i know. i'm blushing.

Everyone who told me that I wouldn’t need air conditioning in Washington, except for maybe three days a year, was flat out lying.

Just putting that out there.

Also, even if I did only need it for three days a year, those would be the three happiest days of my life, sitting in the comfort of my cold, air-conditioned home while the rest of the world boiled away outside.

It’s 5 o’clock at night, 93 degrees outside, and probably 193 degrees here in my top-floor apartment.

.. .. ..

Alright. I’m done whining. For now. Thanks for listening. Back to FNL.

I just found this:

I happened upon some of my old journal entries from many years back, during some of my darker days when just being alive was hard work, and this was one of the things I found.

It’s so strange and funny, and sometimes shocking, to read things written in the past. Because I don’t think I always realized what I was saying… how true and real the things I hoped for could be. How now, years later, I’d still be me, but be so different. That I’d have such a new view. That Me Now would be reading these words from a place that Me Then would have wanted to be. That it’s possible to grow. That those growing pains back then were just a part of the whole, long, messy process. They were a part of my “failing and continuing on anyway.” They were—in some terribly inconvenient and uncomfortable way—a part of my dream.

. . .

Bryant and I were stopped at a red light when a car pulled up next to us. The passengers caught my eye. A mother and her son were having a very animated conversation. When my gaze met with theirs, they looked suddenly surprised and erupted into a huge fit of laughter. The son, with arms flailing, very clearly shouted the words “I TOLD YOU!” The mother quickly averted her gaze from mine and, looking down, tried unsuccessfully to hold back her amusement.

. . .

I stood in the aisle of the grocery store debating “to buy, or not to buy” when a couple with their two teenage kids rolled by me and started to laugh. As the mother passed in front of me she said to her husband under her breath, “I guess I was wrong!” It was hard to make out his response through his laughter. It was something like “it’s a girl!” Or maybe “good girl!” I don’t really know. But “girl” definitely was in there.

. . .

Stuff like this happens around me all the time—maybe it does to everyone—but for some reason when it happens to me, my hyperactive paranoia gland kicks into gear. I become convinced that people are laughing because they couldn’t tell if I was a guy or a girl. I become super self-conscious about my short hair.

Then anger pours into me, and I try to make these laughing strangers feel as uncomfortable as possible. I stare them down (in the case of the car at the stop light) or I walk right up to them and try to give them as much eye contact as possible while I peruse items on the shelf where they’re standing (in the case of the grocery store). The laugher always stops and they awkwardly avoid my gaze.

They were probably laughing about something totally unrelated and didn’t even notice me. That is, they didn’t notice me until I became the freak in the grocery store who stares strangers down for no apparent reason. No wonder their laughter stops and they try to avoid my gaze.

It’s ridiculous. It’s disgustingly egocentric of me to think that the whole world is having a laugh at my expense. There are millions of other more plausible reasons they could be laughing. But I have a really hard time controlling my reaction. I become convinced that me and my short hair have just become the butt of their joke. Call me crazy, but I react this way every time. And I have a really hard time recovering from it. The grocery store thing just happened less than an hour ago and I’m only barely emerging from my cloud of embarrassment and anger.

They probably weren’t laughing at me. But maybe they were. Weren’t you ever a teenager hanging out with your friends when someone spots a stranger who seems a bit gender ambiguous? Everyone gets a real kick trying to figure out what “it” is. I’ve been with that group before, I’m sorry to say. More than once. It’s something people find hilariously awkward. It’s possible that I could be on the receiving end of that joke, considering that I’ve been on the giving end of it before.

However, whether I’m the object of their jokes or not isn’t really the issue for me (despite the fact that it does hurt my feelings). This is something that irritated me even when I had hair long enough to ensure that everyone felt confident about my gender. I know that there are times that people laugh at the expense of others, and whether it’s at my expense or not, it infuriates me. What makes me so angry is the sense of superiority the laughers have… their total lack of respect for another human being. They laugh when someone looks different, when someone has a birth defect, when someone has a deformity, when someone’s hair is too short. Really? Is it really that hilarious to discover that people different from you exist in this world? And what I find totally intolerable is the idea that parents would be laughing along with their children. What amazing examples these adults are to their budding bigots.

Wow, the rage. …Talk about a sense of superiority… Sorry, I’ll come down now. But can you see? This is what happens to me. Total anger. Not healthy, especially considering it stems from paranoia. I have got to figure out a way to get over this, especially because I actually like my hair and don’t plan on growing it out any time soon. Why am I so self-conscious of it?

