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!

HOLIDAYS AT HOME

Dad is looking better. Not great yet, and my parents struggle to wrap their minds around illnesses that aren’t resolved with a few days of taking medication. They’re still going to take their vacation though, and Dad’s making summer plans that don’t involve heavy labor with much aplomb.

I’ve also introduced Dad to Gmail and Google chat. He probably hasn’t checked it since I showed hi how to use it, but to be fair, there probably isn’t any mail there anyways. I’ll just have to start sending him stuff.

It was a lovely weekend of sitting outside, enjoying good food and company, and very much like it always is going home. Steph and Jason joined in the lounging and neighborhood park tours. I have a tendency to annex my friends into my family over time because I’ve come to enjoy my parents so much over the years and they’re great to visit and visit with.

All in all, a good, if unremarkable, holiday.

PROBABLY NOT GOING TO BECOME CRIME FIGHTING ROYALTY

When I was little, around the grade school era, I planned on become a writer. I was going to be a teacher, just like dad, and spend the summer holidays writing novels.

This dream, along with other standard little girl dreams like becoming a marine biologist, international spy and princess, fell by the wayside at some point. Possibly because I haven’t nearly the patience or understanding to work with young people and would surely end up scarring children for life if unleashed on the academic sector. Additionally, my writing “talent” is certainly debatable, and thus far I have failed to show the discipline involved in becoming better, like actually spending quality time writing. Oddly enough, I don’t think I ever dreamed of being 8-5 desk jockey. Will have to reflect on that one.

Anyway, now that the network television season has passed (Yes, I have an addiction, and TiVo only enables it.), I will make it a new year’s, marked by my birthday, resolution to write more frequently. Perhaps I might even come up with some kind of creative direction for my wee, vanity blog. Stranger things have happened.

THE TINY, IMPOTENT FIST OF RAGE

Life is hard and life is not fair.

While it was hardly news by my junior year of high school, it was a mantra our accounting teacher assured us would make life simpler to navigate and understand once accepted. He would also not be in before 8:45 on Fridays due to golf.

It would seem I'm as poor a student of life as I am at accounting because this is bullshit. I guess I’ve never truly accepted the bitch nature of life and fate. Sure, the cruel and hurtful can excel; what do I care. The success, or at least failure to suffer, is of the undeserving is of little matter to me. It’s when fate decides to take a gut shot at the, all to rare, generous and wonderful souls who have done nothing but make the world around them a better place, that I want some justice.

There should be balance. Karma should mean something. I'm not recommending the incentivizing of being a good person, but if being a good can't bring reward, at least one shouldn't be punished for it. I certainly deserve more knocks than I've gotten in my life, but there are those who are dished more than their share.

If life isn't going to play fair, it can takes its marbles and shove them up its ass. I want to know who's rigging this thing.

REFRESH

New fish in the tank! New Franc, the mystery snail, as well! And yes, all the mystery snails shall be named Franc. Here’s hoping I don’t have to replace another one soon, because I’ll start to feel quite bad.

Olivia is a pale blonde, and seems quite lively. I have high hopes for this happy little tank family lasting for some time. Franc II doesn’t seem like as much of a go getter as Franc I, but perhaps he arrived in the tank w/ some kind of amphetamine problem, thus his untimely demise.

I’ve no desire for a parade of ill fated aquatic life to parade through my humble living room, so should things going sour again soon, I might have to give up my plans of pet ownership purely for humanitarian reasons.

RIP V

Veronica passed quietly during the day on Friday. It’s the first tragedy for the tank, and hopefully the last, though with goldfish, that seems far fetched. Hopefully her illness and passing were peaceful. Both and V and Franc are interned near the large rock by the parking lot entrance, and will be remembered fondly.

TERMINAL TANK

Whether it’s an unfortunate side effect of my being away for five days, or an inevitable tragedy, Veronica does not look long for this world.

She was the first goldfish I brought home, but ever since I introduced her to her new home, she has seemed lethargic and sickly. I’ve made the tank adjustments that are in my power, but she has only declined in health. When I got back she was only able to swim tilting sideways, had a hard time eating and was spending the majority of her time lying on the bottom of the tank.

I’ve doctored the water with healthy fish stuff, but I fear it may be too late. Since Jacqueline appears to be in fine health, despite living in the tank of doom for just as long, I am selecting to believe Veronica was ill when I brought her home, and I only hope I have been able to make her comfortable.

