Half of what I say is meaningless

Half of what I say is meaningless
But I say it just to reach you, Julia.

Julia. Let me tell you something. Matt and I--we love us some Julia. I can't tell you how many IM conversations we've started with one of us saying something like "hey, did you see Julia's latest post?"

Those conversations usually also include some assortment of these lines:

• I just don't get that Richard D. Bartlett guy.


• Meetings suck.


• I wish I was cool like [name withheld to protect Sarah Hatter*]


• ss went to ATL with sg. Is SG at ATL? Still at RT, MG? (Our shorthand gets rather confusing at times)


• Mmmm... Newcastle.


• Il'l eb irgth abck... ogt a emetnig. (Sadly, I've learned to read Matt Grace's typing more quickly than I can read English.)

(*Really, it's just a silly little inside joke, so chill, yo. I'll buy you a hotdog at the welcome station to make up for it, ok?)

But enough about our friendship conducted (until recently) exclusively over IM. More about Julia.

Matt and I often sit around and wonder strange things about Julia. Things like:

• What would Julia be like if she was a boy?


• Is Julia really from Mississippi and fronting on the whole born-in-England thing?
• What would it be like if Julia suddenly lost all sense of decorum and posted the most embarrassing things about herself on her blog--like more embarrasing than her office pooping habits?


• And, of course, our favorite: What would Julia's blog be like if Julia was a 13-year-old Goth girl and her blog was on livejournal? OMG LOL ROFLMAO!!!!!!!!

Well, dear readers, over the next few days, MG and WS will endeavor to give you some answers to these pressing questions.

Oh, and we'll also redesign Julia's blog to look exactly Pottery Barn's site. Because, you know, PB is totally indie rock.

Fondly,
Will

(This post made without the written consent of my esteemed co-guest blogger... Sorry, MG... couldn't let a day go by without a post!)

Lullaby & Exile

Lullaby & Exile

As a special treat, before I go, this has been my favorite song this month.

Lullaby & Exile by the amazing M.Ward, from his latest album, "Transistor Radio."

It's just completely charming. That's all I really want to say about it.

Hits and Misses.

Hits and Misses

Misses

Those aluminum foil leftover containers with the cardboard circle lid. I hate getting ready to microwave my leftovers at work and then realizing that I'm going to have to scrounge up a plate somewhere. Seriously, who doesn't microwave their leftovers? Especially if the leftovers are curry. All I found was a little 3.5" diameter paper cake plate, so I'm eating my lunch in phases.

Bridesmaid dresses. A few months ago, I forked over $200 for some polyester. Today, I forked over another $60 for alterations. It would have been $30, but the highly considerate bridesmaid dress manufacturer built in cups in the bodice, and had a zipper at a very key seam. It will never fit me right because of this, and I also get to pay more for it to never fit me right. Yay!

Redeye flights. Interestingly, I'm not sure why it's called a redeye, and it makes my eyes itch so I'm going to start calling it an overnight flight. Regardless, they are still suboptimal. And I'm going on one tonight.

My knees. I'm currently on the DL for just a few more days. Saturday, I ran 14 glorious, hot miles, and my knees started feeling a little annoying around mile 11. After some prompting from our coach, I decided to just cross-train (swim) until Wednesday, and then run very gently for the rest of the week. After some prompting from my cozy bed at 6am, I haven't cross-trained yet, but I will tonight. Tomorrow, in Syracuse, I'll run a wee bit, and then Saturday do a 7 mile recovery. Next Saturday is 15 miles. I'm not really afraid of taking a week off here and there, but I'm going crazy not running every day or so. Who am I?! What have I become?!

Words like "gently" that don't adverb comfortably. Gentily?

Hits

Sweet baby Grace, of course. Easter morning, after her parents asked us to be godparents of Grace's soon-to-be-born sibling, and after we had some back and forth of We're so honored! No we're honored! No we're honored!, Grace then started repeating us. "honored! honored! honored!" Although it sounded more like "oh-nod." Sarah, and her wonderful husband Scott constantly teach me so much about being married, about raising children, about being Christian, and about being a good and authentic human being. I am indeed oh-nod that they think I have something to offer back to their children.

