I might just be the biggest dork on the planet, but I wanted to share a discovery I made with my co-dorks. I figure if you're reading some stranger's (or friend's/sister's/etc.'s) weblog, then you're probably a dork, too. Sorry if I offended anyone out there. But it's better to just accept your dorkdom now, and move on...

Anyway, so for anybody who is ok with their dorkdom and wants to revel in it, I just signed up with the GREATEST web site ever. It's called Lynda.com - for $25/month (or $250/yr, but no thanks) you can have unlimited access to TONS of computer software courses. Ok, ok, so they're not interactive. But I have to learn FileMaker Pro for my future job, and honestly, it's not exactly the most intuitive tool ever. But I've done a few hours of a 7.5-hr series, and already I am totally rocking the database, yo.

Next up, I am going to do Flash - I've always wanted to learn Flash, but outside of my one three-hour course I took five years ago, I have never found a program that I could afford. If I finish the FileMaker Pro learning soon enough, I'll be able to smoosh in the Flash learning, and the whole deal will only have put me out $25.

Hell, I could extend that to two months ($50) and I'd still be saving about $750. Those courses - in "real" life (not online) - are not cheap.

Anyway, if you're into computers, or have some specific software you've always wanted to learn (they have them ALL, I swear), check out lynda.com. I've been super-impressed.

Today I bathed in my dorkiness, full force. I woke up late (almost noon... I can't believe it) and had some coffee before settling into my chair. I've often thought that if I had to reveal a drug of choice, I would most likely go with caffeine. I realize it's not exactly glamorous, but I love the 1-2 hour-long moment of intense, effortless concentration that accompanies a good cup of coffee in the morning.

This morning (erm, afternoon), I went from just checking emails and investigating a potential site overhaul (on my other site) to just jumping straight into the SQL-modifying-file-backupping-forum-searching frenzy that updating a web site entails. And the funny part? Totally rocked it. I know I have some bugs left, but I got further along than I had expected I would before my eyes just couldn't look at the screen anymore. The site looks better, and the geek in me is already fiendishly rubbing her hands together and cackling at the thought of the features yet to come.

There was a brief moment of stupidity that resulted in the forum being down for about an hour. Not a big deal. It's fine now. This is the funny thing, though, the part where the real dork in me comes out: I was able not only to find the solution in the Mambo forums, but also implement said solution. In other words: I now speak computer talk.

I told TheBoy today that if someone had told me five years ago that I would come to know this much about computers, I would have laughed in their face. I first learned about web design during a required course in internet authoring for my BA. I bitched about that requirement for the weeks leading up to the class. In the end, though, the class was awesome, and I got completely hooked.

I will never forget sitting in the computer lab at school and ecstatically telling this German girl - Julia - how you can do some thingamajig while designing web sites. She had asked me for some extra help working on her site, and I guess I just let my enthusiasm get the better of me. Our conversation went a little like this:

Me: "Oh, and you know what else you can do?"
Julie: rolling her eyes and wishing I would just show her how to do the assignment already "What?"
Me: "Well, it's really cool" (clicking madly on the screen) "If you do this..." (more clicking) "and then upload..." (more clicking) "Your links will open up in a pop-up window!"
Julie: (not at all sarcastically or friendlyly): "You are such a nerd."

I didn't even try to stand my ground on that one. I accepted the nerddom right then and there.

And really, I guess it hasn't gone away. Wanna know why? I really do think it's cool that I can do this shit. That I sat up late on many a night several years ago and just read some online help, did some trial and error testing, and now I can do some pretty wild stuff. I know cooler kids don't think that's all that thrilling, but around here, it's kind of groovy.

So now I'm off to go implement a support system in TheBoy's web site. The fun just never ends.

I went to my physical therapist's new office today. She has been gushing about the space for awhile - a vacant loft-like open room that her husband (he's a contractor) has been toiling away at for the last week. Her description involved faux-window rooftops, with seperate little cabins, the outsides painted different colors to resemble an Italian village.

