Mumbling Madly

This Memorial Day weekend my parent’s officially celebrated their 30th Anniversary. (This weekend also marked 6 years of partnership for Josh and me). They had a big cook out in their backyard and invited many people. My Dad passed off his camera to me and I shot many photos. Upon returning to Seattle I realized my own camera lay untouched in my suitcase.
Much wine and Italian sausage was ingested. My only living grandparent, Grandpa Sam, was in attendance. I hadn’t seen him since our wedding, and it was awesome to spend some quality time with him. He sent me home with a carton of baby artichokes…he’s that kind of grandpa.
My brother regaled the party goers with humorous stories and my sister formally introduced everyone to her latest bf, a nice chap named Justin. My Dad put up these fantastic black and white pictures from the 70’s on the wall. He took the pictures with a box camera and developed them himself, so the portraits of my Mom and Dad are really gritty and stark. I love them. I really want the picture of my parents sitting in their backyard in Iowa City in 1974; they both have long hair and are wearing plaid shirts. My Mom’s black hair is streaked with silver–a preface to her hair graying prematurely. Another photo I love is the one where they are standing outside my grandparent’s house in Salt Lake, it’s sunny but there is snow on the ground. My Mom is wearing a gigantic, puffy, coat and my Dad is wearing nothing but a thin shirt. He’s hunched over and looks freezing, but he has this big grin on his face. My Mom looks toasty and happy. Obviously the photo was impromptu and my Dad was too bad-ass to put on a coat. My parents also put pictures of my siblings and I on display. The best one is of Sam and I sticking our blue candy coated tongues out at the camera. My bright red striped sweater is horribly misbuttoned and Sammy has on this awesome blue vinyl coat with a piece missing on the elbow. We were 3 and 6 years old.
We drank really tasty wine and toasted my parents. My father compared their love affair to his favorite novel, Pride & Prejudice. In it Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth have a big falling out and eventually reconcile which is akin to my parents budding relationship. Legend has it that my Mom broke up with my Dad because he was “distracting her from studying.” This was when they were both working on English PhD’s in Iowa City. My Dad was heartbroken. A year later my Mom ran into my Dad on campus and casually mentioned that she had two tickets to a concert the Music Department was putting on. They went out, (my Mom wore a long sleeved crop top), and the rest is history.
The day after the party, Josh and I headed to Nordstrom’s Rack–the brand new, revamped one. It was pretty fantastic. Tons of Juicy Couture, Miss Sixty, and Lucky brand clothing. Sadly, I ended up empty handed except for a snazzy DKNY floral raincoat. Josh made out like a bandit; seriously, he did much better than I did. However my quest for denim capris continued when we hit up the Gap and Express, enjoying our tax free purchases. We met up with Gina at her place, and this is where I caught the few photos I took over the weekend:

Josh mulling over my sister’s Date Ball. We asked it dirty questions.

Gina with her roommate’s cat, Soda.

Soda and Gina.

The sideyard of Gina’s sassy duplex.

