Day Eighty-Five: Still Fightin' the Good Fight...

Although move-in weekend was quite warm, it was unseasonably so. Now, it's back to 50-some degrees, and my apartment is chilly. I'm also getting quite sick of crock-pot leftovers and having to drive ten minutes to a hot shower, but such is life. It's only been three days -- you'd think I would have more endurance than this. However, I don't.

I'm off to make up my sofa bed and watch some prime-time major network television from the ten channels I get on my TV.

I'm really very lucky. But heat is one of those things you really don't think about until you don't have it. I'm not FREEZING, but I am uncomfortably chilly.

PECO had better turn my gas on on Saturday, or I'm going to drive down there myself and kick some ass.

I swear, the decent writing is coming.

Day Eighty-Four: Still Truckin'

I'm still dying. I spent all day unpacking and I physically cannot stop moving. I think I have an illness. I can't sit still for more than five minutes, because I find something else to do.

PLEASE SAVE ME.

Day Eighty-Three: So Tired

I have moved, and I am exhausted. I have internet, as there are many connections around me. This is good. I scratched my car and I won't have hot water/gas stove/heat for a week.

Stories to follow.

Must sleep.

MUST.

Day Eight-Two: A Dry and Barren Land

I warn you, dear friends and sparse readers, that I will be without internet for a week, beginning tomorrow. So I may not be able to post everyday, but I will still be writing everyday. I still might be not writing quality reading, because I'm losing my mind and I've lost my dedication to this blog (but my new one will be FABULOUS), but I will be dedicated. I vowed to write everyday for a year, and I will do that.

I will write SOMETHING everyday.

Today, I'm writing to say a tentative goodbye, as I travel away to a dry and barren land, devoid of internet.

Goodbye, readers! (Few readers....no readers....)

Day Eighty-One: I Have to Wonder...

If Julie Powell had been moving WHILE she was in the middle of cooking her way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking, would she have fallen behind? Probably. Then again, she also didn't cook every single day.

I, on the other hand, am writing every single day. It's annoying. And in the middle of moving, it's feeling like more and more of a chore. There's no joy left. I can't wait to start my new project and actually get some feeling back in my creativity. This is just so damn stupid, at this point.

I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm dirty. I've packed, I've gone up and down stairs for an hour, and I've packed all my crap up. I want a snack, a conversation with my boyfriend, and sleep. I'll probably get one of those.

Day Eighty: Thanks, Spring

As much as I love spring, I remembered today why spring and I so often do not get along as well as I would like. Today at around 3 PM, I got one of those stubborn, unwielding headaches that can only be cured by a couple Sudafed, possibly a few Advil, and a good, solid nap. Unfortunately, I had only the Advil.

With spring, plants grow. Grass grows, flowers grow, and pollen, seeds, and whathaveyou float freely and lively through the air. And they float up my nose, into my head, and make my sinuses swell. Spring has sprung, and so have my allergies. Stupid, stupid allergies.

So I'm sitting here trying to concentrate, when all my body wants is bed and a book, because the Advil wore off, and the Sudafed was too late (or may not have worked at all). Oh Spring, you are a double-edged sword...if that even makes sense.

Day Seventy-Nine: This is Really Stupid

At this point, I'm only continuing to write this simply because I promised myself I would, and for ONCE in my life, I NEED to finish something. I'm too tired to care, at the moment, I have nothing of interest to write about, because my entire life is consumed with moving and thinking about moving, and I've already written about that about six times.

I'm stuck, I'm annoyed, and I'm doing it for the sake of doing it. I'M certainly not interested.

But, as I mentioned before, the point of doing this was the journey, and that I needed to finish something, not the actual progress of doing it. I discovered another outlet for writing, and as soon as I get it up and running, I'm going to make that the haven of my daily writing ritual. But until I'm settled in my new home, there isn't much I can do except continue to write here and hope that I can fill a few paragraphs, stay conscious, and keep my promises.

I'm holding on for dear life, but I'm holding on. Only a few more days of pointless drivel...