The whole thing sounded frankly nutty to me, but when I walked into the cobbly, wobbly courtyard and up to her brand new door, I was downright amazed. There are six different cabins for patients, each with their own door and window, and they really do make me think of Italy. There is a waiting area with plants and big windows, looking out onto a private garden. They have truly worked miracles, and seeing her new digs has made me realize something that has caused me to be dreamy, sad, and wistful all at once: I would like some space to play with.

Ideally, this space would be up on the last floor, with wooden floors, high ceilings, and an entire wall (or half-wall) of windows. It would need lots of work, and I would be able to play with the space as necessary.

While maintaining my conversation with the PT today, I wandered my way through a long and detailed reverie that involved installing my own kitchen and creating the equivalent of my sister's "craft corner" (it's amazing and I'm jealous, but that's ok). I fully walked through the apartment of my dreams, examining each section in detail, when the lack of finances reality came wandering through the front door.

And of course, I remembered that I am still begging my landlord to replace our crappy pull-out couch (I rent a crappily-furnished apartment), which means I am a long way from having my special loft space.

However, in working on my thesis, little by little, I have discovered something new in myself that I had previously been unaware of: I actually have a reasonable capacity for patience. My next aim is to exploit it.

So here's the plan: work slowly but surely, and eventually become a millionaire.

That's all I need to get the space of my dreams.

Can't be that hard, right?

TheKnitter and I went to a women-wanting-to-start-businesses meeting today. It was free, and supposedly offered in honor of "International Women's Day" (or something to that effect).

I will now provide you with a list of why you should never get together 40 French women (and two American ones) who want to start their own businesses:

1. You might be able to start the meeting with some degree of order, but whatever thread of organization it was you were working with will slowly but surely unravel, until the women are just interrupting and yelling and talking back and forth across the room to one another.

2. There will always be that one wacko who decides to a) interrupt constantly b) mutter things "to herself" loudly enough so that everyone can hear and c) make strange jokes that aren't very funny. TheKnitter blames drugs, I blame the bottle, but it doesn't matter, the result is the same: that lady needs to shut up and let me listen to the speakers in peace (she could also do without the fanny pack hanging off the SIDE of her hip and the very bad haircut).

3. Once the woman who is opening a "re-looking" business (ie Makeover/Photo shoot orgy) begins to describe how all women want to just feel like models for a day, I'm going to start shaking my head and laughing, because I, for one, don't. Of course, I didn't find the THIRTY MINUTE CONVERSATION about make-up that ensued quite as amusing.

We left before it ended.

Last week, I went to a sort of fair for aspiring business types. Don't ask. Just a plan I have, one that I wanted to test out with some real-live expert types.

Anyway, so I went to this three-day-long fair, which was quite an event. The first day was rather intense. I'm tall and blond, which already makes me stand out in this country. Add to that equation that the male:female ration was something like 2,247:3, and, well, you can imagine how that felt. The testerone was pulsating around me, practically tangible in the air. I distracted myself during boring meetings by counting the amount of unaccompanied women in the 400-person lecture halls. On one hand. When that was over, I began counting bald heads, and I always ran out of fingers and toes.

At each of the hour-and-a-half long lectures that I attended, people kept stressing the human side to business in France. I found this amusing, as if people were insisting because they know of the reputation they have for being cold, cruel, paper-requirement making machines. My theory is that there's a reason the word business has come to mean business, in the sense of "And I mean business!" that my mom used to use when I wouldn't eat my green beans. It's also a little ironic how the word business can also be read busy-ness.

Anyway, I began chuckling to myself when the fourteen thousandth person said, "But really, the business world is all about the person, not about money..." Because, come on guys. I highly doubt that if I come into a bank with dreadlocks, headphones on my ears, and no money - but an enormous heart! - that those men in ties behind the desks are going to seriously consider my project to open a head shop. I really just don't see it happening. But really! If you are very personable and you establish a good relationship with your banker, then really! That's what it's really about! Really!

I became convinced that these supposed specialists and accountants and loan people were just trying to lure us in to make more money for themselves. After all, they're the experts. They know how to work the system to their advantage. We're just fools with dreams.