I’ve been working on this post forever since seeing the movie just this last week…after reading up and looking around I’ve scrapped together a few things about the last piece of the new trilogy:
Growing up, Star Wars was like any regular appendage on our bodies…it just ‘was.’ Meaning, there was never life before Star Wars, never any a time when the sentence “May The Force Be With You…Always” had no meaning, it always just ‘was.’ There would always be playground sword fights and identity labeling (you’re Luke, I’m Darth, etc), and the girls would always fight over who was Princess Leia–thank God they actually had a girl character! Several weeks ago, while traipsing around the park with my nieces I heard a pack of little boys armed with lightsabers exclaiming, “You’re Darth Mol, I’m Anakin!” And so it goes…Star Wars ‘is.’
My father and mother saw Star Wars right after it was released back in 1977. I was a few months old, and it was the first time they left me to go on a real date since I was born. I’m not sure what impact it had on my Mom but I know my Dad LOVED IT. He’s a bit of a sci-fi nut, and I know he went back (alone) and saw it several more times in the theater. At the time, he claimed, there was nothing else like it…sure they had a handful of space movies prior to the Star Wars release, but nothing with actual galactic fighting in it. The new generation of Star Wars geeks have plenty of eye candy to compare it with, (the whole Lord of the Rings Trilogy to for instance). Sure, the effects are cool…but the first Star Wars was truly incomparable and hence it has a very special place in most of our hearts.
That being said, I truly didn’t think I would see the third movie until months later, after the lines had thinned out and I got around to it. Not so, last Tuesday was Ryan’s birthday, so of course we had to go. And it was awesome, and fantastic, and sad. Today I looked over Johnny’s notes and feedback and I largely agree with him that Lucas created more emotional attachment this time around. Obi Wan crying, “I loved you!” actually came off as really painful and touching instead of cheesy and forced. (Although Darth Vader crying, “NNnoooooo!” invoked a horrible round of giggling from Josh, Ryan, and I). Ryan had issues with Darth’s Hamlet-like infatuation with his mother’s death…but I suppose he couldn’t “go bad” without at least a little motivation.
I don’t think we learned much about Padme, except that she looked really hot throughout all 3 movies. Granted she kicked some major ass in the first two, this last round she simply paced around looking worried. C’mon, she’s Luke and Leia’s Mom, why no in-depth look into her life? Who were her freaking parents, anyway? We only saw them trailing after her corpse at the end. And I have a bone to pick here: How the hell did two fully-developed-to-term babies come out of her teeny tiny belly at the end? I was already for the kids to be plopped into an incubator as a result of their premature birth, but oh no, two very healthy newborns came out instead.
And, wow, Anakin killed KIDS in this movie…and got seriously screwed up in the end. The last battle was truly fantastic. Did people applaud when Anikan officially became Darth Vader? They did in my theater, and I almost started booing in response. OK, OK, the placing of the mask over his beat up body was pretty bad ass. Overall, I give the movie two thumbs up.

1) The little Asian lady next to me on the bus pulled out the nastiest smelling pastry I’ve every sniffed up my nostrils. It reeked so bad someone nearby commented, “Man, it smells like natural gas in here! Open up a window!”
2) UPS man at the Beautiful Dance Store and I typically exchange few words. Yesterday he regarded me for a split second and said, “You have dimples.” I felt like I was five again, when my dimples were cute and little girl and my redeeming feature. As an adult, getting complimented on the dents in your cheeks is just weird.
3) My cat, Hobbes, has decided she loves Simon & Garfunkle. She sits pleasantly next to my battered cd player and squints lovingly while listening. This is important because I too have discovered a love for them as well, late in life, when I’m too old to blame it on some weird phase I went through in high school.
4) The sky has been crapping and pissing all week…I know that real Seattleites are far over the fact the weather sucks, and only newly transplanted natives complain, but man, where the hell is spring?
All of this is peanuts compared to the showdown that happened today:
5) The BIG Event that occurred was while I was heating up mini-tacos. Hobbes strolled in from outside and into the kitchen with the loudest, muffled, meow I’ve ever heard. Inside her mouth was a dead bird. I tried to keep cool. Ok, she’s a cat, this is what cats do they hunt…and she’s brought her kill into the home with the intent of…what, eating it? Before I knew it Hobbes had found a nice spot in the hallway and proceeded to DECAPITATE and DISMEMBER the dead bird. When I peeked around the corner I saw a tiny bird head and a whole bunch of bloody red guts on the carpet. My cat was hunched over, gnawing away. By this point I had already called Josh, interrupting a business meeting he was having at work by screaming into his speaker phone: “BABE! There’s a dead bird!” His advice? “Dear God, get the camera! Take pictures!” I rejected this advice because the camera was in the spare room and in the path of my carnivorous cat’s chow down. I called my Mom who laughed at me and than did a superb job in talking me through what to do next. I grabbed a broom, hid behind a corner, reached around and batted my cat away from the carcass. She was very resistant to leaving the bird, and it took several tries before I successfully chased her out of the hallway into my room–where I locked her in. My Mother was adamant I needed to get the dead bird out of the house because of bacteria, etc. So I took a really deep breath and assessed the damage: Bird head, Bird torso with guts spilling out, feathers….ok. I really freaked out. I threw a whole bunch of paper towels over the carnage and with a broom, dragged the pile into a dust pan and into a plastic bag. I tossed the bag in the garbage outside. Wow, I really felt I deserved a prize. Than I sat down to a plate of mini-tacos…and at them very slowly and gingerly. (See, the thing was, I was STARVING….but queasy). As I write this I really wish I had taken pictures.

