Happy Blogiversary Part 2: Favorites

So, I asked for your favorite posts when I asked for questions, and got two great responses.

First, April's:

I did not find the one I was looking for and would like to request (I think it was written for Pride day/week maybe last year and is advice for straight parents).
However, I did find a shocking number of posts that I somehow missed, including a new favorite, "From," which you should also re-post.

And Joe's:

Your odyssey to upstate NY and the car troubles you encountered almost brought a tear to my eye. It's like they say, you can't make this stuff up. [Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4]
But, you know me, CMC. I can also be 12 years old sometimes. Which is why my other favorite posts were the ones that contained the word "pally." 

But April also asked what my favorite post is. And yadda yadda they're all my babies yadda couldn't pick just one, but whatever. Of course there are some I like better than others. So you're getting one per year of City Mouse Country.

• From Year One: Sometimes you feel like a nut
• From Year Two: Rick rolling
• From Year Three: Train the Trainer 
• From Year Four: Playing (and Replaying)
• From Year Five: Obviously, the Plattsburgh saga. But since that's already shared, Biden Time will do.

Also, I feel like I should give some love to the post that has garnered by far the most page views (as in, five times as many page views as the post in the #2 slot), Bang, bang. I am the warrior., which is seriously unworth reading but just goes to show you, a lot of people want images of straight-across baby bangs.

So, what am I missing? What were your faves, from any year?

Day 20 of my month of gratitude: As I said earlier, I am thankful for positive feedback. I am double-thankful that some of you keep reading at all. Thanks, friends.

Happy Blogiversary Part 1: Questions and answers

Woohoo! It's Blogiversary #5!

Aren't you so excited?

I know I am.

So, let's start with your questions and my answers.

Genny asks: This may have been covered before, but I'd love to know why you started blogging!

I assume you're asking why I started City Mouse Country. CMC didn't start as a blog. It started as a series of e-mails to my old friends and coworkers in D.C., some of whom had expressed, er, concerns about me, who they'd only known in the city(ish), adapting to country livin'.

Naturally, I adapted gracefully and graciously, but not without a few mishaps that needed documenting. That appears to continue to be true.

CMC is not my first blog, however. Why I started blogging in the very first place was that my boss and close friend went on maternity leave in 2005, and a handful of her friends, ring-led by me, decided we needed a place to share pop-culturey things from the internet, plus stories of our office antics, to entertain her. It had a little resurgence during another friend and colleague's maternity leave in 2007. It's still available online for those who know where to look.

So, pregnancy? I guess. Yes. I started blogging because of pregnancy. But not my own.

Mike asks: Do you ever think (to our detriment) you perhaps shouldn't be giving this material away on a blog, but writing and publishing the old-fashioned way? (Not that they're mutually exclusive... but that some of your stuff is "too good" for this medium?)

I never think that. I don't even think it now that you've put it out there. I do sometimes think the good stuff I write here deserves both more fleshing out and a bigger audience, and I periodically work on doing that, particularly with the queer stuff when it hits a chord with my mostly straight readership. But despite being a professional writer and/or editor for roughly 13 years now (What?! How the hell did that happen?!), I have sort of a block around thinking of my writing as something that can or should or even could make me money.

That is probably something I should discuss with my therapist. Or a career counselor.

Regardless, I love this format, mostly because I love exclusively positive feedback, which is a luxury I have here because so few of you are reading.

Mike asks (elsewhere, but I'm a little bit grasping for content here): "Stromboli" sounds like it should be the plural of something. So is this convenience store hot pocket a strombolus (or, if you prefer, not a strombolus)? 

Apparently, "strombolis" are named for Stromboli, which is named for Stromboli, which, according to Wikipedia, "is a corruption of the Ancient Greek name Strongulē which was given to it because of its round swelling form." Who knew?

Anonymous asks: If you could automatically have any talent at all, like world-class level, what would you like it to be? 

It'd have to be something where talent alone was sufficient for something. Like, I'd hate to be a world-class-level rock singer, because then it'd still be so much work to get recognized, and I might not ever, and I'd know how much better I was than rock stars who were more popular that I was. That would be sad. And even if I was a world-class-level talent at brain surgery, no one would let me practice without a medical degree, and I am too old for that stuff.

Oh! Sales.

I think if I was a world-class-level salesperson, I could do whatever I wanted, kind of, including selling things, which would let me make huge commissions and then do what I want with my free time and money; or fundraising, which would allow me to support things that are important to me; or selling my own secondary talents, which would enable me to make a living writing whatever I wanted... yeah. I pick sales.

That is probably the most boring possible answer to that question. Well, they can't all be stromboli, know what I mean?

Anonymous also asks: What is the difference between gay and queer, and which one is appropriate for those of us who are neither to use?

I know what you want is for me to give an actual answer to this question, and I'm sorry, there isn't one, exactly. I can (and will) give you my answer to this question, but it applies only to me. Sorry.

Gay means, usually, someone who is attracted to or chooses to date only people of the same sex. It's used more for men than for women, but most women who are attracted to or choose to date only women will not object to it.

Queer is an umbrella term. It includes a range of both sexual and gender identities, including certainly gay men, lesbians, bisexuals, pansexuals, trans folks and genderqueer people, but also other people who identify as queer and don't fit entirely into any of those categories. It also sometimes but not necessarily has political connotations. Queer is complicated, because it has been used hurtfully, and continues to be used hurtfully, a lot.

I identify as queer. I like it because if there is another label for what I am, I don't know it. I also like the political connotations. You have permission to describe me as queer. I do not recommend describing other people as queer unless they've told you that they prefer that term and are OK with non-queers using it to describe them.

Really, your best bet if you wonder how people identify is to ask them.


Rebel McLeod asks: Name three passions (or something approximating them). If you followed them with enough zeal, what sort of Muppet would you be?

• Drumming
• Violence
• Shouting

I'd be Animal.

Oh, wait. Three passions of mine?

Funny, Rebel, I believe you and I have discussed that my passions are fleeting. That said, three of my less-fleeting passions seem to be:

• My niece and nephew
• Supporting queer youth through my example
• The letter W

...and I don't think Bert knows my niece and nephew, but everyone who does loves them, so that sounds like Bert. Right?

April asks: What is your favorite post — or one of them — and why?

What a great segue into our next blogiversary spectacular post! I'll get to that there.




Day 19 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for questions and answers and those who pose them and those who indulge mine. Those of you who know me in real life know I love both asking questions and demanding their answers. Thank you so much for celebrating this milestone with me. Oh, and if this inspires any of you to chime in with questions of your own, ask 'em in the comments. I'll answer any I get by midnight tonight.

Life savers

This timely-if-somber reminder came down from a friend on Facebook yesterday (ripped off entirely without his permission):

Friends: It's the holidays, and for a lot of people these are really fucking hard times, particularly for friends who suffer from mental illness, who are going through hard times, people who are misfits or queers. A friend recently wrote, 'tis the season for suicide. I want to ask you all to check in with the people you love, smile at a stranger in the store, put change in a meter that's running out, reach out to the people around you (and let that love right back in). You could be saving a life.

Day 18 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for my own (relative) mental health these days — and for access to the professional and personal support I need to sustain it.

Also, all, y'all, if there's anything I can do, this time of year of any other, please let me know. A big hug to each of you.

Friendster

Aside from making me all gushy about love, the wedding had the side benefit of introducing me to some fantastic new people, which, naturally, has me thinking about how many people-meeting situations I've been in in the last few (five) years.

In D.C., most of my social circle was directly or indirectly:

• from college, or
• from one of my two jobs.

Of my close D.C. friends, I can literally think of only one exception.

In New Hampshire, I like my colleagues, for sure, and have gotten close to a couple of them, but it is less of a family, which has both pros and cons. And there's only one college friend close by (plus two more a little further afield) with whom I interact regularly.

So, where do my friends here come from?

So far, I've found them:

• in bars
• in class
• in my bowling league
• when they started dating my existing friends
• working on that play I still need to tell you about
• at summer camp
• through online dating*
• and, yes, at work.

Day 17 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for people who wander into my life and make it richer — and for each new opportunity to find them.

*I should add that online dating has so far yielded few amazing friends but close to no romantic prospects over years of doing it. I am told that "through friends" is also a good way to meet romantic prospects; so far, the yield by that method has been similar to online dating.

All you need

In my experience, love is, you know, messy.

It's complicated and confusing, even at its best.

Don't get me wrong — I'm pro-love, wildly. The funness and sharing and mutuality and joy make the messy worth it, make the messy important and beautiful.

I spent the weekend at and around the wedding of my dear friends. These are two of the loveliest folks I know, and they are perfectly suited to each other. Their wedding showed it.

