To friends, family and co-workers: I am known for my cupcakes. Cupcakes are what I "do".

Tonight, however, the cupcakes are being stubborn; they don't want to be "done". So, I'm inadvertently skipping ingredients, running out of sugar (both granulated and confectioners), putting full portions into halved recipes and breaking my handheld mixer. (Fact: Under a deadline, potato mashers can cream sugar and margarine with the best of them.) (This method tends to be a bit hard on the arms, though.) My sink is piled high with batter-caked dishes. My floors are coated with shortening and flour. My garbage can contains a dozen cupcakes that refused to be "did". The cats haven't been the focal point of my life in almost THIRTY MINUTES and they're - quite understandably - livid.

A few weeks ago, these little failures - though clearly trivial in the Grand Scheme of Things - would have been enough to send me into an epic panic attack. Tonight? I'm unbothered.

In sum: God bless modern medicine.

Not surprisingly, a clear head does wonders for the ol' plus/minus recap. In an uncharacteristic display of positivity, today's pluses outweigh the minuses. What a relief.

+ My ill-fated cupcakes will (possibly) be accompanying me to the Cowboy Cabin in Berkley Springs (West Virginia) this weekend for consumption by me and four of my absolute favorite ladies. In addition to (probable) cupcakes, we're armed with booze, knitting projects, shitty girl-movies and mineral spa appointments. I'm not particularly good at being a girl, but the supreme estro-tastic'ness of this cannot be denied.

+ Similarly estro-tastic things of late: Dancing(/hopping) my ass off to Brit-pop last weekend and bravely overcoming the aftermath in order to attend a yoga class the following day. My first attempt at yoga (three years ago) was uninspiring; this one made me break a sweat. Because we're apparent masochists, Miellyn and I dropped mad coin on a membership and have resolved to make this a Weekly Thing. Good times.

+ The boy and I went to see Harry Potter at the historic Uptown Theatre last night. It was all kinds of awesome - (even the Potter-uninitated Jonboy loved it) and I can't wait until julietori and I have our second viewing. Nerd power, y'all.

+ Continuing in the theme of nerd: Earlier this month, Jon and I saw the National Symphony Orchestra perform Video Games Live at Wolf Trap. Hearing a full orchestra's interpretation of Metroid and Zelda? Watching Martin Leung play his Super Mario medley live (while blindfolded, of course)? This, too, was all kinds of awesome. We prefaced our concert experience with a picnic in the meadow, which I used to justify the purchase of a $26 bottle of organic pistachio oil. Fact: Organic pistachio oil is excellent atop thinly sliced avocado on a baguette. Bonus points for finishing it off with a crushed pistachio nut sprinkle.

+ And then there was the Best Night Ever, which consisted of dressing like adults (me in secondhand Heatherette, Jon in secondhand Versace), dropping $150 on a sidewalk dinner at Equinox and then wandering through downtown DC like a couple of (well-dressed) tourists, before climbing into a tree and watching the moon rise over the Washington PhallusMonument. Perfection.

+ Every now and then, I get brave(/drunk) enough to pick Lou^2 up. And, every now and then, she lets me. I put her on the kitchen counter. I take her off the kitchen counter. These transactions last mere seconds and are conducted with arms outstretched, but to not be eaten alive? PROGRESS.

+ Random sources of joy: The Mount Pleasant Farmers Market, having plans for the next seven weekends (involving friends and oceans and sisters and other such things), finding good books in "Gratis" boxes throughout the city, securing kick-ass tickets to August's Flaming Lips show, warm weather and - incredibly - the jalapeno plant that I've somehow managed not to kill. (It's my first vegetable-bearing success, you see.)

- My mammogram revealed a handful of wee cysts in my right boob. They're benign and "no big thing" (per my doctor), but I can't help feeling betrayed; the right boob was always my favorite.

- The grandparents continue their slow decline. And this is where I stick my fingers in my ears and start singing La-La songs. Coping mechanism of choice, really.

+ I feel sane again.

+ I haven't cried in a week.

+ Yay.

Off to frost what I hope to be a successful batch of choco-stout cupcakes. If all else fails...at least I have a half-bottle of chocolate stout left over. Say my shoulders: Shrug.

Truth be told, I'm sitting on the floor of my living room, watching MTV air back-to-back Michael Jackson videos, with tears in my eyes.

Think: Elementary school idol. My inner-child is inconsolable.

Edit: Clarification, since I appear to be in the minority...