Now, I’m not sure how to proceed at this point. She has been clearly unwell for some time, and I had to put Jacs in a pickle jar to separate them when I noticed she was picking on V. I would like to return Jacs to the tank, but until V either starts to look better or kicks it, I’m in a holding pattern. Is there an appropriate way to euthanize a goldfish? Perhaps I lack an essential sympathetic nature for pet ownership, but I don’t want her to suffer either.

Something will have to be done this weekend. I can’t damage Jacs’ health with improper filtration while V convalesces, and I would like to get back to having a happy fish tank. V will be sorely missed, but it looks like my first fish fatality is swiftly approaching.

VACATION, ALL I EVER WANTED

I have made it safely back from my long overdue vacation to sunny SoCal. The highlight, and primary goal, of the trip was of course hitting Coachella w/ lifelong pal Ani, but I also soaked some quality relaxation and fun out of a couple days lounging around her house in Redlands.

My glowing Seattle pallor was able to avoid sun damage while hanging out in the ninety-plus degree heat of Indio, CA, but my personal rotisserie session on Ani’s back patio sent me home a bit pinker than when I departed. Here’s hoping it starts to resemble a tan soon.

All in all, it was fantastic. I definitely need to plan long weekends away more often, or at least as often as the budget will allow.

Despite the fun in the sun, it is good to get back home. I’m really not a California girl at heart, and 70º at home is just about the most perfect weather in creation. Thankfully my Emerald City has not disappointed this week. Summer is on.

ADMINISTRATIVE PROFESSIONALS UNITE!

As I currently make my living in the exotic and captivating world of executive assisting, I often find it necessary to remind my charges about old-school Secretary’s Day, and that a happy admin makes for a positive work environment.

This year, Admin Day is passing largely without notice due to a board meeting falling on the same day. However, with the incredible excess of catered chow brought in to satisfy the decision makers, today, the admins dine like C levels.

It’s the little things that get me through my cube farm days.

LOW POINTS

Hit a new low in the self destructive behavior pattern this weekend. There are certain memory gaps leaving me to wonder just how embarrassed I should be, but I seem to have come through relatively unscathed once more. It’s a scary situation I’d rather not find myself in again, and I doubt luck will continue to be on my side indefinitely.

My upbringing tells me I should be well into a shame spiral by now, but I feel oddly detached and unaffected. It’s the same sense I’ve had for some time now. Can’t help but wonder if this means I’ll keep pushing boundaries until I find something that causes enough damage to actually matter.

So, if I know my actions are stupid, purposeless and aren’t even fun past a certain point, should I look into getting help? If I know the obvious answers for how not to find myself in the same position again, would talking to someone make any difference?

Is interesting and dangerous a better choice than safe and bland? Will either make me happy? Haven’t made up my mind just yet.

OW, MY EYE. MY MIND'S EYE!

There are some things in my life, I wish I didn’t know. Not so much in the ignorance is bliss vein, though I do look back fondly on the ignorant days. The stuff I can’t shake tends to be the none of my business, would prefer to rinse my mind with bleach to kill the mental images, kind of issues. Sometimes I unwittingly ask for these disquieting facts, but others are simply foisted on me. Curse my vivid imagination and inquisitive nature.

NOT A CAT PERSON

I’ve been living solo for a year now. It certainly has its perks, such as being able to sleep smack dab in the middle of the bed, having permanent ownership of the remote control and not having to worry about disturbing anyone when coming in really late, except for the upstairs neighbor who can hear when I slide my closet doors shut to loud and claims an inability to get back to sleep once being so rudely disturbed. There are the occasional downsides. The dishes are always mine, the vacuuming doesn’t do itself and no is around to point out that falling asleep in the armchair is going to make for back problems so I should probably get my intoxicated ass all the way to bed.

The toughest adjustment in going from living with someone to not, has been the lack of company. Thus, I am ready for a pet. Since I know I don’t have the dedication or patience to keep a dog healthy in an urban environment, I don’t really consider myself a cat person, and birds are noisy and messy, I’ve elected to adopt fish. A reasonably sized tank w/ a couple of goldfish and a snail for good measure is just the thing. Though it has been unsettling the number of people who seem to think I am a cat person. Is there a vibe I’m unaware of? Of course these assertions were made by cat people, so maybe it was just projection or a nefarious recruitment plot.