I can count on one hand how many sporting events I’ve been to. We were never a sports-oriented family growing up. I still get teams confused with which sport they represent, it took me years to remember that the Super Bowl was football, and I usually toss the Sports section in the paper. However, I have grown to enjoy basketball. Unlike the tedium of baseball and the stupidness of football, I can really dig on basketball. (I also really like hockey, but that’s after living in Colorado for five years and we had an actual Northern CO League we would check out at the local Budweiser Arena). Josh has returned to basketball recently as a form of exercise. As mentioned before, he was on the Freshman Basketball team in high school.
I’m not sure what happened, but all of a sudden I was told: “We’re going to the Sonics game on Thursday…and it’s playoffs!” This of course meant we joined the hordes of screaming fans at the Key Arena, chomping at the bit for a redemption win. This game was IT, either we won and were a step closer or we lost and (bam!) OUT of the playoffs.
Upon first arriving we, (Ryan, Chris, Josh, and I) ended up in the Sonics megastore in order to buy supplies. The absolute highlight of the whole night was the “I (heart) Rashard” baby doll tee Ryan squeezed himself into. Here’s a pic of me helping him:

Despite various opinions (and believe me we heard many of them throughout the night) I think Ryan totally pulled it off…I think it was the tattoos that really clinched it. Check out that pink sparkly heart!

The boys further outfitted themselves in coordinating sweatband apparel:

People asked: “The play offs? How did you get tickets?” Well, it wasn’t that hard…especially since we were literally up against the back wall. You couldn’t climb any higher…hence, our pictures all turned out great thanks to the white backdrop.
I tried hard to fit in. I realized while looking at this picture that my headband looks totally dorky: I’m wearing it on top of my head! I think this was because I had my hair in two little buns and the headband didn’t really fit. I still tried working it, even though the headband made me kinda hot and sweaty.

I think it’s important to note that while the guys are wearing NBA headbands I am wearing a NWBA band, including matching wrist bands–which Josh is actually sporting in this photo. Go Seattle Storm! (Photo courtesy of Sweatpants N’ Vaccuums).

Despite all this, Ryan still stole the show.

For those of you who watched the game, it was close…so close it was painful. We’re talking it came down to minutes–no seconds–of nail biting excitement. We lost by, what, TWO FREAKING points? And we were TIED up until the last 20 seconds of the game. The crowd was hysterical, I’m not kidding, I thought the audience was collectively going to cry. (Could you imagine? A gigantic hiccup of the largest magnitude shaking the Key Arena). Overall, it was a dynamite experience. Even though we got lost trying to get back to the car…and while we wandered around we witnessed some crazy bouts of road rage resulting from anguish over the Sonic’s loss. (But the best comment came from a drunk, old guy on the street: “Hey! That guy’s wearin’ a girl’s shirt…”) We’ll close out this post with one last picture of Ryan in all his crazy fandom, (the Sonics towel was free with our ticket!)

OK, so everyone knows Josh doesn’t like seafood. It’s his trademark. I’ve managed to bring him around on plenty of other foods, (ie tomatoes, spinach, etc). He’s dragging his heels a little on most fish dishes. So imagine my surprise when Ryan dared Josh to injest salmon eggs:

Now, I suppose in reality, Josh is way more hardscore about his suhi than I. Last time we had sushi, (a mere week prior, that’s how firm Ryan and I are about our addiction), Josh willfully ate raw salmon. I admit, I shy away from actual slabs of raw fish and stick to the delicate little rolls of cucumber, greens, with a hint of salmon. Salmon eggs are salty! And, according to Ryan, they don’t fully digest…so expect to see them come out in the same shape they came in. Here is Ryan taunting Josh with his dare:

And, wow, down the eggs go!

Later, Ryan hung out with this little dog trapped in a car.

And even later we returned to Ryan’s house where Josh assaulted Simon.

“Enough of that!” Simon ended the affair quickly and hustled his seventeen and half pount frame elsewhere. It should be noted that this is the biggest cat I have ever met. And not ‘big’ as in ‘fat’ but big as in BIG. If Simon were a little kid he’s be tactfully referred to as ‘big boned.’