Day Seventy-Eight: Daylight Savings Can Suck It

As much as I'm currently enjoying it being light out as I'm sitting here writing this, an hour after I've gotten home from work, I hate spring daylight savings.

For an extra hour of light, somehow the world manages to need a shift in the clocks at certain parts of the world, in order to function property. I, on the other hand, need that hour of sleep I lost. Even if I go to bed an hour earlier, the change in light level in the morning when I wake up still screws with my head enough to make me exhausted by four PM.

My clock needs that extra hour of darkness it was accustomed to. Maybe the world can easily adjust to being off by an hour, but I sure can't. So here I sit, exhausted at 7:00 PM. Hurray.

Day Seventy-Seven: It Needs to Stop Raining

It has now been raining for approximately forty-three hours. Trees have fallen down, mailboxes and street signs have uprooted themselves and died in a rather undignified manner beside roads and on people's waterlogged front lawns. Everything is so beyond wet, it can't even be called "wet" anymore. Soggy, liquified, and saturated are more accurate words. My boyfriend's bathroom has flooded, our backyard has a lovely brown stream running through the easement, and my dogs are tired of coming in damp smelly. Hello, spring.

While I'm definitely happy that spring is here (finally!), all this rain is a little concerning. Why are we having so much damn precipitation this year? Is THIS what global warming is doing? I don't understand, nor do I really care to, because it's sadly not going to keep me from using plastic trashbags or driving my non-electric car. But to think, that only a month ago this ridiculous amount of rain would have been an absolutely obscene amount of snow is a little too much to bear. And for that, I'm very, very thankful. But apparently, we're supposed to have ice here next week, and the temperature is still a chilly forty-five degrees, so spring isn't here in full-force just yet.

But the animals have come back into sight, and many of them seem to be enjoying being able to get out of hibernation or migration, or whatever it is that they do. And as a result, my dogs are barking at every little critter that wanders by the window, whether it be a bird, a rare squirrel, or another dog walking down the street, soggy from RAIN.

But FINALLY, spring is here.

Day Seventy-Six: Why Am I Doing This?

I was doing my laundry today, and in the middle of frantically putting pants out of the washer and throwing shirts into the dryer, and fishing for hangers, I mentally groaned and remembered that in addition to having to change my address, finish my laundry, pack most of the rest of my belongings, file my taxes, get changed for the concert I'm going to tonight, answer texts from my cousin, answer a thousand questions from my mother about absolutely nothing of importance, pack something to sleep in tonight, and get a moment to breathe, I had to WRITE.

Frankly, I'm out of crap to write about. My standards have gone down substantially since I first started posting, I doubt anybody actually reads it, and it's not getting me anywhere or any form of satisfaction, aside from actually finishing something for once (which I am a long way from doing). Maybe it's because I thought of a new and easy blog that will be focused, entertaining, easy to keep up with, and always easy to add to on a regular basis, without having to struggle for content. I'm considering, at this point, in discontinuing this blog and breaking new ground on my new one as soon as I start working on it.

I really think this could work. My topic, although I will not divulge it, is the type of thing that will allow me to write every single day, as it's something I'll have to do every single day, or almost everyday (to me at least, the topic now seems pretty obvious. But I still won't tell.) Would I be abandoning my project if I'm still writing everyday? And on the days that I happen to NOT write in my new blog, if I don't need to (because in reality, the only thing we really NEED to do everyday is wake up and eat eventually), I could write in this one.

Would I be a failure, or would the blog have served its purpose? This blog was started to get my creative juices flowing, and it has done just that. I've been somewhat inspired, partially by writing regularly. What do you think (if anyone's still reading?)

Day Seventy-Five: That Vacation Itch...

Although I'm not directly in front of a window at the moment, I know that it's raining. It might not be raining steadily or violently, but it's definitely raining. And sadly, it's going to ran not all day, but through next week. Although last weekend in it's sunny, balmly glory was a nice reprieve from winter chill, not every free day can be a winner.