Then on Friday I went to a free consultation with an accountant. I was nervous because I'm lame and not made out of 100% steel-encased balls. I'm gutsy enough to actually go talk to these people about a project, but it doesn't mean I don't lose my capacity to speak coherent French for the first three minutes. I'm human, people.

But you know what's crazy? My accountant man was human, too!!! He actually had a real-life soul, and he even smiled easily. We talked "business" for a half an hour, and then we talked about the French vs American education system (he studied in Oklahoma of all places). Then we started making fun of professors on their high horses, and then he asked me questions about what I think of France. Then I went back to the subject at hand and he got down to "business" again, and then I told him that I think he has a soul and I didn't believe these accounting types could be like that.

You know what else is crazy? He didn't make me feel like a dumbass for proposing my project. He actually made it sound like it could be a good idea, and, equally as important, possibly even feasible. The French rule of thumb is to discourage anyone from even considering thinking out of the box. Know why? They have rules and a definite 10-step process complete with photocopies of all important documents and a few official stamps. But Mr Accountant? He said, "Yeah, the administrative stuff is a real pain, but it can get done. Your idea could work..." and then he went on to actually PROPOSE solutions to me.

I'm thinking these people weren't just talking out of their asses about the whole "human" thing. Of course, I've only actually talked to one of them. We'll see if those other androids are actually living and breathing creatures, too.

Meanwhile, I had a few spare minutes on Thursday and stopped by the meeting on "The Blog and Your Business." It was a presentation of TypePad, which most of you must be familiar with. The guys giving the talk showed the basic breakdown of a "blog," how it can be useful to a company, etc, etc. I felt a little proud that I knew Movable Type before it was Six Apart, Mega Giant of the Blogging Universe. I sorta wanted to call Ben and Mena and tell them, "You made it! You made it! Even the pathetically slow French are catching on to your technology! I saw at least 50 gray-haired men taking intensive notes at the Six Apart presentation! Congrats!" Really. I felt I had some sort of secret with the presenters, although they probably were wondering who the hell that tall, blond girl in the back who couldn't stop smirking was. Oh, but I'm on to them. Oh yes.

I'm working on a little project called The Two Types Project. It goes a little something like this:

There are two types of people in this world...

a) those who, when finished with their meal, smush the napkin into a ball and toss it on the table
b) and those who fold it neatly.

a) those who having matching cups/toothpaste/soap holders in their bathroom
b) those who don't.

a) those who dream of buying (or already have) a new, modern, fancypants house
b) those who dream of buying (or already have) an old, beat-up one and fixing it up.

a) those who use rulers when taking notes
b) those who don't.

a) clubbers
b) non-clubbers

a) SUV drivers
b) the rest of the world

a) those who know WWF is all acting, no action
b) those who follow WWF religiously

And so on...

So I've been dwelling a lot on The Next Step. Once I finish my thesis come June, I'll be at a point where I can continue here, continue elsewhere, or change direction entirely. Being abroad makes geography a factor, and when I came back to Paris in September I had decided I would leave France. I told The Boy I'd go back Stateside sometime next July-ish.

But, naturally, being here I've fallen back in love with my life in Paris, and I wonder why change a good thing? My family is the main thing tugging at my heartstrings, and I'm having a hard time with that. Being far from them right now is bearable, but what happens when people start having babies (including myself)? Could I stand being so far away? I just don't know.

Recently, I've had a rather strange set of opportunities come my way that are making the entire decision-making process even more difficult.

For one, I rocked my GREs. It was strange because I actually thought I had more or less failed them, and when I clicked on the button "See My Score," I actually looked around the room with paranoia when I saw what was on the screen. I was sure there had been some sort of computer error. I was well over the score I needed, and now I can pretty much sit easy knowing I could most likely get into even the high-end graduate programs. That's a funny feeling.

However, I've recently come up with a crazy idea that could potentially work, and one of the most difficult key elements in the plan has pretty much been offered to me with no strings attached. It would mean I would take a risk - a big one - and that I would stay in France. I'm scared of both possibilities, but once-in-a-lifetime opportunities only come by, well, once, so I'm pretty tempted. The Boy says, "Take the plunge!" but I know he's thinking that because it's his personality (for one) and because he wants me to stay.