The folks who attended and participated were fun and interesting — and frankly glowing with their (our) own love for the happy couple.

Day 16 of my month of gratitude: I am grateful for love so big it tints the rest of my interactions. I'm grateful for its many expressions: for hugs and eye sparkles and forgiveness and music, for breakfast with old friends and giggly tickling with children, for gratitude itself. And I am grateful for the reminders that love's joy outweighs love's messes.

Pro Tip: Eating Convenience

The $2.99 spinach and cheese stromboli available at Cumberland Farms isn't bad, heated.

It isn't a stromboli, either, but it isn't bad.

Day 15 of my month of gratitude: Snark aside, I am thankful for daily bread. I am thankful to have enough to eat, even when I choose unwisely.

Crying over spilt whiskey lemonade

Regular readers may recall that my computer died a while back. The short(ish) version of what happened next is that the repair shop called to tell me to tell me the logic board was dead, and replacing it would cost almost as much as a new computer, and they'd happily sell me one, giving me $100 for the old one in trade. I know that sounds shady; I believe it was not, actually, any more than any attempt to make profit is.

 I couldn't afford either the repair or the new computer, so I went back to using my old computer that was too slow a year ago (iBook G4, if you're wondering) and gave the dead one to My Favorite Adirockian to see if he could do anything with it. The hope was that he'd be able to retrieve my data and then we could sell the computer on eBay, where comparable computers to mine with dead logic boards sell for enough to buy me a Chromebook.

My friend has had a really busy few weeks, so I've tried to put the computer out of my mind. Which is hard, because this iBook G4 is terrible, not just because it is slow and heavy and won't properly display modern web pages, but also because it won't hold a charge.

Day 14 of my month of gratitude: I am so, so grateful to have woken up to this text: "[bzzzzgrrrl]! Your computer is fixed!"

Whoa.

Open season

I have friends, a couple, who have a bunch of us over every Tuesday night. The group and the activity vary some week to week, but the invitation is always open.

Tonight I had a fantastic night with a fantastic group of queers, in which we discussed topics including but not limited to:

• Radical mental health
• The Perks of Being a Wallflower
• The new jobs people need, and how to get them
• Fake blood from fake car accidents
• Games 
• Bela Lugosi
• "Bela Lugosi's Dead"
• The length of five minutes
• Our mothers' dreams, and whether they should get funding
• Whether passion is necessary
• The marshmallow test
• Theme songs and mood lighting
• The wisdom of getting on the floor with someone who's fallen
• Cloud sex

Day 13 of my month of gratitude: I am so grateful for homes and the people who open them to me, for the people who fill them with laughter and play and deep thoughts.

Your big chance to boss me around

I am writing this post waaaaay in advance, so I won't chicken out of it come November 13.

November 20 will be the fifth anniversary of City Mouse Country. Here's how we'll celebrate.

1. As I did for my first blogiversary, I'll be answering your questions. Post them in the comments here or on the Facebook page, and I will try to answer every single one on the Big Day. Use your real name, use a fake name, post anonymously. The sky's the limit.
2. If you tell me, here or on the Facebook page, what your favorite "classic" posts from CMC are, I'll refresh everyone's memory by sharing them on the Facebook page between now and then. OK, and for Joe and, um, my parents, I guess, I'll do a compilation post of links to them here in a week, as well.
3. Third, if I can think of one between now (mid-September) and when this post goes live (mid-November), we'll have some form of fabulous prize available. Would that not be tremendous? [Ed. note: I did not yet think of a fabulous prize. But maybe I will in the next week.]

Day 12 of my month of gratitude: Thanks to the handful of you who've been reading here for five years of my country life, and thanks as well to those of you who've joined us along the way. And also thanks to those of you who are just mid-November bandwagon-jumpers because one of your friends liked something I posted to Facebook this week. Stick around. That November 20 post is going to be epic.

Movement

November and December are months of anniversaries and commemorations for me, and this year, there's a bunch of round numbers. This weekend is the fifth anniversary of my move to New Hampshire, today is the fifth anniversary of my first day at my current job, and there's more coming that I'm sure you'll hear lots about.

I like looking back; I like marking time; I like checking in on how things have changed. I have a handful of friendship milestones I've remembered for decades.

Day 11 of my month of gratitude: I'm thankful for pauses, breaths, reevaluations. I'm thankful for anniversaries and the things they mark. I'm thankful for the chance to look at how very different my life is from what it was, and I'm grateful for those differences, too: For a niece and a nephew, for my house, for proximity to family, for access to natural spaces, for stars I can see at night, for the communities I have and the people I've met — even as I still miss the folks I left in D.C.

Beautiful mess

As a single gal in the city, when you leave the house, you never know who you might meet. So, you know, I used to dress accordingly.

In this small town, when you leave the house, you know exactly who you'll run into: everyone you know. Virtually guaranteed. So, you know, I dress accordingly.

Day 10 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful that, on the one day I needed to run some errands and then go right to the gym, and was in fact wearing the rattiest gym clothes I own, I ran into no one. I would not have thought that possible. I went to three stores including Target on a holiday, went to the gym at work, and saw no one I know except my trainer.

A wrench in the works

About a month ago, I fell and hurt my left knee. Or the muscles around my knee, I guess.

It was getting better until Thursday night, at which time I slipped on some wet floor and wrenched that knee, hard. Luckily, I was in a drug store at the time, so there were supplies to take care of it, and luckily, I had good friends also taking care. It still hurt like hell. Still does.

And I know from experience that what it needs is ice the first 48 hours, a mix of rest and light exercise, some gentle stretching... but it still hurts like hell.

And also, probably, I shouldn't wear heels for a few weeks, which might be a problem, because my non-heeled shoes consist of assorted athletic shoes and sneakers and one pair of Doc Marten wingtips. The wingtips would be OK for work, except that most of my pants are all the wrong length for that. Which is probably why I went back to wearing heels too soon the last time.

Guess I'm going limpy shoe-shopping.

Day 9 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful to already have:

• Sort of amazing ice packs from the bison burgers my friend sent me a year ago
• Fish oil
• Island Mist Healing Clay Mask
• Dr. Teal's Therapeutic Solutions Epsom Salt Lavender Soaking Solution
• The 'til-now-unread end of Tina Fey's Bossypants
• The ability to get back up out of the bathtub, which I ill-advisedly did not test before I needed it and so am perhaps most grateful for of all. It could have been a looooong weekend.
  

One soaky bath is not going to fix all the world's problems, but it did not hurt one bit.

Whirlwind

This morning, unaided by an alarm clock or caffeine, I woke up at 5:36, went for a run with my neighbor, planned the day, checked Facebook, went to the supermarket, put dinner in the Crock Pot, loaded and started the dishwasher, took a shower, got dressed, said hi to the contractor, and wrote this blog post.

Before work.

Day 8 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for meth.

Kidding.

But I am thankful for the little gifts of bursts of productive energy when I get them, and the reminders that I do, in fact, get them.

Misty morning

I was going to take a break from politics, and I still will, but here's one more. Because today, I don't have to stretch to find gratitude, so I'm not going to just back-burner this one until we're ready for politics again.

My aunt (according to her daughter, my cousin) campaigned at her huge retirement complex and helped raise funds for marriage equality in Maryland (Question Six). It won with 52% of the vote.

I have always loved my aunt; she's terrific. And smart, and a complete inspiration to me. But my eyes welled up a little on reading that this morning.

Some context: She was born in 1929. That is just nine years after women in the United States even won the right to vote.

Day 7 of my month of gratitude: I am grateful to have in both my family of origin and my family of choice loving, strong people who do the right thing when it comes down to it. I am proud to be part of a clan that fights for the civil rights of others. And, you know, lucky to witness when sometimes, our side wins. Thank you, dearest auntie — and all the rest of you who work so hard for the side of the angels.

We carry

I voted in 7 minutes total elapsed time from pulling into the parking lot to pulling out of the parking lot. That includes time to say hi to a friend, but does not include time to stop at the fantastic bake sale, because I neglected to bring cash to the polls.

So then I went to my local transmission guy, who is the nicest guy in the universe, because his shop is across the street from my polling place and my car's shifting funny. He found that the fluid was low and topped it off. While we were standing around in the parking lot, this exchange actually happened.

Complete stranger who does not appear to work there: (to me) Hey, kiddo. (To transmission guy) Hey, [guy's name]. Fluid's a little low?
Transmission guy: Yes, just adding some now.
Complete stranger: (to me) I'm glad to see you voted. I won't ask which way you voted.
Me: Yup, of course. Did you get out to vote yet?
Complete stranger: Yes.
Transmission guy: (to stranger) I had an appointment at the VA earlier, that they cancelled; that's the only reason I don't have my pistol on me. (to me) We carry guns.
Me: Right, sure.
Complete stranger: I carry for my state, and I carry for myself.
Me: (nods)
Transmission guy: You should be all set for now, but you'll have to bring it back in and leave it with us so we can find the leak and fix it.