My priest's Easter Vigil sermon urging us to embrace all people into the church. He spelled this out for us: gays, lesbians, bisexuals. We need to be raceless and classless. And not just tolerant. WWJD.

Ellie's Tailor in Rancho Bernardo/San Diego. Because they're fixing the awful bridesmaid dress and the seamstress provided adequate commiseration. That's all I needed.

My boss. I honestly don't know how I'll ever work for anyone else.

Makeup Alley. Good grief, I'm addicted. I'm curious as to why I'm wasting hours reading reviews for products I'm already using. Validation? Affirmation? I don't know. Also, be sure to read their highly entertaining snarks on the Clinique Three-Step System. And the likewise highly entertaining and convincing household good products in the Unlisted Brand section. Asprin? Milk of Magnesia? Apple Cider Vinegar? On my face?

Matt Grace and Will Sansbury, my dream team guest bloggers who will grace you with their presence while I'm gone the rest of the week. I just gave them my own log-in and password, because I'm tired of promising you guest bloggers and not delivering due to technical difficulties/inadequate prep. So if you see radical template changes or subtle edits of my archived posts, you know who to blame.

Having more hits than misses.

Shrinkwrapped.

Shrinkwrapped.

Except for a glowing light above a quiet pool of water, the massive room was dark, a sanctuary for tired lightwaves. Cool air was gentle but far from still, wisping amongst the rafters and beneath our lips where words were muted and intimate. Time slowed.

It lasted for only a short while before the others joined us. As the door opened, my stomach fluttered and at that moment I felt ashamed, assuming that feeling was wrong. But now I realize I fluttered not for the present, but for what has gone before. Remembrance pulsed inside me for the sake of nothing but remembrance. Not this peaceful moment, this dark room, this kind man, nothing. I ripped the sequences of my past from their distorting shrinkwrap, plastic that tightly protected wholly useless concepts like resale value or acid-laden photo paper or sharp piercing memories I'd try to save but also forget.

Experiencing intimacy outside of any former patterns steered me from trying to protect a sad past, towards a clearer future, better relationships, purer self. And I was alright again.

Why.

Why.

Tomorrow morning, I'm dragging my ass out of bed to run 13 miles. Pretty soon, it'll be 18 miles. Then 20. Then on a lovely morning in June, I'll toddle around 26.2 miles of San Diego as fast as I can.

I could easily have done this on my own. I could have found training plans online or in fancy glossy books. I could have dragged unlucky and unassuming friends along on my Saturday long runs so I wouldn't be spending 2+ hours with nothing to do but put one foot in front of the other and listen to the voices in my head BECAUSE THEY TOTALLY START TO ACT UP AROUND MILE 5. I digress. As wonderful and amazing and voices-in-my-head-distracting as the Team in Training group has been, I technically could have done it without them.

Why, then, am I doing this? Why commit to a fundraising minimum? Don't I have plenty of other things to deal with, including, but not limited to, getting to bed early tonight? The fundraising goal has been a giant anvil over my head since I signed up in February, but not for a minute do I dread this committment. I'm doing this because I want to make a difference. I'm doing this because people need me to make a difference. I'm doing this for John and Neil. For Melanie and Danielle. For Brooke and Carl. For Stacy, Carol, Laurel, Lora, Amanda, Niko, and for the countless, countless others who's paths I have yet to cross but who's lives are torn apart by tragic and life-altering blood cancers.

I'm doing it because they need the help. They need money for research or to help pay their medical bills. They need support for their families. They need someone to fight for them. Someone to kick 26.2 miles in the ass.

I, however, need you. Please click below and read my webpage, track my progress, and, if you are so inclined, please make a secure online donation. (I can also accept offline, check-ish donations. Email me.) Thank you all so much. Any amount makes a difference, and know that 75% of your thoughtful contribution goes directly to the patients and blood cancer research. The other 25% goes towards marathon-y costs like coaches, pasta, and TnT racing jerserys, and LLS administrative costs.

