Once Prized For The Function, Now For The View

Today I spoke with a gentleman from the Defense Security Service about my colleague for her security clearance. Some of his questions got me to thinking about my clearability, and this is what I determined: there is no way I would ever be cleared. Not that I'm untrustworthy. On the contrary, I love my country and countrymen and would never do anything to put either in harm's way.

The problem is a little thing I like to call MONEY. On paper I'm not such a good sell. If one were to look at my bank statements, I wouldn't appear to be so stable. One might say, "Wow, this girl could do with a little bribing." And thus? Unclearable.

It is this line of thought that gave me and a few of my colleagues the BEST DAMN BUSINESS IDEA EVER. We have decided to open our own coffee shop. With strippers. For now we're calling it "Java 'N Jugs."

But we're not going to be like those Seattle bikini-clad coffee-slingers. Our baristas (which will be us to start) will be dressed like Dita Von Teese: classic red lipstick, pin curls, silk stockings, 1930s styling. Put a tip in the tin and we take a little off. Eventually we're in our knickers, a-makin' coffee. We're strip-tistas! But classy ones. And also ones that don't get naked because I'm pretty sure that being naked behind the counter would be a violation of health codes.

A little research has taught me that there are certain rules to burlesque, so we're going to incorporate those rules into our business: innuendo, double entrende, suggestive language, and of course, lots and lots of garters.

Brilliant, right? And it's all for the safety and security of my beloved America. (And also the safety and security of my bank account.) It's called patriotism, people: the willingness to show one's "ample waves of grain" for love of their country. Can I get a "God bless America?" Oh yes I can.

Give Me Something From 1960 Or Something; Let Me Get Up Again

I have to profess my undying love and devotion to the magazine Psychology Today. Because of this wonderful publication, I can't stop looking at women and they way that they walk so that I can develop theories as to how well they climax during sexual intercourse.

Just this past weekend I indulged in this new hobby of mine as Mr. Mystery and I were sitting on some benches outside the National Archives. "That woman, right there," I pointed to a sashaying middle-aged woman whose hips were swaying like a flag in a breeze. "That woman has lots of orgasms. But that woman over there?" I pointed to a different ambling lady, this one pattering by in short, tense steps. "That lady has likely never had an orgasm in her life."

I can also thank Psychology Today for my recent musings as to whether I am normal or not. This question of normality is not new to me, but it has taken on fresh meaning since PT asked the same thing and wrote such an interesting article on it. The only drawback to the article was that there wasn't a checklist provided, against which I could contrast myself with "normal" people. But since the article was about this very thing - whether there is or should be a standard definition of "normal" against which all people can be considered - it's not surprising there wasn't a checklist.

But I was still surprised. Because that's how I roll.

So I got to thinking about normality and whether or not I and my infinite weirdnesses are normal. Am I the only one who obsesses about their relationships and their role in them? Am I the only one who would put "sleep" on their Top 10 List of Favorite Things to Do? Am I the only one who has to plan for affection because I'm not naturally inclined to be so? Am I the only one who spends 90% of their day thinking about their job and how unfulfilled they are in it, but worries about never finding a new job because they fear they aren't good enough to score an awesome new position in which they won't feel exactly the same way they feel right now? Am I the only one for whom Logic and Reason mean absolutely nothing? Am I? AM I?!!

Oh. I am? Dammit.

Well, PT has a solution for that. They told me to redefine for myself what normal is, not accepting a set list of criteria as the end-all, be-all of normality. So in that spirit I am now going to embrace my oddities and will see my rare moments of calm and peace as being strange and "not quite right."

This may be contrary to everything Mrs. Lady Doctor has been trying to teach me, but at least it will drastically cut down on the number of emails to Mr. Mystery in which I complain about my job.

The Ingenuity of Complete Fools

Once upon a time I hated teak. Then I came to my senses. The end.

The Feeling of Grinning Inside

And another 2.2 pounds bites the dust.