Day 6 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for so, so many of the experiences of living and voting and patronizing businesses in a small town. I am thankful for people who can probably assume I vote against them and who encourage me to do it anyway. I am thankful to know my local transmission guy, whatever his politics are.


Oh, also, if you're looking for it, a sad epilogue to the Plattsburgh saga: Poor local transmission guy never got paid for his work. The shop in Plattsburgh went bankrupt and closed; our buddy Lee really did just rip them off and they just never recovered, financially. That guy sucks. Sorry to be the messenger.

Let it.

We had our first snowfall yesterday morning, and our first snowstorm is expected for later this week. Am I ready? Not at all.

Day 5 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for changing seasons and big surprises. And for having a garage.

Bowties and ballot boxes

I got a call yesterday morning from my mother, who'd found that I still have some stuff in her attic; I'd thought I'd finished with all that. My parents were having some repairs to their roof, so she wanted me to come over, sort through what I had up there, and make a run to the dump with my dad to get rid of the trash.

So, I went over, and I found many things, including lots of trash, lots of mouse poop, lots of sand in an old camp trunk, lots of amazing old clothes and costumes. But the first memory-flooded thing I found was this:

By the time I started my senior year in high school, the convention was done, Paul Simon was long out of the race. But I had loved him. I agreed with him on so many things, and thought the bow-tie thing was kind of great, and then he went on Saturday Night Live with the other Paul Simon, and I was a goner. I had never yet been involved in a political campaign, and I didn't get involved with his, either, aside from wearing that button on my jean jacket. He was the first candidate I remember loving on my own, without regard for who my parents were supporting.

When my senior year started, it was just after Labor Day 1988, and I was 17. I took a quarter-long Social Studies class called "Election '88," in which we learned about — and got involved in — the process. I lived in Massachusetts and Michael Dukakis was my candidate. I worked on his campaign in Boston, making phone calls, mostly. On election night, they dispatched me and a couple of others to another site with more phones; we called West-Coasters until the game was undeniably over. I was sad but still thrilled by the whole thing of it. I'd tried to make a difference; I'd done literally all I could, since voting was still not an option. Trudging back through the Combat Zone in Boston in defeat with two boys from Brandeis was like a scene from a movie.

And that year, my friends and I got involved in other ways, too. We even went to interminable open town meetings (at which I still could not vote) to protest budget cuts for a school I spent most days complaining about. I listened to every passionate person in town, crackpot or not, say whatever they had to say, for hours on end.

Four years later, I was a senior in college and worked for Bill Clinton's campaign. He was the first winner I ever backed. I found my patriotism that year.

I voted for Nader in 2000 because I believed in him and because I believe in third parties, even though I lived in arguably a swing state. I'm not sure I'd do it again under those circumstances, but I am not sorry I did it then.

I voted for Hillary Clinton. I voted for Barack Obama.

Last winter, I voted for Fred Karger in the Republican primary. There are folks who've said it's cynical of me to vote for a candidate who has no chance, from a party you don't want in office. I say I voted for a queer for president on a major-party ticket, and I wish every act of cynicism I've committed had made me feel that good.

Tuesday, I'll vote for President Obama again, and Maggie Hassan, and a bunch of other people. I'll vote on some ballot questions.

You're voting, too, right, or already did? Even if it's not the same way I will?

Day 4 of my moth of gratitude: I am thankful to live in this country, not because it's "the greatest nation in the world" (what does that even mean?), as the folks running for office will tell you, but because I like the voice it offers me. And I am thankful for the hope, for the forgiveness, for the opportunity implicit in that.

Zzzzzgrrrl

It is late, late, late.

Day 3 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for falling back and the extra hour of sleep that sort of means. I know it's a trick, I know Daylight Savings is silly, and I don't care.

Magic, fairies, etc.

More on the magic of social media:

When I was in high school and college, theater was sort of my thing. I did it extracurricularly at school, I went to summer theater programs, I worked in summer theater programs, I minored in theater at college until I got mad at the department and decidedI could get the classes I wanted without also being beholden to a certain faculty member who treated me poorly. But still, there was a LOT of theater. And many of the folks I met in that world moved on to be professionals in the field. They write, they act, they do technical stuff, they teach; they're in film and TV and theater and performance art.

And though performance and its support is really hardly a part of my life at all these days, those old friends (mostly on Facebook) keep me connected to it. I know so many gorgeous and talented people, y'all.

One of those people is my friend Paul Salamoff, whose name I will use because I am about to hawk his book. He's a genius, and I am proud to say I played Titania to his Oberon in A Midsummer Night's Dream in exotic Waltham, Massachusetts, in 1987. There was a lot of chiffon involved. It was quite something. Anyway. And now, still a genius, he writes books and stuff. And when he was looking for transcriptionists for the third edition of On the Set, I hopped right on board. I have not read this book. But I can tell you, if the rest of it is half as interesting as the interview with Terry Morse I transcribed, it will be well worth your time.

And then yesterday I had opportunity to contribute to the Kickstarter campaign of another friend from that same time and place, Winter Miller, whose show Amandine looks amazing.

Day 2 of my month of gratitude: I am grateful to know gorgeous and talented people, and I am grateful that technology allows them to reenter my life seamlessly, as though it were not 25 years ago that I was awkwardly wearing a purple leotard and bossing a bunch of thirteen-year-old fairies around. I am especially thankful for opportunities to continue relationships that keep me on the fringes of creative worlds I still admire greatly.

All Saints' Day Special

Two things to know going in to this post:

• Today is All Saints' Day, and
• I have a lot of friends, both on Facebook and in real life, who are clergy (mostly but not exclusively mainstream Protestant denominations and Episcopalians, which is arguably but not necessarily a mainstream Protestant denomination... oh, never mind).

So, today, a friend posted this to Facebook:

I sing a song of the saints of God,
Patient and brave and true,
Who toiled and fought and lived and died
For the Lord they loved and knew.
And one was a doctor, and one was a queen,
And one was a shepherdess on the green;
They were all of them saints of God, and I mean,
God helping, to be one too. 

They loved their Lord so dear, so dear,
And his love made them strong;
And they followed the right for Jesus' sake
The whole of their good lives long.
And one was a soldier, and one was a priest,*
And one was slain by a fierce wild beast;
And there's not any reason, no, not the least,
Why I shouldn't be one too. 

They lived not only in ages past,
There are hundreds of thousands still.
The world is bright with the joyous saints
Who love to do Jesus' will.
You can meet them in school, or in lanes, or at sea,
In church, or in trains, or in shops, or at tea;
For the saints of God are just folk like me,
And I mean to be one too. 

 ~Lesbia Scott, who wrote it for her children in the 1920s 

Two more things to know, as I told her:

• "I Sing a Song of the Saints of God" was one of my very favorites as a kid. Not favorite hymns, favorite songs to sing, period, any time of year.
• How did I not know that the author's name was Lesbia? Or that that's a name at all? It's enough to make a person reconsider having children.

*I do recall asking my priestly if not saintly parents why only one was a priest. That seemed a little bit damning to me, at the time.

November

Some of you may remember my months of gratitude last year and the year before. This year, I got so excited about them I started prewriting posts, a little, that I'll sprinkle into the mix through the month. I've been looking forward to November for weeks.

But I don't mind telling you, friends, I'm in a little bit of a thrown-for-a-loop place in my life, which I'm sorry to be all cryptic and vaguebooky about, but I'm not really able to be more specific, partly because I don't know all the details myself.

The planets are out of alignment, my perspective's shifting, I'm learning some and growing some in ways that are likely to be ultimately good but are currently mostly weird and a little painful.

I don't totally know what's coming next, but I know that the first of November feels like a fresh-start place in its grey skeletalness, because I have this gloriously self-indulgent space to explore the things about my life and the world that work and are beautiful.

Oh, hey, also: I am aware of a few regular readers who are also going through different hard times today, or around now. Please know that you are on my mind and in my heart. Maybe we can all send each other some of what Beth would call "white light."

Day 1 of my month of gratitude: I am thankful for opportunities to pause, catch a breath, and change course.

Here is the story of the hurricane...

I was going to maybe post some foliage pictures today. I also considered telling you about my great weekend. Instead, Frankenstorm is coming, and I thought it might be fun to liveblog until the power goes out. Right?