I'm doing research on the idea, and I'll leave it at that mystery for the time being.

How's that for a name? We've got a project in mind... I'll leave you with only the name for now. Mystery is part of fascination. So, how do you like Ruby Shoes? What do you think of the name?

Now that you've given me some feedback, I would also like to point out that on Blogexplosion, it says my site contains partial profanity. I feel oddly satisfied with that.

I was going through the battle of where I want to move "back" to. Wherever I go, it's going to be new and different because I'm not going back to the three US cities I have already lived in.

So I think I've got the choices narrowed down. And then I started fantasizing about furnishing my non-existent home, with each of the vibes of my respected locations taken into account. I've been going back and forth between these choices for days, and I'm almost to the point of just drawing a city out of a hat.

But then I came up with the perfect solution. I needed to narrow the field. And what would determine where I would want to live more than this one, simple question?

Is there a Target nearby?

Look, I'm going back with no money and no furniture. Things like Target are pretty important to people like me.

And then I thought, OH MY GOD, is there an IKEA?

I went to the Ikea web site and noticed the strangest thing. Look at their map. To those of you who didn't grow up in Michigan, everything might look just fine. But to those of you who did (or to those of you who know your US geography...) WHAT THE HELL is going on in our part of the country?

I think the Swedes must have drawn the map.

You wouldn't know it to read the crap I put up here, but I spend years editing stuff I care about. I think I overdo it, because whatever I do hand in has to be golden.

Today I brought my essay to the neighborhood cafe for Beccarah to give some feedback on. She was great about it, until the sun went behind the clouds and the rain came pouring down. It was hilarious, really, out on the porch with all the Frenchies. We gave the rain cloud about thirty seconds to see if it would just blow over. And it did... right over onto the cafe terrace and across my coffee and essay. So we ran inside and gave up the battle for the perfect sentence. God was telling me that I needed to just let. it. go.

For now.

Here's the thing: I know when words feel right. I have a few sentences that just feel ON. But there's a huge part that feels all mushy and wrong. I've done the taking-a-few-days-off technique, and not looked at it for awhile. I've tried meditating on it and coming back to it. I've tried rewriting and rearranging. The damn sentences just aren't working.

But they will.

The lamest part is that this essay doesn't really matter. I just want it to be perfect for perfection's sake.

Or I just don't feel like studying for the GRE anymore.

Even though I slept 'til noon (what are vacations for?), I was ON IT today. I love days when you get mad shit done. They feel so much better, in the end, than days when you just sit on your ass in front of the tv. Or in my case, in front of the window.

Anyway, I signed up for the GRE a few days ago, and I actually reviewed today. For maybe two hours. Then I installed the software that came with the book, and it freaked out my computer, so I had to go buy a new mouse and rearrange some stuff. Then I cleaned up my kitchen: I moved everything out of the way and scrubbed the floor, threw out anything I hadn't touched in a year (lots of oils and some teas, mainly) and then I dusted off all the wine bottles. It spahhhkles now.

Then I came into the bedroom and wrote an essay for an application. It's too long, but I had a good time writing it. I think I have to write a different one, though. The question is:

What obstacles have you had to overcome in recent years in order to achieve academic or professional success?

I'm not joking when I say I actually wrote about learning how to talk back to secretaries. That was my topic. And although I actually really like the essay, I realized it might not be wise to hand that in to admissions decision types. It's a pretty hilarious essay, though. I don't want to have to write some touching shit about overcoming cultural differences, even though talking back to the secretaries is an example of that. My whole point is that in America we learn that niceness gets you places, and that insisting with kindness is the way to go. In France, you just have to be a bitch to get anything you want. That is very difficult for me, and the essay was about learning to be a bitch despite my natural resistance. I didn't use those words, of course, but that was the basic idea.

It just doesn't seem like the type of thing one should write about, in the end.

You guys know me (sort of). What should I write about?

Why do all yoga nuts talk in the same way? I signed up for classes today and even though the girls were speaking French, they still had the same lilt in their speech that American yoga types have. What is that? Does yoga actually affect speech, or is it a lifestyle thing, or what?

