Reflections.

We celebrate the New Year year after year. And year after year, I forget that the date has changed yet again, and I write the old year on things well into March.

This year, 2009, was the first exception to this lifelong rule.

My resolution in 2008 was to take at least one picture every day. I posted them online, sometimes, and I had a little folder on my computer where I kept the chosen daily photos. Some days I had tons to choose from; other days, I had to work to find something to take a picture of.

I was doing pretty well at it, overall. I only had a couple of days where I fudged and stole pictures from other days. At the end of the year, I wanted to have a cute little photo book: My 2008 in Snapshots. And I was well on my way.

I gave up my resolution on July 9. I didn't even touch my camera for weeks. That was a time I most definitely did not want pictures of.

The year 2008 was supposed to be one of the best ever. It turned out to be... not the worst, necessarily, because a hell of a lot of good ended up coming from it, but certainly the most tumultuous year to date. And it was a year I was glad to be putting behind me, come the end of December.

Not once in 2009 have I written the wrong year.

Quite a few good things have happened this year. It's a year I'm happy to leave behind, because I'm excited to be moving forward, but it's a year I was thrilled to be in.

I have a feeling I might once again have trouble writing the correct year come January, but only because I can't quite wrap my brain around it. 2010? Really?!

Bring it on.

Oh hai December!

Well. I didn't quite reach my goal with my November-blog-a-day challenge, which was to squeeze in 30 entries by the end of the month. I did manage to make it to 20, though, which isn't bad considering I didn't start until November 9th. So that's that. Maybe I'll blog more in general now; maybe I won't. Oh, the suspense!

There was snow on the ground this morning. It put me in a much more Christmas-y mood. Naturally, I'm now watching Love Actually.

Before 9 this morning, I got a free oil change, free car wash, and free gas-station-esque cappuccinos while I waited. A very productive day.

Now I'm sitting around waiting to see if they'll call me in to work today. Yesterday they had me sitting ready reserve, which means I have to be at the airport in full uniform and wait around for them to call me for a last-minute assignment. No call ever came, so I spent nine hours at the airport without stepping foot on a single plane. I read a lot about Sparklepires (more on that later) and went home at 11 with a pounding headache that quickly dissolved into migraine shakiness nausea death pain. Ugh.

I was planning on cleaning my room today and organizing the Christmas presents I've bought already, but so far... well, the most productive part of my day was the part before 9am.

November 30th.

Oh, frick.

November 29th.

I watched the whole Vikings game today. It might be the first time I've sat through an entire football game, not counting SuperBowls (which I barely watch) and the one game I attended once.

November 24th.

I'm off work today, for just one day, and I finished a 4-day yesterday and I start another 4-day tomorrow. But then ends the crazy jam-packed month that is November! The end is finally in sight.

Pam and I are baking pies (which I won't get to eat until after my next trip, sadly). I love pies.

My schedule came out, and I did not get high speeds, which means I'm on reserve. I did, however, get all the days off that I wanted! I have next weekend off, so I can celebrate Eric's birthday; I have bell choir Sunday off; I have big choir concert Sunday off; I have Christmas Eve and Day off; and I have New Year's Eve off!

I am a little nervous about how the month will go, though. Will I get called constantly because it's cold season and Christmas season and people will be calling in left and right? Will I not get called at all because people are afraid to call in sick this time of year and I'm at the top of seniority in reserves so they'll only use the few people at the bottom over and over? Who knows!

The good news is, it's only one month. I know I can once again bid for a normal schedule next month, I know I'm not stuck on reserve indefinitely. There's something comforting about that, something nicer about putting yourself on reserve than being forced into it. Oh, and I guess it's pretty comforting to know that I got all my wanted days off. :)

I was trying not to get excited about Christmas, since I didn't know if I'd have it off, but now that I know that I do, bring on the Christmas music! Despite reserve, I'm suddenly very much looking forward to December.

Oh goodness, I have so much shopping to do!

Tidbits and things.

I get bored at work occasionally, and I fill my time by writing future blog entries, or shopping lists, or to-do lists, or Christmas present lists, or lists of what I would do with the money if I won the Powerball. One of these days I'll take a picture for you of what my papers look like by the end of a trip. Sometimes (like the paper I'm typing from right now), I just have one big sheet; other times I have five different smaller ones covered in messy blue ink. I write upside down and sideways, to distinguish different trains of thought from each other. Many of my blog entries stem from these almost indecipherable handwritten pages.

I actually had an entry written and ready to type up that I could have posted on the 22nd, but I have a pattern going, and I knew which two entries I wanted next. (I don't know if you've noticed my pattern. It was unintentional at first, but once I noticed it, I had to keep it going.) Those two entries were also written up and ready to go, only I'd written them on my last trip and left them at home on my days off. They were quite long, and I liked the way I'd started them, so I just decided to wait instead of posting what I had and interrupting my pattern.

But now my pattern is filled in, and it's time for this random entry, filled of tidbits that I wrote on my last couple of trips. Welcome to the things that happen to me at work...

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You know when you can feel a hair tickling your skin in your cleavage but you're at work and there are passengers sitting right in front of you and you can't reach in and dig around to find it? Yeah, I hate that.

I like to try to sneak peaks of what passengers are reading. A sentence, an author, a chapter title. I don't know why, but I get a strange enjoyment from it.

I don't particularly love wine or beer, but serving them to other people and knowing I can't have any sure makes me want some.

It seems pretty common in the airline business for everyone to have certain airports they get stuck at more often than others. Mine are St. Cloud (which is sadly closing soon), Peoria, and just recently added, White Plains.

Usually flight crews make an effort of avoid airplane lavatories when at all possible. We had an hour delay the other morning, during which we were stuck on the airplane with no heat (just the crew, the passengers were luckily waiting warmly inside, though I'm sure they didn't think themselves lucky). We all had quite a bit of coffee. Despite all three of us having used to lav just before we started boarding, all three of us had to make the walk of shame all the way to the back of the airplane to use the lav during our reasonably short one hour and twelve minute flight. As a bonus, though, that meant I got to be in the flight deck twice during one flight!

Why do people insist on ignoring me? All day long. They pretend they can't see me, standing at the door as they board, or hear me tell them good morning. They stand up AS I'm saying the words, "The captain has turned the seatbelt sign on; please return to or remain in your seats and ensure that you seatbelt is securely fastened." They release their seatbelts as soon as they land, and ignore me asking them to keep them fastened until we're at the gate. (This is a particular pet peeve of mine, actually. Would you take off your seatbelt in your car just because you're in a traffic jam? No, because you're still driving. The aircraft is still active, there are still other vehicles and other planes around, we are not yet parked, so keep your effing seatbelt on. It's not going to help you if you stand up two seconds earlier; the door is still going to open at the same time, the jetbridge is still going to take two minutes to be lined up. So please, just hold your freaking horses.) They lean their seats back as soon as I sit down, despite the fact that I just asked them to please make sure their seat-backs were all the way up for takeoff and we haven't left the gate yet. They ignore the garbage bag that I walk down the aisle with, instead opting to leave their trash stuffed into the seat pocket. They even ignore my smile and wishes for a good day as they exit. Why? Why do people hate me? Why do people think they're so above me? People ignoring me so insistently day after day might be contributing to my dislike of people in general.

Whoever designed the brand-new Wendy's at the airport seems to have neglected the fact that it is not, in fact, a regular restaurant, but rather an airport location. People are in a hurry, cranky, and most importantly, loaded with baggage. But no, the restaurant has no extra room to order, no designated spot in which to wait for your order, not even an inch of extra space between tables in which to stash your multitude of bags. And yet, I cannot resist the siren call of that little ginger hamburger-pusher. I have a weakness for lettuce on my cheeseburger. Even in the morning I can't stay away; who can resist $2 biscuits and gravy?

I swear, people think I have a secret route through the cabin that they can't see. After everyone has stood up and is waiting to exit, someone in the front will ask me, "Can you get my bag for me? It's a couple of bins back." Well, sir, can you get your bag? "No, the aisle is full of people, I can't get through." ... Exactly.

Some guy left me his number on a post-it note on the back of his seat the other day. No name, just a tiny hot pink post-it that said, "Cindy, Call Me 555-555-5555" (except with an actual number). I don't recall anyone on that flight making an effort to flirt or get me to notice them, which means either A - I am oblivious, 2 - he (or she?) sucks at flirting, or C - s/he really didn't make any effort to be memorable. I don't even recall who was sitting in that seat, though my pilots were all for finding out. (Is it weird that, on every single trip, I call the pilots I'm flying with "my pilots"?) I assured them that was unnecessary and would probably upset my boyfriend, which led them down a whole new path of ridicule. For instance, they hypothesized that the mystery-number-leaver was like a secret shopper for boyfriends, hired by Eric to bait me, to see if I'd call, or to see if I'd tell him about getting a number from a stranger, or if I'd hide something like that. My pilots then decided that it didn't matter that I have a boyfriend, and they wanted me to call the guy, and/or to get even more numbers. They even offered, on subsequent flights, to announce that I was looking for phone numbers, and they scolded me for hiding in the galley during a delay, telling me I sure wouldn't be getting any numbers that way.

I would sigh and say, you see? You see the shit I have to put up with? But it was one of the funniest trips I've had in awhile. It's nice when you can actually talk and joke around with your pilots, even if you are the butt of many of the jokes.

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In other news, I have Christmas off! More on that later.

November 1st.

Last year on Halloween, I was on a plane. It was my first ever trip on the Saab, my favorite beastly plane, and I was finishing up my inflight training. I impressed the pants off my instructor, whose last student left much to be desired and made me even more awesome in comparison. My very sweet-yet-weirdly-hardcore instructor showed me how to fill out the catering supply list, and she drew a festive little ghost for the caterers. She was wearing Halloween socks, which she told me were perfectly acceptable, as long as they are mostly black.

