Yes, I’m wearing a shag rug collar and the reindeer are constructed using pale, white sequins, and yes, Josh’s sweater looks homemade. After several stressful weeks, it was nice to kick back in a Belltown condo, eat meatballs, and be surrounded by friends wearing equally hideous sweaters. (Josh’s sweater actually became a finalist in the top 4). Bad Sweater pics can be found here.

Sure, there are those with a propensity to swindle regardless of economic strain. I’m sure I could point out that I live in the least wealthiest part of town, where already stressed budgets and tight money belts cause folks to feel a constant ache in their financial bellies. Add the overall threatening tone of our country–no WORLD–affairs and you could see why someone might feel like knocking off a bank for a few marked bills. Is this is why all sorts of terrible neighborhood news keep appearing? Instead of drawing our friends and families closer as a way to embrace non-financial joy, are the dark sides of certain individuals growing darker? This has to be a time for community, a time for greater communication and a constant excuse to get social. Gone are the days when we could spend freely on electronics that isolated us even further from our tangible community, when we bought fancy cars on credit that we could sit silently idle on the freeway in, and when cheap airfare allowed us constant escape from our neighborhoods.

Times like last night: When we found escape with a simple cup of tea flavored with real half and half and a few late night friends.

Hobbes returned a week later to the vet for a follow up appointment. When we entered the exam room, I opened up the cage. Hobbes refused to come out. I didn’t realize the delicate nature of examining ill-functioning anal glands. Hobbes needed an anal exam, read: a lubed finger up her butt. Under the vet’s request I left the room again this time, Hobbes yowling in protest. “She peed,” the vet said when I returned. “Her glands feel fine, no relapse.” Hobbes glared at me from inside her cage. We will return in 2 weeks.

On Sunday night Josh and I went to a rather prominent modern dance show. I won’t give away too many details but the artistic director is African American, the company has elevated status in Seattle (above the usual fray of 10 Tiny Dances and eclectic Cap Hill ensembles), and I typically take a ballet class on Friday morning’s with the company. The first piece was unarguably the most enjoyable: hip-hop infused with a liberal use of hoodies, beats, and well timed facial expressions. There was a really beautiful dancer in this piece who was both charismatic and wonderful. The other two pieces were, quite simply weird. I borrow Josh’s assessment: “So many of the pieces were based on just being weird…I mean the dancers were good, but the movement was so strange I was distracted. Why is all the merit placed on just being really odd?” In addition to being weird, the piece by the artistic director looked painful. The dancers were slapping their limbs inadvertently all over the mylar floor, their bodies taped up in obvious attempt to hide and prevent bruising. They sweated and purposely huffed and puffed, the panting obviously included as part of the choreography. They smacked their limbs around and sounded like they were all having asthma attacks. I wasn’t into it.

On the rainy drive home, Josh and I agreed that the one dancer in the first piece was really hot. Then my husband said something marvelous, “You know, I think she looks kind of like you! This happens to me all the time…I’ll see some girl with dark hair and think, ‘wow, she’s really attractive…” and then I realize: ‘Oh, she looks just like my wife.’”

Score.

The inside joke of the party was by far Kimberly’s blog reference to signing their marriage license under the lines Party A and Party B (to reflect the recent gender neutral licenses distributed in CA). No Husband and Wife terms for them! (Which suits them perfectly). Their ceremony was 5 minutes, led by a mutual friend, and very touching. There were no exchanging of rings, no vows they had written, and no wedding cake (but not to worry, I had spotted large cupcakes in the kitchen!) The ceremony wrapped up with a a simple “Do you take this person?” and a “I do” from Justin and a “I totally do” from Kimberly.

The room exploded with cheers and in the following chaos Josh started casing out the lime tree in the backyard. Wanting to help out the bartender (a friend of K and J’s who was super sweet and made me a humongous martini in an equally sizable plastic cup), Josh managed to extend his long arm up into the tree and extract a lime. How cool is that! How ‘California’ to have fruit trees that produce lemons and limes–I had no idea!

