i know. i'm blushing.

Mmm, cereal. My go-to breakfast or mid-day snack (or dinner, I won’t lie). Earlier this week, I got home from school, poured myself a giant bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and sat down in front of the TV to relax for a few. As I polished off the last sugar-coated square, I noticed something kind of weird. A tiny dark clump floating in the now sugar-saturated milk. I thought, “It’s probably just a clump of cinnamon or maybe a little broken off chunk of cereal.” But it looked odd enough that I scooped it up into my spoon and went to examine it under better light.

I don’t know if I’m glad or regretful that I did that.

Dead bug. Chilling on my spoon. In a little puddle of milk. It was a creepy, brown, segmented bug with about a million legs packed on to it’s tiny body. Who cares if it was probably only about 1/16 of an inch and you needed a magnifying glass to really see it, it still completely grossed me out. I sat there looking at my bowl of sugary milk, freshly eaten, and I wondered how many of those critters made it down the hatch into my stomach.

Gross. After inspecting the bag and finding a tiny hole in the bottom, I threw it out, sprayed down the shelves in the cupboard, and kind of swore off cereal for a while.

And now I sit here, days later, stomach rumbling, so hungry for breakfast, craving some cereal, but too afraid to try. I wish I could think of it as camping, where you don’t really care if a bug or two joins you for your meal. But that mental game isn’t helping. I just really prefer it if there aren’t any bugs in my cereal. Or at least that I’m unaware of their presence.

PS. Don’t google “bug in cereal” unless you want an adventure. Apparently, my 1/16″ bug is nothing.

We had some house guests a couple weeks ago who introduced us to Friday Night Lights, and now we can’t stop watching. We burned through the first two seasons in two weeks and started on season three tonight. (So far, season one wins.) My point in telling you all that is this: These past two weeks of total Texas immersion has begun messing with our brains. I swear we’ve both started talking with a Southern drawl. It may be slight, but it’s there, and it’s kinda freaking me out. Guess I’m doing my mama proud.

. . .

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?

One of the nice things about this new apartment is all of the electrical outlets. There’s like one on every wall. Seriously. It’s a huge upgrade from our last apartment, which had about three outlets in the whole place—none of which were grounded.

So I’ve taken this opportunity to get something I’ve never had the luxury of using before: plug-in air fresheners. (Totally classy, I know. What can I say, we’re moving up in the world.)

This month’s flavor?

Vanilla. …Sweet, sugary, delicious vanilla.

And it’s killing me. Every time I walk into the living room, I’m hit with this amazing smell of sugar cookies and frosting. Bryant’s dying too. Every now and then you can hear one of us shout, “I want frosting!” I swear, this air freshener is going to make us each gain 20 pounds. We might have to get rid of it if we don’t get used to the smell soon.

I am tired of smelling the neighbor’s food. Granted, sometimes it smells really delicious, but I’d prefer not to smell anything at all. Ever. Mostly because sometimes it smells really, really, inexplicably awful.

Right now they’re cooking something with a lot of vegetables. There’s definitely some broccoli in there. And probably some beans? It smells very green. Oh, and wait, they just added something else. Teriyaki sauce? Maybe they’re making stir fry. Oops, smells like they just started to burn it. Should’ve taken it off the stove a minute sooner. (I’m not kidding. All this is really happening in real time as I type this post. It would be kind of funny if it weren’t so strong smelling and such a nightly occurrence. I do wish that I knew where it was coming from so I could at least have the satisfaction of confirming my guesses about their menu.)

It’s the strangest thing because we don’t have any shared vents. These apartments don’t have central air or heating. There aren’t any ducts leading from their apartment to ours, that I’m aware of. But the smell wafts into our living room just as if they were cooking in our kitchen.

How do we make it stop??

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.

A week from today, I start my NAC class. (Stands for “Nursing Assistant-Certified.” It used to be called “CNA” instead of “NAC,” and I don’t have any idea how long ago they changed it, but I’m having a heck of a time switching.) Becoming an NAC is part of my plan to ultimately go to PA school (“Physician Assistant” …too many acronyms here, I know), and then finally become a PA.