I got home in plenty of time to be able to drive to Duluth, where all my friends already were, and I called scheduling feeling hopeful. Note: Never call scheduling feeling hopeful. I told them I was off of OE (Operational Experience, aka inflight training) and wondered whether I would or would not be on reserve the next day. As it turned out, I would. My hopes sufficiently crushed,I went about my day at home, trying not to think of the mischief my friends would no doubt be getting into.

I was actually called for a trip the next morning (probably because I was the lowest person on the list, having just reached official status less than 24 hours previously), and that day I stepped foot onto the CRJ200 for the first time. A good plane, but not what I had in mind for Halloween weekend.


This year, I wanted to be home for Halloween. I wanted to dress up and go out, and I wanted to eat way too much sugar and drink way too much... sugar. *cough*

Jess was planning on a huge bash at her parents' house, with costumes and games and food and sugar and drinking and everything I could want in one convenient location. Schedules came out at the end of September, and lo and behold! I did not have Halloween off in its entirety, but I did get off by 2pm, which really is just as good. I was going to be Ariel, because I've strangely never dressed up as her for Halloween, even though I've loved her since I was five, and I already have the red hair.

Well, the party fell through long ago, as did my plans for Ariel (someday, though. Someday.), but we managed to scrape together a pretty decent time. I was a little nervous because, strangely enough, D was going to be there (that's the thing about having an ex-fiance - you still have a lot of the same friends!) along with, even weirder, his new girlfriend. Awk-ward! It turned out to be kind of awesome, though. There was a large group of us, and we spent most of the night at a gay bar, where some very compromising photos of almost everyone were taken, and where our group ended up somehow commandeering the stage towards the end of the night. It was an interesting night, to be sure, and I don't think I could've hoped for anything better, given the strange circumstances.

And I got my wish: I was home, I was in costume, I had way too much sugar, and I drank way too much.... sugar. Er, jag bombs have sugar, don't they? But I got even more than I'd originally hoped for, because I had a blast with my sister, my amazing bff, a friend who flew in Florida, and my very fantastic boyfriend, who very kindly put up with my obnoxious drunken self.

Plus, I was a lolcat. So that is pretty much awesome.







As a bonus, I discovered while looking through my pictures that my black pants were see-through in the stage lighting. It may or may not be time to invest in some new pants.

November 12th.

There are many important things happening in December. Near the beginning of the month, I think it might be someone's birthday. That same weekend, there's bell choir, in which I play five very important bells (most of the melody line of Ave Maria). There's the big Christmas choir concert, which I've never gotten to sing in before, and the very important rehearsals for said performance. And, of course, there's Christmas Eve and Day and New Year's Eve. Because of all these very important things, and because of my intensely busy November, I decided to take December off.

See, my company has been offering Company Convenience Leaves (CCLs) every month for quite awhile now. It is simply an unpaid month of leave, during which (with a few extra arrangements) you can still travel. I wondered if they'd even offer one for December, and I was thrilled when they did. I applied as soon as I saw the memo, and then had to wait and wait for the awards to come out.

Well, they came out today. Eighteen Detroit flight attendants got a CCL, thirteen in Memphis, and FIVE in Minneapolis. Yeah, I am not one of those five.

I may end up actually bidding to be on reserve in December, in a desperate effort to get as many of my wanted days off as possible. Oh, Lord help me!

[Nov 23: I did, in fact, bid reserve. I want high speeds, and if I don't get them, I'll be on call. I find out tomorrow which doom I face.]

November 21st.

Well, thanks to my crazy bff, I'm now in the middle of a (non-) Non-Competitive competition to see who can actually keep up with this daily blogging nonsense. This could get dangerous.

She's right about one thing, though; I am the Queen of Procrastination. (See how I capitalized that, like a real title?)

Today, for instance, I procrastinated on something very, very important. I had something within my reach, and I let the opportunity pass me by. See, I got in to White Plains, New York at noon today. White Plains is, supposedly, a mere forty-minute train ride to the city. The City. New York City. The place I feel an inexplicable draw to; the place I planned on moving to once; the city that never sleeps; the city I've never set foot in; the city where I planned to make my entrance into the world of editing.

But I didn't go.

I walked to downtown Armonk and had some delicious pizza. But I didn't get on a train to New York.

Ever since I saw this glorious 20-hour White Plains overnight on my schedule a month ago, I've been looking forward to it, to my chance to finally see New York. But then I got here today, and it just didn't feel right. The weather is great, yes. I brought a jacket so I wouldn't have to wear my way-too-big navy trench coat, yes. But I didn't feel like going alone, today, and I know I'd much rather explore an exciting new city with a good friend than with a virtual-stranger-pilot.

I guess I'll just have to wait until I have a couple days off and drag someone along with me. Any takers?

I CAN'T STOP POSTING ABOUT TWILIGHT.

I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE'RE YELLING ABOUT!

Oh wait, yes I do. Twilight. Ahhh. (That was a contented sigh, not more yelling, in case you were wondering.)

First: New Moon, the movie. Pam and I stupidly both waited in line for overpriced foodstuffs and the messiest Icee I've ever encountered instead of dividing and conquering to save ourselves some seats in our designated theatre. We were thus forced to sit in the very front row, all by ourselves, despite the obnoxious smattering of single seats containing nothing but coats and that comforting feeling of being a safe distance from strangers. Though the theatre was mostly full, it wasn't as rowdy as we'd hoped. Maybe the other screens, the theatres that sold out weeks ago with excited fans who wanted their tickets early, just in case, were more rambunctious than ours. But ours was definitely lacking in any sort of audience participation, which normally pisses me off but which had been my hope to experience during the midnight showing. I wanted to see the movie in a theatre full of people just as excited about it as I was. Instead, we were surrounded by people who, like us, had waited until almost the last minute to buy tickets, and thus were lacking in the enthusiasm we had so looked forward to.

But they are not the point. The movie is the point.

And let me tell you, the movie was good. Don't get me wrong; it was not good. But it was so good.

Let me esplain. ... No. There is too much. Let me sum up. (Name that movie, anyone?) Er, anyway....

Seriously, now. New Moon was, without a doubt, better than Twilight. And I love this story so much that, no matter how good or bad they made it, I'd be enthralled with any visual depiction of it. (This one, for instance, really gets me. Spoilers abound!) I'm not thrilled with many of their actors; they just don't look like the people in my head. But when is casting ever spot-on for a book-turned-movie? Though I must say that the actor that plays Charlie, Bella's dad, makes the perfect Charlie. So, ignoring the casting, and taking into account that it's simply impossible to include everything from a book in a movie, they actually did a really nice job. I will obviously own it, when I can. And it was so, so worth it to go to the midnight showing instead of waiting for my one measley day off this week.

Listening to the teenagers that surrounded us talk while we were standing in the Icee line, on the other hand... That's not worth anything. *shudder*

Now that I've bored most of you out of your skulls, let me move on to a new topic.

The Twilight books. Ha! I totally fooled you. This'll just take a minute though, I swear. Maybe. I've read them all twice before, but that didn't stop me from racing through them yet again. I get so sucked in to the story that I just cannot bring myself to stop reading, even if it means severe sleep deprivation. I was wondering at how stupid that is, considering I know what happens and I should be able to take a breather, when it occured to me that that's exactly why I can't put them down: I know what happens, and I just can't wait for it all to happen, already! Sure, I've read it happen before, but it's all so good that I just can't wait for it to happen again! They're that good. Seriously.

I know most of you don't believe me; but some of you do. And you understand. You know exactly what I'm saying.

Unless I really am insane, which is always a possibility.

November 19th.

Most days, I face a dilemma as I stand in my closet, trying to decide what to wear. My work uniform is not very flattering, to say the least, so I like to make an effort to feel as cute as possible at all other times. Sometimes that involves dressing up a bit, sometimes it involves a little more comfort; it's all about what I'm feeling cute in that day.

Today, I faced an exceptionally difficult choice. Which shirt should I wear: my black I ♥ Vampires shirt, my Team Edward shirt, or my very innocuous Forks High School Athletic Department shirt?

I settled for Team Edward. I figure he can use all the help he can get; poor Edward won't even be on his own team tonight.

November 18th.

Sometimes I think that my hair can sense when I'm contemplating cutting it all off, and it compensates by having an awesome day. Today, for instance, was such a good hair day that I just wanted to spend copious amounts of time staring at it, or hugging it. Yesterday, on the other hand, I wondered if I could convince it to be curly if I cut it all to somewhere between chin and shoulder length. Today wins; the hair stays.

I have weekdays off. Conversely, my friends have normal jobs. I like to meet my corporate friends for lunch, then, so that I can still see them and chat on my days off. It's very nice. It gets me out of bed at a reasonable hour, gets me out of the house and moving, lets me see my friends; but it mostly makes me jealous. Some days I long for a cubicle and a nine-to-five desk job.

Other days, though, I remember that, even though my November is terrible, sometimes my job gives me a random week off. In the middle of the month. For no reason. Without me even asking for it. And also I have great benefits, including free flights. And then I think, maybe I don't want to quit this job for a long, long time yet.

I woke up multiple times last night because I was SO. FREEZING. COLD. Time to put the extra comforter back on my bed, methinks. And I was so toasty warm went I went to bed, thanks to my lovely space heater. Alas.

Pam and I are going to see New Moon at midnight tomorrow. It's ok, I totally don't work until noon on Friday.

Oh, at Wingo tonight I was ONE AWAY from winning $800. Frickin O61. But I totally won the consolation prize of $50 in Target gift cards, so that's awesome. I feel consoled, for sure. Good timing, too; I need a bigger lunchbox.