The tank was purchased last week and I brought Veronica home on Friday. She actually survived the weekend, though it looked touch and go when she appeared to nearly choke on a piece of artificial grass left in the tank, but she was still swimming, somewhat lethargically, when I left for work this morning. It’s is also possible that I was overfeeding her, but adjustments have been made. Her roomy, Jacqueline, will be collected this afternoon, and I should be able to fit in a shopping trip to select just the right snail companion for the girls.

I’m sure they’ll quickly tire of my endless prattle about office antics and bar disappointments, not to mention the shoddy housekeeping, but now I’ve got some company beyond the TiVo and iPod. Not that they aren’t excellent companions in their own right.

DIFFICULT DAY

It’s one of those infamous anniversaries for an event I would just as soon forget, but at one year it’s still raw and unpleasant to think about. I had hoped my life would be different than it is. That it would be so full of better things that the day would just pass without notice. While my life's inventory of improvements is remarkable, the day stood out just the same. I suppose it needs more time and distance.

There is no moping though. Not allowed. Instead I went out and savored all the things that make this year better than last.

Maybe next year the day will slip.

ANOTHER SWING AND A MISS

“I Tried” That’s the sticker they would give me back in WW when I got turned down for blood donation. It’s a reoccurring theme in my attempts to contribute to the medical world.

I believe quite strongly in blood donation. It’s something that costs me nothing, but could be life saving to someone else. I don’t have a rare blood type or anything, but it still seems like it ought to be useful. Short of paralyzing fear of needles or health reasons, there doesn’t seem to be a reason not to take part. People might question the way funds are used by the Red Cross, but there’s no misusing a blood donation. (At least not that I’ve heard of, but perhaps I’m being naïve.)

However, my batting average at successfully donating continues to slip. Other than the one-year suspension for a body piercing, I consistently fall short on my iron percentage. The Blood bus actually comes to my office building every couple of months now, and both visits have resulting in me nursing a consolatory glass of juice, and few recommendations on how to achieve the 38% minimum iron count to be cleared for donation. They have also let me know that anything over 32% is healthy for women, which is a relief, they just don’t want to risk relieving anyone of a pint should they fall short of 38%. Something about passing out and anemia or some such nonsense.

I thought I was ready this time. I’d been taking my vitamins much more frequently than before, which isn’t to say religiously or anything, and I was eating oatmeal for breakfast. And yet, my count had actually dropped three points since February, leaving me at 34%. Unacceptable!

While my dear friend Stephanie, who is incredibly squicked out by the concept of blood donation, has suggested I just stop trying to donate and move on, I am taking this as a challenge. I will achieve 38% if not higher. Who knows, it might even increase my energy levels and stop me from being such a lazy slob. It’s time to start loading up on the broccoli, oatmeal, raisins and red meat, though I refuse to go so far as to eat liver. Then in accordance with some Internet article, I will also include items high in vitamin C with iron-loaded meals. Throw in some more iron supplements and not drinking caffeinated beverages within a couple hours of iron rich foods, to prevent impaired absorption, and by June 6 I’ll be leaving the Red Cross mobile a pint lighter instead of with a charity cookie.

LOCALIZED DISTURBANCE

As I find myself hitting an age when it's flattering to be carded, I've noticed a distancing within my group of closest friends. Either through life experiences resulting in life-course corrections or actual geography, drifting has occurred.

It's not all bad, and arguably a simple fact of life. I have many friends who I may not see for an age, and just as easily pick up where we left off. Similarly, modern communications make it easy to keep people close in spite of distance.

However, I find myself faced with an unfortunate reality. With my closest friend daring to abandon Seattle and take on new adventures in the wilds of eastern Washington, I find myself without a "local emergency contact." It's the contact info employers, apartment managers and insurance companies want on hand to call up in case you become incapacitated. Locally, I do have some good friends, lots of lovely acquaintances and even a smattering of relatives, but I'm uncertain if I could or should expect any of them to leap into action if something awful happens in the middle of the night.

There are people in life who will jump when the Friend signal hits the sky, and I have found those are the people you don't even have to ask if they are willing to fill that space in your paperwork. You just know. Currently, my space is blank, and it feels kinda lonely.