The Newport Beach breezes picked up as we dined on vegetarian lasagna (reflecting Kimberly’s vegan tendencies), drank wine from the care free bottles of red and white that had been placed tactfully on each table, and met other arty/drama-y friends from the K and J community. Champaign was passed around at the end for toasts and rememberences. Josh had been happily drinking beer all night, drank his champaign, and then cheerfully added the glass of red wine I had poured for him hours ago (for dinner). This resulted in a very Sick Josh the next morning in the LAX airport (who has since then swore off champaign for the rest of his natural life). That combined with a nerve wracking 45 minute wait to get through security, no food, and a packed plane led to both of us melting down. To top it off we had an inexperienced mother sitting behind us with two screaming, screeching, complaining, whining children…one was about a year old and the other was barely three. It was so bad that the stewardess came over and said, “The seatbelt sign is off, now would be a great time to walk your baby up and down the aisle…here I’ll take your three year old.” Did the mother walk her baby? No, she sat like a lump in her seat while her child emitted a series of painful yelping noises. I couldn’t even sit back in my seat because my chair was being mercifully kicked the entire time by an impatient and pissed off toddler. Worst Flight Ever.

But all that aside, the wedding was a delightful highlight to an otherwise somber weekend. Hurray for Kimberly and Justin!

A few weeks ago I was contacted by someone and I had no idea who they were. The black and white profile picture was of a demure woman holding a little boy in her lap. Who the hell is this? I couldn’t see much of their profile, but I gleaned that they were from Vancouver, married, and Christian. OK, so this is not typically a demographic that I relate to. Probably their last name must have changed? I sleuthed, but I didn’t recognize them. Then I realized: this was my close friend in 7th grade. I say ‘was’ because she and I had a falling out in 8th grade where she pitted my (still) best friend Courtney and I against each other. Tempers flared, sides were taken, and by freshman year our friendship had dissolved. Did I accept her friend request? No. No, I did not.

Italians are known for holding a grudge. It doesn’t matter how much time has past, we will hold a grudge against you until the very end. I know this sounds dramatic, but I’ll be the first to admit: I have a very hard time ‘getting over things.’ If I have one negative encounter with you, even if you apologize, I’m going to hold onto it and file it away (and if you don’t apologize, man, you better forget it). Sure, Italians are also noted for their great passion, empathy, and ability to bring people together (usually around food). But we can turn this all around and become just as passionate about being slighted (and how that made us feel, and how it should make everyone else feel, and so on and so forth). I make plenty of allowances, but I am not a ‘live and let live’ type of person.

This side of myself has been oddly triggered due to social networking sites and my recent exposure to the performance community. Recently, I received a friend request from a girl I was friends with in college. Typical for that age we both got very distracted with boys, relationships, ourselves, etc. and grew apart somewhere around our junior year. She lived with my X in a house filled with other friends (which was hideous since it cut me off from many of them). None of this was her fault, but I still felt left over uneasiness about the evaporation of our friendship. Cut to ten years later and she’s happily married with two kids, lives far away, and recently sent me a ‘friend’ request. Really? I thought.

“It’s been ten years!” a mutual friend brought up. But, that’s the thing: sometimes it doesn’t matter how long it’s been. (Hell, my X showed up at a Legend’s show and I almost threw up right there on stage–I was so panicked. “But it’s been ten years! You’re married now and you own a house!” a fellow performer exclaimed as if that would somehow erase my anxiety). Still, in this case I realized any sort of stubborn grudge holding was silly. Friends…even long ago friends are important. Even though it’s just facebook, the sense of community, of extension, is really important to me. The climate in this country has been extra hard lately, and I realized that I don’t have time for grudges. I accepted her friend request and immediately we dove into a lively discussion about theater, parenting, and our artistic quests. It was a nice step up from the casual acquaintance format of social networking sites–one where you merely use your friends as receptacles for a million event attendance requests.

But that’s me…and I know it’s case by case. Some people would rather have huge friend numbers, regardless if they actually know each and every one of their ‘friends.’ So, I turn it over to you, dear readers…what is your criteria for accepting ‘friend’ requests?