MAPS LIE. (Oh wait. No they don't.)

So I have moved. I did it yesterday, with the help of, essentially, my entire family, save for the members who live NOT in New York State. In the approximately 24 hours since I was left alone in my airy and spacious one-bedroom apartment, I have learned a few things about myself.

1) I do not do well without an actual bed. (Mine comes Tuesday.)
2) I do not do well without the internet. (Mine comes Thursday; I am coming to you live from the computer room of the laundry facility of my complex.)
3) I don't know north from south, or possibly a hole in the ground, or possibly a bagel.

Last night I spoke with my dad on the phone when my parents got home, confirming that they had arrived home safely. During this conversation, I told him I planned to go to Target today. Leaping into action, he located, via internet, the Target nearest me, and with our identical maps of the area, we figured out how to get there. At least he did. I figured out how to get somewhere else. Because it is IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO ACCEPT THAT TO GO EAST, ONE DOES NOT NECESSARILY MAKE A RIGHT TURN. I.e., north is not always straight ahead.

Today, however, to go to Target, I took north as straight ahead, and east as right, and proceeded to drive for a REALLY LONG TIME. Then I thought to myself, "wow. Maps lie. This is WAY more than an inch before this turn to the north (or left from my perspective.)"

It's a good thing I brought the map. Because I pulled over and ascertained that there was absolutely NO reason for me to have passed my college along the way. None at all. So I went back in the opposite direction.

And it *was* like an inch. And then there was Target. How about that.

BAD. MESSAGE.

Well I saw on the cover of US WEEKLY that Jennifer Love Hewitt has lost 18 pounds in 10 weeks. That's great. How did she accomplish such an incredible feat? With diet and exercise, I imagine, as a loss of 1.5 to 2 pounds weekly is considered healthy weight loss. So at first I would say "good for you, Jennifer," for losing weight like a civilian instead of a movie star.

But then it occurred to me that a few month back, there was a big hoohah about how "fat" she was (which she most certainly was not) to which she responded by saying a) no, I am not fat, thanks, and b) the fact that you say I *am* is what contributes to normal girls having horrific body images, so shut the fuck up.

I'm not a big fan of JLH, but I was really impressed with her going to bat for her own self and saying what she did say. Now I am considerably less impressed, since I don't think that losing weight is the act of someone who believes they are not fat. And even if someone who doesn't think they are fat does lose weight, they sure as shit don't go on the cover of US WEEKLY about it.

The Funk

I've re-gotten into funk music lately, because I think it has a lot of feeling to it and because it makes me want to dance whenever I hear it. This happened as a result of listening to a CD that one of my pharmacists lent me like a year ago after discovering he and I had "identical" taste in music. (This turned out to not be true, btw. Because he loves the band Rush beyond fucking reason. Sorry, charlie, but I cannot get in on that.)

Anyway, Bruce lent me this CD, and included on it was a whole bunch of what I would deem "disco" but which I believe is more correctly called "funk." So I am totally soaking it up, having transfered a whole mess of it to my iPod.

So then Amanda gets a new cell phone, which is a third generation LG Chocolate, a phone that not only looks awesome but comes with about a skillion excellent ringtones, one of which sounds like a car chase scene from Shaft. I laughed uproariously when I heard this ringtone, and I think because of that, Amanda used it for about a week, referring to it the entire time as "the funk." In fact, when it would ring while we were engrossed in conversation, she would politely excuse herself by saying, "pardon me for just a moment. I believe Shaft is calling me."

Today we were working on packing up the contents of our apartment, since we're both moving in like a week, and Amanda had gone downstairs to try to wrangle a lamp into her car. I, meanwhile, am putting empties from our wine cabinet into a box for recycling, and reassuring myself it *has actually taken us quite a while* to drink it all, when I hear Amanda's Isaac Hayes-sounding ringtone start up in her room.

I do not know why it struck me as so important, but I ran in there, unplugged the phone from the charger and ran into the hall, down the stairs and toward the front door yelling "THE FUNK! THE FUNK!"

It wasn't Shaft, by the way. It was her dad.

Perhaps it all begs for a cast of characters...

It occurs to me...well, two things.
First, that I like technology. It allows me to write and to talk about myself for absolutely no good reason. Both those things are fun. Also, it allows me to keep in close touch with people who live in parts nearly unknown without getting up off my...chair. Like I can say, "oh, I was having this conversation with Emily the other day, and blah blah blah, we were discussing zombies."

Here are the pertinent facts that are left out that sentence:

1) I have not actually seen Emily, face to face, in over a year.
2) Emily lives in Colorado.
3) This conversation was taking place over a matter of hours on Twitter, and
4) Much of this conversation consisted of trading zombie-related websites.

This is to say NOTHING of the fact that we're two 28-year-old women discussing ZOMBIES. That is to say nothing of the fact that my roommate and I (two more 28-year-old women) have ALSO recently had in-depth conversations over which we were more concerned about: zombies, vampires, killer robots or werewolves. And we were not really kidding. I mean I considered making a flip chart.