That's what she said?

November 17th.

Stupid Canada. I'm so tired it hurts. My legs are heavy.

On the plus side, oatmeal + wine cooler = dinner of champions.

A few of my favorite things.

Kittens. Mittens. Kittens in mittens (see here - is this some form of [hilarious] animal torture, or just awesome?). Sunrises. Seeing other planes from my plane. Puns. Cheese enchiladas. Seeing the city (any city) from above on a clear night. Daffodils. Sweaters. The smell of cinnamon. Holding hands. Twist cones. Listening to Eric talk to himself. Bowling. Socks. Chapstick.

And watching people on my plane. I really love when there's turbulence and everyone bounces in their seats in unison: left, right, up, back down. Heads bobbing, elbows lifting off the armrests of their own accord. It always makes me smile to myself, just a little.

That doesn't make me evil, does it?

November 16th.

Blogging every day is hard. For one thing, it's suprisingly difficult to remember what I have or have not written about. But mostly, I'm just not that interesting! (See: Twilight babble.)

For example. Would you like to know what I did today? Here it is. I slept till noon; delightful. I got up, checked my email, ran some water through the coffee pot to get it hot. I made and consumed oatmeal and hot chocolate. I watched tv. I interneted some more. I showered, got half dressed. (If I don't plan on leaving my room, what's the point of getting dressed when I'm just going to have to put on my uniform anyway?) More eating, interneting, tv watching. And now I'm blogging. See? So boring!

It is exciting to me that I brought food on this trip. The only money I've spent was $1.05 to buy some lifesavers the other day. It's a nice change. Better for me (whole wheat pitas and vegetables and fresh fruits!), and much, much better for my wallet. So I guess that's pretty exciting, for me if for no one else.


The life of an airline employee is, at all times, up in the air. (See what I did there?) When we're not literally up in the air, our schedules are always always always subject to change, due to weather, or maintenance, or someone else calling sick; any number of factors can change our trip at any time.

Yesterday as I was getting dressed to leave my room, scheduling called me. It's never a good thing when scheduling calls you. She told me they had a change to my schedule for Tuesday, day 4 of 4. Instead of doing my EAU-RHI turn (four very short flights, none of which require a beverage service) and being done at 5:50pm, they were sending me on a Montreal turn on my least favorite plane and extending me two hours and thirty minutes, so that I'll be done at 8:20pm.

I think the woman I talked to was braced for me to start yelling; scheduling gets that a lot, and I do not envy their job. But, technically, they are allowed to extend me up to three hours on the last day if a trip, so what can I do? Yelling doesn't help anything. I said ok, thanked her for telling me, hung up and sighed. I'm not looking forward to the new turn, but on the bright side, I could use the practice, and I'll probably be able to get a Twix bar or two out of the switch.


Another reason blogging every day so hard? Having to type out entries on mypod! I swear I backspace just as much as I type. Maybe next time I'll leave all my errors in, for your decrypting pleasure.

November 15th.

I read New Moon today. All of it. In between flights, downtime during flights, in my hotel. I don't work until 5pm Monday, so I could stay up late to finish it. Did I mention I've read it more than once before? I think I'll start it again tomorrow, go slower, see what the movie might look like in my head.

(I actually finished it at about 2am, so I guess I didn't technically read it all on the 15th. But it was definitely wthin 24 hours of starting it.)

Oh, and I totally cried. Not at the bad part at the beginning, because I was sitting in the airport at the time, but a lot at the end. I love when I get so into books that they make me cry, or laugh out loud. Also, I may or may not be a huge sap. Whatever.

Non-Twilight-related post coming soon, I swear. Probably.

November 14th.

I am so in love with my hotel room right now. I actually brought a lunchbox full of food for this four-day, and it is delicious. This hotel room has a fridge, so I don't have to be paranoid about my meat and cheese. I have a ginormous bed, a big flat screen tv, and even a DVD player! Not that I have any DVDs to watch, but it still is a nice touch. Plus I started rereading Twilight, and as slightly ashamed as I am about my crazy fangirlness, I cannot deny how happy reading this book makes me. I'm already halfway through it!

I guess my only point tonight is that I'm in a really good mood, and it's been a really good day.

Also, I'm already in pajamas, and have been for over an hour. And I don't have to get up at a ridiculous hour in the morning. And I love the software update that I caved and bought for my pod.

See? Such a good day/mood that I can't even end the entry, because I keep thinking of new things!

Twilight spoilers!

You've been warned. There are spoilers to follow. Also, hilariousity.





It's pretty ridiculous how much I love these books. But I'm not ashamed. Mostly.

November 13th.

It's Friday the 13th.

I don't have a good voice today. For writing, that is. I can speak just fine.

This is approximately the third entry I've started today, and I'm just not feeling it.

Maybe it's the lack of caffeine. I'm on day six of no pop.... but I'm caving. There's a coke in the freezer getting cold for me. I think I'm just going to try to stop drinking pop at work and at restaurants. At home, there is no coffee, and I'm too much of a caffeine addict and pop lover to give it up altogether.

I think it's time to watch Love Actually. Again.

November 11th.

One of my fellow bell choir members told me tonight that I need to do less drugs before coming to bells. And that about sums up my day.

November 10th.

I had four flights today. Their flight numbers were 3373, 3337, 3377... and 3368. If you were trying to confuse the crap out of me, schedulers, consider your mission accomplished.

Today I took a nap in the crew rest room (not to be confused with restroom) for the first time ever. It was delightful. I dreamt of sushi, which was weird, and I left my coat in the restroom (not to be confused with rest room) afterwards, which was bad.

I am currently in the future (does that even make sense?), but it's not as exciting as it sounds. It's 8:43pm, and I'll be sleeping soon. This is considerably less lame when you consider that I've been up since 4 this morning, and my alarm is set to go off at 3:45 tomorrow morning. Ugh.

Tomorrow will be a very, very long day. But the evening festivities will make it all worthwhile. There are wings or bowling balls in my future. I don't know which yet, but either way, I'm stoked.

Blog!

I am nothing if not a procrastinator.

Somewhere in the middle of October, I found myself perusing the "How to Write Books" books at the bookstore. I looked at the cute little NaNoWriMo-in-a-box kit and thought how fun it would be to participate this year. (NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month, in which you are supposed to write a novel. In a month. It's about quantity, not quality, and it's to get you started and show yourself that yes, it actually can be done.) But, knowing myself as I do, I knew that I wouldn't do it. Or, even if I did decide to, I wouldn't finish. I did think, though, that it would be fun instead to try to blog every day in November. I made a mental note to attempt such a feat.

In case you didn't notice, it's November 9th, and my last entry was almost a month ago.

So that failed.

But I'm here now, so let me tell you a bit about how my life's been since that last entry. In a word: awesome. If I could pick two words, they'd be awesome and busy. More words, and things start getting worse (delayed. unscheduled. smelly. unhealthy.), but really, overall awesome.

I've had some great crews, including a crew on my least favorite plane, for a last-minute overnight that was thrown onto my schedule after a long day of being stuck in one tiny room wih a broken airplane sitting uselessly outside. As unhappy as I was with the change to my schedule, it ended up being one of the best times I've had with a crew.
My bff got and started a job. Not only am I happy for her about this in general, I'm also glad that she's actually liking it so far. A happy her is a happy us.
My cousin who has lived in North Carolina for the past ten years and who I often miss seeing evem when she is in town thanks to my job has just decided to move back to Minnesota.
And, of course, my awesome new boyfriend has given me a plethora of reasons to be smiley and awesome.

As for busy, boy let me tell you. Every month, flight attendants are guaranteed 75 flight hours. When I place my bid every month (aka when I tell the computer what I'd like my schedule to look like the next month, which days I need off, etc), I bid ti get as many hours as possible in as few days as possible, to maximize time off. This month, I also decided to allow my schedule to be built with only one day off in between trips instead of the standard two, in hopes that I would get a nice string of a lot of days off at some point in the month. I had no such luck. In November, I have the minimum number of days off allowed in a month (a mere ten), and 90 flight hours. 90. 90 is a ridiculous number of hours to have built into your schedule, especially for someone as low in seniority as me, and especially considering I didn't request more than the standard 75. In all of November, I never have more than two days off in a row, every single one of my trips is a four-day, and I only have one day off in between some of them.

As I said, besides awesome, my month has been (and will continue to be) busy.

There is a ladybug trying to find a comfortable perch inside my lampshade. Scared the crap out of about two minutes ago.

Anyway, now that it's the second week of November, I'd like to try my November daily blogging goal. I know, I know. You're probably thinking, "Cindy, how on earth will you manage that?"

I guess you'll just have to stay tuned to find out.


P.S. I was going to wait to post this so I could look it over on an actual screen instead of here on mypod, but in an effort to kick off blogmonth, fuck that, I'll just post it as-is. Please forgive any typographical errors. Erroneous "b"s are probably supposed to be spaces between words. Kthxbai.

Where to begin?

In reading through some recent posts, I realized a couple of things. Number 1: they're not all that recent. B: I'm effing emo. And lastly: many things have changed.

Right now, I'm wearing blue pajama pants, a brown t-shirt, and a horizontally striped black and white long sleeved shirt. I feel this is important for somebody to know, but I have no idea who. So, you.

It's officially winter, even though it's only early October. I know this because three of my nails have broken in the last two days, and my hands are all dry and red because I didn't put lotion on last night. Unmistakable signs of winter. Also, the snow on the ground and the delays at the airport today were a pretty good indication.

I was on the same plane for nine hours today. Literally didn't even step off to get food or use a real bathroom (stupid airplane lavatories). Shouldn't I be somewhere like England or China by now?