So this weekend, I will be driving through the rain for forty-five minutes to see my insurance agent, back home, thirty minutes to Ikea with my dad to pick up furniture, and back home. I will be hauling numerous cumbersome boxes into my front door, damp and tripping over dogs. I will watch the yard fill up with water as I do my laundry and pack what's left my room into wet, soggy boxes. I will sit and watch it rain as I notify every annoying little company, organization, and government branch that my address will be changing. I will do my taxes, as it rains. And finally, I will trudge into the unknown basement of my new apartment building, through the mud and the muck, led by a seventy-five year-old man to locate the circuit breakers in my building.

This is not going to be a fun and exciting weekend.

Because it's just starting to get a little warmer, so the cold isn't bitter, but is utterly tolerable with a moderately-heavy light jacket, and the smell of awakening plants and soil fills the air, that I find I really, really want to go on vacation. I'm itching for the possibility of summer, when for some unknown reason, it seems easier to leave life behind and venture somewhere different and a little more exciting. I want to make new memories with people I love. I want to see places I haven't seen before. Which is ironic, because I'm not seeing grass and plants in my own hometown that I haven't seen in months.

Although my financial situation is about to get a lot tighter and more strict, I can't help but think about where I'd like to go on vacation this year. In past years, my boyfriend and I have gone and stayed at a characteristic pink-and-green motel in Wildwood, where the pool is hand-dug and painted blue, the beds are rock hard, and the owner is extremely sweet. Last year, it rained for days before we got there, and through the first day of our visit, flooding the streets like I have never seen roadways flood before. We left a boardwalk movie theater to pouring down rain, and ran along the boardwalk and through the streets, flooded two-inches high in some places. We arrived at our favorite Mexican restaurant with its trendy decor and lounge-like feel absolutely soaking wet and probably not appropriately attired. We didn't care. I bitched a lot then, but now I look back on it fondly. I want to make more memories like that.

I considered, perhaps sometime in April, going to visit my friend in California. We could go to wine tastings and ride bikes up near Napa Valley. But unfortunately, I'm not sure a plane ticket is really in the cards at the moment. But regardless, I want to go somewhere, even if it's not far at all. I'm sure at least once I'll go visit my cousin in her newly-acquired studio condo along the boardwalk, and I'm sure she'll come visit me in my not-so-studio, not-so-condo, and definitely not-so-along the boardwalk apartment.

Maybe, since I'm finally getting my affairs in order, it's not a bad time to start thinking about saving for a little vacation. Where should I go?

Day Seventy-Four: Strive for Perfection

From the time that I was very young, I was taught to try my best at everything. I was taught that to give your all at everything you do means to live your best life, and take advantage of your full potential. I was taught to get the best I can, too: the best opportunities, that is. But the more I learn about life, I wonder how hard I should try for the best opportunities in life. At what point are we supposed to sacrifice something that's good, and try for something better?

There are plenty of people in the world who live in mediocre relationships, and have mediocre or somewhat good jobs. They're not 100% happy in their relationships, or maybe they like their jobs for the most part, but not all the time. Is it more important to look for a better opportunity, and search for a job that makes you 100% happy all the time? Although it's extremely difficult, a lot of people live their lives like that, striving to be 100% happy. But is it really possible? What's wrong with being 80% happy, or mostly happy? Is it possible for anyone to be 100% happy with the person they're with, all the time?

Call me pessimistic, but I don't think so. I don't think it's really possible to be 100% happy with every situation you're in. A lot of people may like their jobs, but they don't like certain things about it, or certain situations that arise in their jobs. And a lot of people may really love the person they're with, but almost everybody gets annoyed with the person they're with sometimes, or not like certain things about their partner.

So maybe, it's okay to have a life with flaws. A wise person told me not to long ago that if you're happy in the moment, it doesn't really make a difference to try to plan out your future. If you're mostly happy, and mostly content, why give up something perfectly good in your life because something better might come along? I don't think you should.

