Baby, it’s fucking cold outside.

It’s intermission and I am blogging in the theatre lobby. I bought a diet coke and I’m having diet-coke-buyer’s remorse. Why did I buy diet coke? I mean, it’s like twelve degrees out. (Relatively. I’m a pansy when it comes to temperature.) There’s hot coffee, there’s not time to drink an entire diet coke. What I really want is a cookie, which goes with coffee, so I didn’t get coffee. And now I have a half-can of waste coke.

This is the smallest audience I’ve seen in a while. It’s a 2pm actor’s benefit performance, and it’s funny and inappropriate and silly. It’s a good show, they’re ringing the five minute bell, and I just made small talk with a thin man in an argyle sweater. He asked me how I could drink something cold when it’s so cold out.

Time for act II!

Two instances of brights.

And I’m on my way to direct my choir.  Don’t want to do it, but it’s my job and there we go – we do our jobs.

So it’s dark, damn you Daylight Savings, and it’s cold and rainy and altogether PNW-standard outside.  I’m driving Lizzie, who does quite well, and I’m listening to NPR and jamming along in the left lane.  I’ve gone a different way, because I have plenty of time and I want to hit up Starbucks for a Pumpkin Spice Latte treat because UGH I had a long week and a long day and I don’t. even. want. to. be. here.

I have a really pleasant and positive attitude, you see.  Just the thing to conduct a church choir.

Driving along, minding my own business, jamming forth toward the sturdy borough of Burien.  And smooth as glass, this truck swings in behind me.  Real close-like.  Round lights.  He’s right on my butt, but I’m like, whatevs, he wants to use my excellence to pass the other lane.

We’re jamming, we’re jamming.  We pass the cars in the other lane.  He’s on my butt.  This is annoying.  I have to stay in this lane because mere moments from now, the freeway ends and I turn left.  And?  He turns on his brights.

I’m surprised, to say the least.  Surprised enough to mutter, “What the fuck?” – but I choose to do exactly nothing.  Because there’s nothing to be done.  He keeps his brights on.  Moments later, I get into the right-hand left turn lane.  He gets into the left-hand left turn lane.  He turns off his brights.  We turn. I go to Starbucks.  He doesn’t.

————–

So I’m in the line at Starbucks, and I use my downtime in the drivethru to download the Nov. 4th NPR Fresh Air podcast with Terry Gross’ interview of Jane Lynch. (Excellent, by the way.  More on that later.) The wait is long, but not too long, and when I get to the window, I’m informed that the woman in front of me switched her order – decided she wanted decaf – and that my drink (double-tall nonfat one-and-a-half pump pumpkin spice latte, no whip)  is on the house, because of the wait.  I protest, she insists, I accept.

I drive away, listening to the non-Jane Lynch parts of the podcast. (Also excellent, but David Plouffe is just somehow not quite as compelling.  What? Don’t judge.)  I get back on the freeway for a short hop to the next exit.  A gigantic truck pulls into my lane.  His lights line up directly with my rear window, but he’s keeping an appropriate following distance, so no big deal.  We both veer to the right to come to a stop at the end of the exit.  I reach up to adjust my mirror so I’m not blinded.

But, this truck’s driver turns off his lights.

I am blown away.

Metrics.

So I’m in class (again, surprise, what is new) and this professor, boy is she a pistol.  She literally wrote the book(s) on the subject, and has no qualms about reminding us that she is the foremost authority on about nine different themes, theories, topics – she’s got it.  She’s very confident and compelling, and she’s obviously got her shit together.

This professor likes me, it seems.  I’m quick and I flourish and I do things with a touch! of! flair! and am generally more interesting than the standard unengaged MBA or blowsy executive she’s usually dealing with.  That’s my theory, anyhow.

So she’s always throwing out big long complicated phrases, memory-trigger sorts of sentences that make no sense unless you’ve heard their context – and then are helpful, but WHOA does she use them often.

In class last night, I was zoning out in that special way where you’re nodding your head when some little snippet makes it past your shut-down-brainwall but otherwise you’re effectively staring into space.  (Not that it wasn’t interesting.  It was.  I was just DONE – finished a case study and an entire midterm exam in the space of six hours, terrible quality work but COMPLETE – and before the lecture we had to sit through an hour-long presentation about Not Being an Asshole in Business.  Valuable. More on that later. Anyhow. End parentheses.)