Remember that dating website I joined? Total bust. Not even one awesome person to be found. (Well, maybe just one...) And remember how I'm bad at dating, because I've never really done it? (That's what she said?)

Turns out, I'm not so bad at dating, I'm just bad at finding the right person to date. I've done it, though. I found someone who is pretty darn neat, if I do say so myself. He lives far away, but hopefully not for long. He took me to the aquarium, where I got to learn about seahorses. I love seahorses. I'm shy, and awkward, and he doesn't seem to mind. He watches HGTV with me. He holds my hand and says nice things and likes puns and seems to like me and plays board games with me and he's just making me so much smilier than normal lately, and I'm pretty smiley to begin with.

So there's that.

And other than that, pretty much everything is the same as always.


Oh, crap. What if I AM bad at dating, and he's just too nice to tell me?

Back by popular demand.

It's amazing how fast things can change, unexpectedly, and so much for the better.

I've been at my job over a year. I got a raise, and I can get some new uniform pieces for free, thanks to a yearly uniform money stipend.

Today I learned that mannequin is spelled with a q. Why haven't I known that all along?

Infants cannot be stored in overhead bins, beneath the seat in front of you, or in harnesses attached to one's own body. They must be held during taxi, takeoff, and landing.

Favre has beat every team in the NFL. I don't care who you are or how much you don't care about football, that's impressive. Also, go Twins. Minnesota pretty much is awesome.

I know a lot more than some flight attendants who have been at this job a lot longer than I. This makes me slightly nervous for our passengers. Why are you freaking out about emergency equipment comp checks? You should know this stuff. What if you had an emergency? You should already know what to do! I read my trashy vampire book while my classmates demanded silence in the cafeteria (yeah, good luck with that one) and frantically paged through the review booklet.

Well, not all my classmates. One of my favorite women from our new hire initial training is in my recurrent ground school class this week. I rarely see her around the airport, so I was glad to see her on the list for class. She's one of the nicest people I've ever met. And her hair is like eight feet longer than mine.

Speaking of which, I almost died last weekend thanks to a horrific long-hair-plus-hair-dryer situation. If your hair is inside of a hair dryer and starting to catch on fire a little, how are you supposed to put that fire out when it's impossible to unplug the hair dryer from the wall? Luckily, it did not burst into flames in my hand, and I found the fuse box to ease my nerves even more.

Before that near-near-death experience, I was jinxed into death while driving a long distance in the rain. You can't just tell someone to have a nice drive and to not die. That's why you tell actors to break a leg instead of wishing them luck, and why you don't say "crash" on an airplane.

Luckily, though, I actually survived, and had a couple of the best days I've had in a long, long time. So good, in fact, that I have plans to repeat them this week.

In conclusion, in case anyone was wondering, I can and will kick your ass at Othello.

More than you ever wanted to know...

One day in eighth grade, we all filed to the library and lined up to have our eyes checked. I didn't think anything of it; I could see just fine. I covered my left eye and read all the letters perfectly. I covered my right eye and blinked. "That's weird," I thought. "Ahh, everything must be fuzzy because I had that eye closed. That makes sense." Only, I didn't have it closed, I had it covered with a piratey eye patch on a popsicle stick. I blinked a few more times, leaned forward, and read what I could. The nice lady at the table to the side told me it looked like I'd need glasses. I must have looked stricken, because she told me not to worry and assured me that "glasses are cool!"

It wasn't that I was worried about glasses being uncool; I was already uncool, and I'd made my peace with that. Hell, in kindergarten, I longed for braces, going so far as to get excited when one of my new teeth looked like it was coming in crooked and breathlessly asking my mom, "Do you think I'll need braces??" It's like I was begging to be a nerd. (Not that I've ever need the help of equipment of any kind to achieve nerddom.)

Alas, my teeth are very nearly perfect without the help of any metal at all, aside from the instruments that scrape them sparkly twice a year (and though my kindergarten self is no doubt disappointed, I am glad I never had to deal with braces). It looked like my eyes, on the other hand, would need some help. (Ha! Get it? Looked like? My eyes?) But as I say, I wasn't worried, just confused. Turns out my lack of difficulty seeing stemmed from the fact that my right eye not only needed no prescription, but was actually 20/15, even better than perfect 20/20!

And so it was that on December 31, 1998, I got my very first pair of glasses. (I also got my very first period that day. Because you really needed to know that.) They were round and gold and, frankly, quite terrible, though I didn't think so at the time. I wore them all through high school, and it never even occurred to me to get new frames when I got new lenses.

Having now worn them for over ten years, I've grown quite attached to glasses. Not that first pair, of course, but glasses in general. I think I look ridiculous without them. I did order contacts once, but I think I wore it (I say it, not them, because if you'll recall, my right eye needed no correction. I thought about getting a monocle, but there are just none to be had) maybe three times. I just like myself better in glasses. (I like boys better in glasses, too, in case you were wondering.)

Recently, I've been noticing a certain lack of clarity, a sure sign it's time for new glasses. My latest pair has treated me well, but when you have vision insurance, why not get an entirely new pair? So I did. My new glasses came in yesterday, and I'm so in love with them.

I hope black, chunky, rectangular glasses don't go out of style anytime soon, or I will be sorely out of luck. I'm going to be that old lady who looks ridiculous because she refuses to let go of the fashions of her younger self.

Luckily, I made my peace with being a huge nerd a long time ago.


Now, for your viewing pleasure, a pictorial history of my face.

Here's a picture of me in sixth grade, pre-glasses:

I know it's sixth grade, because you can see the bright yellow cast on my right arm. I wonder why I chose yellow?

This lovely specimen is from our eighth grade field trip to D.C.:


This is from, I believe, senior year of high school. Notice I'm still wearing the same round, gold glasses. Also notice, I'm meeting Christopher Moore. <3


The summer after senior year, it finally occurred to me to get new frames. I have a small head, and ended up getting a pair from the children's section. They were Barbie brand.

I look, what, 13 here? I was 18. This next one is just because it makes me smile.

Look how close I was to that panda!!!!

For my next new glasses, I upgraded to chunky and plastic.

Also from the children's section, these were brown on the outside and blue on the inside, and they had hearts on the sides. Hearts!


After those, I went to America's Best and got TWO pairs of glasses at the SAME TIME! Note: don't do this. Waste of money. I think I wore this first pair less than ten times ever.

Blue and metal and cute, I just never switched it up like I thought I would. Here's the pair I've been wearing for the majority of the past two-ish years:


And, at long last, the glasses I wore home yesterday:




Coming soon to a blog near you: a post about something INTERESTING!

...

Maybe.

Do you ever wonder...

...who the hell invented knitting? And how?!

...who the first person was to decide pineapples looked delicious and should be eaten?

...how language came to be? Like, how words came to be so specific, and how the alphabet was decided, and why things evolved in one direction instead of another?

...why people like horror movies and thrill rides so much?

...why sports figures get paid millions a year while teachers sometimes barely make a livable wage?

...what the point is?

Double

Someone once told me that it's like I have two lives: my family-friendly version, and the real version. I wonder who among us doesn't.

It's weird how knowing my readership (kinda sorta a little bit) changes what I write. It's weird that there are things I'm willing to share and discuss with virtual strangers, but wouldn't dream of telling my mother. It's weird that, if you were all indeed perfect strangers, you'd probably be learning a lot more about me right now.

Bonus! A milestone.

Two posts in one day? Quick, someone take my temperature!

Ahem. Anyway...


Just over a year ago, I was returning from Florida. I had a few more shot glasses for my collection, a few more freckles, and one killer pair of red suede pumps. The flight attendants on our plane were brusque, unsmiling, and generally not awesome. I knew I'd be better at it than them. I knew I loved flying. And then something clicked.

I didn't tell anyone my thoughts right away, but I went onto the website for the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. One by one, I looked up every airline they listed as flying out of MSP. Most weren't hiring, most weren't actually based in Minneapolis. And then, halfway through the list, my search was over. They were hiring. They were based in the Twin Cities area. To start the application process, you had to attend an open house informational session slash group interview; there were three coming up within the next week and a half.

It seemed almost too easy. It seemed like fate.

I donned my killer black pencil skirt and tucked a crisp white shirt into it. I pulled my hair back and put on one of my favorite pairs of shoes. I took notes at the informational open house, I rocked all the questions they asked and activities they had us do. I was tall enough and not too tall.

They told us we'd hear from them by that Friday (I think it was a Tuesday). By Thursday, I had an interview scheduled.

One year ago today, I was interviewed and hired on the spot. Within 45 minutes of my scheduled interview time, I was filling out paperwork and getting initial training materials. One year ago today, I became a flight attendant.

Of course, training didn't start until the 29th, so I have to wait till the end of the month to get my raise. But the one year anniversary of being hired at my very first full-time job ever seemed like it deserved a mention regardless.

The internet is really really great.

I've done it. I've joined a dating website.

Actually, I joined three. But two of them required payment to do ANYthing, which angered me, so I almost immediately canceled both of them. The third, though, turned out to be the charm.

Remember the passenger on my plane who asked for my number? I gave it to him with a smile, but I was unsure of my willingness to actually pursue anything there. He was clearly older than I am, but I was unsure how big the age gap was. I wondered to myself how much older I was willing to go. Five years? Very probably. Six or seven? Maybe. Ten? Now we're getting iffy. Well, he emailed me (I'd given him my email along with my number, because I'm very aware of my ridiculous aversion to talking on the phone, especially with someone I hardly even know), and I did what any woman of the 21st century would do when armed with a man's full name: I googled him. As it turns out, he's 20 years older than me. TWENTY.

Le sigh.