Mere hours after we were deposited back on U.S. soil, Jon and I found ourselves at the police station, filing a report for his missing Stella scooter (i.e. my boy's primary mode of transportation). And then the rains came and my bedroom flooded. And I dried it out and it flooded again. And again. And again. And AGAIN. (Woe to the basement dwellers...) And my 80GB iPod went belly-up and I regretted not having a back-up drive. And my remaining grandparents have been diagnosed with lung cancer and Alzheimer's (respectively), and I'm really fucking tired of cancer and grandmas who forget who I am. And now I have a prescription for an anti-anxiety drug - says she who avoids medication - and a mammogram scheduled for next week, because I'm short-fused and my right boob hurts. And my job sucks.

All of this - and more! - has been chipping(/hammering) away at our collective post-Mexico Zen. And I'm doing that thing where I've been trying to pull myself together and neglecting friends and emails and phone calls in the process. As per usual: Highs and lows, highs and lows. I'm getting there.

In better news:

* The anti-anxiety drug works. At first, I was having a bit of anxiety-drug-induced anxiety - like, I'd backslid into being a medication-dependent 20-something - but the clear-headedness is refreshing. A temporary fix until I get my shit in order, if nothing else.

* My job sucks, but at least I'm still (silver lining) gainfully employed. And rumor has it that an offer letter exists - somewhere! - and is slowly making its way to my hands.

* I GOT TO MEET polyphonicvegan!!! AND SHE TOTALLY SLEPT ON MY FUTON!!! This bullet is worthy of both Caps Lock and multiple exclamation points, because L. is a total bad-ass rockstar. She - and her mixed posse of San Franciscans and Bostonians - arrived on my doorstep slightly over a week ago, and it was all YAY. We ate copious amounts of vegan food and NSP whored himself out for their cameras and...uh, that was about it. Tourism is overrated, anyway.

* Although my inner-feminist takes great issue with "girl" video games - (i.e. girls can be wedding planners! Girls can have "babyz"!) - I cannot help, but praise We Cheer, which has replaced the ever-judgmental Wii Fit as my exercise regime of choice. I (aka the anti-cheerleader)(aka flag squad forever!) was skeptical at first, but OH MY GOD. The fun. Every night, I jump and cheer along to "Footloose" and "Eye of the Tiger" like an absolute moron, but the impact on my spirit has been awesome thus far. Don't judge me. Just try it.

TOTAL. HEAD. EXPLODY.

That said, I have all of two seconds to spare SLASH encourage you to reacquaint yourself with Kyle Cassidy's candidacy announcement and then visit the LJ Advisory Board polls, which are now open.

NSP wants you to know that he's not above whoring himself out in the name of democracy.



See the belly? The belly wants you to vote, so go. Vote. In the name of the belly.

Kyle Cassidy is running for the LiveJournal advisory board. Says he:

"After much thought I've reluctantly decided to run for the LiveJournal advisory board, a position of great work, exposure to drama, and no pay. I'm doing this specifically to push for one thing - an account backup and restore feature. In the past year I've seen too many people's accounts deleted and replaced with advertisements -- and shocked to discover that LiveJournal has no method to restore these. Years of people's lives lost. This needs to change. After that we can tackle all the business about who doesn't want whom to post where.

At this point I simply need 300 of you to support my nomination in the lj_election_en community. To do this post a reply to my nomination post here and simply say "I support this nomination". This needs to happen before 4:30 PST Today, so do please vote. The election will be on the 22nd and I'll come back to you then."

Speaking as someone who has tediously copy-and-pasted the bulk of her journal into MS Word (seriously), I would love to have the option of a more user-friendly back-up system. So, go forth and click, friends! And then add Kyle's journal to your friends list, because it is an absolute joy to read. Just saying.

Less than five minutes into my phone interview, I was interrupted.

"You sound young. How old are you?"

"Um...thirty?"

"God. You sound seventeen."

My interviewer then demanded to know why I never got my degree.

Sooo...that went well.

Last night, I accompanied profwidow to see her boyfriend's band, The Mostly Dead, play a show at DC9. They shared the line-up with a few other bands, including one that incorporated a mandolin and some bagpipes - BAG. PIPES. - and that made me kind of happy. (BAG. PIPES.) So, I go home and upload one of their albums to my iPod and fall asleep. As I do.