So, Professor McConfidence said, again, “How you measure me is how I will behave.”  She was talking about throughput metrics in supply chain management, but hey whoa! That is true in LIFE.  DING!  BING!  SHAWING!  It got through my brick mental wall and hit me in the brain.

I am a SHIT student right now. If I was at 80% in my undergraduate years, I’ve gone progressively downward through the MBA.  These professors are probably getting 20% from me.  I show up, and I do the assignments, basically.  Some of them. I don’t EVER fucking READ, and when I’m there, I’m on my computer, screwing around.

But nobody catches me.  I get As.

How I am measured, that’s how I will behave.

You think my work is acceptable?  Hokay then!  I will keep it up.  No matter that I could do about ninety times better.  No matter that this is completely mediocre, when compared to my potential.  No matter!  I will continue this behavior because it is rewarded.

One of these days it won’t be.  That’ll be a relief.

 

HA!

Just a note: somebody found my blog by searching “hormones for sissy husband”.

No sissy husbands here, lady.  Or, mister.

Why are we even voting on this?

So, hey, Referendum 71.  Catch up on the sitch with me!

————

Current results by county.

Ms. Dorothy Snarker’s excellent blog about the votes in both Maine and Washington.

What’s the deal with Maine, by the way? Pot but not equality?  Roll one up and mellow out, y’all.

————

Things that baffle me about this:

-The ‘Protect Marriage’ campaign, No on 71.  What, exactly, are you protecting marriage from, y’all? Evil gay corruption? The dilution of the good name of marriage? Because there’s no divorce or domestic violence or infidelity among straight couples, no never.  And?  Recall, please, that this is the ‘Everything BUT Marriage’ referendum. We still don’t get marriage – this is domestic partnership and associated rights.  Gun jumpers.

-Where are the voters?  The huge turnout from the presidential election seems to have evaporated.

Hey, my generation!  This is YOU, this is YOU AND ME we’re talking about.  Celebrate Susan B. Anthony, who worked so damn hard to secure a right she never had the opportunity to exercise.  It is our obligation to vote.  It is our civic duty to turn out and say to the cranky old folk who oppose change – no, we will not stand for your bigotry, for your ignorance.  We will not sit around and watch you inhibit progress until you die.  Look, look at the changing climate of our world!  Look at us – we are your friends, your neighbors, your daughters and sons! We are postal workers and musicians and government employees and pastors and human beings. We love, we love well and truly, and we will do so whether or not you approve.

The club.

Groucho Marx: “Any club that would accept me as a member is not a club I want to join.”

I’m about to be an MBA, y’all, and I’ve done it by fucking around. Seriously. The econ midterm is due tomorrow at 6, and so is a case study I haven’t even READ, and I am blogging. Also I’m wondering when the preliminary Ref. 71 results will be posted (turns out: 8pm), and if I can manage to get ANYTHING done if I move out to the living room and watch Biggest Loser while I ‘work’. Also did I have a balanced enough diet today to eat a frozen mango bar thing?

Jillian would psychoanalyze and then kick the shit out of my lazy, procrastinating ass.

Celtic Woman.

So the other day I’m at home, innocently working on my econ midterm slacking off hardcore, and I get a call from my mom.

“Turn on the public television channel!”

So I do.  It’s Celtic Woman.

“Your grandfather called to tell me to watch this because one of the singers looks just. like. you.“

“Oh?  Which one?”

“Um… I don’t know.”

She calls Grandpa back and asks.  And then she calls me again.

“The dark haired one!  But not when she’s talking, just when she’s singing.  EXACTLY LIKE YOU, he says.”

None of them had dark hair.

Help me solve this mystery, friends.  There’s like seven of them, historically, and this was a sort of best-of clip show so I couldn’t narrow it down. Which one of these Super Hawt Celtic Ladies looks most like me?

Probably not original member Chloë Agnew.

Not likely whiteout-ginger Órla Fallon.

Potentially the boob-tacular vocalist Lisa Kelly.