I love you all, and it would totally mean the world to me to have your support.

Thigh High.

Thigh High.

The one thing I inaccurately envisioned in yesterday's sexy-intellectual-librarian-fantasy bra ad was the not-touching-thigh part. In fact, the legs aren't even shown at all. Why then, would I fabricate such a memory? Because I'm actually thinking of the the mature-audience full-body-shot (tm Kip from Napoleon Dynamite) version of the ad that I'm not going to scan for you? Or because I'm obsessed with women's upper thighs? Not telling.

Anyway, even the very extremes of fashion marketing, i.e., the awful, awful maternity swimsuit models, teach us that you're supposed to have a good 2-3 inches of space between the upper section of your thighs. (First of all, what I would like to know is who has a perfectly right-angled, flat cooter?)

Yesterday, at lunch, John and I were discussing how we could tell, on our own bodies, the difference between being in shape and out of shape. I won't comment on John's baby he's growing, but when I said that being in shape vs. not being in shape = thighs touching vs. not touching, John said (BLESS HIS HEART AND LADIES, HE'S SINGLE) that thighs are supposed to touch and it's insane to think otherwise.

I'm not convinced. Based on the kind of shape I'm in, my thighs go from varying stages of pouring-all-over-each-other to not-touching-all-that-much, but I'll never have that 3 inch horizontal line dividing them, unless I stand with my feet more than shoulder-width apart. I'm not sure if this kind of thing is surgically enhanced in lingere and swimwear [small font: and nothing] models, but I'm guessing there's some guy who loves his job, quickly swifting the photoshop knife over any errant, jutting thigh to make a perfect Rectangle Of Evil. Dear guy with the cushy job, I hate you.

Also, speaking of Kip and full body shots, I'm going to keep my new banner up at least until quoting Napoleon Dyanmite stops being funny for me. Don't hold your breath, because I still quote Drop Dead Gorgeous almost daily and that came out in the 90s.

Visualization exercise.

Visualization exercise.

One of my lovely friends, with whom I fake a totally inappropriate relationship ever since our company-wide sexual harassment training ("hey there, have you been working out?"), expressed concern over the interest factor in my latest post. I know, I know. Books. Boring. But I'd like to suggest another perspective.

You know that one bra ad in magazines? With the hot sorority type in her sweet matchy matchy white lacy bra and panty set, with long golden locks of hair tumbling down bare shoulders, horn-rimmed glasses dipping all sexy-librarian-ly down her perfect nose as she shoots a classic come-hither look your way, with a book propped up against her bent no-touching-at-the-thighs legs? Got it?

Here's my assignment for you, Craig: just envision everyone in the previous post's comment box sitting in that pose (especially Matt Grace) with their recommended books on their laps, and maybe you will like the post after all. Does this help?

I aim to please.

Update: I found the ad and scanned it here. Aiming Even Harder To Please Since '05.

I also stumbled upon this timely site, About Face. About Face "promotes self-esteem in girls and women of all ages, sizes, races and backgrounds through a spirited approach to media education, outreach and activism." Take a look at their galleries - offenders and winners. Amazing, provoking stuff. I can't believe I remembered every detail of the Maidenform ad I described above. It actually makes me feel a little guilty and sheepish, knowing that I'm a victim to the marketing of the body.

Not to kill your buzz or anything.

Bookish.

Bookish.

This weekend, I finished reading Chuck Palahniuk's Survivor, and adored every minute of it. Until the ending. I'm not going to give away any clues here, because as we all know with Chuck Palahniuk, he likes to really hand you a mindfuck with his endings. I'm about ready to read it again, only backwards, as the chapter and page numbers so subtly suggest. Other than being completely blown away by my own cluelessness, I really enjoyed the book. As usual, I've learned so much usable trivial knowledge from Palahniuk, peppered amongst his mad plot.