I have now lost a total of 17.6 pounds and am truly amped about it. I am super curious as to what would happen if I realio-trulio followed the program - no cheating or creative math - and added some more exercise. What say you, friends? Experiment? Oh, I THINK SO.

So this week I have three goals. They are:

1. Exercise more.
2. Do not lose my mind and eat all of the stuffing on Thanksgiving.
3. Lose 2.6 pounds this week to bring my El Grande Total to 20 pounds DOWN THE DRAIN and OFF MY ASS.

In other news, I am filled with joy for all the world. As my yoga instructor would say, I am "sending positive white light to the universe." For some reason I can not confirm, I am almost euphoric and giddy with all the joyous joy. I think this is in part to some strange upswing in my brain chemicals. Some would call it "mania" but I'm calling it BLISS. Also, I credit all the wonderful people in my life who are cheering me on throughout my weight loss effort. Emails that say, "Fan-freakin'-tastic, Canary! Keep up the good work!" and "HOLY CRAP! 17 pounds is AWESOME! Woo hoooooo!" have brought about a perma-grin; I think my uncharacteristic happiness is starting to scare The Cat. (The Cat's take on the weight loss? "Mow," blink blink, blink. "Now give me some food, you stupid shrinking human.")

Also making me oh-so-very-happy are the good people in the world who love me, though they have never met me. These are my blog buddies, my Internets friends, the people I have met through this blog. I exchange emails with these fine folks. I think of their lives and I wish big wishes for them. I "send positive white light" to them, and they return it. Just today SweetlySingle, aka the Hippie Hudlum, told me that she was sending me some things she thought I would like. THINGS SHE THOUGHT I WOULD LIKE. Me! She thought of me and the things I might like! And she's going to mail them to me! In Maryland! When she herself is in Canada! And in return I'm sending her a wonky scarf I crocheted for her wee neck and shoulders.

And Kate, my would-be-lover-if-I-swung-that-way, talked me off of a ledge last week when I was convinced that I was completely unmarketable on the job market. She took the time to be my pep squad, to sing my praises when I couldn't sing them myself, and then deliver a dose of reality that woke my wallowing ass right up.

People. In the world. All around me. CAN YOU FEEL THE LOVE, MAH PEEPS? Can you feel it?! Because I'm sending you love right this very minute. It's platonic love (though maybe not 100% platonic for you, my little Kate), but it's still love. Ooey, gooey, sick-to-your-stomach good will and joy. Think of it as an emotional purr, rumbling from my inner self and telling you that YOU ROCK, INTERNETS. And also you, REAL LIFE PEOPLE THAT I KNOW. You light me right up, oh yes you do.

See? Total mania. This sort of happiness is SO NOT ME. But I'm ridin' high on the tide of endorphins and loving every minute of it. You better love it, too, while I'm handing it out. Chances are high that tomorrow I'll be sucking the ever-livin' life right out of you. As per usual.

Sat nam, my petit filets. Sat nam.

The Poetry of Logical Ideas

I'm on Weight Watchers and it works, people. But you know what doesn't work? Me. The one who is DOING the weight watching. I've thought long and hard about why this is so dang difficult and I came up with a simple answer: MATHEMATICS.

Yup, blame math for my inability to stay away from the M'FING KRISPY KREME STORE with its M'FING "HOT DONUTS NOW!" SIGN.

Up to this point, I've done fairly well keeping to my daily POINTS(TM) allowance. I've cheated here and there, sneaking in a cupcake or three, but I always managed to pull it together enough to tip the scale in a downward direction. Until that one week where I lost my mind and ate everything I could get my meaty hands on. That week I gained 2 pounds and went mental with superstition.

The following week I was back on track (sort of) and I lost the 2 pounds I had gained, plus an additional 0.4 pounds. (Losing weight is like having a baby. You measure in the smallest increments possible. "Look! I lost 0.0025 pounds! My baby is 36 weeks old! That cupcake looks delicious!") I was supremely happy to see that the pesky pounds were going down and I have to admit to feeling generally better than normal, but I still can't get my ass in gear enough to be consistent.