Day Seventy-Three: March of the Irish

Quite quickly, that joyous time of year when green adorns the doors, windows, and clothing of every person of Irish heritage approaches. We’ll cook up our ham and cabbage and nosh on Irish Potatoes. But many people, more likely those who don’t work on Thursdays (but many who do) will engage in that raucous activity that the Irish are so well-known for: drinking.


There will be parties, bar crawls, various types of “fests”, and more Guinness than I would ever be able to stand. People of 100% Italian heritage will put on plastic green beads and stumble drunkenly with pints of heavy beers in hand. Because apparently, on St. Patrick’s Day “Everyone is Irish”. Personally, I think this is a load of crap.

I don’t want any misunderstandings here, please. I am not opposed to a holiday that urges people to drink copious amounts of alcohol and bond with others in the fashion of singing and toasting, but why do it at the expense of the poor Irish? I’m not offended by the holiday, I just wonder how it got to be a celebration of drinking and debauchery. I’m about half Irish, yet I have never participated in a St. Patrick’s Day celebration, nor have I ever really had a strong desire to. Sure, it might be fun to go out once, but how would it be unlike any other Saturday night at a bar, except more crowded, and they’d dye the Miller Lite green? It seems like not that great of a time, anyway. It just gives many people an excuse to start drinking at 9 AM.

How the Irish came to be known as heavy drinkers, I will never know, which may be a poor testament to my Irish heritage. Maybe, I should know, but I honestly don’t. Not to say they’re heavy drinkers, but why don’t Italians get a day? Why Chinese-Americans get a day? I guess I’m happy that the Irish get a day, but why is it surrounded by mascots, rainbows, marshmallow cereal, beer, and small plant-life? How did we get so marketable? Ok, so Italians have Little Caesar and Chef Boyardee, which aren’t really great cultural mascots, but really, how did we get stuck with a little man with red hair?

Again, I’m not offended, just interested and slightly amused. Where did these come from? Did the Irish get the cartoon mascots and products because we were, at one point, one of the more populous of the heritages in the United States ? Do they have Lucky Charms over in Ireland ? I’m willing to bet not, but it would be an interesting thing to note.

Well, anyway, Happy St. Patrick’s Day.

Day Seventy-Two: I Am Officially a Renter

After a tedious thirty minutes of initialling and signing and being explained that there was possibly lead paint under twenty-seven coats of non-lead-based paint and that I shouldn't lick the walls, I am a renter. I handed over two-thousand dollars and a smile, to receive a handshake and a pending phone call.

I'm moving out. And it feels pretty damn weird, but a good kind of weird.

The realtor man who works for the owner of the building, who happens to be an Asian dentist, is a very nice old man who used to be an engineer. But aside from conducting business and making phone calls, he is painstakingly slow. My father and I watched as he read over text, flipped pages, and re-read them again over the course of ten minutes. In between pages, he asked my patient and tired father what he did for a living, where he worked, how far his commute was, where he went to school, and how long he'd been in his career. With as much patience as he could muster, I'm sure, he answered his questions as I willed him to move just slightly faster. We weren't in a rush, but considering as we met him at ten-after six, I would have liked to eat before seven PM. All we had to do was sign five pages and hand over a check. It was not a process that should have taken over thirty minutes.

But nevertheless, he's a very nice man who does things efficiently, although a little slowly, and who allowed me the opportunity to rent my first apartment. So now I wait for my key, and then I can move in. It's been a long, and emotional process, but I've made it. I'm moving out!

Day Seventy-One: It's So Hard to Find a Good Restaurant These Days...

One of the first things my boyfriend and I bonded over was our love of Mexican food and flavors. If it has some sort of cheese, diced tomato, and chilis in it, we will eat it and love it. But despite our love of flavors South of the Border, we are hard-pressed to find a really good Mexican restaurant near us. But thankfully, a lot of people love Mexican food, so there are plenty of restaurants near us...unfortunately, none of them are good enough.

My favorite Mexican restaurant is a staple in my life. My parents have been taking me there since as far back as I could remember, and I always loved it. I love the atmosphere, the delicious Tex-Mex flavors, the music, and the free mints they give you when you're done eating. And it makes it even better that it's a local, home-grown business, devoid of any outside chain influence. The best part about the place is that completely by coicidence, I will be living exactly one block from it in two weeks. Beautiful.