Last night Josh, Ryan, and I were roaming around Fremont and I dragged them into a fancy schmantsy boutique so I could try on $168 jeans that were discounted 50%. While I tried on my umpteenth pair, I realized I had released two bulls in a china shop. When I immerged from the dressing room unsuccessful, Ryan stuffed a pair of silicon breast inserts under his shirt and made me feel him up. What I hadn’t known was that Josh had been sweetly convinced by the cashier that he simply must buy me a pair of Hanky Panky panties because they were “the best panties in the whole world.” So for an impressive $18, Josh laid out the dough for a pair of these famous panties, and surprised me with them on the way back to the car. Here’s a pic of someone else wearing them:

After putting them on, I noticed the high quality, the craftsmanship, and the nice pink color. Than I realized something: They’re still a thong. Despite ten solid years of trying, I have yet to find a thong I really, truly, like. The Hanky Panky pair is fairly close, most likely due to the fabulous fabric that demands for hand-washing only. (C’mon, what the hell? Who handwashes their underwear, seriously). But despite fabric, brand, and cost I have still found that a thong is a thong is a thong.
When I was dancing for Dropout Dance, many years ago, there was a girl in the company who swore her ass was meant for thongs. All her life she had struggled with bunching-in-a-wad panties and it wasn’t until she discovered thongs that her life radically changed for the better. She claimed it was due to her relatively flat ass. It got me to thinking: What kind of ass is totally unsuited for thong wearing? Is it really about the cut or style? Are some people (like me) just not meant to find them comfortable? Throughout the years I’ve had many conversations with women as thongs continue to be on the rise. As pants get lower and lower we are now treated to absolute stranger’s thongs peaking out. I remember as a youngster associating thongs with being trashy, a real Frederick’s of Hollywood thing, something only bad girls wore. Now, I bet even Laura Bush wears thongs under her sensible black slacks.
And so, I decided to review and assess all the thongs I’ve worn. All the failures and feedback and money spent on finding The Perfect Thong. According to some women, once they find it, their lives are changed forever.

My First Thong was a high cut, cotton, Victoria’s Secret thong. This was before all the low-rise, v-string, nonsense that Vickie’s is touting now. I think I bought it in college under a recommendation from a friend: V.C. makes the best thongs. Years later I realize that this is not true. In fact, I’m not quite sure what the allure of Victoria Secret truly is. After spending the past several years in clothing retail I have come to the opinion that their products are poorly constructed but well marketed. Their bras lose their stretch and start creeping up your back only after a few times wearing them. They are too expensive for what you get. They have beautiful, well-constructed, stores designed to drag you in off the Mall Streets and inside.
That being said, the only underwear I wear on a regular basis is their cotton, bikini brief. But forget Victoria Secret’s bullshit seamless line of panties, that crap is deceptive. The sizing is terrible, I bought a medium and the ‘seamless’ waistband cuts right into my spare tire. Speaking of, this is exactly why My First Thong didn’t work–practically cuts me in half that thong does. I never wear it.

Everyone will tell you that you have to spend really good money to get a comfortable thong. Well, I didn’t have very much money so it was interesting to have an individual tell me: “No, no, the CHEAPER the thong the better it is.” I took this advice because at the time I wanted to be sexy on a low budget. I went to Hot Topic, with my sister, who was horrified when I picked out several trashy thongs (one of them bright yellow) in a vain attempt to fit in with the rising thong trend. The above example is about four bucks, straight from the Hot Topic website, and is hands down my favorite cheap thong on the site. I don’t own this Napolean Dynamite inspired thong, sadly, but it’s a good case in point of a total waste of money. Granted, the string aspect decreases the amount of pressing into the hip and butt fat which consequently shows through clothing–but in NO WAY was a cheap thong more comfortable. I think I may have bought a large which was still too small and there is nuthin’ worse than a cheap, string, thong that doesn’t even fit your ass.

OK, I made one last attempt at the Cheap Thong Theory. When I lived up in the Colorado mountains we were so starved for excitement that we perused the local Wal-Mart in Frisco. Sure, we had a movie theater up there and an outlet mall, but Wal-Mart was THE place to hang out on a Friday night. I decided to make one last attempt and picked out a double string thong. The above photo is way racier than what I actually bought but it’s the closest I could find to what a double string thong looks like. I was under the impression that this design would somehow be more comfortable. I picked out a fantastic little blue and purple striped number for 3.99 and raised quite a stir at the Wal-Mart check-out. This thong was probably the closest to bearable I had experienced at the time. I wore it a few times, noticing that the two strings end up meshing into one eventually. There is nothing redeeming about the design, other than it probably looks kinda trashy and cool. However, I think this poor Wal-Mart thong is balled up in my drawer somewhere collecting dust.