However, since then, I've started reading Jeffrey Eugenides' Middlesex, and again, am adoring every minute. Yesterday, I brought the book to work to read at lunch, only to gaze at it longingly all day, wondering if people would notice if I snuck in a few pages at my desk. At lunchtime, I settled into a shady table in our outdoor atrium, and managed to read a few lines in peace before someone came over and practically had to shake me from the book to get my attention before asking, "do you mind some company?" My brain said YES I MIND SOME COMPANY I'M TRYING TO READ HERE but my mouth so diplomatically said, "sure! sit down." Today, I will be avoiding all social contact by scurrying away to an off-campus park. I'm about 120 pages into it, and if anybody would like to join me, pick this excellent prize-winning novel up and hop to it. We can have a little internet book club.

Many months ago, I promised myself I'd read 25 books while I'm 25. It's getting awfully close to August again and ergo me no longer being 25, and I've knocked off somewhere between 4 and 7 books from the list, a far cry from the 2+ per month I had intended. Also, those 4-7 books have been solely Palahniuk and Sedaris. I'm almost done with their entire catalog, along with Eugenides (once I finish Middlesex), and therefore, I hereby beg you for new suggestions. What books totally swept you off your feet? I have a hard time with fancy Jane Austen stuff and long winded landscape descriptions. I like edgy writing and beautiful, difficult themes. Sex always helps. Ready, go:

I didn't think my Office Bathroom Hate could get any worse.

I didn't think my Office Bathroom Hate could get any worse.

My much-publicized hate-affair with the work bathroom has officially reached the outer limits. There cannot possibly be anything worse than this.

The other day, as I began my Official Routine with the TP seat wipe, and I noticed something floating in the water. It was, I kid you not, a used sanitary napkin. A FUCKING USED PAD. Very clearly used, and face-up. How can people flush and zip up their pants and leave the bathroom, going back to work knowing they just left their feminine waste floating face-up in a public toilet? Who raised these people?

I ran out of the bathroom and never looked back. Actually, that's a lie. I spent a few critical moments to wash my hands and get a piece of paper towel for the door handle. I don't think pad-floaters are hand-washers, you know.

I ran into my good friend in the hallway and frantically whispered, "dude, the most disgusting thing just happened in the bathroom," but was quickly interupted with a look of desperation and "I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT." Don't you wish you had the same luxury? I'm sorry I had to share this with you all, but surely there are grosser things out there. Surely this isn't as bad as I think it is. Right? (Please say yes please say yes please say yes.)

Math Love.

Math Love.

Because it's Cop-Out Week here at my blog, what with the posting about the weather and all, I'm going to continue with that theme and post something I wrote in an email to someone else. Sorry, I know. But there's a math problem at the end! Join in!

i'm stupid. let's say you had something that once cost $40.19 to print, and then all of a sudden cost $226. how would you figure out the percentage price hike? get the difference between the costs and then divide that by the higher #?

can we also state for the record that my grades for three semesters of science-major calculus in university were A, A+, and A. i feel i need to redeem myself.

let's not state for the record that i had a crush on my TA Tom Langley and that's why i tried so hard to get good grades.

Anyone who gives me the right answer gets to share my undying math love with Tom Langley and my coworker, the email recipient, who quickly fired back the formula and is almost as cute as Tom Langley but doesn't hold regular office hours or anything exciting.

I figured out the answer, of course, but math is fun and I know you all want to play.

Chirp.

Chirp.

Yellow and fragrant daffodils on my desk, a skirt floating loosely around my waist, toes peeping out of pretty shoes, and bright sunny skies.

It's spring and Julia is happy.

In other not so much springy and sunshiny but definitely delightful and snarky news, I stayed up until midnight last night reading through the Go Fug Yourself archives. I'm especially fond of their Mischa Barton obsession.

Fuel.

Fuel.

This afternoon, I finished up work early and ran my intervals training (Fartleks) around where I work. Then, I had a few hours before I was expected at Sarah's house, so I had big plans to buy shoes, eat, and take a bath. However, just as I pulled into the parking lot at the shoe store, I heard the voicemail beep on the phone and realized I had missed a call or two. It was Erik, both times.