Unfortunately, my Mecca of deliciousness is a bit pricey for anything more than a special occasion. And, unfortunately, my beau has a stubborn streak with restaurants, and one bad experience is enough to scratch it from his list of eateries. He once went to the bar on the first floor (the restaurant is on the second) and was thrown a snide comment about tipping (which he always does more than adequately), which was enough to make him angry. Thus, my favorite restaurant is not somewhere we can go together. Lame.

We've had bad service at a few other places, and others are simply too far to drive to. But we finally thought we found the perfect spot for us to go when a new, large, very authentic restaurant opened up about ten minutes from us. So we've been there a few times now, and all has been well. We had maybe one bout of bad service, but the food is so good and so affordable that we set it aside. But last night, after a lovely meal, we got a free gift with our meal that is never welcome and lasts a lot longer than the lingering, delicious taste of guacamole and chipotle peppers.

So, do we go back?

I'm seriously beginning to doubt it. But if anyone knows of a good, affordable, independent Mexican restaurant in the area with a good track record and a nice reputation, PLEASE let me know. Because I'm getting desperate.

Day Seventy: Reality is Setting In

I stumbled into my house this morning in pajama pants and a little bit of sleep under my belt, and took to separating my clean clothes from my dirty ones from the night before. Almost immediately, my phone buzzed energetically. Much to my dismay, it was the realtor I've been dealing with about my apartment. While he is a very, very nice man, and quite efficient, he bothers me incessantly. I'm convinced he thinks I am running around in circles with absolutely no sense of time-management or responsibility. Although he almost always gives me good news, he calls more more times than not to bug me to do something that is going as quickly as possible, or something I haven't forgotten about that he is convinced I have.

"Hi Kristen!," he said. He went on, asking me (two weekend days after I picked it up) if my lawyer has had the opportunity to look over the copy of the lease we gave him, and when we could set up a time to sign. My lawyer, who also happens to be my uncle, had gotten the lease in his hands not two hours before my realtor called me. I was not pleased.

I told him patiently that he was reviewing the lease, and that when he got back to me, we could set up a time immediately to sign the lease. "Well the owner goes away for the weekends," he said warily. "We need to get it to him by the middle of the week, I would think, so he can sign it by the fifteenth." I was slightly annoyed. He could have gotten the lease to me a little sooner, or at least warned me that it was an extremely pressing issue, before calling me and bugging me for a day this week. But regardless of the phone conversation, the shock hit me after I got off the phone: I'm going to have a new place to live the middle of this week.

Although I knew it was coming up, it snuck up on me incredibly quickly. I would sign the lease this week, and move in next week. NEXT WEEK. Next week, half my belongings will be in another place, and this time next week, I will be living in a completely different place. It's a very weird concept. I am very ready, but psychologically, it's going to be extremely weird. I will not be living in the place that I have called home for the past twenty-four years of my life. I will have a new home. I'll use a different shower, cook in a different kitchen, and sleep in a different bed.

This is going to take some adjustment.

Day Sixty-Nine: The Wonderful World of Ikea

This afternoon, in a depressed and "damn-it-all" state, I drove for thirty minutes to my nearest wonderland of furniture, Ikea. Ikea and I have had a long and joyous relationship, and they never let me down. Granted, I have gone to Ikea to window shop and write down things I want to buy someday more times than I have actually gone to Ikea to buy anything, but it's a fascinating walk-through Please-Touch museum of buyables and ingenious household items for Walmart prices. It's trendy, it's colorful, and the best part is, it's instant and you get to build the furniture yourself. I love Ikea.