So I turned down RampManMcTextsALot (see: here and here), and now I'd written off my latest potential man. Contrary to appearances, though, I still was (am!) willing to date, willing to actually go out with someone. I just generally trust my gut about these things, and my gut was not fluttering in the good way with either of these guys. But I was running out of hope of meeting someone the "normal" way, running out of options in real life.

So I thought, well? Why not try online dating? It certainly can't worsen my track record... right?

In a matter of hours after creating my profile, I was inundated with messages. Talk about flattering. Not that I'm expecting anything to come of most of them ("Hey your cute lets chat?" Thanks but no thanks, sweetheart. I'm a fan of full sentences.), but some of them are actual people. If nothing else, it is quite the boost to my ego. Redheads get a lot of attention, it would seem.

So here I am. Putting myself out there, into the universe. And I think the universe might be noticing.

(I'm a fan of full sentences, yes, but apparently I'm perfectly ok with starting sentences with conjunctions on a regular basis.)

I have a few guys who actually seem interesting, and who I wouldn't be opposed to meeting sometime. Mostly I'm just intrigued by it all, and curious to see where it takes me. Adventures galore, or more missteps? An exciting combination of both? Only time will tell.

Just for fun, here is, verbatim, my favorite message I've received so far: "mmmm yummy"

Random Thoughts by Cindy

Whenever I see cars that are clearly weighed down in the back, I wonder what's in the trunk, and how many bodies it would take to make it so heavy.

The Wrong Vacation

As the Fallout reached its peak and ever so slowly began to wane, the Wedding Date loomed closer and closer. Out of nowhere, my mother decided to take action, to employ some evasive maneuvers, as it were. ("Out of nowhere" is not likely accurate. I was in my own little world of pajamas and pop and Sex and the City. EVERYthing was out of nowhere.) She suggested we go on a family vacation.

I was...unenthused with the prospect. My mother can drive me crazy sometimes, and I had, in fact, already made plans for myself for The Day, and they included much wallowing alone. I planned to disappear that day, drive aimlessly, go to the church and cry. The thought of a family vacation instead didn't exactly thrill me.

But mom was adamant, and kept suggesting destinations. None of them seemed especially appealing, until she hit upon Disney World. See, we never really took annual vacations as kids, probably because we lived in Texas and road-tripped to Minnesota for Christmas every year. That was enough of a vacation for our parents to have to deal with us on, so we never went places like Disney World. I did go to Disney World senior year of high school with orchestra, but it seems like a family vacation kind of destination. At her mention of it, my eyes lit up just a little, and I said, "hmm." That was all she needed.

I could produce no valid reason why we shouldn't go ("well, I really wanted to sit alone and cry that day" just didn't seem like it was going to cut it), so she planned and compared and clicked and booked, just as I had been doing for the previous 16 months, and suddenly there were definite plans in my future. The first definite plans since all my plans had been thrown out the window. Which, by the way, I just realized as I was typing it. I'm sure someday I'll figure out what the implications of that are.

Anyway, so I suddenly had these plans and I had to get off the couch and pack. So I did. And we were off to Orlando.

I can't tell you what the dates of our vacation were. I can't tell you which park we went to on which day. I can't tell you everything we ate, or did, or saw.

I know that in Epcot's Japan, we bought oysters that were opened in front of us and had necklaces made of the resulting pearl. I got a greenish-goldish colored pearl, in a much larger than average size. My sister, mom, and myself all had our pearls set in the same necklace setting. I was slightly jealous of my sister's blueish pearl; I love blue.

I know that I wore black on The Day, as a symbolic gesture for myself.

I know that all four of us stuffed ourselves into one teacup. And now I know that that is not a good idea!

I know that we convinced our parents to ride the Aerosmith roller coaster, and the resulting picture was so awesome that we bought it. I know also that we road DINOSAUR, and also bought that hilarious picture. (Did you know that I'm afraid of dinosaurs?)

I know we had fish and chips in "England," and we took a picture of me kissing a camel at the Aladdin ride. I know I bought a souvenir, a frame, that I haven't even unwrapped; it's hiding in the back of my closet. I know that we met up with some distant family members who live in Orlando, and Pam and I love our aunt-ish-lady who we never knew. I know that I bought a pair of red suede Kenneth Cole pumps that are to die for, but impossible to walk in.

I know that, when we flew home, our flight attendant was a bit surly, and I thought to myself, "Psh, I could do a better job than that."

I know that I did not have a single drop of alcohol or, as far as I remember, cry a single tear.

I also know, now, that this was the wrong vacation to take.

Most of the trip was spent in a depressed daze. I tried to pretend that wasn't true, I tried to be normal, but I'm not sure how good of a job I did. Clearly, there's not a whole lot of details I can give you about my vacation, though maybe that's normal after a year no matter the circumstances. I commented one day to my sister that Disney World wasn't really as fun and exciting as it seems like it should be, and maybe you just have to be younger to enjoy it.... or maybe, I realized after a short pause, you just have to not be me, right now, in the mental state I was in.

I will admit, however, that it got me off the couch. It got me outside. It got me smiling and laughing and eating and moving and breathing. It was the first tiny baby step that got me moving again, moving toward where I am now. In a sense, then, it was right, because clearly something had to give.

But, good or bad, right or wrong, perhaps most importantly, we all managed to make it through a multi-day stretch in Orlando without getting sunburned.

Irrational fear #16:

Getting rear-ended.

It's not such an irrational fear anymore, I guess, seeing as I did recently get rear-ended.

Oh, I didn't tell you about that? Right.

It was late at night, and I was driving home from my sister's house. The light I was driving toward turned yellow, and though I could have made it through, I decided to be responsible and stop. So I'm stopped at the light, there's no cars around, and I'm just waiting, when all of a sudden there's a noise and I'm jolted forward and there's a windshield in my rear-view mirror. I swore, put on my blinker, and pulled to the side of the side road.

This girl gets out of her car looking so terrified that, even though I was the one who got hit, the first thing I said was, "Are you alright?" She was young (I realize I'm young, too. I mean, she was clearly high school-ish age. I think.), and we determined that it was the first accident for either of us. We exchanged names, numbers, insurance information. We surveyed the cars and I was admittedly a little happy to note that hers appeared to have more damage than mine. Nicely done, car, way to be awesome. (My car still needs a name. Something fierce, because she has battle scars now. My dad suggested Elektra. Maude (Mod? Heh.) is also on the list. Any suggestions?)

I looked at my car again in the morning and saw that there was indeed some damage, but nothing really noticeable, and certainly nothing to file a claim over. So, incident forgotten, my car, her battle scars, and I have moved on.

Only now I'm paranoid. Even more so than I always sort of have been. I leave extra space between me and the car in front of me at lights, and I keep one eye in my rear-view mirror almost constantly. I yell at people who tailgate me on highways, and just am nervous in general.

I'm still a speeder, though. I never used to speed as much as I do lately, because I never used to have to drive during rush hour.

I think it's changed me, for the faster.

Dating is hard.

I've never done much of it, myself. Maybe that's why I find it so hard now. Or is it so hard because I've never really done it? Ah, paradox.

I've dated boys, kind of. Flirted, gone to dinner, called boys my "boyfriend." Or, sometimes, my "non-boyfriend." That one stuck around for a long time. But none of these things were ever real relationships, you know? There was always something off about them.

And then. Oooh, and then. When you find the man you plan on spending the rest of your life with, it's... I can't even tell you. It's the most incredible feeling.

You start planning things. Your wedding, your life. You see things unfolding before you in such a glorious way. You're secure. You know where you're going, where your life is going. You're happy. Happy.

But then. When, in the space of five minutes, your entire world gets turned upside down and ripped apart and the love of your life has broken you, it's... I can't even tell you. It's the most devastating thing.

You sit on your sister's couch and cry for weeks. You shower, occasionally, and then put your pajamas back on. You eat, when you feel you must. You stare, sometimes at the television, sometimes at nothing in particular, sometimes at words, empty words on a computer screen.

It changes you. So deeply, so completely.

You start to get over it. You put on real clothes and go outside. You go on a vacation (the wrong vacation, as it turns out - more on that later). You get cards and words of support and comfort. You put on a smile. You get a job, you move out of your high school bedroom (and into the basement, alas), and you just... try. You try to move on, to get on with things, to keep living.

I've done pretty well, I think. I love my job (most of the time), I've become even better friends with some fantastic people, I've realized how strong I can be, or apparently was all along. In some ways, I've really come into my own.

In a lot of ways, though, it's like I'm starting back from the beginning. I'm learning how to breathe, how to walk, how to move through life successfully.

Dating is not something I really excelled at in the first place, and now, now it terrifies me. Not that I've had a whole lot of opportunity to be actively afraid, until recently. I rebounded, I tried to put myself out there, kind of. With a safety net. A big huge safety net, and really no worries about my emotions at all. Things were going to happen, or they weren't, and either way, I was okay with it. Was I really just that laid-back about it, though, or had I sheltered myself? Have I built an insurmountable wall?

I met someone. Kind of. A passenger on my plane, who I had some really great conversation with. He waited for me to get off the plane at the end of the flight. We walked together. He asked for my number, and I gave it to him with a smile. As we walked away, he called out to me, "I promise I'll call!" And he did, within 12 hours. He left a very sweet message. I did not call him back. Yesterday, my phone rang. I picked it up to see who it was, and dropped it like a hot potato when I saw it was him.

Why am I so fucked up? Why can't I just take this opportunity and see what happens? Why can't I even let myself try to be happy?

I'm already finding things wrong with him, wrong with the situation, and I don't even know him. I don't even know him, it hasn't even started, and it's ruined in my head. I want to call him. Or, at the very least, I'm aware that I should want to call him. But the thought of picking up that phone... it sends me into a mild panic attack. So what do I do?