Years later I finally succumbed to the truth: The more you spend on a thong the more comfortable it is. For expert thong-wearers it probably doesn’t apply, any old thing can go up your butt. But for women sensitive to chaffing, there comes a time when you have to invest a little money to find out if you can truly find one that will work. I was starting to feel a little desperate; with age I have slowly become adverse to panty lines. This is a result of hanging out in dance communities where the mere sight of a panty line under cotton lycra is enough to make grown women want to barf. I can’t count how many times I’ve heard: “Omigod, panty lines on stage are my biggest pet peeve.” I’ve taken classes where all of a sudden I become vastly aware that everyone around is wearing thongs hence no panty lines through their expensive, cotton, capris…and I am wearing old fashion briefs. The anti-panty line craze has gotten so extreme that dancers are now requesting thong leotards to wear under their dance clothes–THONG LEOTARDS, people. I can’t tell you how that makes me shutter. I was starting to feel the pressure, not only in the dance community but I had bought a few pairs of pants where panty lines were simply unavoidable.
So, I went to this nice little French lingerie boutique in Fort Collins under the recommendation of my punk rock hair dresser. (Surely, they’d have a thong for a girl like me!) They recommended the above Mary Green stretch lace thong, 15 bucks, hand wash cold only. I invested, took it home, expecting a miracle. (”See how soft the thong part is?” The sales girl said). I really thought I would put it on and not a feel a thing. Like a simple pair of briefs, or a practical pair of boy-cut panties, the “expensive thong” would not be distracting in any way. I was wrong.
True, this thong was way softer than any little number before it…but it was still a thong. And it was still rigid and uncomfortable. And than I did the unthinkable: I washed it…accidentally. The lace curled up around the edges and the skinny part curled and twirled. It might have been a thong I could have gotten used to, but now I just look at it sadly.

Taking pity on my thong problems, Josh thoughtfully bought me the above undies from Victoria Secret several years ago on Valentine’s Day. They look the same in the back as in the front. “OK,” I thought. “So the theory is they go partially up the rear…that might be better than all the way.” I was horribly wrong and the panties were really deceptive. Of course they didn’t stay partially anywhere, and there is nothing worse than admitting what your panties are doing: Giving you a big wedgie.

Two years ago I hit thong gold: Free Capezio thongs from my dance store that had long been discontinued. I had already been primed to try the dance industry’s idea of a thong, after all it wasn’t until I started hanging around dancers did I truly see thongs as a necessity. As you can see in the above picture they are high cut, which I think lent to their demise. (The new Capezio thongs are low-rise and completely sheer, a teeny-tiny maze of lines and crisscrosses barely sewn together to create a flawless look beneath a costume). I have no real issues with the old design. Probably because I harvested four free pairs and didn’t feel outraged at the money spent once I realized they still felt weird. They’re made of supplex, which is much nicer and shinier than cotton or nylon. As a long-waisted woman, the high cut design actually makes more sense for me, and the thong doesn’t hit the spare tire around the hips. When I have to wear a thong I reach for my discontinued Capezio’s.

The bottom line is this: nothing replaces the good clean look of a thong…but a fair substitute is a really great pair of seamless panties. The above picture is from the fabulous bare essentials line from Felina. Sure, they’re cheating, a little bit, but I have come to admit to myself: I just can’t take a full day of thongdom. Bring on the seamless panties!

Currently listening to Andrew Bird & The Mysterious Production of Eggs. I first heard excerpts from this cd on NPR. I was intrigued–and it turns out Andrew Bird is pretty hot. The music isn’t 100% my style, but it’s pretty mellow and nice to listen to while clacking away at the new keyboard, (that’s right the days of bruising the underside of my wrists is over. Josh bought a supportive, comfy, keyboard). I honestly have sporadic musical tastes. I was hanging out with Kelly a couple of weeks ago. I was driving the Honda–which I barely drive these days. It feels like Josh’s Car now, unlike in CO when it was My Car and Josh had Stinky. Anyway, Josh had left some punk rock cd in the player and I was listening to it aimlessly–subconsciously knowing all the words. Kelly commented, “That’s what I’ve missed about you, Mara, your punk rock.” I forgot that I was once associated as somewhat of a punk rocker. And than I got older and crankier and lost a lot of the drive. I slowed down, started listening to NPR and opera while cooking dinner, and I generally only turn to punk rock when I’m exercising or pissed.
To redeem my former punk rock taste, I recently bought “Life Won’t Wait” by Rancid; This was their “experimental release” back in 1997 where they dabbled in reggae, rap, and classic rock stylin instead of their usual hard edge. They abandoned many fans, but I really appreciate it. Like, even these old guys have evolved and it’s not all about pissing off cops and screaming into the microphone anymore. I remember being an angsty 18 year old and listening to “Out Come The Wolves” on the bus on my way to work at Portland Saturday Market. Man, they really SPOKE to me back then.
What’s with all this music talk? Well, I admit: I recently spent fifty dollars at Amazon. You see, Boeing sent Josh and I little health quizzes from the Mayo Clinic promising gift certificates if we filled them out. So I did, and filled out Josh’s too. Viola! A magical fifty was granted to me…and now I have new music to hum to while riding the bus. Other purchases? Garden State Soundtrack and Cash’s remake of Hurt. Excellent.

