are thinking about buying this stuff... DO IT. And for God's sake, get the little, special, kit thinger that they show on TV. You can order it online, too. It comes with that how-to video which is very exciting if you've never used Bare Minerals before. My favorites: I love the Handy Buki brush (whose name makes me laugh, and I can't figure out why). I also love Warmth. It's amazing what that stuff does for your complexion. If you are a girl who wears makeup and you have no idea what I'm talking about here... shame on you.

This is a tank made by Rubbish that you can buy at Nordstrom. They are even longer on me then on this girl since I am like 5 inches shorter than the shortest model. But I love them for their length, and they are so comfy. They are all cotton and don't have any stretchy shit in them (like the BP camis which I also own loads of but don't love quite as much) and I pretty much wear one every single day ... and they are getting effing discontinued. MAD. DAMN YOU, RUBBISH.

MAC eyeshadows. I know people are always shilling for their favorite makeups and people that don't use MAC generally say that MAC is reserved for drag queens and their ilk. I wholeheartedly disagree. Sometimes I hear that "normal" people, in their "everyday" makeup routine, don't need an eyeshadow as highly pigmented as MACs. Again, I say No, because I want my eyeshadows to be the same damn color on my eyelid as it looks in the pot. I want to be able to dust on a bit of color or, if I so desire, add a couple layers and smudge it with my finger and look like I have two of the chicest black eyes in town. It's so frustrating to spend money on makeup and then get it home and realize you're basically putting pixie dust on your face. If I'm spending money on an eyeshadow, I want people to be able to see my eyeshadow. (And no, I don't make myself up like a drag queen.)

Some of my favorite shades of MAC shadows are:

Paradisco, a "soft bright pinky-coral with golden shimmer." (I often will wear just this, by itself. Okay, with a highlight, too, but still.)

Woodwinked, a "warm, antique gold." (OMG it's soooo pretty.)

Sketch, an "intense burgundy-plum flecked with red shimmer." (This is hands down my favorite shade to wear out at night.)

Goldmine, an "intense gold with shimmer." (I am clearly a fan of what is "intense" and what "shimmers.")

You'll have to keep in mind that the colors do not look the same in real life as they do on screen. In fact, MAC just photographed a crushed version of every type of shadow they sell (I think there are like eight), and then Photoshopped them to resemble each color that is that specific type. For example, Goldmine and Paradisco are both Frosts, and if you look at the photo of each, it's obviously the same shot; only the shade is different. That's okay, I suppose, because it would pain me to think of the MAC people crushing up each and every shadow they sell in order to display them online. Not very economical, either. Also, their way is probably less time-consuming. Just keep all of this in mind if you ever consider buying a shade you've never worn before online. I urge you to test them out first. You just never know.

OPI nail lacquers. One day I want to own, like, every single shade. However, I have two that I seem to love more than, well, all the others I own. (Sorry, other lacquers!) They may look kind of similar in the photos, but they're not. The most they have in common is that they are both a pinky-orange. (Kinda like Paradisco... I am seeing a trend emerging in my beauty products.) But they really are very different looking once they're on.

(By the way, that photo is a promo shot for OPI's India line, of which I own Curry Up, Don't be Late, and I chose it to represent this category of my obsessions because, once, my grandmother was like, "What is that you're wearing?" And I told her and she was aaaaall over it, wanting to buy it for herself, raving about how she liked the subtleness and the way it glittered. I was just like, "Oh yeah, Grams! Rock the gold!" If I would have brought the bottle with me to my grandparents house that time (I don't know why I would have, but for the sake of argument), I'd have handed it over to her right then and there, based solely on her adorable appreciation for the shade. She is so precious.

This is My Chihuahua Bites!

This is a kind of crappy photo (the OPI site doesn't show the bottle anymore!) of Nicole Alert! I guess they're not really that similar, are they?

I bought Nicole Alert! to try and mimic a shade I saw a girl wearing in a video online. It's not the same color, but it's damn close. It'd better be, considering I spent about 20 minutes in that beauty supply store in the Palouse Mall having every sales girl help me find my perfect shade... which was so sweet of them, since they had NO idea what I was looking for. I just kept going, "That's too orange. It's not bright enough. It needs to be pinker."