The women were really nice, but sometimes I'm thrown by the creation of atmosphere in some of these yoga places. They had a mini rock formation with a mini waterfall in the corner, meditative music in the background, and mellow yellow walls. I felt like I had to whisper, or at least employ the yoga accent myself. The place fit the description of your typical yoga joint. Some day, I want to go to a yoga place that is in some huge-ass garage, with cement floors and rap music on in the background. In my dream yoga center, people do the poses in high top sneakers, and a 40oz serves as the after-class treat each session (instead of the vegan brownies available at my yoga joint). The instructors can say "motherfucker" every other sentence and they'll start of classes by saying, "Get on the floor and meditate, suckas!"

While I'm still waiting for my style of yoga center, I went ahead and bought my little purple mat that I will cart around with me on the metro. Gotta settle in somewhere, and I don't have the cash to start up my dream yoga land. You know, I didn't even know they fabricated special yoga-mat-carrying bags. The whole time I was in Santa Cruz, I sort of made fun of these yoga types, but I'm becoming one before my very eyes, because I actually caught myself considering investing in one. Then I said, "Slow down, tiger. No buying the bag until you can touch your toes." So I've got goals and the incentive to make them happen, yo.

One of the themes of this yoga center is vegetarianism, which sort of unnerves me. Not because I don't like vegetarians or vegetarianism, but because I actually wouldn't mind being vegetarian if I lived in a place at all conducive to such a lifestyle. When I came here, I had been vegetarian for a couple of years, but I gave it up because it was a pain in my ass. Yes, I know, if I had really wanted it to work, I would have found a way. But seriously, the lack of natural food stores and vegetarian alternatives in this city makes those that are available way pricier than they should be. The only place to get cheap tofu is in Chinatown, and I don't feel like riding the metro for half an hour every time I need some damn protein. Beans are also harder to come by, and forget the idea of Gardenburgers and the like. They're around, but not cheap. So I eat meat maybe twice a week for nutritional and financial reasons, and don't want to be harassed about it. I even agree with the whole idea behind vegetarianism (obviously, because I did the whole veggie-thing at one point), just not with the price of it. Find me some cheap Boca Burgers and we might have ourselves a deal.

In the meantime, I loves me some canned tuna.

I also went searching for a pilates class, because Lordy, that's entertaining and tricky stuff. Call me crazy, but I like sore muscles. I like to feel The Burn much in the same way I like staying up until 4 am studying from time to time; I believe that's called masochism. Righto. So I went online and looked for some pilates classes, and whoa nelly! That shit's expensive. We're talking 60 euros a course here, people. Who's got that kinda money? Rich, old American ladies who have lived in Paris for too long, that's who. Why do I think this? Because out of four pilates sites, two were in English only. I think they know who their target public is, and it's not the starving student. Seriously, man, where's my student discount? I'll just stick to jogging in the (free) park for now, thanks.

I spent half the day studying and half the day enjoying the good weather. The Boy and I sat out on a café terrace for at least two hours today, and I even managed to get some studying in while baconing under the sun. I'm feeling pretty good, although slightly sun-drunk; I think I'll be going to bed before three am this evening.

On a side note, the girl next to me at the café was so tan I found it inspirational. In a moment of pure folly, I told The Boy that I'll be that color when I come back from my trip, and now I'm wondering if I haven't set myself up for disaster. It turns out Ms Tan is in one of my classes at the Sorbonne. Small world.

Despite my good mood, I'm pretty much in shock about a number of things:

1. It turns out that the assistantship program decided to just sort of not let us know that they weren't renewing our contracts. I'm somewhat ok with it because I'm sure I can find work elsewhere - even though it might not be as good of a job and I'll miss my coworkers. Bizarrelly, these things usually end up being a blessing in disguise for me. I tend to get all worked up about the injustice of it all, and then realize it's better for me this way in the end. Something bigger and better usually comes along. But, still. I'm angry about the principle of it all: it's super uncool of the program's administration to just not inform us that we most likely won't have jobs next fall. I know several people who are counting on coming back to a monthly paycheck once they're here. I found out about the fact that those paychecks may not ever become a reality through the unofficial web site. If I'm getting my info there first, that means the administration is not getting info out to renewing assistants as they should. What about all those other people planning on renewing who don't check the web site? When are they going to find out? August?