This is where the math part comes in.

"So what's the problem?" you ask. "Why can't you get your ass in gear enough to be consistent?" And the answer is simple: Weight Watchers requires me to ADD and SUBTRACT and sometimes MULTIPLY and that is difficult. So difficult in fact, that the difficulty makes me so tired that I'm not strong enough to resist the lure of the Krispy Kreme.

So you see, the problem is math.

Let's break it down. Lunch consisted of 1) piece of Pepperidge Farm Oatnut bread; 2) a serving of my friend's shrimp salad; 3) one glazed Krispy Kreme donut. (Make no comment about the donut, because I actually ate two. One had chocolate on it.) I do the math: 1) 2 points; + 2) 4 points; + 3) a million points = 1,000,006 points. Now, when looking at that number, I can already start to tell that something is amiss. Visually, the POINTS(TM) system works, ie: 1,000,006 is a really big number and I know that really big numbers are not good. I'm not allowed to have a million points a day, so I make the very accurate statement that I have gone over my daily POINTS(TM) allowance and am thus GOING TO BURN IN FAT-PERSON HELL FOR ALL ETERNITY. The second thing I notice is that the donut was SO not worth the POINTS(TM).

Pretty logical and easy, right? So straightforward and simple. On such a system as this, the pounds must FALL off of my body. My stomach must be washboarding itself even as I type this. My butt is contracting and my chin is reappearing. But no. Oh no no no. Because despite the simplicity and logic of the POINTS(TM) system, you have to factor in one very illogical tour-de-force: ME.

Because I'm now doing some complicated math to determine how I can eat MORE donuts, despite the knowledge that the donut just isn't worth it. If I just lick the icing off of the donut, will the donut have less POINTS(TM)? What if I chew it down into very small pieces? Or liquify it? Or what if I eat the donut while standing up? Will that make it less POINTy(TMy)? And then as I start to carry the one, I get all confused and decide that the 1,000,000 POINTS(TM) attached to the donut is SO WORTH IT if it means that I don't have to keep doing math.

So I eat a second donut.

And then regret it.

Because after all of the very difficult adding, I have learned that I am now 22.5 points IN THE HOLE. Negative points, people. And even I, mathily-challenged girl, know that negative points ain't good. So all of this donut-eating-no-math-doing means that I am GOING TO BURN IN FAT-PERSON HELL FOR ALL ETERNITY where my ass will expand and expand and my thighs will join together into one blobby uni-thigh. It also means that I need to do some serious exercising to burn those points off and bring me back to zero.

I hate math. Math makes me hungry.

The Usual Way: A Little Wine, A Little Dinner...

Be warned my friends, I am about to share too much information. Information of a personal nature. Like about bodily functions and such.

This shouldn't surprise you, my oversharing, seeing as how a recent post used the word "poop" about a gajillion times. Granted, I haven't actually told you ABOUT poop, but it's only a matter of time. In fact, I have a GREAT poop story to relay but Mr. Mystery says I should find an alternative word for "poop" before telling it. So until a suitable stand-in can be found, you shall not hear my poop story.

Instead of poop, this story is about Aunt Flo, aka: That Time of the Month, aka: Riding The Crimson Wave, aka: HELL.

So here's the story about my Aunt Flo: I happen to be a little late this month. As in my auntie ain't visitin' at the moment. As in it is not That Time of the Month for me, I am not Riding the Crimson Wave, and while I AM in Hell, it has nothing to do with my reproductive organs.

That about sums it up. Great story, no?

Now before you all go getting worked up and assume that I done got myself in The Family Way, be assured that I am NOT pregnant. And if I were? Well, let's just say that if I were pregnant you'd see a canary-shaped hole right through this here blog with an accompanying word balloon declaring, "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu*k."