It probably isn't coincidence that two of my favorite shades end in an exclamation point. 

   

In case you're wondering, this is Curry Up, Don't Be Late. It's kind of metallic, just a little shimmery. It's very pretty.

Old Navy flops. I buy too many pairs of these every year, but they were SO AWESOME this summer that I bought pretty much every color. Toria said they were very J.Crew-ish this summer, what with the skinny, half-circle-patterned straps.

But they are effing 2 for $5.00. You can't go wrong! You can afford to buy every color! And the way I wear them, I need tons. And I usually buy more when they get gross. I was ooooobsessed with my yellow ones this summer (hence, up there) but when I went to go back later and get more, the store was sold out. Of course. I also stopped once Toria was like, "Lauren, you're ridic!" It was jocular with just a touch of sincere concern for my compulsive flop purchasing. So I haven't bought any more. Well, after the "1 pair, 1 dollar" day. I will just have to make do with what I have, which includes a pair of flops that were at one time yellow and now look like dishwater. At least they look all right when they're on.

Next obsession: Italicizing for emphasis. This really just hit me, just now. I do it a lot. I have to consciously not do it in academic writing. Hope it doesn't annoy you!

My Macbook. This is one of my most precious possessions. My dad bought it for me as a graduation/congrats-on-getting-into-grad-school gift. In fact, he gave me a congraDulations card with a piece of paper inside that said something like, "This coupon good for one laptop of your choice," and he drew a little picture of a laptop. He's so cute.

I am totally an Apple fangirl. It's kind of sick. Like, I use iTunes even though it sucks. I guess I kind of have to, since I own three iPods. I'm obsessed with Leopard. Hands down, my favorite feature is Quick Look. I could not live without it and when I saw the keynote for Leopard, I knew it was going to be the feature I used the most. True. I looooove typing on my Macbook. The learning curve was kind of steep when I first got my MB, but now it's significantly harder for me to type on a regular keyboard. (Not impossible, I just can't go as quickly without making spelling errors.) I recently started using Pages, because Microsoft Word sucks so hard. I wouldn't be able to teach if I didn't have my laptop (and the appropriate cables and adaptors and whatnot). This is part of the reason I am iiiiiiiRATE that I got put in effing SLOAN. Sloan?! C'mon! Have you a-holes in French Ad met me?! Clearly not. Good thing Jerri, the world's best academic coordinator, is pushing everyone to get me moved. (Fingers crossed for 1st floor Avery.) Yes. I adore my MB.

Is this list long enough? I feel like I have surpassed the point where people will stick with this post because they are genuinely interested in what I have to say. I realize this turned out to be probably incredibly dull for any boy that stumbles upon this blog post. Unless you really like me, or like reading long-winded blog posts (which, admittedly, I do. Especially if I've got a cup of coffee.), I'd be surprised if you made it this far and therefore, I'm going to end my list.

For now. (Dun dun duuuuuuuuuuuuun.)

There is undoubtedly so much more I could add, but I really need to get to the gym before, like, 2:00 rolls around. I need to get in the habit of being responsible and productive again since school is starting shortly. Last year in Pullman. I'd better enjoy this summer while it lasts.

BB Fanboy Post

I am a week and a half late on this prompt because I have not been able to think of something that I'm obsessed with. The problem isn't that I'm not obsessed with anything. To the contrary, actually. I feel like I'm always saying, "Ohmigod I'm obsessed with this," likely because I have a fear that if I go around saying I love everything -- I love these shoes I love that car I love this risotto -- then I will cease to remember what it means to actually love. Love will then just turn into another qualifier, another way to express beauty or desire or, yes, obsession. But claiming that I'm obsessed with something isn't that much better, now is it? It may even be worse, to go around claiming I am so entirely and inclusively wrapped up in one thing that everything else just falls away and I can only care about that one thing which consumes all my brain power. Dude. Kinda effed up.