2. I'm leaving for Asia in two weeks. Monday or Wednesday will be the definitive day of tying up loose ends: I have a doctor's appointment Monday morning for malaria pills. I have already gotten mad amounts of mega-strong bug spray. I have invested in my super stylish Tevas (and you thought that was an oxymoron...). All that's left is the backpack. I've been eyeing a few from afar, and so Wednesday will probably be the day when the finalists meet up in a face-off for my love. I also have to up and buy myself some granny-style cotton panties because let's face it: there's no way I'm bringing my usual skivvies to Laos and thereabouts - a) they're too nice and b) they're too s-e-x-y. I just can't see myself sitting in Cambodia in anything other than veeerrry breatheable cotton digs. Looking over all two pairs of pants and three t-shirts I'm bringing along for the trek, I can't see how not having the hottest of panties is going to in any way throw my game off. I will be the definition of hot in my drawstring flowy thingies, plain old t-shirts, and beige Tevas. Bring on the Cambodian men!

3. Ronald Reagan died. We all saw it coming, but I'm still a bit in shock about it. I'm not really upset about his actual death, although it must have been tough on the family. No, his death guts me in a much less kind and profound way: it means I'm now at the point where I can remember presidents who die. This is a frightening thought. I'm getting old, and I'm doing so faster than I think. Over dinner this evening, I was just telling The Boy that I am destined to shake my head and remember the good times by saying, "Back when Clinton was president..." when I'm 80. I'm going to sound just like my grandma talking about FDR or something. The day Clinton goes is going to be a dark one. Because let's face it: I'm not going to remember the good times as having anything to do with Bush. I'll probably rejoice when he goes. Shit, there I go again. Hell in a handbasket. I can hear the wicker burning already.

4. I had to pay my landlord two months' rent plus the electricty bill in one go because of my trip. I pay it all in cash. When I saw the beautiful array of brown, blue, and red notes lying on my coffee table, I had a moment of wondering why I don't live in Kentucky where the rent would be a helluva lot cheaper. All those bills! All those colors! It was painful to do the handoff and I am still aching from it.

The Boy thinks I have a bit of an obsessional problem. He says it to me semi-accusingly and totally straight-faced, not realizing the hypocrisy of his statement, as if he weren't the one who can literally sit in front of the computer for 40 hours straight, coding the night away (and the following morning).

But I agreed with him despite the fact that he is guilty of the same offense. I believe my sister and I are both really obsessional people. And I think we "get" that about one another, which may be one of the reasons we get along so well.

Maybe this comes from our dad, who has the sort of brain that is easily stimulated. He also has an intense ability to concentrate, which has been put to use in an entire range of interests. For example, I think he enjoyed making the dollhouse more than I did, in all honesty. I mean, I liked going to the store and picking out the furniture sets, but painting the wood? Gluing? Not so much. Or at least some days more than others.

Recently, he has taken to making paper-mâché 2.5-ft-tall animals. I caught him once at 4.30 am just sitting in the living room, sticking on slips of newspaper and doing his low, breathy whistle he inherited from his father, and I inherited from mine. At that time, he was working on a duck, I do believe. He did it because we already had a frog in a tuxedo (Oliver?), so it only made sense that he be accompanied by a duck in pearls (Lucy). I dunno; it's his thing. And I love it. Maybe he has a new thing now, but at least we know the animals will still sit perched on our living room bookshelves, watching over the family. Until Mom throws them out.

So my sister and I, like our father, both have a tendency to get on bandwagons and ride them like they're the devil's motorcycle. I think Kari took up woodwork at some point. And there was quilting (which I think she still does). Over Christmas she couldn't hold a conversation without also holding knitting needles in her hands. There have been others, more physical in nature (kickboxing? yoga? bicycling...), but she can fill you in on those in the comments.