Most people don't want to be hassled with pulling a cardboard box heavier than themselves, full of various pieces of fiberboard that they have to piece together themselves with a set of Lego-like instructions and an Allen wrench. I'm assuming, that most people go to Ikea because they can get nice-looking furniture at insanely cheap prices. I, actually, love building Ikea furniture. On several occasions, I have said that if I ever fail at all other things in my life I want to acheive, I will become a professional Ikea furniture assembler. I love piecing pre-cut wood together to create furniture I can actually use. To me, it's a grand project that gives me tangible and proud results. So I entered the epic theme park of furniture with a coming sense of accomplishment.

As I steered my huge cart in and out of crowds of wandering parents and screaming children, I collected a scarf rack, a couple lamps, a set of kitchen tongs, five sets of curtains, two oven mitts, a small saucepot, and a kitchen tool canister, and a mirror for $100. Although it was absolutely insanely crowded and I wanted to run everyone down with my cart, I still enjoyed the experience, and got a lot accomplished.

I did not, however, buy any furniture. And it was this trip to Ikea that gave me a good idea of why people might possibly hate buying their own "assembly required" furniture.

As I dutifully walked my cart up the appropriate aisle for my small, light, and affordable coffee table and stopped at the designated bin, I surveyed the size of the box holding my bits of table, and then the size of the cart. Although the cart was huge, the box was huge-r. And although the coffee table was small and light, the box was not-so-small, and definitely NOT light. I tugged at the box in vain, moving it only a few inches off it's stack of friends. I could not do this myself. I would need to return with a strong man, and possibly a sport utility vehicle. A dark cloud loomed over my sense of handiness.

So although building my furniture might be fun, I'm a little frightened about getting it home...and up three flights of stairs, for that matter. Building it will probably be fun, assuming I don't screw up and end up with a Picasso-esque coffee table and dresser. But I am becoming more and more grateful that I inherited a side table, a TV stand, and a couch. But I suppose we'll see.

Day Sixty-Eight: Marshmallows

As is probably evident to anyone who actually reads my blog by now, I am a somewhat adventurous eater. I will try almost anything once if it can be eaten, unless it comes from an animal that I can't bear to look at either alive OR dead, or from a part of an animal that I feel is absolutely not meant to be eaten. I will not, for example, under any circumstances, ever try eyeballs, tripe, or bone marrow. But aside from that, I'm open to a lot of different foods, I just haven't had the opportunity to try a lot of things (mostly because I'm too poor to go to restaurants that serve unconventional foods, or I don't know how to cook them myself). But there is one food, and actually the ONLY food, that completely grosses me out: marshmallows.

I. Hate. Marshmallows. Texture is a huge thing for me when it comes to eating. I love crunchy, I love melty, I and I love velvety. I do not, however, love the undescribable texture that is marshmallow. To me, although it tastes simply of sugar, the texture is a gooey mess that immediately adheres to the inside of the mouth as soon as it comes in contact with saliva, and clings like a spider monkey to your gums and tongue. To even think about it sends me into mental convulsions. When I eat a marshmallow, I feel like my mouth is being assaulted by a sugary, slimy, napalm that attacks my senses and feels like culinary nails on a chalkboard. Needless to say, I avoid it at all costs.

Unfortunately, it puts me at a culinary disadvantage. I don't eat Rice Krispies treats, several kinds of ice cream and a bunch of kinds of candy. It hurts my heart when perfectly good and delicious foods, like hot chocolate, cereal, and sweet potatoes are marred by a food I consider as inedible as an insect. And naturally, the Easter season makes me queasy.

Stores are lined with walls and walls of colored sugar-covered birds and rabbits, that while appealing and colorful, are deceitful. In rare cases (twice in my life, in fact) that I have attempted to eat a Peep, I have taken a small bite and given the rest to my Peep-addicted mother. I watch in disdain as she sets packages and packages of Peeps out weeks in advance to stale just slightly, so they get a mildly chewy texture. I have tried, in vain, to do my own doctoring to Peeps such that I might find them tolerable, but all methods have failed. Staled peeps still get slimy. I've tried to put Peeps in the microwave for a very short amount of time, with the hypothesis that the microwave will suck the moisture out of the Peep and make it crunchy. Instead, it just got untolerably chewy and brown (I never was very good at science).