2:44 Here's where things stand:

• Frankenstorm (Hurricane Sandy plus a cold front) is headed this way.
• In anticipation, the college I work at has been closed for the day.
• The worst of the storm is supposed to be 2-9 p.m.
• So far, we're getting what would in other circumstances be described as a light shower.
• A year ago, Hurricane Irene was also predicted to be devastating. It was, about 20 miles west. Horrible. Here in my town, we only ever got showers.
• I am attempting neither to over- nor under-react. So: 
• My phone is charged.
• My bathtub is filled with water.
• I know where at least one lantern and at least one candle are located.
• The windows are closed, and so is the garage door.
• I have perhaps naively put some of Beth's Salsa Chicken in the crock pot, which will either mean I have delicious food later or a bunch of half-cooked spicy bacteria I have to throw away because the power went out.

Now I should be cleaning house before I lose the lights, because it's a mess and I'm home and who knows who'll have to come stay in my hillside haven.

Instead, I am starting to watch a movie I initially attempted to explain to you but am now so appalled that I'm about to watch that I'll only tell you about it if I think you should watch it. Sorry, everyone.

3:02 p.m. Oh, also, Joe Biden was supposed to come to the college today. So really, we've just traded one liveblogging opportunity for another. Stay safe, Brett. No pics, Alexis — there's nothing interesting enough to take pics of yet.

3:27 p.m. Still no real wind to speak of. It is raining harder. This movie is terrible. How often do you want updates, and concerning storm, or household activities, or both?It is possible I have bowling tonight, but for now, we're playing it by ear.

3:34 p.m. Raining even a little harder. I'm turning this movie off. If you would also like to avoid it, it's Albert Fish, about a real-life Depression-era child murderer and cannibal. It's at least as bad as that sounds.

3:42 p.m. Movie's off. Extreme Couponing is on. I'm not saying I have great taste in movies and TV; I'm just saying if I'm going to watch crap, I'd prefer it not to make me sick to my stomach. Possibly related: That salsa chicken smells amazing.

3:55 p.m. My mechanic friend just called to ask if he could park his limo and possibly some other cars in my higher-elevation-than-his-shop driveway. hells yes, I say. Also: It is possible that the reason it seems unwindy to me is that the window I am looking out its the one on the side of my house least likely to get wind. When my craving for a Pepsi Throwback gets so bad I need to indulge it, I'll get up and look out a different window and let you know.

4:06 p.m. Pepsi Throwback obtained, but not without incident: I might have spilled a bunch of ice on the floor. Not a lot of wind on any side of the house. I'm considering a fire in the fireplace. Also, a person whose day can be in part described with "she calls the store manager for a routine check on coupon policies" have different routines than mine.

4:25 p.m. Here's the thing about bowling: Even if it's OK when I leave the house at 6:15, if it's not OK when I'm done bowling at 8:30 or 9, I'm stuck at the bowling alley for who knows how long. We should just not go, right? But I love my queer bowling. Sigh.

4:36 p.m. I got bored with Extreme Couponing and also discovered that there was a whole season of Important Things with Demetri Martin I hadn't seen. Everyone should always be watching that show. Unrelated but potentially useful: If you need to find an emergency shelter from the storm, you can text FEMA.

4:57 p.m. Commenter Emily (fun side note: many many of my friends are named Emily. I a little bit wonder which one that is) has requested the recipe for salsa chicken. I assume and hope it's OK to share, but I'd rather check with Beth first. Another fun side note: If you are my IRL persona's Facebook friend (that doesn't sound healthy), you can look at my "notes" and find a whole long one full of awesome Crock Pot recipes.

5:06 p.m. Permission granted! Also, the wind's picking up.

4 boneless chicken breasts
large jar of salsa
can black beans
corn (frozen or canned), however much you want
Put the boneless chicken breasts in your crockpot. Even frozen.
Dump in one large jar of salsa.
Drain and rinse one can of black beans and dump in crockpot.
Turn your crockpot on and leave it there all day. Come back 10 hours later and open the crockpot. Shred up the chicken. Add the corn. Stir it up good.
Serve in bowls with sides of shredded Mexican cheeses and sour cream. Eat with tortillas or tortilla chips. (You could eat it in taco shells, too.)

5:37 p.m. We should really make a decision about bowling.

5:57 p.m. The bowling teammates and I have decided not to bowl. It feels like a smart choice. Especially since, as I was on the phone with one of said teammates:

• we realized there were two other opportunities to hang out in the next two days, and
• the wind picked up. It's starting to feel like a hurricane.

Also, are you impressed by how many times I have managed to type "bowling" and not typed "blowing," especially in the middle of a wind-based storm? I sort of am. Off to call Yankee Lanes.

6:26 p.m. Sorry for these long gaps between posts; I am running out of things to say, a little, except to individuals, which is why I seem to have moved somewhat to gchat and Facebook chat. If I say anything hilarious in either of those media, I will try to repost here. Meanwhile, I am finally going to eat some of that salsa chicken. And maybe start a fire in the fireplace. Or make some lemonade. Or make some lemonade and then turn it into whiskey lemonade. And keep it away from the computer.

7:16 p.m. Wind does not seem to have gotten worse and may have died down. Rain seems neither better nor worse. I am drinking lemonade from a cup with a lid. The salsa chicken is fantastic. If you wonder how much corn is "however much you want" from that recipe above, in my case, it's a lot. A whole lot.

7:35 p.m. I have very few regrets in this life; even most of my bad decisions have gotten me other places I want to be, have helped me learn and grow. But I do kind of wish I'd gone bowling.

7:37 p.m. I'm going to challenge myself. I think I can clean the whole sunroom, have it presentable for guests, in 15 minutes. What do you think? Also, I initially wrote "...have it resentable for guests..." Well, you know what? If you're a guest, and you actually resent my cleaning efforts, you can go to hell, buddy. Right to hell. Sometimes blogging is a procrastination tool. OK. Really going to clean for 15 minutes now.

8:07 p.m. Fifteen minutes was not enough, but 25 minutes was enough to clean the sunroom AND talk about the imminent cancellation of someone else's Halloween party to which I was not invited AND go to the bathroom AND put on pajamas. So, not bad.

8:32 p.m. Local schools are closed tomorrow; still no word on whether I have work. But the rain seems to be getting stronger; I'll be surprised if the worst of the storm is really past us by 9. Are any of you still reading? Comment to keep me (and each other) company.

8:41 p.m. I have a special guest star coming!

8:45 p.m. The guest star has arrived. We are now watching Important Things with Demetri Martin together. This promises to be way more entertaining for me than for you, I think. He is the same guest star as we had for the first debate.

8:49 p.m. ... Except now we are out of episodes. We are going back to watching the last episode of the first season. It's on time. Hahahahahaha.

9:03 p.m. The college is closed until noon tomorrow. So, that's cool.

10:24 p.m. OMG you guys. I am so sorry, I didn't forget about you. But Special Guest Star and i started talking about feminism and stuff and then we started watching Hot In Cleveland which you really should be watching. Still have power, still have a few Fritos (though SGS is making a dent in that), and the storm may actually be winding down.

10:57 p.m. SGS and I think but are not sure the rain has stopped.

Nowhere to hide in a small town

This morning, I got up early and went for a long walk with my neighbor, as I sometimes do.

Then, as I sometimes do, still wearing my exercise clothes, I climbed into the daybed in my sunroom to watch last night's Daily Show.

And then around 8 someone rang the bell. I ignored it, as I sometimes do, because I was not expecting anyone and I was not dressed for company and if it was some political thing, I didn't really have time for a long conversation.

Then that someone knocked, in case I hadn't heard the bell. And then I just froze in place, not making a sound, not wanting to so much as rustle so whoever it was would just go away.

And then whoever it was did go away. Very briefly. Until he started taking apart the room I was in —from the outside. Apparently "someone" was my contractor, who is supposed to be doing some work on my house, but who I did not know was starting this morning. But at this point, I was still a mess, and  also a mess who has pretended not to have heard the doorbell or the knock, which might be reasonable if I was in the shower or something, but which is in no way reasonable when I am sitting in the sunroom.

So I stayed frozen. The Daily Show ended and I didn't put anything else on. I unfroze long enough to pull the covers over my head at one point when he got too close to the window.

And then, finally, after some period longer than several minutes but arguably shorter than the one million years it felt like, there was quiet.

I assumed he'd gone back to his truck to get a tool or something. I scurried from the sunroom back to my bedroom, where I quickly got ready for work. I figured I'd just admit the whole thing, except for the hiding. And so I emerged, smiling, dressed, shod, coiffed, ready to engage with the contractor — and he was nowhere. His tools were in a heap on my deck, but the contractor was gone, and so was his truck.

So I was left with no opportunity to explain, but he was obviously going to notice my car, which had been in the garage, was not anymore.