I called him back, and he informed me he had just run out of gas. In the Prius. Ran. Out. Of. Gas. In. A. Fucking. Hybrid.

Clearly, I still have mixed feelings about the event. On the phone, I told him to start walking towards the gas station and I'd head that way and pick him up or meet him there. I didn't tell him I was outside the shoe store.

At this point, I hung up the phone, turned off the car and walked into the shoe store. This, if nothing else, is clear evidence of my awful personality. I quickly located the pair I had my eyes on, found my size and quickly paid for them without trying them on, and then got back in the car as if nothing had happened. What shoes? I was driving this whole time!

It was actually really embarassing standing on the side of the road filling up the Prius gas tank with one of those little red jugs. I felt like I'd let down the entire population of Prius owners. Non-Prius owners were driving by and surely laughing. Possibly dozens of families have now written off the Prius because it's obviously not as fuel efficient as you want it to be.

In addition to the shame, it was also slightly frustrating. It turns out that my husband not only ignores the blinking "E" on the gas gauge and the "!!!ADD FUEL!!!" beeping message, he also lacks several life skills, like using the little red jugs for when you run out of gas. In a rare turn of events, quite possibly the only time in my 25+ years of existence, I was completely prepared with paper towels and lighting, and completely skilled for the task at hand.

"Just go away and get my headlamp out of my purse in the backseat and hold that for me or something," I said, not realizing until now, as I write this, that Erik would also see my new clandestine, assistance-delaying shoe purchase in the backseat. He hasn't mentioned it. I don't think I would either, were I a husband who just jeopardized the health of our shiny new car because I forgot the fuel light came on and then had my wife do all the work.

I'd totally let her enjoy her shoes in peace.

Trouble

Trouble, thy name is Julia.

Listen.

Ray LaMontagne's "Trouble" was my Song Of The Day yesterday. You know the type, where you listen to it non-stop one day in complete adoration, planning out mix-CDs revolving around it, etc, but maybe the next day it doesn't really hold the same value. It's like I had a one night stand with Ray LaMontagne (yum) and woke up, rolled over, and wondered what on earth he was doing sleeping next to me. Don't get me wrong, it's still a fabulous song, and the whole album is so lovely and romantic and perfect for driving home on a sunny day. Maybe I overplayed it and forced it into a morning-after-guilt quarantine.

Or maybe I'm just having a hard time understanding him. Is the woman saving him or driving him completely mad? Both? If so, I'm pretty sure I've been that woman. I guess that explains my love-hate relationship with the song. It's about me and I'm not happy to admit that.

So listen to the song, wear protection, and tomorrow let's post as if it never happened, okay?

A direct hit of the senses you are disconnected

A direct hit of the senses you are disconnected

I'm floating in a space between over- and under-stimulation and really have no way or drive to get out of it. Coasting, with a laundry list of convictions half holding me up and half crushing me.

I'm somewhere between smart and a fool, between give and take. I don't feel like I'm creating anything. Producing, cultivating, improving, growing, making, inspiring, impacting not much at all. Though, I'm not ruining anything either. Those things I touch don't fail like they sometimes seem to.

I'm disconnected but I'm feeling everything. It's all vivid, it's everywhere, it's pumping through my body, but it's just not here. My purgatory is self-created, self-sustained, self-destructing and it's neither good nor bad. I know there's something better I should be doing, feeling, wanting, giving, but I can't find it and don't know how to look for it.

It's just on the tip of your tongue, and you're so silent.

It's not a rut, because ruts sound like they have teeth like gears and are hard and prickly and something in particular is stuck in the gear, stopping everything with a loud noise. I'm smooth and easy and there are no loud noises. It's quiet. I'm silent. I'm not stopped, I'm gliding.

It's not bad, it's just not right.

Come along, fool.

[lyrics: Chan Marshall/Cat Power]

Significance

Significance.

Some days, I feel like I have done nothing to contribute to societal productivity except eat. And I'm making quite an economic impact today. If you simply must, please send your thank you cards to the usual address.