Driving home yesterday, I was wishing I was better at remembering. Remembering everything. Foreign languages, cranial nerves, the names of my friends’ siblings, and just the regular details of living.

I was thinking about the stories old couples tell. I love hearing them recount how they met fifty years ago, the hard times they went through together, the funny thing that happened that random day so long ago. I wish I could remember all the details of my life like that. I know they don’t remember everything, and their retellings likely change with time, but I am still amazed at the minutia they can conjure up. I was thinking as I drove, wouldn’t it be nice to be able to remember everything? To be able to tell those stories to your grandkids, so they could learn how you “knew it was right,” how you got where you are, and all that other good stuff. But I already feel like I’ve forgotten so much. So many of my memories are already hazy. I’ve never been terribly confident in my memory.

Really, we are our memories. All we are is what we remember. If every day, we forgot everything we knew from the day before, we’d never survive. I mean literally. We wouldn’t be able to do anything—walk, eat, talk. What we remember makes us who we are.

There in my car, wishing I could remember everything better, this quote from my favorite book came to mind: “Student of memory. I remember some things and have forgotten others.” I’ve always loved that. Something about it just feels right. It’s calming. And sitting there at a stoplight, I realized it’s ok to forget some things. If we are what we remember, I’m glad I’ve forgotten some things. I thought of this woman I saw on a show a while back (coincidentally, I can’t remember what show) who remembered everything she ever saw. It wasn’t just a photographic memory. She actually remembered everything. She said it was a curse. To never have traumatizing memories fade? To never be able to quiet your mind? I hadn’t ever considered it before then, but it seems being able to forget is a blessing.

I am a student of memory. I forget some things and remember others. I learn from the things I keep. I just hope the things I remember and the things I forget are the right ones. And I hope the things I remember stay in tact in my mind for a long, long time to come. (And I hope the material from my anatomy class stays in tact at least one more week… long enough to pass my last two exams.)

Ever notice how saying “okay” after someone apologizes is very, very different from saying “it’s okay”?

In fact, it kind of means the opposite. The simple “okay” is more acidic and insolent than just letting there be silence.

Just thinking about that today. Funny how the “it’s” is so important.

Some types of change can be really exciting. Like moving someplace beautiful, or accomplishing a new goal, or moving your furniture around and getting a new bedspread. Those are all great changes.

Some types of change really suck. Like when a disagreement changes a friendship ever so slightly, or when you learn something you wish you hadn’t and things become awkward, or when you sense a change in the way a friend treats you and you can’t figure out why. Those changes suck.

Those types of changes leave you empty handed, with nothing but this uncomfortable hint of regret that you can’t really pin down because you don’t really know what it is that you would have done differently. They just leave an irritating sore where they keep rubbing against your thoughts. And you wish you could get some answers, or just let it go.

Almost regret. That’s what it feels like to me.

Um, so you probably shouldn’t read this post unless you’re my mom or something, because it’s one of those obnoxiously happy ones that makes you want to gag. Sorry. You’ve been warned.

I’m a little stressed. Life is this series of small fires needing to be put out. Nothing big and blazing—they’re all little things. But it’s getting old to constantly be running from one fire to the next. It’s hard to get ahead of the game. I’m behind on my reading; I’ve got a quiz today; supposed to have all the major blood vessels memorized by this afternoon; we’ve got this mysteriously appearing & disappearing swarm of fruit flies plaguing us (gah! I hate those things!); I have to register for summer and fall quarters in less that a week—definitely haven’t planned that far ahead yet; I’ve got two big, stressy exams next week—haven’t started studying; and I have to teach in church this weekend—haven’t organized my lesson. And I know when these things have passed, there will be more little things to worry unnecessarily about.

But.

Somehow, I feel so happy. I’ve got good friends coming to visit over the next few months. Bryant and I just planned a summer trip to spend on the beach with my family. The stars have miraculously aligned and on that same trip I get to get to spend some time with my soul sister that I haven’t seen for seven years. We spent the first sixteen years of our lives joined at the hip and have only gotten to see each other once a decade since. (Though I guess technically, there has only been one decade since…) But still, it’s been a long time, and I couldn’t be more excited. I love where I live. I’m making good friends. I love what I’m studying. I’m married to the best man. And we had a giant thunderstorm last night—first one since moving here—and I love a good thunderstorm.

Is this possible? It seems like it’s not allowed for things to be so good.

Admittedly, my moods still swing like a pendulum. But things still are good.

