WILTING

The heat wave has come early this summer. Hitting the 90s before July is unusual, and much speculation is flying as to whether this means we’re in for a long hot summer or if it’s going to burn out so we get a crappy fall. Hey, there isn’t a lot to talk about around the office.

I look forward to the short, intense periods of summer’s force. I’m not one for roasting myself to a golden brown, at least outside of vacation time, but I love the heat induced slow down that hits the city. Soaking up lackadaisical hours with a trivial book and heading to bed ever later waiting for a breath of cool air to close the day. My clearest summer memories involve trying to stay still, limiting any skin to skin contact and the primary activity to seek out and drink all manner of iced beverages.

Coming to work, with its proficient air conditioning, is a bit of a break, but I can’t shake the desire to get back outside, away from business efficiency and the digital pace. I want to melt into a bar stool or park bench for a few hours and come away with only a slight sun burn and sweat sheen to show for it.

THEM

I foolishly thought I had deterred the aphid scourge from devouring my basil. Not at all. It’s been growing, if not flourishing, so I’ve been happy to keep it watered and moderately sunned.

Today, as I’m checking on the health of my balcony paradise, I discover my precious herb covered in adult aphids, sucking the life from the innocent greenery.

It’s back to the heavy duty soap spraying. I haven’t lost the battle yet!

ASPIRING HOOLIGAN

I like soccer/fútbol. I’ve played it and watched it, but I can’t say that I’ve followed it. With the World Cup on this month, I’ve been following every stat and group update. I still don’t fully follow the tournament organization, but I think I’m catching on. The nine hour time change putting the games right during business hours, they’re being played on the lobby plasma screen, and I’m totally hooked.

My favorites are naturally the US and Spain, but I haven’t seen a match that didn’t hold my wrapped attention yet. The hot players don’t hurt either (what? I’m shallow). I’m looking into trading cards and posters at this point.

It really is a beautiful game that doesn’t discriminate on economic and cultural basis. It’s a shame the US hasn’t embraced the sport on a professional level, but it’s good to know that I live only a few blocks from one of the best bars for watching fútbol year round so I can keep up on it all. At least it’s a good way fill time until American football is back in action.

UNSKILLED LABOR

I have returned, achy and bone tired, from the wilds of far eastern Washington, where my dearest friends have chosen to make their new home. Dayton is an adorable town with sweet neighborhoods branching off from the one stop light main street. It’s got the basics for a simple life and not much more, but certainly seems like a charming place to settle down, if that’s ones goal.

For my part I find it to be a bit too far from the nearest Nordstrom Rack for my taste, drops off the map of any national company cell phone coverage and has no discernable night life from the first impression. Since I’m not looking to settle down anytime soon, it’s not my kind of thing.

I was part of an envoy to help in the home renovation of my friend’s starter home before they move over for good. It was two days of physical labor that isn’t entirely my forte, but I like to think I held my own. Four coats of paint (two primer, two color) on the two story vaulted ceilings covered in acoustic tile have left me with a stiff neck and hands permanently clenched in the shape of the roller handle. On the up side, the house shows all kinds of potential to be great, and I think we took some positive strides in that direction. I’m also taking a long look at plans to own my own place some day and how much renovation I’ll be prepared to put in.

QUE VERGüENZA!

My parents have been staying w/ me a bit recently due to travel and medical appointments. They are a pleasure to have around and fabulous house guests, even in a place as small as mine. They visited midweek this time, and I had leave for work before they were ready to head off, so I left them with a key.

It was so lovely upon arriving home to find everything far tidier than I’d left it. Dad almost compulsively washes my dishes whenever he’s around. As I was hopping about the bedroom getting ready to hit the gym, I was struck by the horrific realization that my parents had even looked under the bed. Nicely arranged on the top of my laundry basket sat damning evidence of illicit activity.

For context, a few months ago there was a somewhat regrettable, highly forgettable evening that was not nearly as interesting as the evidence would suggest (unless you count the ample evidence of my being severely ill) that resulted in a guest departing without everything they came in with. Finding this parting gift the following morning was as hilarious as it was humiliating, and I kicked it under the bed so as not to think about it.

Never look under the bed! Things are sent there for a reason. Either to be hidden or forgotten. I can only hope my parents have learned this lesson. Or they just think they’re being hysterically funny. With dad I can never really tell.

I’m being haunted by a pair of tatty Jockeys.

ESTOY LIBRE!

It seems like any other day. Just cruising the internet when I should be working. The norm. With hesitant key strokes I have just made the final electronic payment on my consumer debt. My credit cards are PAID! OFF! COMPLETELY!

(With the exception of the AMEX revolving credit, but that totally doesn’t count as is paid off each month. Still awesome!)