No. The lateness of my little friend is likely due to the insane amount of medication I am on for the Dread Pirate Sickness. Though WebMD has been less than helpful in answering, "Do antibiotics make your period late?" Google has stepped in with a wide variety of ambiguous research and eHow hits. After a quick search through the Internets and a reminder to myself that multiple forms of birth control have been utilized at all times, I determined that I was not pregnant and thus unpacked my bags and settled in for the long-haul.

But that doesn't mean that I didn't have a few hours of wondering.

This morning I sat in traffic on the Beltway and thought to myself, "If I had a kid, how would my life be different?" I figured that if I had a kid - was in possession of said child right that very minute - that I'd be sitting on the Beltway in traffic. Nothing new there. Except that with a kid, my car would be covered in snack-food debris and spilled drinks. Oh wait. That's not new either. Okay, so traffic and car maintenance wouldn't change regardless of whether there was a Little Canary or not.

Work. Would work be different? Work itself would not, but my hours would be interrupted by daycare calls and The Ever-Present Childhood Sick. Though... as things stand now, my hours are all over the place anyway. Appointments with Mrs. Lady Doctor, the Dread Pirate Sickness, the bitterness and resentment that keep me in bed later than I should be, etc. I can accept that birthing a meatloaf would change my career and job, because my priorities and obligations would change. This, in theory, does not bother me because I am currently less-than-pleased with my job, hence the bitterness and resentment.

Traffic and work are aspects of my life, but they are not my entire life. I can readily accept changes to these two things because they exist but are not a part of me. A child, though... A child would be a serious kick to the ass of my life because a child WOULD be a part of me, both emotionally and physically. Money would be tight, dating would be hard, and then there's the sleep to consider. Oh sweet precious sleep, how I would miss thee.

My biggest fear was that being a single mom would cause me to put too much emotional baggage on the wee shoulders of my offspring. I don't want to be the sole reason my child ends up in therapy. I know that I'll be PARTIALLY to blame for my kid's Crazy (I'm certain my brand of Crazy is genetic), but I don't want to be the End All Be All of my kid's WHITE HOT FREAKING INSANITY. If my kid's going to be crazy, I want that crazy to be the result of something simple, like a chemical imbalance, and not ANYTHING THAT HAS TO DO WITH ME. Blame someone else, you little rugrat. For reals. And right now... Well, if I were to reproduce right now, I think I might screw my kid up irreparably.

But despite knowing all the hardships that having an unplanned baby would bring, I didn't so much mind (apart from screwing the kid up and ruining its life, ohmygod). It was more, "I'll deal. I'll figure it out." Because really, isn't that what Life is? A great big puzzle to figure out? We turn the pieces over in our hands, inspect their shape and color, and look for a place to set them down that makes sense. Some people find that place on the first try, but not me. I move and move and move the pieces until sense is made. I am not tactical; I do not plan. Things happen and I react and, at some point, I figure it out.

But this breezy outlook on the matter is likely the result of the fact that I know I'm not pregnant. If there were a real possibility that I could be, well... like I said, canary-shaped hole and fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu*k word balloon. So it's just as well that I'm not; I don't like running and swearing. (I kid. I love to swear.) Also, I'm certain The Cat would NOT approve of bringing a flesh-covered "kitten" into the fold. According to him, there's only enough love and attention for him.

And there you have it. The situation. I am perfectly content with the way that things are (job not included). But I am a little sad nonetheless, as I'm pretty sure that being With Child would have provided me with some EXCELLENT poop stories. Absolutely excellent.

Touch But A Cobweb In Westminster Hall

Hear ye, hear ye! The word of the day is VERMIN.

