I know, I know…it’s been twelve days since my last post, which was merely a rant at that. Life has managed to take over for a spell, but things are back in balance again and I’m fulfilling my posting duty once more. But I digress.

Here’s a little-known fact about the White House press office, which makes me really like them. At the end of the daily White House briefing that they fax to a myriad of endpoints around the globe is a section called “Last Laughs.” Every day, they publish the political jokes—specifically those about the current administration—from the previous evening’s late night television. I’m mildly ashamed to admit that it’s the only reason I pay any attention to the briefing—I don’t think I’ve actually read the meaty parts more than twice, and both times were probably motivated by an unusually intense surfeit of boredom. The Last Laughs are a great read, and it gives you the sense of last night’s late night stuff without having to sit through it. I’m a big fat fan.

So what’s it like in my world? My dinner companion of last night posed this question to me midway through our entrees, and I’ve been kicking around the answer since. I think at the time, I responded that it was bizarre (true) and loud (also true), but I think there’s a lot more to it than that. I’m really struck by what I would say if I had time to think about my response, and among other things I’d have to answer that it’s lonely—very, very lonely. I don’t say that to garner sympathy or to complain, because it’s not a condition that I specifically lament. I think it’s always been that way, because I’ve always been isolated in some way. I have an uncanny talent for finding people who disappoint, or who desert, but I think it’s more than that. It seems like I tend to think on a different plane than most people, and that is probably a major source of isolation no matter what your surrounds look like. Being lonely isn’t always a bad thing, but perhaps I’d say that about anything that’s characterized most of my life. Funny. As to how I would characterize the rest of “my world,” that’s going to take some further thought.

I submit the following piece of information into the Ways In Which My Jackass Tendencies Are Self-Destructive file. Recently, I rather skillfully managed to slice the tip of my own finger with a potato peeler. Before you offer any sympathy let me clarify that it was while attempting to prove to myself that I can totally peel potatoes with either my right or left hand…you can see where this is going. In my defense, it was a really small potato, and I peeled over 75% of it before slamming the peeler into the tip of my right index finger. It bled like a stuck pig and finishing the peeling without bloodying the potato was more than a little tricky. What can I say—at least I’ve never gotten involved with chainsaw ice sculpting or anything outwardly dangerous like that. No, I find injury in the most benign of situations. It’s a talent, really.

A few weeks ago, on my way home from work, I arrived at an intersection near a community college where I make a right turn every night. I rolled to a reasonable (but not really complete) stop—call it a decent pause—and proceeded to turn. As I rolled across the crosswalk, a young woman, presumably from the college, began walking across the street about 15 yards in front of my car. Please note at this juncture that my vehicle was in the process of passing the crosswalk, therefore the woman in front of my car was nowhere near it. It wasn’t clear whether or not she was going to wait for me to pass before crossing, so I did a little pause-and-go dance and waited for her cue. Finally she decided to march right across, but not before she pointed aggressively at the intersection behind me and screamed “stop sign!” Does anyone else find the sweet, sweet irony in the jaywalker criticizing me for failing to come to a complete stop? Hey, I’m all for stopping at crosswalks, but if there’s one in sight and someone is readying themselves to dart across at another point in the street, I’ll be damned if I’m stopping. I don’t like to encourage that sort of thing. It’s like letting people make ridiculous left turns at places or times of day that absolutely warrant a creative right. I just can’t support that kind of stupidity. Someday, they’ll probably thank me.

No list today, I promise there will be a good one next week.

And so ends another week, which has been surprisingly busy. Monday was my only obligation-free lunch day, which practically never happens. Sadly, having lunch appointments every day of the week doesn’t mean a week of great food. All I can say is that the bar really can’t get much lower for large-event catering in this city. Twice in one week I found myself a luncheon where I was denied the opportunity for coffee. The hell?