This lady, crazy-named Méav Ní Mhaolchatha, left the group a long time ago.

Dark haired Deirdre Shannon! But I don't see it. Do you?

Could it be pointy-chinned Hayley Westenra?

 

Or hide-and-seeky Lynn Hilary?

 

Or, finally, newest member Alex Sharpe?

Hell if I know, y’all.  Help.

 

 

Celesbians.

So, I recently developed a pretty substantial crush on a celebrity.  I bet you can guess. No?  Here’s a hint: she’s elegant, tall, beautiful, funny, and like twice my age.

Still nothing?  Oh, you mean that’s approximately every woman I’ve ever had a crush on?

Okay here’s another clue: she’s recently garnering more and more press for her role as the bitingly sarcastic, politically incorrect, horrible-yet-somehow-sympathetic scheming, manipulative villianess in a damn funny new comedy show.  With singing.  And dancing.

Yep.

I mean, right? Jane Lynch is hot, y'all.

So I’m all sorts of into the awesome that is Jane Lynch.  Here’s a couple of reasons why.

and

I know you laughed aloud.  (If you didn’t, for some crazy reason, I suggest you go to youtube and search ‘Web Therapy Jane Lynch’ and watch the episode trio called ‘Psycho Analysis’.  In fact, I suggest you do that anyway, ’cause dagnabbit, that’s funny shit.)

In addition, Ms. Lynch is conscientious and hard-working and articulate and seems like a lovely human.  And, this is a first, are you ready? I have a crush on an ACTUAL LESBIAN YOU GUYS. Jane Lynch! Gay lady! Outstanding!

———–

The other day, I was on AfterEllen.com, spending time in the forums, when I came upon the not-particularly-well-written but intriguing question excerpted here:

“…should closeted (to the public/media) celebrities out themselves? Should they come out so people out there can also be brave enough to come out too? Have more open support?”

I personally prefer the approach of quiet acknowledgment of folks like Lily Tomlin and the above-mentioned Jane Lynch.  Lesbians, gay men, bisexuals, transgendered folk – we are all just people, and in my mind, a blaring announcement of orientation isn’t necessary. Celebrities are actors, musicians, activists, politicians first – sexual orientation is just a thread in the overall fabric.  I prefer to be chill about my rainbow fringe, thanks.

Because those who have chosen the loud and proud – Ellen DeGeneres, for example – have done so, others have the freedom to exist relatively normally.  I’m lucky – I live in a place where I *can* be just me.  I can advocate for change by steadfastly and resolutely being myself- a good person, supporting causes for equality, living my life, loving the people I love.  Celebrities can do it in ways that have more impact, simply because they’re more recognizable entities.  But that doesn’t mean they have to.

I think we’re lucky to have both the bravely loud ones and the bravely quiet celebrities to admire.  And I believe it does take courage to just BE gay, without announcing it.  It takes just as much to be yourself, no matter what pieces of your personal definition have the potential to piss off the universe.

And this self has a huge crush on Jane Lynch.  Bring it, universe.

Welllll.

Fast food is bad for you.

I got the best-sounding, lowest-calorie Jack in the Box option for lunch, AND modified  (no mayo!) and I still feel queasy.

Or maybe it’s H1N1.

Or maybe it’s daylight savings. I hate that crap. I mean, I GET it, but it’s stupid. You know? Now it’s gonna start getting dark at damn three in the afternoon.  And I still have stuff to do at damn three in the afternoon.

Things that have gone wrong thus far.

I got up late.

When I went to take my lunch out of fridge, I dropped it on my foot.  Since it was chili in a tupperware, the lid popped off.  Chili went everywhere.  And I dropped my coffee.  And chipped the mug.  Chili-coffee-cluster up on the pants, under the fridge.  Welcome, ants, to my floor.  Come on in, clean this shit up.

I went to the store before work and I couldn’t find my fucking wallet.  (It was in the back of my bag, and WHY? I never put it there.  Earlier-times me must’ve wanted to fuck with future-me.)  And while I was searching, my boss-lady called because yet another faculty member FORGOT HOW TO LOG IN TO THE COMPUTERS GAH.

Faculty members = children.

Now.  All y’all keep it under control.  Because I obvs. can’t.