I'll tell you what I'm obsessed with right now (and this is not what my post is going to be about): I'm obsessed with my eye twitching. I'm prone to eye twitches, and supposedly they are hereditary, or might be, so my dad can sympathize. But this is the worst one I've ever had. It started, like... 6 weeks ago or something? It started one day and then was fairly relentless for a month; in the beginning, I had some breaks. Then it turned into a constant irritation. I got so fed up that I called the first optometrist's office that popped up on the list of Maksin-covered doctors and cried to the receptionist that this was interfering with my life. So I went to get glasses and my doctor (who wore glasses and a white lab coat) told me everything I already knew -- that this is caused by stress or anxiety, fatigue, and too much caffeine -- and wrote me a prescription for the most mild pair of glasses ever.

Except they help me, and now I am obsessed with them. (Except this isn't what this post is going to be about, either.)

Last week, the eye twitching stopped. All together. I had one whole week of no twitching. THEN. On Saturday, it started again. I was up super early for the farmer's market and while in the bathroom I felt it coming. One little twitch at a time. And then, all day, relentless. Until it stopped, of course, after I went to the gym.

Now I'm home, in Vancouver, and it won't stop. Maybe I'm stressed about Mallory's wedding. Likely, it's a combination of things (whole otha' post that ain't even ever gonna get written), but it's started again, full swing. It's worse now that it was before: it's not so much a pounding, but more like a vibration on my eyelid. Before, I just started dealing with it. Ignoring it. It had become a part of me. I was Lauren with the Eye Twitch. Now, it was all I could do to not seriously hurt myself last night by, like, trying to take my eyeball out of my head. And with my luck, I would then just be out one eye and my lid would continue to twitch. HA.

I didn't want to do anything yesterday but wallow in my annoyance. I didn't call Drea till, like, 6:30, when I should have called her much earlier, because it turned out that the best part of my day was going to Portland and talking with her for hours over (pretty fucking large) glasses of red wine. Then, when I came home and my dad was still awake, we talked for almost two hours and it was one of those talks where you're reminded that there are people in the world that see you as you want to see yourself. There are people that think you are the goddamn bee's knees -- the smartest, the most beautiful, the most fulfilling person for them. Sometimes I need to be reminded of the things other people see in me (especially people like my dad, because he basically loves me more than anyone and he makes it plain-as-day obvious and I love him for it) because otherwise, I end up festering in my own self-hatred. Okay, not really, but I always see the bad shit in myself. I always focus on the self-esteem (lack thereof), and the fears, and the idiotic notions that I have about how other people think of me behind my back. (Can you think something behind someone's back?? I guess what I mean is, how people really feel about me, not just what they say to my face.) So, anyway, sometimes it's nice to be reminded that there is at least one person out there that loves you unconditionally and only, only, only wants you to be happy, at whatever price to themselves.

SO. ANYWAY. My dad was like, "You have to think of your eye twitch as like a friend." I looked at him cockeyed. He said that whenever his shoulder starts hurting, he thinks, there it is again. It's just a part of him. Like this twitch in my eye has become a part of me. It's like, my quirk. My buddy. I can't make it go away, so all I can do is accept it. Luckily, I know it won't last forever.

God, this post is windy as hell. Good thing, like, two people read my blog. And they already know that I have a tendency to blather on and on and on...

So, that is my current obsession. So, of what am I a fanboy?! There are so many things I could put here: my dog, for instance. Oh my God, I adore him. I always forget about it, too, until I come home just how much I love that little dog. This morning, I sat down by his bed to scratch behind his ears, and he looked at me kind of sleepily, stuck his tongue out a bit as if to say, "If I had more energy right now, I'd lick your hand with affection," and then rested his head against my arm. Right now, my dad is getting ready to take him for a walk, so Jack's bounding around the house after him while he throws garbage away, puts stuff in the garage, washes his hands, unwraps a cigar. In fact, as I sit here right now, in the living room with my Macbook on my lap, my dad tossed a pair of shoes onto the wood flooring in front of the door and said sympathetically, "Boy, it sure does take a long time to get ready, huh, Mr. Dog?" And Jack just kept staring at him, as if to say, "I will follow you around this house until you put that leash on me. Then it's on." They just left. He's a happy pup.

