Happy Birthday, Kjerste!

Today marks my dear Kjerste's 27th year. And hopefully, an end to the birthday curse. As some of you may remember, she was clever enough to provide me with a festive birthday blog posting. And now, I would like to shamelessly copy that idea by doing the same. Because my scanner appears to lack a crucial cable, I will not be posting any of the pictures I have of Kjerste being festive -- something that she may appreciate, especially when she reads what lies below. In the past, I might have composed a little Ode to Kjerste, complete with bad rhymes. Instead, I will list some of my favorite moments with her. Think of it as a narrative ode and a means to illustrate the splendorousness of Kjerste.

In no particular order:

Our "Photo Shoot" and New Year's Eve, 2000. On New Year's Eve, we got all dressed up in long skirts, because it was New Year's Eve and we didn't really have a place to go, other than some party for which we had vague directions. We drove to Monterey and proceeded to take "artistic" black and white pictures of each other (because we were dressed up and looked good). Because it was late in the day, however, and the light was low, the pictures looked rather funerary. Then, not being able to find the party we were trying to go to, we ended up at a Super 8 with some Cisco watching the ball drop with Peter Jennings. (He was on TV, not in the motel room. And I don't know why it was him and not Dick Clark). At the time, I think we were both a little disappointed: We really were all dressed up with no place to go! We even had long red nails! Looking back, however, I realize that this was one of the best times I've ever had on New Year's.

Our girl nights. For the couple of years that Kjerste and I both lived in Oakland, we had weekly girl nights. This would often involve a bottle of wine, some Mint Julep masks, and/or some burritos. Sometimes a trip to Mecca, also known as Target. I loved these nights, and I looked forward to them all week. It was so great to be able to catch each other up and laugh our asses off, which we inevitably did. It was so great to live so close to each other, which is something that I miss now that we live more than 3,000 miles apart. Those were golden days.

Our Bon Voyage Party. When Kjerste and I were about to begin college, it was late in September, due to our schools' schedules. This meant that most people we knew who were going away had already left, so the bulk of the goodbyes had already taken place. Where did that leave us? In charge of our own Bon Voyage party, of course. So we made a cake and took some pictures. Then, LL came over, and we all went to Wal-Mart to hang out. Because this is what one does in Manteca. Don't be hatin'. Then I helped Kjerste bleach her hair platinum blonde, and this is where the party started to go awry. Let's just say that I really screwed up her hair, and then when we tried to correct the situation by putting color back in it, it was grayish. Feeling like a horrible person, I bought her some Ultra Swim shampoo, in hopes of stripping out the gray. The good news was, she went to art school, so I hear that people thought her hair was all cool and counter-cultural. Additional good news: She continued to be my friend.

High school hijinks. Kjerste, LL and I had a whole lotta fun. Toilet papering houses, wearing dreadfully short skirts, applying strange makeup, making prank phone calls, donning fake accents (which we still do) and attempting to put a tiara on a cow are only some of the highlights. Good times.

The John Holmes incident. As a jokingly inappropriate housewarming gift for Kjerste and Suzimusi in their college apartment, I gave them a very strange John Holmes blow-up doll. Just what every household needs!! After inflating him and laughing hysterically, we ordered pizza from a place where the delivery boy was someone Kjerste and Suzimusi knew. When the doorbell rang, we figured it was him, and had the brilliant idea of having John Holmes answer the door. So we opened the door, and had John peek around the corner in his naked, inflated glory. Unfortunately, it wasn't the pizza; it was the landlord coming to complain that we were making too much noise with all our laughter. Oops! John flew behind the couch and we all became very, very apologetic. The poor landlord didn't know what hit her. And of course, we laughed even harder when she left.

Our hikes. For years, especially during college, Kjerste and I would go for regular hikes. We generally felt hardcore afterwards, and would eat some pizza and drink some wine. Gotta balance out all those burned calories somehow. One hike in particular -- the last one we went on, I think -- we got lost and ended up hiking 13 miles. It started to get dark and there were a bunch of cows around, which was a bit spooky. At one point, we thought some of them might be following us. Yes, the same girls who participated in trying to put a tiara on a cow (see above) were now afraid of them. I guess was cow karma coming to get us. Obviously, we survived. And I'll tell you: We walked fast toward the end of that hike.

Our weddings. Kjerste and I were each other's maids (or in my case, matron) of honor. There is nobody else who I would want to be there when I was freaking out about planning or the day before when it really hit me that I was actually getting married. I don't remember all that much about my actual wedding -- it was a blur. But I do remember Kjerste's speech at the reception that made me laugh and cry. Two years later, at her wedding, I found myself sobbing into a microphone as I gave a speech for her and her wonderful hubby. It was a beautiful day.