So my class is in Seattle and it starts at 7:30 in the morning. I know that normal, productive people are like, “What’s wrong with 7:30? It’s my favorite time of the day. It’s my time right after yoga class, when I eat my fiber-full bran muffin and peruse the New York Times. You know, right before I solve world hunger at 8:00.” But I’m not like that. For me, 7:30 is stupidly early. I know I’ll suck it up and rise to the occasion or whatnot. Maybe I’ll become a morning person or something. Who knows. Stranger things have happened. I think. At least it only lasts five weeks. Short and sweet. I can hack it.

But… I’m nervous. Not about the difficulty of the NAC class. I’m optimistic that I’ll do okay with the material. It’s not even the early-morning issue that makes me nervous. At least not directly. What gets me worried is time.

TIME!

It’s all I’ve had lately. Soooo muuuuch tiiiiiiime. I know, I know, I’m the only one in the world who has ever had an excess of free time. But I did. And I liked it. As deadening and soul-sucking as it was to feel like I didn’t have direction, it sure was amazing to have tons of free time.

This move to Washington has been the catalyst for tons of changes in my life, one of them being less and less time to spare. I’m back at college, and I love it. I also love that college has been the only thing putting demands on my schedule. I’ve got all the time in the world to study. This NAC class will change that. I’m fully aware of how thoroughly ridiculous I sound. But I feel it, so I’m going to say it and just hope no one holds it against me. I’m worried I’m going to have a hard time getting used to balancing more than a couple things at once again. It’s been a long time, folks.

Plus, I probably wouldn’t mind as much if class started, oh I don’t know, after the sun came up? ;)

Four random thoughts of the moment:

1. I never tire of Hint of Lime Tostitos.
2. My instructor cancelled lecture tonight, so I got home from school an hour and a half earlier than normal. Score.
3. Someone keeps parking in our spot. It doesn’t really matter because we have two parking spaces and only one car. And it doesn’t always bug me, but tonight it kind of did. When I pulled in (an hour and half early!), I saw that same red car parked in our spot and got out my pen. I wrote a note pointing out that we pay for the spot and would like it if they stopped parking there. But I chickened out and didn’t put it on their car. Sigh.
4. Lost. Tonight. Three hours! (Yes, I’m still watching and loving that. Isn’t anyone else?)

I’ve had this antsy itch lately. It’s a quiet but festering desire to be creative… to make something.

But I don’t know what.

Sometimes the thought crosses my mind, “Why don’t you knit something?” But I ignore that thought. My yarn, knitting needles, and partially finished projects are still sitting in an unopened box in the study. (I know, how long have we been in our new place and we still have unopened boxes? It’s a shame, but it’s definitely not a surprise!) There’s some mildly repellant force between me and that yarn box—like two positive sides of a magnet that push each other away. I don’t know what that’s about.

Sometimes the thought crosses my mind, “Why don’t you play piano?” And sometimes I actually do. I’m teaching myself a great new song. So far I can play the first page… at half the speed and with a millionth of the talent of Mr. Zimerman in that video there, but I’m still trying. The piano is fun, and it’s a great outlet, but even with my extra playing lately, I’m still getting this creative itch.

Sometimes the thought crosses my mind, “It’s the blog. You ought to blog more.” But clearly I haven’t been listening to that voice.

And sometimes the thought crosses my mind, “Aw quit your whining already. Just turn on the TV.”

And that, of course, is usually the thought that wins.

My incredibly generous and spontaneous sister surprised me yesterday with the best gift ever: a bunch of Christmas music waiting for me to pick it up at my local sheet music store. New piano music! One of my favorite things ever!

The thing that’s killing me: just minutes before she called to tell me about this gift, the movers finished tying down my piano in the storage POD outside my house.

I’m honestly considering untying the piano and playing right there in the middle of the street.

All I have to say is, we better find an apartment in Washington FAST, because I’ve got to get that piano unloaded before Christmas. Otherwise—and I don’t care what anyone says—I’ll be playing Christmas music loud and proud during whatever month we finally get an apartment.