So far, nothing. I just do nothing. Because I'm paralyzed with fear, and doubt, and an inability to open myself to any possibility of good things because of the possibility of being hurt again. I cannot be hurt again. Not yet.

There are things that I want. Things I long for. But I think that I only let myself want things that, really, I know I can't have (or, deep down, don't really want, in the end). There's no fear of getting hurt that way.

I need some momentum. To break down these walls, that I've built around myself.

The trouble with English majors.

The thing about Literature (with a capital L) is, there's always more than one answer.

People say that there are no wrong answers, which is absolutely not true. But there certainly can be a plethora of right answers. There is always more than one way to read something, always more than one way to interpret this line or that, this reference or that combination of words that may or may not be a hidden reference. There's a whole world of possibility in every book, in every paragraph, and every interpretation can be argued and defended and appear equally right.

It's infuriating, really.

I got to a point in college when I longed for logic. A math class, a formula. Numbers, a right and a wrong answer. Results.

Sometimes the only way to know an author's true intention is to hear it from the horse's mouth, as it were. But what if s/he is long since dead and gone? Hope to hell they told someone else what they really meant? Or try to be content with the not knowing?

I myself don't really like the not knowing.

I should've majored in math.

Oh, hello July.

Ah, my dear readers. I apologize for my woeful absence. There is no excuse, really. Except that I don't think my life is exciting enough to blog about lately. But I could be wrong.

Did you know that when I have downtime at work (for example, I've finished my beverage service and there's still an hour left of flight time; we've just taken off, but we'll be landing in fifteen minutes, so I don't even have time to get out of my jumpseat; we've started our descent, I've made both pre-landing announcements, I've done my compliance checks, and now all there is to do is sit in my seat and wait), I often write down little tidbits to blog about later? Things that have happened to me, something I observed that day, or even just subjects I've been meaning to mention.

For example:

Little old man is reading Eclipse. Eclipse! Which means either he's very confused, or he's already read Twlight and New Moon! Love it.

The barf bag is not your personal garbage bag. Some people actually need to use those for their intended purpose, which is hard to do when it's missing from the pocket. If you don't intend to throw up in it, kindly leave it in the seat pocket for the next person.

And so on and so on.

The other day, a little old lady ("I'm almost 90," I overheard her tell someone) was sitting on my plane after everyone else was gone, waiting for wheelchair assistance. MSP is not often on the ball with wheelchair assistance, but that's a rant for another time. I sat across the aisle from her to chat while we waited (did you know it's illegal for me to get off the plane if there are still passengers onboard?). She told me about her son, and where she and her husband had been, and how that was the smoothest flight she'd ever had. Then she asked me some questions. "Did you make it through high school?" she wanted to know. I smiled a little, nodded, and said, "I'm 24." Her eyes widened and she actually let out a little gasp before telling me, "Oh! I thought you were 16!" I laughed and said I get that a lot, and proceeded to tell her yes, indeed, I went to and graduated from college, and certainly made it through high school.

It was only a little white lie. I'll be 24 in just over a week now. Around about the end of June every year, I start thinking of myself as the age I will be as of July 10 instead of the age I am until then.

Also, I thought 24 would be even more of a shock than 23, and I'm all about wowing people when I can.

Fun fact: I was due on July 4th. I was a procrastinator/sleep-in-er even before I was born! Can you imagine, though? I definitely would have believed that the fireworks were for me.

Five sure signs it's almost that time of month.

One: My boobs will be ginormous one day. I will definitely notice, and probably spend some time ogling myself in a mirror.

Two: One day, nothing will fit right. My pants will be too tight, my stomach will be visible in every shirt I try to wear. I will feel gross, and think to myself again how I really should start to work out. I will not make the connection until a couple days later.

Three: I will be super horny.

Four: I will have a LOT of extra road rage. A LOT. And I can have quite a bit to begin with.

Five: I will have a lot of extra rage in general, but mostly directed at my mother. By this time, I've usually figured out what's going on, and I feel guilty about the anger. But knowing doesn't actually make me not angry.

You'd think I'd just know to expect these things when I reach my sugar pills every month, but sadly, you would be wrong. Will I ever learn?

Wild-Eyed Bibliomaniac

Yesterday, I got an email coupon (say: KOO-pin) that I've been waiting a long time for: 40% off any one item at Borders.

Remember my Twilight obsession? I've been wanting to buy/read Stephenie Meyer's The Host ever since I finished Breaking Dawn (the second time), but ever the cheapskate, I didn't want to buy it at full price.

So I rallied myself (long story short, I had to call in sick for my trip that was supposed yesterday afternoon) and headed out.

My email koopin had also mentioned that all bargain books were buy two, get the third for free. I fully planned on ignoring that sale, as it just reeked of danger. But there were bargain books galore on shelves right in the door vestibule area as soon as I walked in, and obviously, I couldn't just ignore such a blatant display. I ended up with three books that I was super excited about. Sometimes I'll buy a bargain book just because it's a bargain, but these were books that I would have considered even at full price. I grabbed The Host, and I was out of there with four new, hardcover, awesome books for the low low price of $30! And there was much rejoicing.


The Host, Stephenie Meyer (author of Twlight); A Spot of Bother, Mark Haddon (author of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime, which I loooooved); Flush, Carl Hiaasen (who I've always meant to read); Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathon Safron Foer (author of Everything is Illuminated).

Score.

Today, I went to lunch with my sister, and after a meal filled with much coffee and much sugar, I was too hyped up to just go home. We settled on the most dangerous place ever for the two of us: Half Price Books.

I'll save you the story this time and jump straight to the climax: for just $32, I got nine books, a movie, a magazine, and a reusable bag.



Score of scores. I am not allowed to buy another book for at least a month. At least a week, anyway.

While I'm on the subject, I'd like to recommend Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games. It's young adult fiction (my favorite genre), an easy, fast read, and it's fabulous. I read it in a day. Also, Christopher Moore. I love all his books, but I always recommend starting at the beginning and going in order, not because you need to, but because he likes to reuse characters, and it's more fun if you already know them. The beginning is Practical Demonkeeping.

For now, I'll leave you with this, a picture of the reusable bag I got for 98 cents (minus 20%, because it was extra-20%-off-everything day):

My kind of town.

Sometimes, if I think just one good sentence in my head, a whole post will blog itself.

Sometimes, if I just log on and start writing, the screen will suddenly be full.

Sometimes, I stare at a blank, white box for a long, long time.


On Wednesday, I made the split-second decision to go to Duluth for the day. I had been pondering it the night before, but some of my texts didn't send, and I wasn't sure if people would be available. I went to Verizon, I went to Target. It was a nice day, and it felt good to drive. I got back on the highway and decided, yes, I'm going to Duluth. Right now.

I got 45 miles to the gallon. I listened to mypod, spilling music wonderfully through my speakers (in my first car, I had a set of battery-operated speakers that I would hook mypod up to for drives). I almost got blown off the road by the wind.

I went on a walk, I went to Green Mill, I went to the house with the murder room, I went to the house of brews. Er, the Brew House. I was going to leave that night, the better to be back in town to meet my grandma for lunch on Thursday. But I was ginger-peer-pressured and group-voted into getting tossed and staying the night.

So I did.

It was magical. I love Duluth. I love those people. I loved the whole world on my drive back home the next morning. I didn't have even a hint of a hangover (well, maybe a tiny hint, but not for long), I had a McDonald's breakfast burrito digesting away. The wind was gone, so the drive was smooth and easy. Mypod was being cooperative and playing great songs. The trees were varied and gorgeous shades of green. My favorite lake to drive past was looking fresh and vibrant. (I'm unsure what lake it is. Every time I drive by it, I think, "One of these days I'll get off at the next exit, find it, and take pictures." It's at mile-marker 220.)

Remember the seven-touches-a-day thing? These are the people with whom I can be close and connected. These are the people that breathe new life into me when I need it the most.

One asked me when I was moving back. I told her that when I win the lottery, I'll buy a house up there and visit all the time. "Just for the summer? Come stay up here," she tried to coerce me.

The city itself makes me happy, feels like home. It feels familiar (though still annoying) to drive up and down the pothole-infested roads. It's natural to drive downtown, park at Fitgers, and walk past the store with window manikins that always make me drool. The air revitalizes me with every breath. I don't know how I live without that lake in my backyard at home. As soon as I turn that corner on the highway (if you've ever driven there, you know the one), I feel calm, happy, home.

I'd give my right arm to live up there again, just for the summer. Or just for ever.

Seven.

I remember hearing somewhere once that a person should get seven touches a day. Hugs, handshakes, pats on the back, whatever, as long as it's physical contact. I don't recall what the exact reasoning was, but I don't think that's important, because the concept makes sense to me. I start to feel detached if I don't have some sort of physical contact with people, like I'm not actually connected to the world around me, but just floating about in it, somehow.

When I lived with my fiance, the seven touches a day thing was no problem. There were hugs and kisses and holding hands and hands on knees in cars and a whole realm of physicality between us. I didn't have to worry. I always felt connected. Grounded. Present.

It helped that I lived in the same town as all of my friends, and a lot of us are very touchy-feely people anyway, with hugs abounding. (Abounding? Is that even a word?)

Now, however. Now I have none of that. No live-in man who is required to touch me at least occasionally. No hug-happy friends nearby at all times. Some days I force my cuddling upon Jess, who tolerates me. Some days I shake hands with pilots. Some days I get hugs from people at church, and often from my parents. But it doesn't seem the same. It doesn't seem like enough. How can it be, when it sends a shock through me when a nice old man squeezes my arm as he leaves the plane? How can I be getting enough contact with the world when it startles me when my knee brushes a passenger's as I walk down the aisle of my plane? Clearly, it's just not. It's not enough.