So the second thing that occurs to me is that technology is perhaps dishonest. Or at least discussing it is. Or at least the way in which I was just discussing it is. Look:

Me: Oh, I was having this conversation with Emily--
Someone Else: Oh, Emily who?
Me: Emily [Her Last Name]. My friend who lives in Colorado.
Someone Else: Oh, when did you see her?
Me: I didn't "see" her--
Someone Else: Then you talked to her on the phone?
Me: (very quietly) No...
Someone Else: Were you on AIM?
Me: (extremely quietly) No...
Someone Else: So how did you talk to her?
Me: (inaudible)
Someone Else: WHAT?
Me: Twitter.
Someone Else: TWITTER?!
Me: Yep.
Someone Else: You should probably get a life.

If it's not dishonest, it comes down to the following: I may be a dork.

And an update on the outcome of the pre-req.

I was just noticing that in an earlier blog, I mentioned a prerequisite course I needed to take this summer to be officially admitted into my grad program. And I never elaborated any further on that.

It was an elementary statistics class, two nights a week for five weeks. I was freaked out because I consider myself "bad at math," although that's not necessarily accurate.

And now it's extremely not accurate. I got an A. So, I did that, then I got to go to Martha's Vineyard with my parents for a week and drink a bunch of wine. It was pretty great.

When is the appropriate time...?

**This is from my old blog, too, dated 2/16/08. These dates are actually extremely telling! But that's a story for later, I guess...**

Eventually, you have to stop being mad about things. Staying mad forever isn't healthy. But if you stop too quickly, I'm not sure that's healthy, either.
Today I was talking to my mom, who is 60 years old and very smart, and has been through a great deal in her life, and she fairly offhandedly mentioned something she's still pretty cheesed about. It happened about three months ago, and I maintained that, given the circumstances that (reasonably) closely surrounded the event, she should drop it. She said she could not do that, because it was very hurtful to her. I pointed out that hanging on to anger is a drain on her, and (call me a hippie if you want) it's just putting bad energy in the world. She said no, the anger is not draining because she doesn't think about it or particularly ever "feel" it, and she honestly does not send out bad"vibes" toward the people responsible for her hurt.

Okay. Hint taken. Shut up, Christine.

So, is three months too long to hang on to anger, even anger you're not "feeling," really? And wait a minute! If you're angry, aren't you feeling anger? Isn't that sort of a given? Doesn't being angry entail--DIRECTLY--feeling anger? I'm pretty sure it does...
What about people who suffer harrowing or at least semi-harrowing ends to relationships and proceed to hate the other person forever? That's bad, right? What about people who lose relatives to violent crime, then have the incredible wherewithall to forgive the criminal? You look at that and then you feel like a total bitch for wondering how long you can realistically stay mad at your boss for making you come in on a Sunday. How long can you stay mad at a friend who takes their own life? That's pretty hefty compared to, how long can you stay mad at Revlon for discontinuing the lipstick you like? How long can you stay mad at yourself? For anything?

Are there actually any rules? When is the appropriate time to cut the bullshit? Is the appropriate time ever "never"?

Thank God for the Dalai Lama, because I think he may be the only guy who can get his head around all this stuff.

If someone said three years from now...

**This was originally posted in my old blog September 13, 2007. Hence, the inaccurate age compared to now. I don't know. I kinda like it**

This time three years ago I was 24. That seems so young. The saner of you might point out that 27 isn't so old, and you'd be right. It feels older by leaps and bounds, though. There's so much I've done since then. So many stories written as a reporter in Smalltown, USA. So many people I've met between there and here. So many views changed forever.
People say that kids are impressionable and adaptable, and they're lucky because they have no preconceived notions about other people. If a little four year old white boy sees a little four year old black girl across a playground of bigger and smaller kids, he doesn't see sex or race, he sees another little person very much like him. Someone to play with, who probably likes the same things he does.
I feel like I'm more impressionable by the day, and I'm more open minded by the minute. A second childhood? A midlife crisis? I hope not.
Not so long ago I was supposed to get married. Now that I consider it, it was about three years ago. It didn't actually happen (and probably for the best) but it makes me think. Where would I be had I taken the plunge? Still married, with kids, doing the work I'm doing now? At home with the kids, knitting and baking cookies? A hugely successful writer, though unable to have children of my own? Divorced with kids? Without? Some combination of all this stuff?
I don't know. I'll never know. You can't ever see what the bigger picture would be, because without all the elements in place, that picture changes. What kind of painting would Starry Night be if not for that village? If it weren't night? If the sky weren't so clear.
Things change and shift every day. I joke often about the cosmic sense, saying that if you take the broad view, I'm early for work, late for work, done ahead of schedule, running behind, old, young, just born and almost dead all at once. A silly way to look at things, but when time is overwhelming and experience seems almost too vast...it takes the edge off.