Although my tastes have evolved slightly throughout my life, such that I now eat things I have not enjoyed in the past, such as asparagus and coffee, I still cannot enjoy a marshmallow. I don't know if I will ever not hate them, but I did successfully eat a single mini marshmallow in college on a dare without gagging. But at least during this Easter season, marshmallow and I are still in an epic battle. I hate them, and they taunt me.

Day Sixty-Seven: We Can't Save the World

I have been fortunate enough in life to not have to see much tragedy. I've seen some: a boy I went to high school with died in a car crash, I've known people who had terrible childhoods. But I've never actually seen real tragedy and sadness up close. I've been lucky enough to not lose anyone who didn't die of old age, or watch a pet die of the same. But not long ago, I saw real tragedy occur as close to me as I ever had.

Sometimes, situations can't be helped. But to think that somehow in the process of watching something innocent and sad happen to an undeserving being, we could have done something to prevent it from happening, it's a thought that can't be easily pushed away. Could I have done something better? What about the situation could I have changed? And once we realize that there may not have been anything we could do to change the outcome, we still feel guilty. And that's where I am now.

And it's terrible. It's difficult. And I don't know what to say about it.

Day Sixty-Six: I Don't Know How To Argue

One day at work, while sitting and enjoying lunch with my two friends, an uncomfortable conversation ensued. One of my friends, who is a practicing Catholic, was complaining that she couldn't eat a cheeseburger because it was a Friday, and on Fridays during Lent, Catholics can't eat meat, as part of it being a sacrificial season. My other friend looked at her in disdain and said, "MMM, boy, this meat is REALLY GOOD." This is not a new topic of disagreement between the two of them. One thinks she has no say in the matter, and the fact that she is Catholic dictates her actions such that she must fast in such a way. The other, who I am inclined to agree with, thinks that she has absolutely no right to complain because it is a choice she makes as part of her religious beliefs, but she is not at all obligated by any force outside of her control. She may not be able to control her beliefs, but she can absolutely control her actions, and if it weren't difficult, it wouldn't be a sacrifice and that would defeat the purpose.

In any case, I was tired of being in the middle of this bitter point of contention between the two of them. "We are not having this conversation again," I said briskly, trying to avoid the awkward situation that had already occurred twice in the past two weeks.

My Catholic friend looked at me and said, "you really don't like confrontation, do you?" In a state of shock, I thought for a moment. "Well, no," I said. I didn't. But I also didn't want to be put in the middle of another argument that I did not want to be a part of. "You know what bothers me about you?," she asked me. Startled and shocked that she was annoyed at ME at that moment, I defensively protested. "You don't know how to argue."

I didn't know how to argue? My other friend looked at me in an effort to elaborate. "You're not Italian, are you?," she asked. In truth, I'm about 1/4 Italian and had an Italian grandmother, but I didn't have any characteristics of being of strong Italian culture. I asked them, in piecing the conversation together, if that's just naturally how Italians argued, then. They both agreed.

Apparently, Italians can argue for hours on end without having feelings of actual anger towards another person. This is completely foreign to me.

How can you have a point of annoyance towards someone and not feel slightly angry towards them? I was utterly confused.

But apparently, I don't know how to argue.

Day Sixty-Five: No Time to Write

I have currently reached yet another landmark in the wonderful world if writing daily that I have not encountered before. Today is the first day in sixty-five days that I, honest to God, do not have time to write. I didn't have time at lunch, and I am going to a concert tonight immediately after work, where afterwards I will crash at my boyfriend's house in an attempt to get enough sleep to make it through work tomorrow without stress or discomfort. So that leaves me with now.

While I feel both guilty and rushed that I have to piece together points of my day when I can fit in a few sentences, here and there, unfortunately there isn't much I can do. I suppose, in hindsight, I could have gotten up earlier, or I could stay up later this evening, but of course, I didn't think of that. I'm also pretty unhappy with my choice of topic, but it seemed appropriate, since it is the only thing I'm really capable of focusing on at the moment. So here I sit, writing about writing once again.