Anyway, the motivation for this non-Monday post is that there’s a PSA I need to get off my chest (ahem, so to speak). I can’t for the life of me come up with a truly witty lead-in for this so I’ll just come out and say it. Men of the world, and particularly this city and even more particularly my workplace...STOP LOOKING AT MY BREASTS. Good grief guys, they don’t talk, and they aren’t in any danger of falling off my body, so please stop checking in on them. I am not even close to kidding, this crap is ridiculous. Yesterday, during a break of the BOARD of DIRECTORS meeting I am required to attend, a rather prominent economist couldn’t even manage to limit the back and forth action between my face and my rack to non-subtle eye movements—there was actual up-and-downage of his head. For crying out loud, are we in high school? Actually, I take that back. You see, I teach test prep classes for high school students and I can say without reservation that the 16-year-olds are significantly less obvious or disgusting about their chest-leering. It’s truly appalling, and I hate it—particularly in my workplace (where there are unfortunately about four blatant, repeat offenders with whom I interact on a daily basis). I don’t really get it, either. Mine are fine, but they aren’t *that* big and certainly not what I would describe as remarkable. Every other person has them, and to be honest, they’re kind of weird. But if you find them attractive, hey, that’s your deal…just stare when it’s appropriate and not while I’m talking to you about planning a conference, mmmkay?

Once again, a solid piece of evidence in my Boys Are Stupid file.

Happy Monday! As another week rattles off to a riveting start (cough, sputter, chortle), I continue to ponder the possibility of attending law school. I’m considering becoming a certified mediator to gain some perspective into conflict resolution and all that jazz. I think I might actually be quite good at it since the challenge of applying reason and compassion without (or in spite of) emotion appeals to me greatly. Actually, the continual logic-emotional conundrum of our legal system as a whole fascinates me to death. I just love the painful challenge of applying black-letter law in a uniform manner—overcoming the urge to bend it in cases that appeal to us emotionally. The fact that we can only make the system work by applying it to everyone equally is such a bittersweet pain for me, and I love it—like poking at a sore muscle. It’s hard to explain—a bit too cerebral for me to articulate very well.

I don’t think I’ll do a list this morning—I definitely haven’t been thinking about it for the past few days and therefore don’t have anything rattling in the forefront of my consciousness to deposit into readable form.

My latest guilty pleasure is to watch syndicated episodes of Felicity on WE every night. One thing I absolutely appreciate about the schedule is that they legitimately air an episode every single evening. I hate getting attached to a syndicated show during the week and being stranded without it on the weekends. Okay, okay, so I know that says a great deal about me and my relationship with the 13” box on my dresser, but let’s ignore that for a minute. I love watching Felicity for several reasons. 1) I stopped watching on a regular basis when I left Bryn Mawr and it’s nice to catch up on what happened to the show. 2) While at Bryn Mawr, I watched it with a wonderful friend (Kateka) rather religiously and seeing reruns brings about all sorts of nostalgia for sitting on the floor of her room on the miserable third floor of Denbigh Hall (commonly knows as Den of Bitches—that was a bad year to say the least). We would watch and dreamily sigh that that’s what school with boys must be like. Oh, how wrong we were…well, sort of. 3) And this piggybacks on to the end of number 2—there are many pieces of the show that do, in fact, remind me about many good parts of college, and I miss that. As much as everyone is sick of school by the time the graduate, I think there’s a certain sense of insulation and timelessness at college that can’t really be duplicated anywhere else. Even amidst all the growing, the changing, the self-doubting, and the confusion, college felt like one of the safest places I’ve ever been. 4) I take a sick sense of delight and joy is watching the characters make ridiculously bad choices and I shriek at them with unabashed judgement. What can I say, I love watching people screw things up when there aren’t any consequences. 5) Though there are pieces of the show that bear no witness on anything even remotely resembling reality, the writers actually managed to nail a bunch of things on the head. I find myself watching and nodding (at least internally) at many of the things the characters experience. There’s some truth there, though you might have to wade through Keri Russell’s hair to find it.