It's not because we overextend ourselves in too many activities that we're not incredibly intense about the things we do, either. We're just incredibly intense for a short while, then we get bored, and then we move on. This means that we go from obsession to obsession, swearing it's the newest, coolest thing EVER, until the day we realize that, no, actually, it would be super cool to try ice skating! And after ice skating it's CANDLE MAKING! And after candle-making, it's totally time for water aerobics! You get the idea.

But here are a few things that have stayed with me for the last year, miraculously:

- history books
- web design
- Arabic
- listening to news radio

Here are the other current obsessions:

- mediamatters.org
- taking baths with my seaweed additive stuff
- sheep's milk yogurt as part of this whole obsessive detox
- Mobutu
- organic food
- Russian
- stretching

But last night I got to thinking that I should become a nurse. So I might start taking some science classes at night when I can find the time. I'll just squeeze them in sometime between my salsa lessons and my Swahili classes.

I have some plans for the future that are sort of exciting, but mainly just very scary. I'm not going to go into specifics, but they include leaving France and doing other things with my life. Mind you, this is all in the far-ish future, but I'm already thinking about it.

Here's the thing: I know I'm a restless person. Always have been. I need big. I need fast. I need furious. Eventually, one day, I hope to find myself "bogged down" with a real job, kids, and a man I love. That is, of course, the ideal situation, what everyone aims for in life. But I've come to realize that the ideal situation carries constraints that are rather serious, that I'm not ready for right now. Unless my man and my job are very flexible, I'm not going to be able to up and run to Tonga for three weeks. And you know what? That's something I like being able to do now. And I can. So I'm going to take advantage of the fact that I'm 24 and restless. Well, more accurately, I'll probably start taking advantage of it sometime next year.

It's just a strange thing. Some people are fine with not ever leaving the same town all their lives. Others are fine with an occasional small adventure and then settling down. But it's occurred to me that I am both unfortunate and fortunate in that I need adventure. In a major way. Living in China, hiking through Peru, having a tea in Morrocco... none of these things sound unappealing. But there are other, more specific things that stick out in my mind, and I've decided I should just get cracking on some fo those dreams before other, more permanent ones, keep me from doing so.

It's freeing, in a way. I've been deliberating over my decision about should I stay or should I go for the last year. Now I know. I have to go. My move to the US may be pushed back another year or so. I've talked to the Boy about it. He agrees that we'll just see how we feel at that point. Anything can happen. Just most people don't let it.

I'm going to discuss this now because if I don't, Lord knows I may not ever have another chance. Right now, in this moment, I can sort of say that I actually feel like my life is coming together. Maybe, just maybe, even going somewhere.

I've been looking into future plans. I have to think ahead a bit. Nothing is for sure, nothing is for certain (but until they close the curtain...), but I actually feel semi-stable about the options I have out there. This is a great, wonderful feeling - one that I haven't had in years.

I've decided to put off all decisions until November/December 2004. I am, however, doing investigative work and checking out the possibilities out there for me. Whatever I do is going to be a big change, so I'm bracing myself for it. But I'm also getting excited. After two years of feeling like I don't have my shit together, it's thrilling to finally feel I'm moving forward.

One thing that helps is having friends who aren't afraid of crazy things. Another thing is realizing that I'm young and I'll probably have the freedom to take ideas and run with them at this point in my life. A third is that I actually really like what I am studying (despite the fact that I bitched about exams at least six times on this web site), and that I know I want to continue.

Anyway, I'm just happy. I'm working hard, remaining active, feeling accomplished, and going to bed every night exhausted. This is the way things should be. And it's a rhythm I hope to keep up as long as my mind and body can take the heat.

Ok. I just had to get that out there. My one moment of stability just needed to be noted. Let's hope all hell doesn't break loose when I check my exam results on Friday.*

*One note on exam results: the literature results have already been posted. I'd say about one in ten people passed.

My kitchen is very small. It has no countertops, so all cutting and slicing is done on: a) the top of the half-fridge (already covered with things people normally put on countertops - salt, pepper, bread, etc), b) a cutting board put over the (unlit) electric stove or c) the few inches of space - originally once considered a usable countertop - leftover on a big board that my oven and dishrack rest on.