And, as usual, writing about writing isn't interesting to read, I'm sure, so instead, picture me sitting in front of a computer, sweaty and frazzled from doing twelve other things, tied to my desk for a second. In between answering a ringing phone roughly every forty seconds, I'm typing furiously in order to get down a paragraph, or even a few sentences before I lose my chance. It's 2:00 PM on a Tuesday, I'm hungry, I'm slightly stressed out, and I'm writing. And it's times like these when I really don't want to be writing but would much rather be sitting and collecting my thoughts and my sanity for a moment when I feel most proud of myself, because as mentioned before, I never finish anything.

So sixty-five days in, I may be writing about writing, but I'm writing just the same. I'm busier than a rat at a carnival (get the Charlotte's Web reference, please), but I'm writing. And for me, that means something pretty spectacular. It means that maybe I am capable of actually finishing something, and maybe I am capable of following through on a commitment I make to myself. Sure, I don't eat healthy all the time even though I promised myself I would, and I didn't cut out all refined sugar for a month, like I promised myself I would, but two months into writing, I'm still doing it. And I've still done it everyday. And that's pretty spectacular.

Day Sixty-Four: Bad Food is Delicious

Within this epic health-kick I have going on, I made a few minor errors. For one, I had a couple of Bloody Mary's on Saturday night and topped them off with a greasy, delicious, authentic Philadelphia cheesesteak. And yesterday, after making my peanut-allergic boyfriend some oil-saturatated Chinese food (because he'll die if he eats the real thing, more than likely), I bought a bag of Hershey's Special Dark Minatures. And although I felt guilty about the Chinese food (because I'm not a huge fan of Lo Mein), the cheesesteak and the chocolate were delicious, which just shows me that no health food, no matter how good it makes me feel, is a replacement for good, amazing junk food.

There's a reason so many people eat junk food: because it tastes amazing. Sure, it might make you feel pretty terrible and possibly gain weight, but it's so delicious, that every once in awhile it just absolutely has to be had. I still enjoy my Kashi products, and eating good, lean meals make me feel more energetic and lighter. But there's something about a juicy, greasy, cheesy sandwich at midnight that just makes you feel alive and happy about life. Would I want one everyday? Probably not, because I'd feel terrible. But eating delicious, greasy food while I'm having some fun just makes the experience a little more fun. I love granola, but I also love nachos. I love carrots, but I also really love dark chocolate.

So I came home from work, at a sensible, well-portioned meal, and then ate five pieces of candy. And you know what? I don't feel bad about it. Eating some bad food every once in awhile is not going to kill me. Eating it on a regular basis, however, will. But it's the little things in life that really makes it worth living. If I were fifty and diabetic, I might have to eat like I do. But I don't, and that's what makes it better. I have the youth and the freedom to choose how I eat without having serious consequences. So sit back and eat some chocolate and a cheesesteak every one in awhile.

Day Sixty-Three: Gnomes

Since I am currently in the process of packing my stuff up to move out of my house, I am finding a lot of things I completely forgot I had. So in the midst of packing up four boxes of books, a box of CDs, and
two boxes of DVDs I completely forgot I had, I found the only thing I really ever collected: gnomes.

I never really did understand why I was so drawn to garden gnomes, with their cheerful, peaceful expressions, their wisened, grey looks, and their red and green clothing. But as a teenager, as other girls
were collecting teen magazines, I was collecting little happy yard-dwellers.

I have five or six gnomes now, of all shapes and sizes. One is riding a turtle, one's got a book, and one is a wee one-inch tall. I used to place them in corners of my room and in strange places, seeming as though they were peeking out of their hiding places. For some reason, they felt like little talismans, that protected me from forces of evil.

But when I left for college, my mother dutifully collected them all and lined them up in the top of my closet. "They creep me out," she said. It was understandable.

But now as I'm going to be entering a new place, I'm looking forward to be putting my happy little gnomes back where they'll be hiding in corners of my room.

And yes. I realize I'm extremely weird.