I know these kinds of posts are the last thing in the world a sane person wants to read, but I just felt so satisfied and happy that I wanted to get these feelings down. That way in thirty minutes, when I’m in a bad mood again, I can remember that, yes, things are good, and yes, I am happy.

So this might be considered old news, since the movie’s been out for more than a month now, but this past weekend, Bryant and I went into Seattle and saw Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland. It was wonderful. I’m totally enamored with it. You all probably already knew how awesome it was because you’re not weird like us and wait a month to go see the movies that look good. But if you haven’t seen it yet, go now!

We saw it in 3D, which was fun, as you can clearly tell by the expression on Bryant’s face.

In other news, we finally got Washington plates and new drivers licenses, so it’s like we’ve officially moved in. (Though, technically Bryant is still waiting on his.) The thing is, having Utah plates kind of felt like a protection—a valid disclaimer. When I was driving someplace new, it was almost excusable to be driving like a lost soul, pausing a little too long before turns, driving just a touch too slow to figure out where the heck I am. Or anytime I did something stupid on the road (unrelated to being new, just related to being a bad driver), I would say, “Sorry! Utah driver!” and I felt somehow justified and protected from ridicule. But now it’s official. We live here. No excuse for driving slow or crazy. I’m supposed to know where everything is. Supposed to know what I’m doing. Feels kind of like taking off the training wheels.

The most hilarious thing about living in Washington is the weather segment of the news. They always try to say something suspenseful to keep you watching through the commercial break, because seriously, you do NOT want to miss the report about what big weather event is coming our way. But in reality, all they ever say is that it’s probably going to rain today. And it’s probably going to rain tomorrow. And the next day. Then they act like it’s a huge surprise. Also, they don’t say “sunshine.” They say “sun break.”

Also alarming was pulling up to the drive-in at Dairy Queen the first week we lived here. Instead of listing Blizzard prices by size (S, M, or L), they list them by calorie content (bad-for-you, really-bad-for-you, or you’re-going-to-die-young). Mm, I think that’s something I didn’t want to know.

Parking lots are also funny places. It’s as if people don’t drive around looking for a free spot; they drive around looking for already-occupied spaces where a shopper is unloading her cart. Then they sit and wait for her to leave. We moved here during the last-minute Christmas rush, so I thought maybe this phenomenon was due to the high volume of shoppers. But it’s been a good three months now, and I still notice people doing this. They’re willing to sit and wait three minutes for you to leave, rather than drive a few more rows down to park in the spot that’s already empty. Patient folks, these Washingtonians.

Another thing. Sometimes the carpool lane is on the right side of the highway instead of the left. Strange. Also, stores have a bucket of complimentary umbrellas for you to borrow at their doors because, yes, it is always raining. A layer of green grows on everything—tree trunks, lampposts, house siding, stop signs. And my college campus looks just like the Dharma Initiative on Hydra island. Seriously.

Oh, and having a dishwasher is complete bliss.

Almost a year ago, I posted a picture of a birthday cake I made for a ridiculously random party my friends threw in Chuck Norris’ honor. Just a couple days ago, I was glancing through my site stats when I noticed that someone had gotten to my blog from a link at the Huffington Post.

Wha?

Turns out, Mr. Norris made me famous. Well, maybe not famous. More like a teensy blip on the comedy-news aggregation scene. My cake photo found its way into some random post about amusing pop-culture cakes earlier this month at the Huffington Post.

This made me curious about how much traffic my one, obscure Chuck Norris post was bringing to my blog. It turns out, a LOT.

49% of the search terms people use to find my blog (through Google or Yahoo or wherever) have do with Chuck Norris. FORTY-NINE PERCENT! Who knew so many people are hungry for Chuck? (In the interest of transparency, I should tell you that I also counted terms that imply Chuck Norris but don’t necessarily include his name. For example, there were four hits on my blog using the search “will roundhouse kick you for food,” and I included that with the Chuck Norris tally because, well, wouldn’t you?)

Also, my site stat thingy was broken for a while, and within just an hour or so of [Bryant] fixing it, I noticed that two internet searches had already led people to my blog. Both were looking for Chuck.

Furthermore, what do you think the #3 most-clicked post in the history of this blog is? (I guess there’s really not much suspense in that question, considering that all I’m doing right now is talking about The Chuck.) That’s right! It’s my Chuck Norris birthday cake post. I know this place isn’t bursting with fantastic material, but I’m not really sure how I feel about the Texas Ranger making it in my top 3. …Proud?