For the last...oh, I dunno, year... that big board has been the nastiest, most unattractive thing in my house. That board happens to be placed under what used to be a stove chimney, and that chimney still opens straight up to the heavens. Which means, of course, that when it rains, I get a nice little puddle on the board and the electric oven sitting on it. When it hails, I hear the lovely sound of ping! ping! ping! as ice falls into my kitchen. And, when a bird relieves himself overhead, well, that falls with a satisfying plop! into my kitchen, too.

This means that this board has taken quite a lot of heat over the years: dust, rain, hail, and bird shit have collectively brought it to its current disastrous condition. The board is covered with that cheap, wallpaper-for-kitchen-countertops that is supposed to provide a protective layer over the wood, which can be wiped down with a sponge. This "protective layer" is tearing away and ripping in most places. Wiping it down would only result in furthering the damage. Without protection, the wood beneath is splintering, turning soggy, and housing a healthy population of silverfish.

The worst part of having this open chimney, however, is the cold. During the coldest part of the year, there is absolutely no diference in temperature between my kitchen and the outside. Last year, when several bums died during a cold spell, I couldn't cook for over a week; it's simply too difficult to cook with mittens on.

So finally, I had had enough. I called my landlord, a charming woman who is usually friendly and understanding. She first said, "Oh, just put some plastic up there...," as if a plastic bag stretched across the three-foot hole would not only keep out rain, hail, and shit, but would insulate, too.

After asking several times, my landlord asked her brother if he could come close up the hole and, while he was at it, replace the ugly board under the oven (small electric oven).

He knocked on my door at seven am today, armed with power tools. After investigating, he proceeded to rip out the old board. It gave way frighteningly easily, mainly because the wood itself was so warped and beat-up that it just crumbled in his hands.

Then he pulled up a few flat sheets of iron that had been under the disgusting board and said, "Do you want to see something?"

"Sure," I said, walking back into the kitchen.

There, under those sheets, were two small openings, cut out in a basket-like shape, side-by-side. These holes were made of strong, old-school iron. It turns out, I have an authentic wood-burning stove, and what I currently use as the only "cupboards" in my kitchen (they don't really count because they're so small and are down below instead of up above, but they're the closest thing I have), is actually where people used to put logs in underneath the stove. Before my very eyes, I could see my former kitchen, circa 1890. Which is when he says this building dates from.

I'm such a dork I wanted to take a picture, but I didn't want to disturb the handyman's work. Still, it's just cool to see something so old hidden under the "improvements" that have been made in the kitchen since then. And I doubt I could find an apartment in the US with an authentic wood-burning stove still in tact, just covered with a big board so that we can put modern appliances over it.

Now I love my little kitchen. I think a lot of this newfound love comes from the fact that birds can't shit in there anymore. And that the cold is greatly reduced. But mainly, it's the little secret I now know is hidden under the new "countertop."

I just confronted one of my many lands of random notebooks, scraps of papers, and scribbled chaos.

Amongst the rubble I found a small, calculator-sized notebook that flips open along the top. It is coated in green cloth, and I can't remember if I bought it like that or I made it like that (I have a thing for cloth-covered notebooks). Holding it, I feel like a detective taking notes in a psychedelic murder mystery.

The notebook is filled with a lot of to-do lists, future mixed tapes, mental thoughts about projects or papers I was working on, and random phone numbers. I have a habit of carrying around very small notebooks for such purposes. Occasionally I feel particularly inspired and write a little creative piece - usually no more than three or four lines.

I flipped open to a random page and found something I wrote when I was 18:

"They were the last lovers in New York City - the first in the world - and their passion was inefficient and kept no savings account. They spent it like Texans."

I almost always remember where I was and what I was thinking at the time of a writing any particular phrase, paragraph, paper, or story. I consider this fortunate, because that way, no matter how bad the writing is, at least I have the associated memory to distract me. I have absolutely no recollection of ever having written this, nor from where it came. Yet it is most certainly my handwriting. I find this very unsettling. It's like reading one of my own sentences objectively for the first time. Cringe.