But that's not what I was going to talk about! HAH. Get to the damn point, Laur.

I decided to write my post about being a fanboy of being happy. I freely admit that I am obsessed with being happy. I know what will make me happy, too; it's just a matter of time, and money, before I get there. Here is my happy-making list, in no particular order.

I need:

1. A house that I own, where I can paint the walls in every room a different color. The house will be old, lived in, but not run down. It will have personality, and beauty radiating out of the window sills. The ceilings will be low, the carpet will be plush and the wood will be stained a perfect shade of deep, deep cherry. When you walk into my house, you will feel an overwhelming sense of joy, as if the house said to you, "Welcome. Please make yourself at home in me. I want you to be happy here." (This is gonna take a lot of work, and not just physical labor, either.)
2. A dog. A doggy of my own. A little pup that I bring home, nurture the fear away, and then turn into a kind dog, who loves and adores and listens to commands like "stay." That's an important one.
3. A job that I love. This may take a while, too, but luckily I have many interests and (I think?) many different skills and I am also generally happy doing whatever pays the bills, so to speak. However, I will hold out for that that job. You know. The one that feels like it was created just for you. Problem is, I don't really know what that job is yet. Or maybe that's not a problem. Maybe that's a very good sign.
4. Love. Everywhere. At home with me, in that house, with the colored walls and the puppy. Love outside those walls and beyond the front yard, living in the homes of my friends. Love across the state, or across the country, or across the world, in the homes of my family. Love love love love love... gimme it.

Aaaaand that's it. I think. It almost seems too easy, huh? "That's all you want, Lauren?" Yeah, I guess so. I suppose if I had to add one more thing to the list, it would be money. But not the money that buys you summer homes and private jets and Olympic-sized pools. Just the kind of money that lets you buy your little multi-colored house, and dog food (as well as people food), and helps you with car payments, and maybe saves up enough one day for a boat. That's all I really want. A bit of money to be comfortable. Not lavish. Because those things aren't important to me. I'm not a show-off, and I feel like I'm learning this more and more with each passing day of my life.

So, there you have it. I'm a fanboy of my own happiness. (Selfish? Maybe, but it's a lot easier to be altruistic and helpful and kind when you're happy yourself, so maybe happiness in one's own life just helps perpetuate an overarching worldly feeling of warmness, charitableness, and love.)

BB Number Nine

Write about the most dangerous place you have been. Feel free to interpret this broadly. For example, this dangerous place may have been a geographic location or maybe it was a state of mind. Or, maybe, it is a place you have never been but one you nevertheless fear.

I was on my way to work yesterday, cutting through the lawn in front of my complex, zipping up my sweatshirt against the surprisingly brisk air. It was almost 8:00. As I picked my way through the grass, trying to step in the sunny spots so as to avoid dampening my shoes with morning dew, I saw a tiny robin hopping in front of me. I let my eyes create the path I assumed the robin was taking and followed the invisible line over to a tree. It was under the tree that I then saw a squirrel flicking his tail back and forth and a bunny, standing very still except for a quivering nose. The bird, bun, and squirrel were positioned in a triangle shape in the grass, mere feet away from each other, just in front of my apartment complex. I instantly fell in love with every one of the cuddly little animals. And I realized how much I love Pullman.

I bitch about Pullman a lot. I never did before I started grad school, either. When I was an undergrad at WSU, I would practically skip up to campus, whether I was trekking to the CUE in January for Digital Diversity with Patty, or headed into Avery in April to sit with Kristin and my fellow rhetoric students. (God, I really should call them Dr. Ericsson and Dr. Arola, but they are both so much more than just professors to me.) I LOVED Digital Technology & Culture. After bouncing through architecture and majors that were way too sciencey for me, I was so thrilled to find DTC, find Patty, and find awesome people who were just as nerdy as me. Of course, I had (what I thought) was a lot of work to do, but I always did it in earnest.