Thus, I think it's easy to see why Kjerste is so fabulous: She's funny, smart, and has a way with cows and John Holmes. She has mastery of phony accents and of providing emotional support. She can also knock back the Cisco. She has been there for so many of the important moments of my life that this selection barely even scratches the surface. Her being there has also made these moments important. I love this girl. And so should you. Happy birthday, baby girl!

Feel free to share your own special Kjerste moments.

Flu Shot

I just saw a segment on the evening news that featured a doctor urging people to get their flu shots. And I found myself thinking, "Shut up! I don't want a flu shot!" If I get the flu, it means some time off, and getting to sleep in really late. And maybe eating a lot of pudding, though I don't know why. This doesn't sound so bad to me: I like sleep. And tapioca. I could deal with the flu. Keep your flu shot to yourself, TV doctor!

I think I need a vacation.

My Future as a Barista

I owe an exorbitant amount of money in student loans. This was the price of getting a doctorate from a very expensive (though not entirely terrific) school. By the time all my grace periods and deferments are over, I'll be paying more than $800 bucks a month in loan payments. And this is with a 30-year consolidation loan.

Enter financial anxiety.

Todd and I found a "handy" online loan payment calculator. One of its fun features was that it could tell you how much you would need to make a year to pay off your loans and still have a life. According to its wisdom, I would need to make about $250,000 if I were paying off my loans in 10 years. HA! Of course, it was a little less -- "only" about $150,000 a year -- if I'm paying off my loans more slowly, as I will be doing. These figures make me laugh, of course, because this loan calculator is ridiculous and inaccurate. Also, I have serious reservations that Todd and I could ever make that much money between the two of us. We are just not in the lines of work that will pay us what we're really worth. And I must jump through the hoop of professional licensure to actually be able to make real money. Thus, there will be a period of time when I finish accruing all the hours of experience I need in order to qualify to apply for licensure but before I am actually licensed. This means that there will be a period of time where it will be difficult for me to find a job that will pay me much, but in which I will also have my astronomical loan payments.

Luckily, I figure I can always work at Starbucks, just in case I can't find a job. Or if I find one but it doesn't pay me enough. I'm sure my doctorate makes me uniquely qualified to deal with the pissy customers as well as the bored high schoolers who work there. I should make sure to include that sentence in my cover letter. Although, I guess I wouldn't need a cover letter to apply to Starbucks. See? Things are looking up already!

And speaking of licensure, it's apparently a really good thing that I moved out of California. Due to a stupid error on a form by my supervisor and I (the form was dated incorrectly), the California Board of Psychology tells me that my internship (at which I was miserable -- yes, we're talking bold italic miserable here) basically can't count toward my licensing hours in the state. If you are reading this and have no idea what this means, that's okay. Let me put it this way: This is bad enough that you would hear me scream no matter where in the country you lived. If I was going to get licensed in California, that is. Which I guess I won't.

So, yeah, Starbucks. I'll probably look cute in the green apron.

"I'm Gorgeous Inside"

This was on a real estate lawn sign advertising a house for sale. I saw it yesterday while running, and I had to fight the urge to steal the sign. (It was broad daylight in the suburbs. Somebody would probably stop me. Maybe chase me with a leafblower). It' s not like I have a house for sale and I'd like to advertise its inner beauty. Rather, I would use this sign to advertise my inner beauty. Why can't I be gorgeous inside? And why can't I let people know? If a house can do it, so can I. And why can't all women? Aren't we all tired of only being seen for what gorgeousness we do or do not exude superficially? And how can someone be truly gorgeous if it is only superficial? And who gets to define gorgeous? Nobody asked me. Good thing I have this blog to tell my handful of readers what I think.

I think there's a t-shirt in the making. Perfect for Suzimusi's Fabulous Campaign.

Treadmill Trauma

Back in September, Todd and I bought a used treadmill off of Craigslist. The goal of this purchase was to make my life easier. Of course, getting said treadmill was no easy feat -- it involved renting an SUV (which, fortunately, we were already renting to pick up the wardrobe that took me about 3 hours to assemble), partially unassembling it, then getting its heft up our stairs and into the little carpeted room that serves as the workout room/closet/junkroom. Yes, we are fabulous multitaskers. Then, the treadmill had to be reassembled. This was relatively easy, given that just its feet and arms had to be reattached. And I realize that this sounds rather macabre. And when I say "relatively," I mean relative to the entire rooms of furniture I've assembled over the last few months.