Bus Antics:
1) Man with plastic fork in his mouth. He sucked on that fork the entire trip. It stuck out of his mouth like a plastic tongue.
2) Crazy chattering man with two suitcases, a box of clothes, and no teeth. He rode the bus for one block.
3) My bus buddy and I have been reduced to sitting far away, rarely together, and only on several occasions have we sat in mutual silence. Bus Buddy and I have, perhaps, broken up.
4) There is a school up the road from where I live. I know this because five or so kids ride my morning bus and get off two stops after mine. Now these kids love sitting by themselves with their backpacks and ipods strewn all over the seats. I have no patience for this, especially since I know they’re getting off soon and I can covet a window seat after they leave. I’ve become a bully. I go after the quiet kids with the headphones on, their backpack resting on the empty seat next to them. “CAN I SIT HERE?” I say, more as a formality than as an actual question. I have sat on backpacks before–probably squashed a few science projects with my ass. What are they gonna say, NO? Two stops later the kid is gone and I have a window seat.
In other news, we saw Sin City and I….hated it. This is tough for me to admit, since I like to consider myself a comic fan. Perhaps I like my violence confined to well drawn pages…or maybe I just got sick of seeing prostitutes beaten on screen, cracking jaws crunching from blows, all combined with wispy, pathetic dialogue coming out of Brittney Murphy (or Jessica Alba for that matter). I admit I liked the “Old Town” part the best, watching the girls hold their own, wearing cool clothes with long earrings…and I thought the Bruce Willis saga was kinda, sorta, sweet. Of course the cinematography was fabulous, the color choices very cool, the make-up, all of it was stunning and surreal. But, I guess when it comes down to it I would have preferred more sex and less violence. I’ll let this reviewer from the Apollo Guide sum it up for me: “A movie so cool you’re not supposed to be concerned about its total lack of moral grounding. Nor its profound sexism. Nor its misanthropic nihilism. “- Brian Webster
I have officially written off modern dance at a particular studio. This actually makes me sad, considering I spent three good years in Ft. Collins taking modern from an excellent teacher. I prefer modern, I enjoy it, I like walking out of a class and thinking: “This is it, this is why I am living today, nothing could bother me, I’m free!” It’s very hard to recreate that feeling–it typically comes with working really hard, expending a lot of energy, and feeling creative while getting the heart rate up. The fact that I can’t seem to find it at this particular, high ranked, local studio is still bumming me out. Of course there are other studios, there are other teachers, and there is always ballet. (It’s hard to really screw up ballet, although it can be done). I just can’t handle the modern, aloof, camaraderie that surrounds me and yet alienates me entirely. There are all these announcements before the class, like, “Come see so-and-so’s show, she’s amazing…oh and than there’s this other show, and this film, and it’s so cool…” and everyone nods in approval, like, yeah, it’s the bomb. I’m so jealous, honestly, that so-and-so has a show and I’m on the very last wrung of the modern dance totem pole. On Monday I wore a tank top that read: “If Dance Were Any Easier It Would Be Football.” This usually get’s some sort of reaction; I got one: “What does your shirt say? Oh…nice.” But it wasn’t heartfelt or genuine–not even a laugh or a guffaw. I got the feelings she thought I was a freak. Perhaps that’s why I wore it: To alienate myself further. (God, I sound so thirteen). In hindsight everyone was probably so self-indulgent they couldn’t be bothered with reading my shirt. Which might be good considering I am constantly worried people are looking at me and thinking: She sucks. What is she doing? She’s not even in a show.
To combat my feelings of insecurity and depression I spent quality time with my dear friend, Sam, and his bf, Ian. They have recently decided to co-habitat and I am thrilled for them. Everything is fabulous when I am with them. Sam and I start talking fast and sweating and waving our hands around and jumping up and down. Ian acts as the quiet audience member to our antics. Sam and I used to have a production company and we amuse ourselves with past shows, who screwed who, and how we’re “just looking for the right project” to start our company back up. We bought drumsticks and slurped them on Ian’s roof. We had candid penis talk–the kind you can only have with gay men. Sam showed me multiple pages of his latest comic (see I am a comic fan!) as well as a sample of his past foray into gay comic porno–which was nicely drawn despite my unattraction to gay male sex.
On a related note, last night was spent taking pictures of Ryan covered with whipcream and birthday cake. His new Canadian bride has no idea what she got herself into. Their long distance relationship has finally come to a head, and Ryan, in desperation decided to celebrate her 24th with wild abandon. Apparently it is a Canadian custom to smear whipcream all over oneself in satin boxer shorts for birthdays (and than send the pictures one by one in fifteen minute increments via email). I must say I haven’t laughed this hard in years. (Check out his site for behind the scenes pics and further cake smearing antics).