When I started grad school, though, I started to resent Pullman. No longer was it the quaint, warm college town I had grown to love over the past four years. Pullman now felt like a mistress, whipping me with a composition notebook, screaming at me to lesson-plan for my students and start reading more for my seminar papers. I felt like I was drowning, like I was in over my head. So I started bitching about Pullman all the time, talking about how sick of the place I was.

It took me almost a year to realize that Pullman hadn't done anything to me. I was the one making myself so stressed out amidst the corridors of Avery Hall. Pullman was the same as it has always been. It was my outlook that had changed.

I then let myself fall back in love with Pullman, remembering my favorite stores, my favorite spots to lounge with a book. I reminded myself that I am the one who always wanted to get a Master's, that I was the one who worked hard to get here, that there was a reason I applied only to WSU and (fortunately, IMHO) got in, and those reasons were that I loved Pullman, WSU, and the English Department. (Or, at least, the parts of it I had been exposed to.)

And now, as a traditionally-aged student who is now two years old than all the traditionally-aged undergraduates, I feel a sense of belonging and security in Pullman. Not to mention, I straddle the line between continuing my role as a student, sitting in Avery 110 and trying to keep up with seminar discussions, versus standing at the front of a classroom telling 26 freshmen about rhetoric. I have a place here. I am needed. I feel important. (If not vastly out of my league, more often than not.)

When I start Fall semester, I will be starting my last year in Pullman. (I'm not staying here for a PhD, but that's another post entirely.) It's really starting to sink in that in just a little over a month, I will be participating in my last Pullman Fall semester. Then my last Christmas Break. Then my last Spring semester. This is the last summer I'll spend in Pullman, panting in the heat, waiting for the school year to commence yet again. This is a very odd feeling, because I've made Pullman my home. I took to Pullman like a fish to water the moment I came here in 2003, and that affinity for this town has remained. But by next May, I have to get out. My time at WSU will expire and I'll have to move on (IhopeIhopeIhope to the West Side), get a job, start a 401k, buy a house, travel, go to weddings and baby showers and funerals, retire. You know; do what people do.

I'm scared, though. I'm not scared of growing up, or getting wrinkles, or being poor, or going through hard times. I'm scared of moving. I'm scared of leaving this little haven of a town and having to enter The Real World in a new city. I feel like I belong in Pullman. I don't feel that way about any other place.

Sure, I love Seattle. But I feel like if I told Seattle I loved her, she's swish her long, shiny hair behind her shoulder and exclaim, "You and everyone else, sweetheart."

And every time I go home to Vancouver, I feel like it greets me with a weak half-hug and asks, "So, what are you up to? Are you engaged yet?!? Ohmigod I'm getting married in like two months! He's sooo good with my kid, too. Can you believe my little baby is almost five years old?! I know, right? Wait, you're still in school? Ohmigod, why? Ew."

I'm worried I won't ever be able to find a place that embraces me like Pullman has. Pullman is like my friend; I can tell Pullman my problems, and she sits with me, looking into my eyes, and she always brings me a cup of tea. Right now, I feel like I am vacillating, ready to move on and create my adult life and simultaneously afraid that I will never feel at home in another place. I feel like no matter where I go after I graduate in May, I'll be taking a risk. But maybe that's the point. I mean, this is life. If I play it safe from here on out, I'm not really living, right? Part of life is jumping into something unknown. And I've done it before. I did it with a relationship I thought I would have to bid farewell to mere months after it began. I did it by coming to Pullman in the first place. I mean, before I got out of high school, Vancouver was my home. Then Pullman became my home. The next city I move to will undoubtedly become my home as well -- where I'll find favorite restaurants and favorite shops and favorite second-hand stores -- even if it takes me a while to grow that love. I just want a city that I can call my own, that I can identify with, that I feel needs me. I want a bigger, badder, more intense version of Pullman. I want a house, and a car I picked out, and a floppy puppy who springs around on the floor with his tongue lolling, asking for table scraps. I want love to permeate the walls. Maybe I will paint my kitchen red, with hardwood flooring and rich cabinetry, so that I feel like it's hugging me every time I walk in. Hello, Lauren. I love you. What are we cooking this evening?