Like many young Americans, this debt has followed me since college, reaching an unsettling high point when the Ex and I were combining our debt for better interest rates. (I was young and dumb, whatever.) I had begun to doubt I would ever shed it, but last summer my resolve was reset, thanks to fairly steady and reliable income. An extra boost from the tax return has allowed me to obliterate my consumer debt just in time to start making monthly payments on my post grad school student loans. Sure it’s basically a trade from one to the other, but student debt is so much better than consumer. With a comfy interest rate locked in last year before it all went to hell w/ the Fed, I’m sitting as pretty as can be expected.

Next thing you know I’ll be setting up a retirement fund. Fantastic!

GENE ASTAIRE

The first wedding in my generation of Roemers came off quite smoothly this weekend. My cousin looked radiant, and showed no signs of all the stress I know revolved around the event. The ceremony was sweetly located on beach in the south sound, and the reception was fun even without alcohol.

Since I’m moving into my roll as the family spinster, and couldn’t drum up a date for the occassion, I was tasked with transporting Granny and Auntie to and from the festivities and manning the guest book at the reception. The taxi services went smoothly, though the drive was even longer than I’d expected at nearly two hours each way. The guest table I shirked a bit, but it wasn’t entirely my fault. Due to having the family photo session immediately after the ceremony, on the beach, while most of the crowd moved on to the snacks and dancing, everyone was well past the signing in by the time I was ready to man my post. Considering the guest book table was down hall from the party area, near the door and the restrooms, I couldn’t really bring myself to stay there much past twenty minutes. A few people filled out the cards with well wishes, and I tried to keep an eye on it while sampling all the food and dancing with dad. Generally, I’m sticking with timing being at fault for my neglect rather than my dodging the wall flower station.

Like most weddings I’m emotionally invested in, there were several bright moments. The ceremony setting was entirely charming, granny was escorted down the beach by a most solicitous groom and most fantastic of all, my dad is a spectacular dancer.

Dad was have a good health day in general, but on the dance floor, he positively lights up. He kicked off his sandals because they were slowing him down and spun me, my mom and his sisters around the floor like a barefoot pro. He said I was a quick study with the East Coast Swing, and even if he was just being kind, it’s the high point of my birthday/grad week. Now my daddy is not only the smartest and most athletic man ever, he’s the most graceful too.

Yeah, I’m daddy’s girl. What of it?

THE AQUATIC PLAGUE CONTINUES

Perhaps I should not attempt to keep fish, if at the least to keep PETA from knocking on my door. I’m a pox.

Jacqueline has passed away. It was more sudden than Veronica, but the symptoms were the same. On Tuesday evening she was acting a bit strange and only staying in one corner of the tank. By Wednesday, she was listing to the side, and Thursday found her wedging herself beneath a vine of the low lying tank décor only gawping shallowly. On Friday morning I scooped her lifeless little form from the tank for good.

To add to the oddities, it appears Franc has passed away as well. I was hoping he might just pop out of his shell and start sliming about, but several days of no movement pretty much sound the death knell.

Since I have carefully followed all the care instructions I was given at the pet store and searched out online, I don’t know how I can be causing this. My new suspicion is that the store I’ve been purchasing my gals from results in short life spans once they get home. Sure, it’s way more likely I’m the cause, but I’ve got to cling to something.

Now Olivia is running solo in the tank, and I don’t think I’ll be getting her a roommate anytime soon. If she hangs around for another month or so, I’ll reconsider. Perhaps a new snail will be in order though.

RIP Jacqs.

A SPLASH OF POMP

Despite my diploma having sat on my mantle for several months now, I graduated today. I passed on the cap and gown because they were optional, involved hoop jumping to acquire and are wildly unflattering. Still got to march in front of a sizable crowd, despite it being only a Comm department todo, and indulge heavy admissions of pride and adoration from the folks.

I was less than pleased at being the only graduate student to not fit in the first row seats, thus relegated to the beginnings of the endless stretch of fresh faced bachelor’s degree earners, or at least I thought so until Byung came trotting up from the back of the room at the last possible moment. The MCDM program also feels a bit like the red headed step child of the department with our noticeable lack of obtuse thesis titles in the program. But overall, the ceremony lent a satisfying sense of completion to my pricey education, and I’m glad I took the time for it.

After mom and dad headed on down to the south sound to prep for the next family affair, I wandered my back to campus, via two happy hour stops (Hey, I’m not off work early enough to catch these most days.), for our cohort reception. There was ‘much what are you doing now?’, ‘we should stay touch’, and ‘I hardly know what to do with my free time’ going about, plus snacks and vino. There was a slide show that consisted mostly of photos taken while at the RAM after classes, so naturally it featured plenty of wildly unflattering shots of me and my various shades of hair over the last couple years.

Things wrapped up right around nine, as scheduled, and everyone was keen to get back to their regular lives. I treated myself to a couple drinks at Norm’s, as that sums up my “regular” life pretty much these days, and called it a night. Once again, I’d been prepared for a bit more raucous, but had a lovely time all the same. Story of my week.

