Full Disclosure, Full Belly

I read this post by Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino about the perfect lives that many women on the Internet project. And I hope I am not one of Those Women (not one of those particular women she is referring to, just one of those types of women, since I wouldn’t imagine she reads my blog (um, if you come here by referrer, Kris, hi! read you for a long time, think you’re awesome!)).

At first, I thought it was unlikely I could be classed as such given the infrequency with which I post and the fact that most of my posts are dedicated to how much of an idiot I am. But I think I know some of the blogs of which she speaks, or at least the type, and those, and even when the authors admit their “faults,” they’re still something most of us think as funny and not actually something you could fault someone for (i.e., not being a saint/Martha Stewart/Mother Theresa/Angelina Jolie).

And maybe I do that, I self-protect. Or at a minimum, I tend to only blog when I have something fun to write about.

So. In any case, to avoid any implication that I could be one of Those Women, I’ll tell you this.

It is the the Tuesday night before Thanksgiving. I worked until about 8 when I stopped for fear there would be no turkeys left. And I will probably work Friday. And maybe Saturday. I have had 7 days of vacation this year and will have no more. At moments like these I hate my job and that my life is measured in 6-minute increments that have to add up to 111,000 billable minutes per year or else I’m on the same chopping block as a lot of lawyers these days.

I am hosting Thanksgiving this year, which I am excited about (although it’s really only a gamble that in not going home and so being able to work this weekend I will actually be able to go home for Christmas, unlike last year when I opened my Christmas presents over SPEAKERPHONE with my family), so this evening I headed to my ghetto Ralph’s and, because I have not have had time to put together a menu yet, I just bought a free-range turkey (THE LAST ONE, my hunch was right), some endive leaves and every type of fresh herb they had because they’re always short on Thanksgiving day.

I managed to rally enough to print out my recipes for Thursday and make a list of the crap I have to get done tomorrow, and it WILL get done, even if I have to be up to 3 a.m. to do it.

And when I do, some time later next week probably, or three weeks later, who knows, get around to posting pictures of the wonderful time I’m sure I will have on Thursday with my good and wonderfully interesting friends and of the (I REALLY hope!!) awesome food that was had, please don’t think I’m flaunting it, that I’m one of Those Women.

And it’s not to say that you can only be authentic if misery tinges every post; I don’t think that’s what Kris meant, and it’s not what I mean. It’s just that I know what (I think) she means, that it’s hard to express yourself fully if you feel like the rest of the (blogging) world is projecting an image you can’t achieve even on your best real day.

So today, I am blogging on a bad day. When I don’t have anything fun to write about.

Nevertheless, I mean it when I say, Happy Thanksgiving! I hope you spend it with people you love and with a full belly.

No Accounting for Taste

Two quick notes:

1. I have FINALLY conquered my morning Starbucks habit, courtesy of a Bodom french press so small I don’t have to deal with leftovers. During the 10 minutes required to boil the water and wait for the coffee to steep, Fred & Ethel get some lap time and I catch up on what Brad & Angelina are up to the state of the world.

2. I have a bunch of Library of Congress (The First?) Depression-era national archives photos up in my apartment, and reading Poppytalk reminded me there were more to be had. I downloaded these three photos, printed them out and plopped them into a $10 Ikea frame, et voila!

Hm, looks cuter IRL.

In other news, I have started dating again, and managed, on ONE first date, mind you, ONE, to do the following:

A. Walk into bistro on said blind date not realizing was still wearing iPod ear buds from walk over and in fact begin to say hello and introduce myself STILL WEARING THEM.

B. Develop a zit midway through date (SERIOUSLY, WHY, G-D, WHY?) and try to surreptitiously ascertain whether it had um, come to a head?, and then give up and flee to the bathroom only to discover that my “subtle” investigations of the contours of my face had actually resulted in creating a big splotchy red spot. AWESOME!

C. Try to open a “door” that was actually a wall.

It is amazing he still kissed me goodnight.

Also, on a related note, do you think you can date someone who is a HUGE fan of a band you find totally abhorrent, and not just in, like, yeah, ok, Sepultura isn’t really my bag way, but in a you find it’s an embarrassment that they continue to produce albums kind of way (Schmounting Schmows, no offense if you like them (although, WHY?))? To help you make your decision, keep in mind he is 6’5″, pretty darn cute and didn’t seem to mind that I developed a weird facial protuberance mid-date and tried to walk through a wall.

Lastly, I saw Le Switch (yay!) and O’Death this weekend at Spaceland, the latter in all their shirtless wonder:

It made me very happy to be out and about:

And, now that I’ve posted some photos of a shirtless, sweaty band I like onto the interweb had some time to consider, I guess I really can’t judge someone just because I dismiss the lead singer of the band he for likes for dating two “Friends.” Maybe they’re (more than just) a little misunderstood.

I Guess I Should Have Painted Them Blue, Not Red

It’s been so long since I’ve written, sad really. Apparently getting back on the blogging horse is much like exercising — you have to do it more than once a month to get yourself back in the habit.

Anyway, it’s been a lovely weekend. Finally, aside from a hot Saturday, there is the crispness to the air that’s meant to be there this time of the year and I feel more in touch with the rest of the world as a result — not stranded on some alien LA island where 85 in November is par for the course.

Friday went to a celebratory drink hosted by my pilates studio and dinner with Neeta, and Saturday night, we took to the streets for a Repeal Prop. 8 rally.

You know, the last time I protested was my senior year in high school, when my small town banned hats, HATS!, as potential gang apparel. When we had, like, NO GANG ACTIVITY. So my friends and I took to the streets and protested this infringement on our First Amendment rights, and some of us even formed our own gang, “F.I.S.H.,” Folks in Santa Hats. You know, which we then wore to school (santa hats). Man, was I a N.E.R.D.

This is the first time I’ve ever protested for something as an adult. And I was worried. Before we went out there (the protest was in my hood), I could hear the helicopters and the cops directing people and I wasn’t sure whether to go. But we went and it was AWESOME. The fact that we had to be there decidedly WASN’T (THANKS, organized religion (except for the Jews)), but the fact that there were so many families there, gay and straight, so many colors and sizes and ages of people all there to demand that people’s love be recognized, that was awesome. Native American dancers carried the crowds down Santa Monica boulevard with their drums and chanting and the beat of the metals on their garb as they danced pulling us all forward. I cried to myself for oh, the NINE MILLIONTH TIME, in the last week over the will of the people to hope and fight for change.

Today I didn’t do anything much — finished a book, cleaned my apartment (even mopped the floors!), listened to a lot of Andrew Bird (who is, in addition to incredibly handsome and in possession of very sassy red-and-white striped socks (saw him at Largo a couple weekends ago), AMAZING), went for a long run and generally felt happy.

And in a very good sign of thing to come, I painted my nails. I haven’t painted my fingernails in months, and I’m not sure what it means that I finally felt moved to, but somehow I think it’s significant.

I dunno, suddenly I’m seeing signs of hope everywhere.