Obviously, I left the awkwardest note in the universe under his pile of tools and took off for work.

This is a fantastic start to this relationship, I feel.

How's your day going?

New debate, old computer

9:06 Here we go!

9:10 OMG everyone I am so late and they are already talking about Libya. But there are new rules for tonight: No drinks near the computer. It's an oldoldold computer, but it's the one I've got, and it'll have to do for a bit. Of course, the fact that I am so late means I have had no opportunity to make lemonade for whiskey lemonade and therefore have no drink at all. What goes in (soft) cider? More whiskey?

9:14 Hm. Technical difficulties abound.The old computer has a harder time with the faster blogging, and Huff Post Live on the Roku has frozen while it rebuffers. If I'm missing anything important, please let me know. Meanwhile, I'm making a drink.

9:18 Still no debate for me. I'm going to miss those famous zingers! Seriously, is anyone saying anything important? I should probably figure out if my radio works. Maybe if it does, Nixon will win.

9:22 Radio does not, in fact, work, but Huff Post Live is back. The president thinks we want to be careful of who we give weapons to. That's novel.

9:24 Oh, and yes. Whiskey goes just fine in (soft) cider. Mmmmmm. You should all go get some. Oh, hey, Mitt's saying something. 

9:25 The president just totally interrupted Mitt. Now, that's fine by me, but it seems like it'd be against the rules of debating. Someone said on the radio today that what defines a good debate moderator is physical proximity to the candidates. They jokingly suggested handcuffs.

9:31 I have both audio and video, but they are in no way synced and the audio's cutting in and out. This should do wonders for facilitating my already completely shaky understanding of foreign policy. Oh, wait, Mitt says we want a peaceful world. That sounds good. Too bad the sound then immediately cut out completely, rendering me unable to hear what he's going to do about that. Those of you who can hear him, does it involve ensuring everyone has access to, say, food, housing, and medical care?

9:37 Ooooh, President O. Hit him in the small business! Go gogogogogogo!

9:40 Mitt Romney, I went to school in Massachusetts. The kids do well because Massachusetts is FULL of academic parents. Also, in the particular school I went to, which was very highly regarded, cheating was RAMPANT and funding was HUGE. How is that related to you exactly? Whihc part are you responsible for?

9:44 I was at the Salt Lake City Olympics, and they were amazing. I loved Mitt Romney then. I wish he'd sort of faded away after that.

9:55 Is Mitt anti-diplomacy?

9:58 I don't know how you'd even begin to isolate Romney's "biggest whopper," but OK.

10:03 During the first debate, I thought Obama sounded smart and Romney sounded like a liar. Other people thought Obama sounded boring and Romney sounded dynamic. I think the same thing again. Do other people think Obama's boring tonight? Do they think it matters? I mean, I'd take a boring smart president over a dynamic liar, if those were my choices.

10:07 Mitt appears to be sweating a lot. I did not know he could do that. Possibly but not definitely unrelated: I have finished my drink.

10:26 I'm sorry, I'm still here, I just haven't had anything to say in 20 minutes. Don't some of you have something to say?

10:29 "People will look it up," say the candidates. Um...

10:32 Oh, good, Bob Schieffer showed up and he loves teachers. Whatever. P.S. Mitt Romney has the creepiest laugh ever.

10:34 I like the president and I love my country and if I never hear the good ol' U.S. of A. referred to as the "greatest nation in the world," it'll be too soon.

10:35 How the heck does any Republican in 2012 get to be the peace candidate?

10:37 The Huff Post Live crew thought it was a terrible debate. OK. I'll buy that.

What works

I'm off soon for opening night of The Big Play, but I had a thought earlier today that I'd like to expand on.

Every workplace has its pros and cons. Here are some things I dig about my current workplace:

• I have never gotten an e-mail scolding me about the refrigerator.
• We have unisex bathrooms.
• Even though we have unisex bathrooms, I have never had to lower a toilet seat.

So, it's possible. Why isn't it universal?

What's up

There's been a lot going on around here, primarily work and a play I'm doing, but also some other volunteer stuff.

As a result, you get one of those bulleted lists I have become famous for.

• I now think of myself as writing two types of posts: Ones that I hope are hilarious or brilliant and will become viral masterworks, and ones that I write to let my most faithful readers (who include some of my closest friends) know what's up. This is the second kind. You can tell because no one who doesn't know me would care about it.
• I had an MRI yesterday. You do not need to worry about that. You may need to worry about this: when they asked what I wanted on the satellite radio to distract me, I chose classic rock because I was too embarrassed to say what I really wanted, which was conservative talk radio. Rush and Glenn Beck are pretty perfect distractions, but I am not about to discuss that with strangers.
• I got involved in the aforementioned play in such a convoluted way I have to believe it was meant to be. I am not sure if the reason for that was to introduce me to these amazing people, or to get me back in a theater, or to make me think about gender and mental health differently, or something else, or some combination, but I don't care. I'm having the time of my life.
• For this year only, my annual Women's Weekend with many friends has been toned down to a smaller getaway with one female friend, starting right after the show closes. I am looking forward to it enough that it is preventing me from sinking into a deep depression at the thought that the show is closing. So, that's good. Check in on me Tuesday.
• Sometimes, on Facebook, I click the "x" for all the "People You May Know" that I don't actually know, until I get a roster of folks I do know but don't choose to friend on Facebook.
• Having spent a lifetime with allergies, I'm finally seeing an allergist in December. She is apparently a woman and very personable, both of which are apparently unusual for allergists.
• Who has a guess for what the oddest thing I'm allergic to is? I bet it's a doozy.
• The foliage up here is still really pretty. I have taken some pictures. I'll share them soon.
• When I hear the phrase, "women in binders," I (and many queers, I'll warrant) picture this, not this. Or also whatever Mitt meant.
• Although the next debate falls on my bowling night, I should be home in time for it. Let's try the liveblogging thing again, shall we? It was so fun last time.

Come out, come out, wherever you are

Happy National Coming Out Day.

I've done some stuff on outness in the past. (Here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here, specifically.)

This year, I'm saving it for the LGBTQIA folks here on CMC.

I'll pose the same challenge on my own Facebook page, but understanding that some of you readers are not my Facebook friends, and that some of you who are may prefer the anonymity of the blog, we're doing it here, too.  If you have one, use the comments to share a coming-out story. Pick whatever one you'd most like to share (The most recent? The first? The funniest? The weirdest? The most educational?). Heck, tell us a couple. Tell as many as you feel inclined to. Use your real name or a fake one; I don't care.

This should go without saying, but: Your own stories only, please.

If you have something to share that's not a coming-out story, just for today, I'm asking you not to do it here. Feel free to comment on the CMC Facebook page, or to come back and comment on the blog another day, or to e-mail questions or comments or whatever, but for today, this space isn't yours. Please, please, please pass this on to others who might have something to share. I'd love for this comment thread to get loooooong.

I'll start with one, but will likely share one or two others through the day in the comments:

I was a senior in college, and completely freaking out about all the things seniors in college freak out about (what will I do with my life? Who am I, anyway?) and scheduled an appointment with my Women's Studies professor (an excellent professor and influence in a very early-90s gender deconstructionist way) the Tuesday before Thanksgiving to talk about the fact that my passions seemed to be in Women's Studies, but I didn't want to stay in school long enough to teach it, and I didn't want to work in non-profits the rest of my life. So we talked about that, and in very dramatic fashion, I think I told her more or less every thought I had in my head (My boyfriend collects handguns and I don't believe in handguns! I'm in this weird situation with my roommates! I think I'm bisexual* and I don't know what to do with that!). I'd literally never before that moment admitted even to myself that that was even a real possibility. 

And she was my first of many examples that someone can be fine with what you say and still respond in ways you'd prefer they not. Her response (to all of the above, actually), was, "So what?" Which was, in its horrible, dismissive, evil way, fantastic. It did not calm me down any, but it got me to verbalize about what, specifically, was the big deal of my story ("Gender may all be socialized**, but socialization is real, and people have real and sometimes dangerous reactions to people who stray outside the lines, and just because you're an academic doesn't mean I will always have the protection you can claim for yourself!").

And then, I calmed down. 

*I do not, anymore, identify as bisexual, though I did for more than a decade.
**I do not, anymore, think gender is all socialized, but I did at the time and so did she. I should e-mail her and find out if she still thinks that. 

Foliage for Joe (possibly the first in a series)

More than a week ago, frequent reader and commenter Joe asked about the foliage. I have so badly wanted to do a foliage post since, but it has been raining for a week.

Yesterday, it was sunny and in the 70s, and rather than risk the gorgeous weather waiting to have time to take pictures in more scenic locations, you're getting what I shot with my 2-year-old cell phone while walking to get lunch on Main Street. I know some of you wonder, even with all my delightful stories, how I could ever have left the DC area to live in New Hampshire. Wonder no more.