(Yeah, that’s my shower).

I had my first experience with sushi traveling in circles around me. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I was very careful and only chose colored plates in my price range. I tried out the new anti-carb sushi: Brown rice, brown paper, and veggies. My vote? A resounding BOO. The tempura shrimp roll was my decadent splurge. I also chose a wierd dish with slabs of tofu marinated in seaweed and salty red sauce. Ryan dispised it so much he flipped off the dish everytime it passed by him on the conveyer belt.

I love sushi!

Josh, however, does not love sushi. This comes from an aversion of seafood, however he is slowly, gradually, becoming more open to injesting fish. Raw fish is a lot to ask. He put on a brave face, as he always does when faced with not so favorite restaurants. For the non-sushi lover there was plenty of tempura and soybeans. Lo and behold, we were all impressed when Josh shoved a healthy portion of raw salmon in his mouth. Bravo!

I have been selected to finish five of these career options and than tag three other blog-writers. Here it goes:
If I could be a scientist
If I could be a farmer
If I could be a musician
If I could be a doctor
If I could be a painter
If I could be a gardener
If I could be a missionary
If I could be a chef
If I could be an architect
If I could be a linguist
If I could be a psychologist I’d find a way to avoid bringing my own personal emotion to work. I’d learn how to shut my feelings off and become numb to all outside stimuli. I would save lives, listen for hours, and become a better human being because of it.
If I could be a librarian
If I could be an athlete
If I could be a lawyer
If I could be an innkeeper
If I could be a professor
If I could be a writer I would write about the stuggles, hardships, adventures, and passion I have experienced in my mere 27 years. I would write in a way that everyone would relate to, bringing out their own inner demons but making everyone feel closer because of it. I would finally finish writing that play I’ve been working on for the past seven years.
If I could be a llama-rider
If I could be a bonnie pirate
If I could be a service member
If I could be a photographer
If I could be a philanthropist
If I could be a rap artist
If I could be a child actor
If I could be a secret agent
If I could be a comedian/comedienne
If I could be a priest
If I could be a radio announcer
If I could be a phlebotomist
If I could be a pet store owner
If I could be a computer programmer
If I could be a politician
If I could be a mom
If I could be an underwater basket weaver
If I could be a reality tv host I’d have shiny teeth and wear metallic clothing. I’d steal Ben Affleck away and turn him back into his indie Chasing Amy/Mallrats days–back when I kinda had a crush on him. I’d prevent him from turning into a washed up, angst-ridden, crybaby in Pearl Habor and Bounce; we’d have our own Reality TV show where we’d make fun of waiters and insult retail managers.
If I could be a forensic pathologist
If I could be a TV show writer
If I could be a dictator of a small country
If I could be a ice cream store owner
If I could be a teacher
If I could be a diva
If I could be a bus driver
If I could be a fashion designer my logo would be Mara in swooshy handwriting across the butt of my fabulous jeans. They would not be low-rise, BUT the waist would not be up around your neck either. I’d invent anti-itch bras, true seamless panties that didn’t dent your hip fat, and oodles of hip, black, shoes.