I should mention that our apartment is on the second floor of an old, very funky building. I realized that our treadmill might be noisy to the downstairs neighbors, but since it was sitting on carpet, I assumed that this would do the trick. And, I figured that if the noise was a problem, the neighbors would tell us and we could just put something underneath it. After all, they know where we live. But, never a peep was heard from the neighbors, and on my merry way I ran, thinking my life was made easier by technology.

Until a couple of weeks ago, when the neighbor cornered me as I was taking out the recycling. He says that the treadmill is noisy and wakes him up in the morning. I'm wondering that if it was such a big problem, why did he wait 2 months to say something? But, I thanked him for his input, flashed a fake and disarming smile, and vowed to fix the problem. And also wondered if I made the treadmill quieter, would he then maybe make his juvenile delinquent son not yell all the time out in the yard? And maybe he could stop chainsmoking? And maybe stop running the washer when we are taking showers and stealing all but a sad trickle of water?

And so heavy-duty foam was purchased (2 layers!), cut to size, and installed under the treadmill. And did I mention that the treadmill is exceedingly heavy? So moving it to install the foam is not exactly easy and fun. But I figured it would definitely solve the problem. And merrily I ran, thinking I had discovered a crafty and ingenious solution.

Not so. The neighbor claims that it is still too loud. I find myself now not caring too terribly much if it wakes him up. I don't like him. He' s not my friend. He didn't even introduce himself before he complained. Maybe he should get up early and get some exercise himself. I kept these thoughts to myself, of course, and said I would try something else.

Todd and I consulted with the landlord, who already knew about the treadmill problem from our dear neighbor. So I'm guessing that maybe he complained about the noise to the landlord before he complained to us? Now I really don't care if I wake him up. But, with our landlord's permission, we moved the treadmill outside the apartment, to a part of the hallway that is not even over the downstairs apartment -- it's over the entryway to the building. Moving the treadmill down the hall involved once again temporarily amputating feet and arms, carefully guiding it through doorways, inching it along the floor, putting the foam back underneath it, and reattaching its limbs. And did I mention that it's exceedingly heavy?

I thought that this would be the final fix. How could the neighbor complain about noise when it's not even over his apartment? Well, he can, and he did this morning as he stumbled upstairs in his bathrobe. We offered to buy him a white noise maker. A coworker said that maybe he needs earplugs. I don't think the neighbor sees these as options. And seriously: He's bothered by the treadmill but not by the damn trains that run all day and night through the backyard? He should already be wearing earplugs.

So now here I am with a treadmill that I purchased to make my life easier, but actually seems to be doing the opposite. If this building wasn't so old and funky, and had some real insulation, it probably wouldn't be an issue. I've read things online about people having treadmills on upper-floor apartments with no problems. Obviously, they didn't live in the slope-floored, poorly insulated Funkhouse. They must live in a Real Building. Maybe I'm an idiot for not foreseeing this as a problem. My goal in life is not to wake the neighbors.

Hopefully I can at least use the treadmill as a handy clothing rack.

Good Times

Democrats are taking back the House: Yay, Nancy Pelosi!
And it looks like we'll have the Senate, too. I've got my fingers crossed.
Massachusetts just elected it's first African-American Governor.
South Dakota's abortion ban didn't pass.
Arizona refused to ban gay marriage, even when so many other states did (stop the hate, people).
Rummy's taking a hike.

For many years, I've felt so disillusioned with politics. Today, I feel hopeful (see above). It's exciting to see the country begin to come to it senses. I've been waiting.

Excuse me, now. I have to go dance a jig.

Rambling

I feel the need to write a blog posting, and yet, I have no inspired words. This is my third attempt at this post. I've started and deleted the following 2 ideas:

1. I was going to write about how, even though we are still not fully settled into our current apartment, we're looking for the next place we want to live (Cambridge, Somerville) when our lease is up. In August. Because we don't like suburbia, blah, blah blah. After I wrote a few paragraphs, I realized that I'm beginning to sound like a broken record. I've written this all before.

2. Then, I was going to write about how we got rear-ended in Boston yesterday. And it sounds like it might be an interesting story, except for the fact that it's not. We were really barely tapped by another car. No marks on our bumper, even. And when we pulled over to see if there was any damage, the other driver pulled over too, so no there was no hit-and-run drama either. I think we've probably hit other cars harder when wedging into a small parking space. Nothing to see here; move along.

Now, after saying all of that, I realize that today is an important anniversary, and so, there is something to say: It was a year ago today that Kjerste, L.L., and I completed the Treasure Island Triathlon in San Francisco. It's strange to think how much has changed in the last year: Kjerste got engaged and married. I now live far, far away from SF. L.L.'s son just keeps getting bigger and more grown-up looking. I miss ya', girlz.