Last night, I hung out with a very friendly group of people, half of which I barely even know. We all got a little bit tipsy, and after five hours of chatting and laughing and drinking, the night ended with hugs everywhere, between everyone. People I had just met hugged me. People I've known since seventh grade hugged the breath right out of me. And this after a night of casual contact, hands on arms during a story, arms around shoulders, hands on knees to make a point. Last night, with a large group of fairly random people, I felt grounded, connected, wonderful.

Why doesn't the world hug more? I think I would be a much happier person if my world involved constant hugging.

I want to feel like that all the time again.

I wish I had a tidbit.

What might one find at the Bosnian Supermarket?

Sometimes, I just really dislike driving with certain people. I think they are not good drivers, and I would rather be in my own car. My mother, for example, is not my favorite person to be a passenger with.

Since neither of us will be home on Mother's Day, I took my mom to see a movie tonight. "Ghost of Girlfriends Past." It was pretty good. I probably would have laughed at more parts had my mother not been the person sitting next to me, but I'm glad we went. She probably needs to get out more.

Today started out as a very bad hair day. It ended up pretty damn good, though. I've been loving my hair lately.

I'm much more productive when my sister has stolen my laptop and I haven't made the trek to go reclaim it. I cleaned my room hardcore yesterday. It needed it more than words can tell you. I've been doing laundry all day today. I'm still not even done, with both the laundry and the room-cleaning. My underwear drawer has never looked better, though.

When Circuit City was going out of business, I bought the most recent Hush Sound cd. Why I didn't purchase it sooner is beyond me; I love The Hush Sound a lot. Why I didn't even open the cd until is yesterday is even more baffling. I absolutely love it.

People keep trying to add me as a friend on facebook. Nice people, people that I know. People that don't need to see the kinds of pictures I have on facebook. So do I add them, and limit what they can see? Ignore their requests and keep my friends strictly college-only, as facebook was originally intended? Do I delete the incriminating pictures that are not classy but are, nevertheless, part of my history and evolvement? Or do I just blog about the conundrum and make up words like evolvement?

Flight attendants have to deal with a surprising amount of paperwork. Where do they expect me to keep it all? I don't have an empty file cabinet laying around, begging to be filled with green papers.

Who the hell gets colds in May anyway? It feels like it's on its way out. I sure hope it is. I have to work tomorrow, and passengers don't like a snotty flight attendant.

Oh, the layers!

Irrational fear #382:

People throwing their cigarette butts out the car.

That's not the part that scares me. See, I'm convinced that, one of these times, I'm going to drive over their discarded embers, and my car is going to explode. Maybe my fuel tank is leaking, and a drop hits the still-lit pile of ashes, ignites, and follows the stream of fuel back up to my car. Maybe I'm just crazy.

I know it doesn't make any sense. That's why it's an irrational fear.

But still, I cringe every time I drive over those stupid little orange bouncing embers. Every time.

It's probably just a result of too many action movies.

Good news and bad news.

Yesterday I did laundry and got ready to go to bed early in preparation for my early wake-up, because I was starting a 4-day this morning. I logged on to crewweb to check my trip schedule, as I always do the night before I start, and was surprised to find that I did not, in fact, start my trip on Friday, but rather on Saturday.

With my unexpected day off today, I did some more laundry, went to the grocery store and fully stocked my lunchbox, read some of New Moon, watched Twilight the movie with my sister, and went out to dinner with my parents. All in all, a very productive day.

I'm not in bed nearly as early as I'd like to have been tonight, but I'll survive. Tomorrow will be long, though, at a 13 and a half hour duty day. Ouch.

The bad news: I found out one of the turns on the trip is on the 900, my least favorite plane.

The good news: It's just two flights, and they're long, so I'll have plenty of time to do service for all those people. And there's a new rule that says probationary flight attendants can't work first class, so I know I'll be in back, which I prefer. Oh crap, except I just checked, and the other guy's seniority number is lower than mine, which means I HAVE to be the one to work the front, even though I'm probationary, I'm still higher up than him. Le sigh. But I do need the practice, I'm sure I'll survive. *crosses fingers* Anyway, my other good news point was that, since getting hired, my seniority number has gone from 821 to 552. Nice.

Status Updates:

Cindy...

... 's shin hurts.

... is a genius. The four-day she was sure started tomorrow actually starts on Saturday. Hooray for an unexpected day off!

... had a delightful lunch at the 50s Grill today.

... finished Twilight for the second time, just in time to watch the movie tomorrow.

... misses her cat.

... has a lot of laundry to do.

... needs to get laid.

... has sparkle power.

... enjoyed laying out in the sun today. Three cheers for 85 degrees!

... is far too obsessed with vampires.

... is thinking too much these days.

... misses you.

... is in desperate need of some chapstick.

... needs to get her bangs trimmed, and is too scared to do it herself.

... composes these in her head ALL THE TIME.

One of those days.

Today, as I was walking from the grocery store to the car, the cart I was pushing encountered a crack in the parking lot. A fissure, a chasm, even. The cart wheels immediately stopped their progress, sending the cart front tipping up into the air and my shin colliding with the bottom bar.

Ow.

You know how some people can't have a coherent conversation until they've had coffee? I don't drink coffee all that regularly, but I do know that you should probably not talk to me in the mornings. When there's nothing in the house to eat and I take a shower instead of scrounging, it's probably still a good idea to hold off on idle chatter. When we go to the grocery store, and I am surrounded by food, and it is 1 in the afternoon, and I still haven't eaten all day, you should really probably not talk incessantly.

If I lived in a place by myself, my life would be much different. Sometimes it might be lonely, but I think I would be much happier. I would not be confined to a freezing cold basement. I would not be judged on the length of my showers. The cupboards and the pantry and the fridge and the freezer would all be mine, and I would stock them well and much, much differently.

Some days I'm perfectly content with my current situation, and some days, I can't wait to get the hell out.

This is one of those days.

Update:

I'm officially crazy. Or beyond help, or something. I just went to Target and bought Twilight the movie, chips and dip, two impulse chick flicks (how can they expect me NOT to buy Sleepless in Seattle and 13 Going on 30 when they put them on sale for $4.75 right next to the register?!), and kitty litter. Crazy cat lady indeed.

At least I didn't buy chocolate.

Obsessed.

I have something of an obsessive personality. I latch onto things easily and with an iron grip. Until, inevitably, I tire of them and move on.

As previously mentioned, I was the crazy cat girl. Proof scenario one.

Proof scenario two: Harry Potter. Those of you that actually know me in real life know the gravity of those words. Those of you who don't, well, you'll just have to take my word for it. As some convincing evidence, here's a picture of me and a friend at the midnight release of book 7:



Dressed in HP shirts, with Gryffindor-colored scarves (conveniently also my college colors) (though the scarf on the right can't even masquerade as college-wear, because it has a tag that says Harry Potter. I bought it in York, for five pounds.) (Yes, that means BOTH of the scarves are mine.), holding my lovingly hand-crafted wand and a framed polaroid of friend and I with a cardboard cutout of Harry (I still have that framed polaroid. It sits on my bookshelf, propped up against my HP books. I'm not ashamed.) I think I read book 7 in a day or two. I know when book 5 came out, it was around my birthday and my friend made me a "Harry Potter Survival Kit" that included bottled water, a book light (in case my electricity were to go out), chocolate frogs and acid pops and the frappuccinos that you can buy at the store (to keep me awake), a jump rope (in case I got too slothy and needed some exercise), some cheese-and-crackers (for sustenance, obviously), and probably some other things. It was awesome and well-thought-out, but I didn't end up needing any of it because I read the book in something like fifteen hours. Whatever. Next.

Proof scenario three: The internets. In general. I live on them, and have for years and years and years. There's no way to even explain the enormity of this obsession, this addiction, so I'll stop and move on before you think I'm entirely crazy (though maybe you wouldn't be wrong).

There are many, many more proof scenarios I could throw at you, but, again, I'll stop and move on before you think I'm entirely crazy (though maybe.. well, you know), and I'll jump ahead to my most recent obsession: the Twilight saga.

Oh, my friends, please don't judge. Young adult fiction has always been my preferred genre (remember Harry Potter, from a couple of paragraphs ago? Add to that author Tamora Pierce, trilogy His Dark Materials, and really, half the other books on my shelves.), and will probably remain so for a very long time. So Twilight comes out, and some people notice and read it. And then more people read it, and then more, and suddenly there's all this hype.

I like to try to resist hype.

I don't know why.

I didn't start reading HP until book 4 was almost out, because there was hype, and I didn't want to get suckered in. But then I caved and read it and immediately understood the hype. But apparently that wasn't enough to teach me, because I am still always resistant to hype. I can't help it, it's like a defective gene I've got, or maybe it's just because I'm friends with so many judgmental elitist snob types (love you!), and we are above hype. But no, not me. Take me out of that "we." I'm so below hype it's crushing me. What? Anyway.

The point, I think, is that I finally caved and read Twilight. Devoured it, even. And then, since it was a borrowed copy, within hours of finishing it, I went to the store and bought all four books. And then I read them, within six days. It would have been fewer, but I was on a trip when I finished book 3, and I hadn't brought book 4 with me, so I had to quietly suffer through two Twlight-less days. I seriously considered buying book 4 at the airport and returning the other copy later. The only thing that stopped me was knowing I'd get zero sleep, and I had something like seven legs the next day.

Are you beginning to sense the scope of my obsession?