Mr. Mystery's back yard is a veritable dumping ground for all things unwanted. Because his house backs onto a communal alley and because his yard is open (ie: unfenced) and because it's nigh unto impossible to get your household trash (nevermind bulk trash) picked up in D.C., people like to toss whatever they don't want into his yard. It's easier to pass the buck than to take care of your garbage like an adult. A word to all of Mr. Mystery's neighbors: dump anything else in the man's yard and I will go postal on your ass. OhyesIwill. So with all of the clandestine dumping, it came as no surprise when Mr. Mystery received a warning about the bulk trash in his back yard.

Always happy to throw things away and even happier to go my favorite place, I was giddy - GIDDY! - about the prospect of cleaning out the backyard. Friday night found me happily humming while my boyfriend hauled crap-that-did-not-belong-to-him from his backyard out to the trunk of my car. The methodical opening and closing of the back door, his stomp-stomp-stomp through the house, and then the opening of the front door was broken up at one point by the sound of squeals and shrieks. Mr. Mystery came back in the house and announced matter-of-factly, "The girls next door found a rat in their house. They trapped it in a box."

Oh. I was ALL over that.

"I WANT TO SEE IT!" I yelled, and followed after him.

Turns out that the rat had not just been in their house, but had actually been in one of the girls' boots. To her surprise (and dismay), she got a little something extra when she went to put her shoe on. And now the shoe, along with the rat inside of it, was caught in a box.

Fascinated, Mr. Mystery and I went to work.

We flipped the box over. We opened the top carefully. We looked for the rat. We did not see the rat, but we saw the boot. We guessed the rat was still inside of the boot. I reached in and picked up the boot. I shook. And shook. And shook and shook and shook. Mr. Mystery took over and shook the boot. A tail appeared. And then little paws. And then the entire rat, at which point I jumped up and started shrieking with the rest of the girls, doing a wild two-step on the sidewalk.

The rat took off full-tilt-boogie up the street, running for all its worth.

Suddenly silent, we all stared at the retreating tail of the now-free rat.

"Should we go after it?" asked one of the girls. Hell if I knew. What does one do with a single rat in a city full of vermin? Catch it and hang its head on a tiny stake in the front yard as a warning to all other rats? THOU SHALT NOT COME HERE, RATS, lest we go all Lord of the Flies on your furry butts.

The tediousness of running after a rat didn't measure up to the benefit of catching said rat and the fruitlessness of killing one rat in a gajillion, so we all shivered our individual grossed-out shivers and returned to our homes.

Monday morning I was woken up by a shuffle-shuffle-shuffle-SQUEAK! sound coming from the bedroom wall. Alert and thoroughly ooked out, I tapped Mr. Mystery on the back of the head. "Hello?" he asked sleepily. "Shhhhh!" I whispered hysterically. "LISTEN!"

Shuffle-shuffle-shuffle-SQUEAK!

"There's... something... in the... wall!" I stage-whispered dramatically.

He listened for a moment. Shuffle-shuffle-shuffle-SQUEAK! "Uh huh," Mr. Mystery replied. "There is." And then he rolled over, pulled the blankets up to his chin, and began snoring.

I laid there for a while listening to the vermin partying in the wall, imagining all sorts of frightening things like tiny paws walking across my face while I slept, rat tails draped over the cutlery in the kitchen, and smooshy rodents a-livin' in my shoes. I was horrified.

I'm not really sure what to do. When you live in a city you're at the mercy of the outside world. Without protection, you find people dumping trash in your yard and rats living in your walls. Your space and your possessions are no longer yours alone, but instead become communal property. You share your yard with your neighbors' trash and your boots with the rats. If one person fails to keep a tidy house and allows their residence to become a breeding ground for roaches, you get to entertain roaches, too.

I am trying to come to terms with this, but finding it difficult. I don't know what the solution is, so until I figure it out I'm going to keep dumping the trash and nesting like a maniac. I might also, perhaps, put out some glue traps.

Some great. Big. Glue traps.

Gratitude extended to paulbaines.co.uk for the image. Read his interesting post on Blek Le Rat and stenciled street art.