I often feel like from right now up to May of 2009 is the most dangerous place I've ever been. I'm scared, and worried I'll fail, and apprehensive about finding a new place to put all my shit. My mental health, my confidence, my security are in danger. But I know, logically, that it's all in my head. I know that this will dissipate, then vanish, and I'll laugh at myself for ever thinking that I would never belong anywhere but Pullman. I just need to prepare to thank Pullman for all it's given me, and keep my heart set on that red kitchen and the smiling puppy, sitting at my ankle, waiting for a sauteed carrot or a rogue bite of chicken to tumble from its place on top of the stove.

delicate.

I am not a delicate person. I don't even know how you classify someone as being delicate, but I assume you use adjectives which do not describe me.

Instead, I'm little, and my legs are passed directly from my mother, whose father was German. I have a huge mouth. My hair often takes a life of its own and if I don't mold it with an ever-changing and expanding list of products, I look depressingly horrific. Moreover, my fingers are short and my nails break easily and it's basically impossible for me to find pants with the proper inseam unless they are classified as "petite" or "short." Which I guess classifies me, too, but I often still cannot wear petite or short pants with flats. These are not qualities that I imagine when I hear the word "delicate." Instead, I imagine words like "cute," "tiny," "adorable." "Small." (Appropriate, since Tony's most common nickname for me is Small, or Smally, as well as many variations.)

Tony called my lithe, once. It was in the beginning. I was lying on my bed, my arm bent at the elbow, fingertips brushing my clavicle. My head was turned toward him, chin tilted up. This was when we were still in love with our mutual love of words. Lithe. I remember it like it was yesterday.

But there is just one time in my life when I felt delicate. It was when I was dancing. For about three years, while dancing (relatively) consistently, I felt like the very definition of delicate. I know a lot of people feel awkward and bumbling while dancing, but I was good at it. Maybe it's because I had to wear heels. Maybe it's because I understand that you can't look down, that your arms and your neck affect your form as much as do your legs. This is probably why I never really took to swing -- too much bouncing and arm wavering for me -- even though I was really good at East Coast, too. (I've only danced West Coast once, with a friend of mine at a date dash, and I was really drunk. But he said I did well. I think it's just because I'm great at following.)

As everyone knows. Tango is my favorite. I can tango circles around anyone. (Okay, not really. And that statement is probably less true now that I'm out of practice.) I was really, really good at Tango. I love the drama of Tango, the sensuality, the pace. I worked hard to make Tango alluring and surreptitiously sexy while dancing it. I perfected the Tango Face. Sometimes, when I'd think about how awesome I must have looked, I'd have to fight back a smile. Because you don't smile in Tango. Only passion. (Again, not really true. But this is just how I am.)

And the waltz. God, how I love to waltz. I'd smile my ass off while waltzing, close-mouthed, of course. I'd look at my partner with a glance that said, "Aren't we the most fabulous dancers on this floor?" And I'd look to everyone in the room, asking for their agreement with my serene smile. I was always a cocky dancer, but I didn't care, because I loved it so much. I'd get carried around the room, twirling and contra-checking or promenading, and I'd feel like the most exquisite woman in the room.

Now, though, I sit in my apartment and watch So You Think You Can Dance with Toria and go crazy whenever anyone waltzes or tangos. And when I'm disappointed by the performance, I always think to myself, I could do it better. Even though I KNOW I couldn't. I used to dream that I'd end up on those ballroom competition shows that always air on public broadcast channels, cha-chaing and and salsaing and swinging and foxtrotting around the room, but everyone would gape when the Tango began. And then, when my partner (who was always incredibly good-looking in my dreams) and I would waltz, the crowd would erupt in cheers and make bets as to how soon it would take for us to be the most popular and famous dancers in the world.

And sometimes I still dream.