I'm looking forward to re-reading all the books, since I probably missed quite a bit, having read them so fast the first time around. I want to finish the other book I'm working on reading first, though (Three Dollars, by Elliot Perlman. It's a little beyond me at times, but some of the lines are just so.. so perfect. I'm enjoying it.) (I already finished the other book I was in the middle of when Twilight seized me, which was Christopher Moore's Fool, which I will no doubt discuss another day.). And I need my sister to finish the fourth book first, so that there's no chance she'll still be reading it when I, once again, so desperately need it.

I don't think the point of this post was "whoa that girl's crazy and you should probably stay away lest she get obsessed with YOU next," but I fear that's what you've gotten from it anyway.

Alas.

Maybe the point was, when there's hype, it's generally deserved, and I should stop stupidly trying to resist it.

Or maybe.. maybe there was no point.

Little punks.

Last night, I got a phone call saying my license plates were in. Wahoo! For some reason, I've been very anxiously awaiting my license plates. My dealer plates made my car seem obnoxious, noticeable, a target. Too shiny, too good to be true, not mine. So I happily made my way to my dealer today to pick up my plates. They're nothing good or funny or awesome, but they're plates, and they're mine, and they make me happy. I went over into service, and they put them on in about three minutes, took the temporary paper out of my back window, and I was off and away! Of course, they put dealer plate holders around my plates, which is probably why they want to put them on for their customers themselves, but whatever, I'll get rid of those soon enough. (Sure, they've been great to me, but really, I don't need to be a driving advertisement for you, thankyouverymuch.)

I needed to pick up a couple of things at Target, so I toodled over there, feeling pretty fancy with my new plates. Middle schools had apparently just gotten out, so there were buses EVERYwhere. I didn't think anything of it; why would I? I pulled up next to the back half of a bus and waited at a stoplight, trying to find a good song on the radio. I heard kids arguing and talking, which seemed standard. Then I heard someone yell "Bitch!" at someone else, which was jarring coming from a middle schooler. But whatever, kids grow up faster and faster all the time; just because I didn't start swearing until high school definitely doesn't mean that that holds true for anyone else. And then, just as I was getting tired of the darn light already, somebody from the bus threw something at my car.

Now, I have no way to prove this. I don't know who it might have been, or what they might have thrown. But I do know that I was at a standstill, as was all the traffic around me, when something hard and loud hit the side of my car.

I was pissed. A brief inspection at Target showed no scratches or noticeable damage of any kind, but still, I couldn't believe some little shit had that kind of audacity. What has become of innocent children? What would possess someone to throw things at a stranger's car?

I really have no point. I was just angry.

At least my windows were closed.

Long overdue, but mostly just long.

Oh dear. Where to begin?

My car was dying. Leaking oil in two places (one halfway up the engine), leaking coolant, it had an ever-expanding crack across the top of the windshield, and it was sixteen years old. I'd been talking about getting a new one soon-ish anyway, so we decided it wasn't worth it to put the necessary funds into it, and instead, I would start looking for a new car. Well, I decided that, and my parents were surprisingly supportive. I thought they would try to talk me out of it, say it was silly, tell me I couldn't afford it. But they were all for it.

So I started researching. I got recommendations on cars, makes and models, I searched dealer websites and consumer reports and manufacturers websites. (Did you know that in AP style, the proper way to write it is Web sites? Now you do.) I decided I like hatchbacks better than anything else. Probably because of this little girl:




Ahh, my first car, my first love. She was a 1987 Honda Civic Hatchback. Two shades of blue. The turn signal played a tinny version of "Love Me Tender." And oh, did I ever love her tender. She fit all my friends, she had lots of storage, she was easily recognizable in parking lots. She didn't have a radio, so I bought a mini boombox, like this:



and we bungie-corded it into the dash, in the empty space where the radio should have been. One day, when my dad was changing her oil, he found an extra-long philips-head screwdriver nestled in the front bumper, long since lost and forgotten. She could make a u-turn on any street. In short, she was a treasure. Pure sassy delightfulness.

She died on me one April day as I was driving up 19th in Duluth. Any of you who may be familiar with Duluth know what a steep hill 19th is (for those of you unfamiliar, it's one of the main drags up and down the big hill towards campus). I was driving up the hill, trying to go to class, and she just up and died. Nothing. Not even a stutter or a putter, just dead. I managed to steer her over to the side, kind of. I had a moment of panic, and then I put her in neutral and backed her down the hill onto a side street, and called D, who had Triple A. That was the last time I ever drove her.

I got a new car in June. A 1993 Toyota Camry. I would post a picture, but I'm really just not sure I have any. It was a car, and it was a decent car. But after the love I felt for my first car, what could possibly compare? The camry had no sass, no personality, no turn signal music. But it treated me pretty well, and it drove me everywhere I needed to go. It didn't have air conditioning, which we decided was going to be a problem when I was scheduled to move to Arizona, so while I was down there, my parents had the AC system overhauled for me. Bliss. I didn't move to AZ after all, but I sure did have a nice, temperature-controlled car.

But then, it started leaking oil. Everywhere. I could be parked at Target for an hour, and there would be a little oil spot in the parking space when I drove away. We took it in and found out how much it would cost to repair, and even our trusty mechanic said it probably wasn't worth it. He told me that, as long as I was good at checking and adding oil regularly, it would last me a few more months while we looked for a new car.

So, as I said, I researched. I made a spread sheet. I debated. I search carsoup. I knew I wanted to take my dad test-driving with me, which I knew was going to be difficult. My dad is the kind of guy who will outright ignore any question you ask him until he feels like answering it. That could mean twenty seconds, or two weeks. I kept asking, and then hinting, and then almost begging. "Hey dad, I have ALL of next week off. Wouldn't it be fun if you took a day off and we went test-driving? Yeah, that'd be awesome." He'd just sort of chuckle and turn back to the TV. We both had a Saturday off one day, but he didn't even mention the possibility of car shopping until I had already made plans to visit Duluth for the weekend. Talk about infuriating.

Finally, one day he tells me, "I took a half-day on Friday." VICTORY! My mom had left town on Wednesday, and so knew nothing of our upcoming adventure. Knowing we'd actually be shopping soon, I intensified my carsoup searches, and found a few specific cars that I wanted to go look at. A Honda Fit, a VW Golf, and a couple of Priuses. I knew a Prius was likely out of my range, but oh, how I loved them.

Friday came, and the Golf was no longer on carsoup, so we decided to skip the dealership it was at. I took my lovely father to lunch, and away we went. The first car I got in was a Fit, and I didn't like it. I felt like I didn't fit in it, strangely enough. Also, the windows were uber tinted, which threw me off a lot, and turned me off of the car even though I knew it was removable. It just didn't feel like the car for me.

Then I got into a Prius. I loved it. It was smooth, and magical, and even though the pedals would take some getting used to, it just felt right. I didn't like the particular one I was in, however, so we bid farewell to our salesman and headed to an actual Toyota dealership.

We got into a Prius. It had a back-up camera, an audio jack for my ipod, heated side mirrors, cruise control, a smart key system (which means you never have to get your keys out, they just have to be in close proximity to the car and you can get in and start it, like magic), and it was blue. Not two shades of blue, but a beautiful, rich shade of dark blue.

I drove it around some side streets and took it on the highway. We got back to the lot and just kept wandering around the car, looking in the trunk, sitting in the back, sitting in the front. The salesman left the car for a second and I told my dad, "I want this car." When the salesman came back into the car, I asked him, "So, what kind of a deal can I get for my trade-in?" He looked a little surprised, probably not expecting me to a buy a car at all that day, much less the first one he showed me. "You want to see what we can do for you for this car?" "Yes."

By 7.30 that night, I had my old car emptied, my temporary license on my new car, and was home with the keys. When my mom came home a few days later, completely ignorant, the first thing she said was, "What did you do?" Luckily, she said it with a smile.

I had to leave on a 4-day for work on Saturday morning, and it was the longest trip ever. All I wanted to do was get back home to my new car.

My friends call it my spaceship.





Home, in my driveway, with SNOW on it (I was very offended about that):


Me and my new baby:

Blasted wind.

I smile every time I see it, I think it's adorable, and I love that it's both a hatchback and a normal-ish-looking car. I just feel so happy and lucky to have a car that I love again.

I love Shakespeare.

Like a lot.

I loved everything about last night.

My sister and I went to the Guthrie for Beer, Burgers, and the Bard. We had some burgers, some beer, and then watched a 50s version of Two Gentlemen of Verona. Then we went to Applebee's for some mozzarella sticks and a little more booze.

We got all dolled up, and I loved my outfit. My mom made me a new shirt, and we tore apart what used to be a dress and made it into a skirt. Some of the shopping I mentioned in the last post was accessories to go with my new outfit, all of which I loved. Even my shoes make me smile every time I wear that pair.

We people watched while we ate, and got offended that a lot of people don't feel the need to dress up to go see a show. A staggering number of people were wearing jeans, and one man had a baseball cap on. Really? I know the night involves beer, but you can't even put on an unwrinkled shirt?

Our seats were front row center, and they were amazing. The girl next to me had her purse in between her seat and mine, and it was totally leaning into my seat so much that it looked like it was my purse, not hers. I found it strangely offensive and hilarious, and my sister and I had a good giggle about it.

The show was excellent. Shakespeare should always involve singing and dancing and 50s clothing. I want to marry every actor that was in it, and I wonder again why I was too damn shy to be in theater in high school.

The girl with the purse and her boyfriend didn't come back after intermission, which made me sad. I hope they just sat somewhere else and didn't leave. Who leaves Shakespeare right in the middle?

Our post-show mozzarella sticks were delicious, and I had a green beer for the first time in my life.

I have a new life goal: I want to see every Shakespeare play performed live. So far I've only got two, I think. I saw Twelfth Night in Stratford-upon-Avon, and Two Gentlemen of Verona last night. I've got quite a ways to go, and I'm stoked.