Joe, this one's for you.

Click on any image for a bigger one. I think.

(OK, the sky is not really as blue as it is in this last picture.
As may be obvious, I shot this one from my car while I was at a stoplight, on my way back from dropping off my computer, so that blue is the shade on the top of my windshield.
But the leaf color is all real, and all the colors in the other pics are all real.)

Smells Like Teen Something

Allow me to present a real conversation that just happened to me.

Me: My computer won't turn on. It's possible that it just won't charge.
Service technician younger than my car: OK, I think I talked to you on the phone. You've had it less than a year?
Me: Yes.
STYTMC: [Types a bunch into his computer] OK.
Me: It was working fine Wednesday night until about 10:30, and then, Thursday morning, it wasn't working at all.
STYTMC: OK.
Me: [Hesitates]
STYTMC: [Waits]
Me: Um, here's what I'm afraid might have happened. I was out of the room, and a friend spilled a drink near the computer, and we didn't think he spilled any on the computer, but I'm worried maybe he did and we didn't take care of it right away because we didn't think we needed to.
STYTMC: [Types a bunch into his computer. Looks at me. Smells my laptop.] What do you think might have been spilled on it?
Me: Um, whiskey and lemonade.
STYTMC: [Sighs almost imperceptibly {but not imperceptibly enough, buddy}, types more.] OK. I'll figure it out.

Now, I get that this story makes me look bad, but also:

• What was he typing after I said "whiskey and lemonade"? Is there a service code for whiskey and lemonade?
• When he says, "I'll figure it out," does he mean, "I'll figure out what's wrong with your computer and fix it."? Or does he mean, "I'll figure out whether it was whiskey and lemonade or something else by licking your computer."? Because it kind of seemed like the latter. 
• I think I might be OK with the latter, as long as it's also the former.

In related news, a long weekend starts tomorrow and I will not have a computer until Monday at the earliest. We'll see how I do with that.

Hell yes, I'm liveblogging the debate. What could go wrong?

Remember when I live-ish blogged the vice president's visit to campus?

We're trying that again with the debate.

9:04 blah blah blah rules. Here's my setup: I'm at home, watching the debate on Huffington Post Live through the Roku. I've been home sick-ish from work, trying to nip a cold in the bud, and am now eating a giant salad with my friend and special guest star, who has shockingly not yet earned a nickname on CMC yet, but we'll try to fix that tonight.

9:08 Do you think part of Romney's problem is that he's in the Uncanny Valley?

9:09 Oh, if any of you thought you were going to get any information out of this liveblog, you're in the wrong place. All I have is snarky remarks, with high hopes for occasional real admiration.

9:12 This salad is amazing.

9:13 I think we're going to play the drinking game. That's a lot to juggle. Hang on while I make a drink. I'm leaving the computer with my special guest star, in case he has anything to say about anything.

9:15 Special guest star is having trouble understanding Romney because of glitches in the sound and therefore has very little to say. Also Obama now that he's back on. Oh well.

9:17 Bzzzzgrrrl back again, with a delicious whiskey lemonade. SO MANY sound glitches, and the audio and video do not currently match. BOOOOOOOOO Huffington Post Live through the Roku.

9:18 Special guest star says, and I agree, "Taxes affect me and how hard I have to work and all that, but I mostly just care how people are treated." He then elaborated for a bit on which people he means (hint: ALL THE PEOPLE).

[9:21 taking a break from liveblogging to focus on the drinking game.]

[9:22 except that now we have no sound at all, for huge chunks of time.]

9:25 Sound's back, but this version of the game has people drink if anyone says "taxes." I would be wasted already, just in the several minutes I've been playing, if I could actually keep up with how often they say that. I'm just going to drink my drink at a regular pace instead. Oh, here's some information: whiskey lemonade is the ideal alcoholic beverage when you are sickish. You should not be "chugging" alcohol when you're sick, though, I don't think. And I'm not.

9:30 Special guest star, who is, not coincidentally, a Quaker, said if Romney didn't mention the military in his list of PBS and health care and other things he'll cut, he (special Quaker guest star) would punch him (Romney) in the face. And now I can never reveal who the special guest star is, for fear of Secret Service involvement. But I am now obviously on some list. Thanks a lot, Quaker.

9:38 Commenter Joe just said something funnier than anything I would ever have thought to say. I am not repeating it up here, but you should go read it, especially if you, say, used to work with Commenter Joe and me. Or for any of a number of other fine DC-area publications. SO GLAD you're reading, buddy.

9:42 I can't tell if Jim Lehrer hates them both, or just Romney. But there is some real loathing going on there.

9:46 Special guest star sez: He seems so angry. It's the way his lips are.

9:47 Me to special guest star: Is it gross to you that I'm just eating my salad with my fingers now?
Special guest star: Not in the least.
That, my friends, is what friendship looks like.

9:53 I totally have room in my garage to open a bank. I should do that. My uncle's been pushing for a wood shop.

9:59 "Expensive things hurt families." Special guest star thinks he means when a guy hits his wife with a Tiffany lamp. I just assumed he meant fancy heterosexual weddings.

10:05 When special guest star watches the debate through his glass, it looks like a TV on TV, like when people on TV are watching a TV show.

10:15 Here's my proposed drinking game for the next debate: Drink when Romney smirks inappropriately. I feel like it's simpler than other forms out there, and also would result in a similar amount of drinking. Dude really is a champion smirker.

10:19 We are patently not a nation that believes we're all children of the same God. Some of us believe that, and part of what gives that belief any weight is that we don't have to believe it as a nation. Others of us do not believe that, and what we do believe as a nation is that people can believe what they believe.

10:20 Did he just offer school choice to lower-income children but not poor children?

10:24 "You're entitled to your own house, and your own plane, but not not your own facts." That must be one of those zingers we've heard Romney's been practicing since August.

10:28 That inspiration I was looking for? Got it.

10:30 I have to say, mockery aside, this was a better debate than I was anticipating. More civil. 'Course, Joe's gone to bed now, so what more can there really be to say?

10:33 Just this: "I will not cut the military." Wow.

10:36 And this: Huffington Post Live, a bunch of analysts and journalists sitting at their computers in their offices is not "the definition of an afterparty." You need to get out more.

Things that would not happen in Washington (but would happen in a movie)

In a staff meeting, at my office, discussing a technical freelancer we may hire, my boss had reason to say, "She had a goat emergency yesterday."

I love this series.

Me and my World-Famous Style

I don't often just share things here that are posted by other people — I tend to use the Facebook page for that (hey, have you "liked" the Facebook page yet? Think how much extra fun stuff you might be missing!).

But then sometimes famous fashion bloggers who are also coincidentally my friends and former coworkers blog tell me what to wear on the internet! (Tell me on the internet, not what to wear on the internet. You got that, right?)

So, read her post.

So... how do you feel about that outfit? Think you have a better suggestion?

Beaten

I went to a house concert Saturday night and saw Antje Duvekot perform.

Overall, it was a good show, but then she played one song I disliked a lot and everyone else looooved it, so she said, "If you liked that, you'll like this next one," and I was afraid of what would happen next, because the one before was really just awful, but then she played this piece of awesome and I wanted to share it with you. It's possibly not for the squeamish. But now that I've said that, how can you resist?




You're welcome.

Pointy

It's been a busy time around here, resulting in me attempting to write a handful of bullet-point, scattershot posts of whimsical thoughts and failing at even that by the time I get to about the second bullet point. Why so busy? Glad you asked.

• At work, there are a bunch of big, time-sensitive projects, and we're down three staff (in a roughly 14-person office). That means I'm working lots of extra time, which, for me, in unsustainable. I work a 12-hour day, come in the next morning and can't focus because my brain is fried, don't get much done in the early part of the day, have to stay late, wake up early and do a little work then, come in and can't focus.... You get the picture. I am hopeful that by the end of tomorrow, I'll be done with the crunch and able to focus on work at work, rest and play when not at work.
• I'm also doing a little volunteer work for my church. The volunteer work is in my professional field, which means when I'm too fried to work, I'm also too fried to volunteer.
• Outside of work, I'm stage managing a staged reading. Lots of fun, but it's two rehearsals a week with an hour round-trip commute.
• My car's broken. I've got a crack mechanic working on it now, but meanwhile, I've been on foot off-and-on for about a week and a half.
• I don't need a lot of social time, generally, but I do need some, because my work is largely unsocial and I live by myself. Trying to squeeze that in is one more thing.
• It's still beautiful up here, weatherwise. I want to be outside in it every minute I can before that gets less practical.
• When I'm stressed and busy like this, I tend to most easily cut back on both spiritual practices and physical exercise, which is unacceptable, because while those also take time and focus, they (along with aforementioned social time) are also what enable me to handle the rest of it. So, trying to make time for those.
• Oh, dishes and laundry and figuring out how to fix the front hall light fixture and showering and, you know, stuff.