So if you read this blog on anything like a regular basis (or if you sporadically flip through the archives), you know that I am entirely and unapologetically single right now. I can’t decide how I feel about that. On the one hand, it’s fabulous and I am extremely pleased to have nothing in the way of romantic distractions or obligations to clutter this already confusing time. It’s especially freeing whilst I search for a grad school decision since I can change my plan radically from day to day without feeling like I have to justify my complete about-face to the person on the other side of the bed. That said, I greatly miss having someone over there. That’s the funny part—even though I would admittedly love to have someone around to talk with and horse around in the kitchen, it’s the physical contact that I miss the most. I am a very tactile, kinesthetic person and after all is said and done, I greatly prefer to have someone to drape myself across and just feel. It’s not even a sexual thing…just tactile. *Sigh*, yet another thing I can’t really explain. Sadly, there really isn’t a solution for isolating that need and filling it. I’ve been there before—Mr. Drama has stayed over for purely close sleeping and it was some of the best sleep I’ve ever had—but I’m pretty sure that was only possible given the long and varied path our relationship has taken. I think you have to pretty much exhaust any sexual tension that may lie between you before friendly bedfellow situations are possible, and that takes both time and inevitable pain before that point is reached. Sadly, the recent (arg, not so recent anymore, I guess) introduction of Mr. Drama’s future bride has wholly squelched the possibility of that ever happening again. I’m still a little skeptical about that whole thing, if you can’t tell. (See the entry for the week of November 25 for the backstory on Mr. Drama.)

So I don’t know where that leaves me, and that’s probably the most honest and complete statement I can make about the whole relationship issue at this time. I really don’t know what I want. That certainly isn’t to say that my ambivalence should be seen as refusal to accept possibilities or opportunities that may present themselves to me. I guess I’m more in line with entering a We Shall See mindset for the time being.

And see we shall….

Monday was several days ago and I’m just now getting to my weekly entry. Deal with it. My dad came to town and I was out of the office until yesterday. We had a super time—no horror stories of any sort to report (and to those of you who were willing it to happen so you’d have something interesting to read, shame on you.)

This week, I’m furtively plugging away at my on-going quest to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life. The current thought is law school. Okay, okay, stop shouting…it’s just a thought at this point. Here’s the thing about law school, well, really things since it’s a multi-item list. 1) All I have to do to get ready to go is take an LSAT and fill out the app. Since I spend a decent amount of time teaching others to beat standardized tests and am rather good at taking them myself, the LSAT isn’t much of an issue. No additional prerequisites, no gratuitous expanses of time before I could even hope of entering. 2) I am extremely attracted to the idea of putting analytical absolutism into a verbal realm. Essentially, it would capitalize on many of my strengths, and there’s something really seductive about a field you’d undoubtedly be extremely good at. 3) Piggybacking on number 2, there’s an absurd amount of rote memorization, which is one of my annoying strengths. At last, something to capitalize on my ability to recall information in excessively mundane detail. 4) Holding a JD elicits the kind of instant credibility and respect that I (sadly) require in my professional sphere. I could probably convert number 4 into a non-issue with a few months of therapy.

Anyway, we’ll see. I came across a few books that look like they’ll be helpful reads in determining whether this is the thing for me. Part of the struggle here is that I’ve always been so diametrically opposed to the idea of going to law school. I’ve just always thought of it as a big yucky place for yucky people—and definitely not for me. However, I don’t think I’ve ever really looked beyond the hype and stereotypes to see what law school is really all about and what one can in fact do with a JD (many, many things). So we’ll see.

Without further ado, here’s the list.

Things I Like
• My car. No, I love my car. The nice folks at the body shop finished their work and liberated me from rental hell earlier this week. Not only did they do (as far as I can tell) good work with the repairs, but they did a substantial job of cleaning the car as well. The exterior is so clean and shiny it looks new, and the interior has been shampooed, vacuumed, deodorized, and armor-alled within an inch of its life. Seriously, my car hasn’t looked or smelled this good since I bought it. Welcome home, baby.

• Cooking Light magazine. I just started getting this, and it’s great. They have some truly wonderful recipes (although the copy could stand a few more editing passes—some of the writing isn’t all it could be) and a nice variety of complexity. I’m a fan, a great big fan.

• Borden’s new calcium-enriched milk. I am shamefully delinquent in my calcium intake, and this is a great answer to my whining about consuming “so much dairy.” One cup has 45% of my daily requirement. What an idea! Seriously, with the technology and resources available to the FDA and various agricultural and nutritional councils, why has it taken this long to reach this result? It’s laziness, I tell you.