Cumpleaños feliz

My birthday ended up a bit more subdued than my initial plans which heavily favored elaborate bar hopping and happy hour surfing, but it was thoroughly enjoyable all the same.

Lunch plans fell through with my intended fellow surfer, but a day off work is never wasted when spent in leisure. I opted to stroll around Fremont in the middle of a work day and wait for the folks to arrive. For some reason I always suspect that the neighborhood is hopping with activity when I’m off slaving away at my desk, but 36^th is pretty sleep in the middle of a weekday. Sure, people are wandering about, and the business lunch crowd keeps all the fab eateries in business, but I’m not missing all that much trucking down to the Intl Dist every morning. It was a gorgeous day and went for a lovely sushi lunch.

Mom and dad rolled in earlier than expected, so we left dad to rest up, after a brief instructional session on my TiVo remote, and went of for mani/pedis. I’ve never had my nails “done” before, so it was quite a treat. While I don’t know if I’d go back to hygienically questionable spot over the burrito place and I had to fight twitching my highly ticklish feet, it was a positive experience overall. Topped off the mother daughter bonding with some refreshing sangria al fresco before collecting dad for dinner.

Apparently Pontevecchios has become my traditional birthday dinner spot, as we’ve been there three of the last four years. Well, it’s still excellent, and how can you go wrong with having your favorite dish served up by solicitous Italians on your birthday? You can’t, so there.

BATTERED

My elation over finally qualifying for blood donation has been somewhat dampened by the excessive bruising incurred by my time in the blood mobile. I had expected some bruising at the puncture spot, since they were practically milking my arm by the end. (I apparently wasn’t all that well hydrated, but I’d be damned at turning back after all the red meat and supplements it took to get me there.)

The bruising and soreness now stretches rather obviously down my forearm and a wee bit up the bicep. Rather looks like someone wrestled me to the ground and forcibly withdrew a “donation.”

However, my feelings of success remain undiminished, and I’ll be pleased as punch when I get my donor card. As a bonus, my daddy is super proud, considering donation up there with the height of citizenship, so who cares if I bruise easier than summer fruit.

SUCCESS!

I did it! I qualified to donate! I probably shouldn’t be this excited about the opportunity to have a sore arm and spend a day weakened by moderate bloodloss.

While I experienced none of the predicted weakness predicted, I still worked a bit on milking it while at work. After all, it is the day before my glorious (that’s right, I said glorious) 29th birthday.

I’m clinging to this victory. After all, I set a goal and achieved it. Enough steak! Hey, they didn’t even have to put it through the spin test. Sure, people who haven’t been turned down for the whole blood donation thing won’t know what I’m talking about. Whatever, I totally rock. So take that and suck on it. I’ve got blood worth sharing, and that’s a victory.

CH-CH-CHANGES

I have several bundles of photos, packed away in dark places. Oh, there are plenty photos held in albums and frames for general consumption, but these bundles are of relationships gone by. I’m not even really sure where the oldest bundles are housed these days. My parents have moved a couple of times since I lived at home, so they’re likely mildewing in a box somewhere. I haven’t expunged all the exes, just the ones that ended badly, thus tainting the fond memories that should be conjured by the multitude of smiling snapshots. Whether it’s a healing device or unhealthy blocking, I haven’t spent a lot of time or thought on.

The most recently wrapped bundle left a number of blanks in my photo albums and frames in need of filler. I also realized that there was precious little photographic evidence of the past several years, which would seem like a symptom worth noting sooner.

It was during this “reorganizing” I decided I didn’t want blank spaces in my personal history, and I quickly picked up a user friendly digital camera for recording whatever came next. Since I’ve managed to stave off meaningful personal connections and a majority of my recent adventures have been attempted solo, I am the primary subject of my growing collection of people related pics, and it’s starting to appear quite vain.

In that spirit, I present here a quick summary of how my appearance has changed since my last birthday, as well as somewhat embarrassing evidence of how much time I spend mugging for the camera.

THEM!

They’re back! The aphids have once again found my wee porch garden. Gah!

It’s been a year since I attempted to grow anything beyond a couple of succulents, abandoned in the messy property division of 2005, and my faithful fichus, Crighton. (What, so I’ve named a few plants. I’m not a pet person.) The peppy little potted garden I’d maintained at my previous apartment met a brutal, parched end, and the relocation to Fremont happened a bit late in the growing season to try starting again. At least, I lacked the motivation to take on the task.

The beginning of May saw life brought to my balcony, despite the added challenge of not receiving any direct sunlight, only to be faced by the aphid scourge come June. I will not be bested this year. I will not give in to the creepy, milling swarm. I’ve started with the soapy water defense, in hopes of actually being able to consume my herbs before the end of the season, but I’ll resort to full chemical warfare if need be. I have the supplies and have taken plants down in the battle before.

It is on!