Fallen asleep yet? OK, for all three of you who are still out there, you get the reward of the bullet-point-or-two from each of those unfinished posts. Woohoo!

• My left calf is significantly bigger than my right.
• Nonetheless, I found boots that fit, and I love them more than at least a couple of my friends. Not you, obviously — you're my favorite. Though the boots were cheaper than you. Wait, now we're getting into a weird place.
• The movie Brazil is less entertaining to me now than it was in 1987 — possibly because I was less aware in 1987, possibly because so much of what we could call "dystopian" then we just have to call "real" now. Or possibly because I don't like all things British — including Terry Gilliam — as much as it seems like I would.
• I know I'm in the minority, but there are few household chores that I find more satisfying than cleaning the bathroom.
• Two of my latest Pandora stations have been "Call Me Maybe" and "You Can Call Me Al." I bet you'd get something interesting if you mixed those two stations.
• Most of the "Bridezilla" phenomenon is a self-perpetuating media invention, and it makes me sad and we won't get into every nuance of feminist theory that applies here (though if any of you would like to, you need to let me know, stat). But here's one thought: How much of it is due to the weird but apparently prevalent idea that every bride-to-be needs to go on a diet before her wedding and is therefore starving and cranky and semidelirious?
• Since I wrote this post and have been, as I said above, on foot a little more often, I have worn a backpack with a shortish skirt three times. The result is, of course, that I am constantly checking my butt, which I am sure makes me look much more normal/self-aware/classy than those women I was judging.

So, how are you?

Walking a fine plank

Can we talk, just for a sec, about Talk Like a Pirate Day?

Almost 20 years ago now, I totalled a car in St. Augustine, Florida, stranding me and two friends at the Bali Hai Motel, which at the time had recently been purchased by two really lovely Hell's Angels named Calvin and Janet. It was an adventure, and it was the spring break of my senior year in college, and it was in northern Florida, so naturally, one of the friends and I began to discuss our options for becoming pirates, stealing a ship, and never going back to New Jersey to finish our degrees.

Eventually, we did go back to New Jersey, finished our degrees, and that trip actually became a turning point that most of the rest of my life points back to.

We did not steal a ship, we joked about being pirates for a few more months, and then, you know, moved on.

I kept a certain fondness in my heart for all things pirate-themed out of nostalgia for that trip for a while.

And then I started thinking about pirates. Pirates aren't like cowboys. They aren't people who were a little rough but had a job to do and yadda yadda independent spirit yadda yadda campfire song.

They were, and are, thieves, at best. Not clever thieves, so much, not con artsists or cat burglars — more like muggers on the high seas. They rape and murder and kidnap and torture and destroy as they need to to steal stuff; they stab their friends in the back; they engage in slave trade. Sometimes, I guess, they sing (or sang) and drink (or drank), and I guess that's fun, and sometimes, they got rich, but even getting rich meant constantly fighting or running away or both. What made piracy a romantic idea to me in the heady days of 1993 was the running away, frankly, but that can't stay fun for too long. And pirates are real, and current. They steal and murder now. Of course, "Talk Like a Pirate Day" is more like Arrr and less like Somali.

But — what's the appeal? Not for the real pirates; I assume money is the appeal for the real pirates. What's the appeal to the rest of us?

I know to some degree we glamorize other violent criminals, too, between mob movies and gangs and people who write to serial killers in prison. But none of those are generally considered good themes for children's birthday parties.

So, if you spent some chunk of yesterday saying "avast" or "wench" or some such — what's the draw?

More sex talk, thanks to Facebook

Warning: This post is about sex, and while it is not especially graphic, it may make, say, people who are squeamish about sex, or elderly relatives of the blogger, or the blogger herself (who is totally unsqueamish about sex, sort of), a little uncomfortable. Read past this point at your own peril.

Disclaimer: None of this comes from any form of personal experience. It is absolutely all just following a logic that has maybe eluded some folks.


A Facebook friend of mine claims that a man, after sex with an acquaintance of hers, actually took said acquaintance's pulse to make sure she wasn't faking it.

A few things about that:

• I'm not sure what the pulse is supposed to prove. I mean, it might tell the difference between bored to death and acting excited, but it won't tell the difference between excited-but-it's-not-gonna-happen-tonight and acting like it already did, right?
• Even if it did help, it's not information you want. If a woman is prepared to fake it, it's not because she's hoping her partner will do something more or different. It's because she would like her partner to stop trying, for some reason. There is no useful information to be gained in the moment from knowing whether she is faking.*
• If what you hope to gain from such a test is an understanding of whether she can be trusted to be honest in intimate moments, because you care so deeply about that particular piece of honesty, you should figure out whether your problem is that you don't trust women or that you don't trust this woman. If it's the former, get yourself some professional help, because you are not making any friends this way. If it's the latter, stop having sex with her.

Anything to add to this, readers? 

*There might be something to be gained from, in an entirely separate and clothed moment, letting said woman know that it won't hurt your feelings if she just asks you to stop — but only if that's true. Under no circumstance should it be connected to any alleged fakery. Oh, and it should go without saying, but may not, that if your partner asks you to stop, you do, immediately, even if you think you could do better or your feelings are hurt. You know that already, right? If not, for real. You have to.

...and it feels so good

I have a friend, C, who I was close to in high school. We've reconnected in recent years, and I love having her back in my life.

A few weeks back, she asked me if I'd like to come along for a weekend-long reunion some of her friends from high school were having — these were folks I'd known, and in some but not all cases been friends with. But I had not seen most of them literally since the 80s. That's the 1980s, for you youngsters, and it was a magical but complicated time to be a teenager.

We'd all stay in a lodge in the mountains, far from any cell phone service (just like high school!). And folks who had them would bring their significant others and kids.

And for some reason, that sounded awesome in the moment C mentioned it, and so I said yes, enthusiastically.

A few days before the gathering (that'd be last week), I wondered what the hell I was thinking. These folks have all kept up with each other for more than two decades. Their kids and significant others all know each other. I'd be living with more than 20 other people for days, and some of those people would likely scream a lot. Probably none of them would even remember me. Probably none of them even liked me in high school, and when they saw me again, they'd remember why. Probably the food would consist entirely of mangos and walnuts and raw onions (all of which I have mild allergies to). Probably everyone would wonder what was wrong with me that I didn't have a spouse or kids. Probably no one would wonder what was wrong with me, because it's obvious.

Maybe I don't talk all that much about being occasionally irrationally inconsistently horrendously insecure here on City Mouse Country. That might be because I assume it's the most boring thing I could blog about, but hey, the Bloggess writes about it all the time and she's got a fantastic blog and a book deal.

So, in a turn that will surprise none of you who are either more rational or more removed from this story than I am, which is all of you, I went and had the time. of. my. life.

I reconnected with people who might have been gone from my life forever. I met the amazing people who've come into their lives since the 80s. And I was, to my shock, welcomed with open arms. Two old friends in particular spent not-insignificant chunks of time just staring at me and saying my name, like it was simultaneously so cool and so unlikely that I was there they couldn't get over it. We laughed and laughed and laughed. There was hiking and playing and music and a campfire and incredible food and lots of time to catch up. These people who were kids the last time I saw them have kids who are just unbelievable. I also learned a bunch, which I'll share soon but not now, because this post is already plenty long enough.

But the very worst thing that happened to me was a mild sunburn that doesn't even hurt.

And that, my friends, is a damn good weekend.

Oh, also: I do observe that my house seems improbably quiet with just me in it. Is it always like this?

Pro Fashion Tip

Privately, I am superjudgmental about fashion. You should not bother trying to impress me, because my opinions are as firm as they are illogical, which is why I rarely share them out loud and also why I ask for advice so frequently.

Publicly, I do not think my judgments of what other people wear matter much, as long as they are happy with how they're dressed.

But sometimes, I just can't imagine people would be happy with how they're dressed. That's where this excellent advice — from an actual blogger with a "getting dressed" label on some of her posts — comes in handy.

COLLEGE WOMEN OF NEW HAMPSHIRE*: You cannot wear both that short fullish skirt and that bookbag-sized backpack. The backpack makes the skirt ride up and I can see your underpants or the part of your tights that is covering your butt. I am not exaggerating.  I have seen your butt. You need to either ditch the backpack or wear pants — or maybe a longer skirt. You could also get one of those 90s teensy backpacks, though I will admit I never really saw the point. I know your skirt is all the way past your mid-thighs in the front, but in the back, people you would like to date you and/or employ you and/or give you a passing grade can see your butt. For real.