• My mom’s almond roca. The box of my Christmas overflow came yesterday—I send one to myself from my mom’s house every year filled with whatever doesn’t fit back into my suitcase. One of the items in this year’s box was a tin full of the almond roca we made while I was home (read: I stood in the kitchen watching rather uselessly as my mom made the candy). This stuff has heroin-magnitude addictive properties and is without a doubt one of the best comestibles in the history of the world. Unfortunately, it’s nearly impossible to make on an electric stove so I probably won’t be putting together my own batch any time soon. I’ll just have to savor and ration this batch as long as humanly possible. Sigh.

• Orlando Bloom. Oh my good lord, this man is hot. In case your connective mind is failing you, he plays Legolas in the Lord of the Rings movies. Though I admit I find the long blond hair of his elfish character more appealing than his natural dark hair (an odd upset as I’m generally not prone to blondes), I wouldn’t kick him out of bed no matter what his hair looked like. Sadly, this is one of those celebrity crushes of mine that’s still in the stage of absolutely denying the fact that we’ll never so much as meet. If anyone knows him, kindly pass along my contact info and be sure to emphasize that I make the world’s best cinnamon rolls. Who could pass that up?

Things I Don’t Like
• The shoes I’m wearing today. Sometimes cheap shoes are a hit and sometimes they’re a miss. These are a miss. They were certainly cheap, and I suppose when I bought them that I was hoping they’d be another frugal hero much like the other pair from the same brand has been. I was sadly mistaken. They’re a smidge too tight, they make an odd squeaking feeling when I walk (though surprisingly not a sound), and the angle/placement of the heel makes me feel like I’m always slightly off-balance and should therefore step with caution. Not a good choice.

• The sound of fingernails being trimmed. One would think that this wouldn’t really be an issue for me at all, since I don’t live with anyone and it isn’t an activity people normally conduct in the workplace. Sadly, the bounds of normalcy don’t apply to my workplace. The manager who sits behind me was clipping his nails about half an hour ago, and I’m still aghast. Are you kidding me with this crap?

• Paying bills. This is why I need a husband, seriously. I can’t even tell you why I hate paying bills and dealing with balancing my checkbook, but I do. Having someone else to pass that task to is one of the shining advantages I see to marriage. That, and gift registry.

• My job, and many of the people who work here. Let me just say this: incompetence coupled with ambition is a dangerous, smelly thing.

Today is definitely gearing itself to be a contender in the top ten slowest days ever. I think I’ve been here at my desk for just about an eternity, clearly longer than a workday, yet it isn’t even four yet. Amazing. I think I’ve aged markedly in what the clock claims to be the last three hours. More like three days, if you ask me. Actually, this rate of aging is pretty good, because I’ll be able to swing by the post office on my way home to drop of my application for Medicare as I will clearly be past retirement age by five o’clock this evening.

Last night I saw a local commercial for a restaurant in a neighboring suburb. It wasn’t bad, as local spots go (though I still stand firmly against the entire practice of people writing and producing their own ads) until they aired the name of the restaurant: “The Potatoe Patch.” It’s been about 18 hours and I’m still speechless. Yet another sign that I should really get the lead out on launching my CompetencyNow! campaign.

You know what I’m really sick of? White male privilege. Or perhaps, more specifically, the sense of entitlement our society has bestowed upon men, mainly white men but not exclusively, for centuries. To be fair, I should probably note that this isn’t a problem limited exclusively to Western society—take a looksie at really every major civilization since, well, ever and you’ll find a bevy of problems that are essentially rooted in the struggles of men whose sense of entitlement has been infringed upon. The short version of this phenomenon can generally be termed “Boys Are Stupid,” because that’s pretty much what it comes down to. I guess I wouldn’t take such issue with this whole problem if the typical response pattern didn’t involve a) expressing oneself through violence and/or vandalism, b) pouting, moodiness, and general obstinacy, c) moral indecency such as theft, adultery, and other sundry corruption, and d) the transferring of blame and responsibility for the issue in question to whatever woman happens to be in range. Though I adamantly contend that women can be unseasonably obnoxious to deal with in times of ire, I have to say that I really prefer the self-loathing/take things personally approach to the male invective. I guess it’s a personal preference thing, really. What exactly is it that has prompted men from the dawn of time to prove about themselves? I just don’t get it. Relax, guys—the neurotically domineering thing is far less attractive than you think. And misogyny? I don’t think so.

Totally unrelated, my dad is coming to town tomorrow.