*And also anyone else who wears a backpack with a short skirt.

"Wide calf" is a lie.

I do have more pressing things to share, both political and fashionable, but for now, you get the great disappointment of my day.

The most beautiful boots in the world have arrived at my home for $65, and they are:

• not quite (but almost) as beautiful as I thought they'd be 
• way too small in the calf 
• also too small in the foot. 

 Back they go.

A stream of consciousness about scandal

Here is a hint for the folks at the New York Post, and also voyeuristic journalists everywhere: The phrase "sex orgy" is the creepiest way to say what you mean. Just "orgy" is probably sensationalist enough, and "sex party" would get the point across as well.

I had reason to be aware of that helpful tip for writers of things because apparently a porn actor claims Kim Kardashian was in one 10 years ago.

Oh, about that: YAWN.

The only thing that could make me interested in Kim Kardashian's current romantic or sex life is if she was in an exclusive, very normal relationship with an attractive but unflashy woman, in which they were pleasant to each other and their neighbors and stayed off TV about it and didn't talk about sex but did have a fun jokey relationship with Kim's stepdad. Or maybe Chaz Bono. You can let me know if she gets involved with Chaz Bono.

I do not think anything could make me interested in her past sex life, sex orgies or no.

Except Richard Dawkins.

If she has ever been involved with Richard Dawkins, or ever becomes involved with him, I would also like that information.

Otherwise, I am not interested.

I cannot wait to see what search terms drive people to this post.

My new favorite thing about Mitt Romney

Finally, a practical use for the genealogy lesson I gave you all a few weeks ago.

On The Colbert Report last night, Jon Huntsman and Colbert had this exchange:

Stephen Colbert: We've been told that the more we get to know Mitt Romney, the more we're gonna like him. You're a fellow governor, fellow Mormon, fellow businessman — you've known him for years. What are the things that make you just love him as a person?
[Explosive laughter by the audience, Huntsman sits back in his chair, obviously amused and taken aback.]
Colbert: Top five.
Jon Huntsman: Well, I'd have to say that's a little bit unfair as a question, because I'm an insider. He's a relative. You're supposed to like your relatives.
[Colbert leans forward, obviously taken aback.]
Colbert: Are you related to him?
Huntsman: We share the same great great great grandfather — [Wait, what?]
Colbert: And you love everyone in your family?
Huntsman: — and this great  great great grandfather had twelve wives. He was a polygamist — [Wait, what?! No wonder you're not in Tampa. Are you supposed to say that out loud where people outside Utah can hear you?]
Colbert: Really?
Huntsman: — and Mitt clearly came down from the wife with better hair.

So, absorb that chunk of awesome and then fill in the blank:

That makes them                                .

God vs. the RNC (vs. the NFL)

If Hurricane Isaac (or any hurricane) hits Tampa during the Republican National Convention, I will not view that as a sign from God. I don't think God works that way.

I might, however, view it as a sign from the Republican Party that it doesn't have more sense than to hold a convention in coastal Florida during hurricane season.

Which would mean, you know, less sense than the NFL, which holds its big event in February, but only in cities that are warm or have a dome.

Just saying.

War is hell

My latest TV Thing is watching old episodes of Upstairs, Downstairs. It's ridiculous, and soap-opera-y, and very much fun. So! Much! Scandal!

But, my friends, if you find yourself thinking,

"OhmyGawd I wish World War I would end; it's so boring," 

while lying on your couch, watching a 40-year-old show about people a hundred years ago, thanks to the magic of Netflix instant

— that is how you know you're perhaps too comfortable in your life.

Bucking the trend

A true story from Wednesday:

I was leaving a bank in York, Maine, that I'd been in for reasons we won't get into because they make me look stupid, when a customer service person from said bank came running out after me and called me by my (real) first name.

I turned around. She held a dollar out to me. "I have no idea who dropped this in the bank," she said (though she knew for sure it wasn't me). "Here. It's another dollar for tolls."

And that is how I know I'm in rural New England and not, say, any big city or the area around Washington, D.C.

One iota...

I woke up one morning recently with the vague, semi-lucid thought that I'd confused Ikea for Iota.

• Ikea, as you may know, is a store filled with simplecomplex furniture made (by you) of particle board.
• Iota, as you may or may not know, is an excellent bar in Arlington, Virginia, I frequented about twelve years ago, with fabulous live music and good bartenders and amazing food and possibly even better memories.

And having woken completely from that jarring thought, I then started making a list of sentences in which it might be bad to have that confusion.

• "Oh, yeah, I saw Frank Black at Ikea. You know, from the Pixies?"
• "We used to go to Ikea after work at the bar."
• "I love the food at Ikea, but the service is crap."
• "I don't go to Ikea as often as I used to, but I like to go feel like I'm a 28-year-old waitress with cool friends and good taste sometimes."
• "I met this porn director at Ikea once who had coincidentally lived in my exact apartment. Weird, right?"

OK, some of those actually work, disturbingly.

Maybe it's better when I don't share my semi-lucidity with you.

What year is it?

As of Saturday, I am 41. 

You may know that, for the last several years, I've been doing birthday-to-birthday "years of."

• 38 was the year of cute shoes, explained somewhat here (complete with link to the original inspiration for said year). It was awesome. 
• 39 was the year of time management. (Meh. Mildly successful, exactly as boring as it sounds.) 
• 40 was the year of having people over. (Mixed results, but, like the year of cute shoes, it has started me on a path I like a whole lot.)
• And 41 is the year of... I don't know.

That's where you come in.

I've had some ideas, of course, but I'm realizing that what makes a "year of" really successful is the combination of implicit instruction and superfun. So, for the year of cute shoes, I was obviously going to buy a few pairs of, and consistently wear, cute shoes. For the year of having people over, I had people over, alone and in groups. And my current 41 ideas are too big. "The year of love;" "the year of art" — that could mean so many things. I need more obvious goals within my control. More along the lines of "the year of crochet," except that I am not interested enough in crochet for that to be it.

So, it's (partially) up to you. Here and on the Facebook page, I'm taking suggestions. What's this the year of? We're three days in already; it's time to get cracking. Feel free to invite friends, neighbors, and total strangers to join the fun; there's no reason for people who actually know me and my interests to have all the fun.

7 thoughts on chicken sandwiches (but you only have to read #5)

SIGH.

I have stayed mostly out of this Chick-Fil-A business, because, ugh.

But my Facebook still remains full of (mostly straight) people on multiple sides (and you can bet there are more than two) of this issue, and a couple of regular readers have asked me for some thoughts or clarity on this, so here it is, in handy list form:

1. I don't care whether you boycott Chick-Fil-A. We all live in a semi-capitalist society, and unless you are Amish or similar, you will sometimes patronize businesses that support your values, and sometimes patronize businesses that do not. It sucks, but it's true.
2. I do not eat at Chick-Fil-A. I don't call it a boycott, because the nearest Chick-Fil-A is 50 miles from me, so it's a pretty academic distinction. 
3. I deeply support Dan Cathy's right to spend his money, and his privately owned company's foundation's money, however he chooses. Seriously. He is entitled to his opinion.
4. I even more deeply thank Dan Cathy, and all other straightforward folks, for discussing where they spend said money. Understanding point #1, I think we all deserve to know where our money's going, and I'd encourage all people who are going to have company foundations to tell us what's what. Many LGBTQ folks and their allies have had this information for a long time. If you're just now catching on, that doesn't make it new. It means Dan Cathy is doing it right, however abhorrent and oppressive I may find his opinions.
5. If you learn nothing else, here is the one point I hope you know, understand, believe, share with all your friends: Boycotts do not suppress free speech. They are free speech. Our right to free speech means Dan Cathy can say what he wants and not get arrested for it.* It also means other people can do what they want about what he says, within the law. Not eating really sugary chicken with pickles is absolutely one of those things people can do.
6. Please be nice. If you've decided, in keeping with #1, that you're still going to eat at Chick-Fil-A, OK. If you've decided that that is a proud and noble stand to take, I don't get it, but OK. But if you know you have (or may have) queer friends, who are actively suffering (or may have suffered) thanks to the efforts of the Chick-Fil-A Foundation, maybe don't make such a thing of your proud and noble stand on Facebook?
7. That's also not a suppression of free speech. That is a person who tries to be mostly kind hoping that her friends will maybe try to do the same in public spaces they know she'll be in. It's not censorship to remind people I exist.

*BTW, as a wealthy white Christian male, the odds that he'd get arrested for it even without our right to free speech are pretty slim. But whatevs.