See, the thing about live punk bands is you can't understand a single word that they're saying(/screaming/growling) during their shows. And I'm listening to my iPod on the bus this morning and realize that I just spent the previous night bobbing my head to this:

"It’s not a kid, it’s just a thing.
Selfishness is the song you sing.
It’s your body, it’s your choice,
but the life inside you has a voice."
(from Fight to Live, Flatfoot 56)

Aaargh, Christian hardcore punk! You tricked me again! With your tattoos and your angst and your spitting...how was I to know that, deep beneath your kilt, there lurked the [insert organ here] of a pro-life advocate?

And here I thought that their cover of "Amazing Grace" was meant to be ironic. Sigh.

I have no memory of my twentieth birthday.

And my twenty-first birthday was bad, bad, bad. Courtesy of an ex-boyfriend - the bad one, the worst one - I spent the day in tears, planning [ultimately unrealized] escape routes. From him. From my job, from my home. From living.

My twenties began their slow path to redemption around age twenty-five. And, last Wednesday, we finally made our peace and I thanked them for all of the good times and, reservations be damned, decided to turn thirty.

So far, so good.



( Fear no swine. )

I know my last few entries have been (best described as) weak sauce, but so great is my addiction to this song that another YouTube embedding is, like, crucial:


It makes my feet happy!

So: I traded office chair for bar stool a few hours early today. A co-worker and I had a teleconference scheduled for 4:00p, so we ducked into a nearby alley and called in from our respective cell phones. I am pleased to report that my corporate facade has been perfected to the point where I can successfully participate in a meeting, inebriation undetected. Or maybe I shouldn't be too proud of this fact. Later, I snuck away with different people and drank some more and started to feel woozy-bad and took the bus home. At 7:00p. Since then, I've been engaged in alcohol countermeasures and cat worship and You Tube. And it's just barely 10:00p. Once upon a time, I had bigger and better plans for this evening, but...nope.

Blogging about getting drunk is lame.
Ima go make some waffles.

People who go out of their way to rescue injured kitties are the best kind of people. True story.

Got a few extra dollars? Then consider passing them along to help out this little girl and the kind folk who shelled out over $2,000 of their own cash to fix her busted leg.

Not a cent to spare? You can always help by reposting this link in your own blog.

The resident fattycats and I thank you.

Last month, Rich from FourFour posted a gif-happy tribute to the bizarre awesomeness that is Kate Bush, thus renewing my long-lost love affair with this woman.

So, in response to the truckload of crap that Monday has dumped in my lap, I've spent the evening learning the dance routine from Kate's "Wuthering Heights" video. Choreography is my coping mechanism of choice.



Kate Bush, how I love thee.

Rachel's Current Level of Motivation, Illustrated by Felines:



The past month(-plus) has borne witness to a number of highs and lows. I've been bummed for a myriad of reasons - a condition worsened by seasonal depression, no doubt - and largely kept under a self-imposed quarantine in an attempt to re-Zen. And, on the occasional-occasions when I've lifted said quarantine, I've had a blast. So, really...who the fuck knows?

The bottom line is that things are getting much better. I think. I hope.

( In no particular order... )

In sum: Baby-steps. Thanks to all who have accepted my broken plans, email slackage and other forms of neglect with grace and understanding. I owe every last one of you a cupcake.

During last year's annual assessment, I was criticized for being too "sassy". When prompted, Management was unable to elaborate, saying - and I quote - "I don't know...sassy. You're just sassy."

This year, my assessment included the similarly ill-defined criticism "does not need affection". How this relates to my job performance remains to be seen.

...

Christ, this place hurts my head.

In these rapidly changing, unpredictable times, I find it reassuring that there remains at least one constant:
If you place a pair of freshly laundered, black pants on your bed, a largely(/large) white feline will seek them out. And sit on them.



And this, my friends, is how NSP earned the nickname, "Turdcat".

( Here kitty, kitty... )

( Scenes from the Mall. )
When I told Mom that I cried during Inauguration, she asked me why.

I tried to explain that I love my country. I am proud to be a citizen of the United States. I am proud to be part of a democratic system where I am free to make my voice heard, without fear of punishment or repercussions. Two months ago, I stood in a voting booth and made a choice. Two days ago, I stood on the Mall, in our Nation's capital, and watched the end result of my action promise to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States. It's a beautiful thing...a powerful thing. Something to never be taken for granted.

And to the critics: No, I don't believe that President Obama is the Messiah, come to single-handedly deliver our nation from evil. I'm not a psychic; I'm a realist and a cynic, and I don't know if his tenure as president will rank among the most spectacular years in our nation's history or be marred by failure or mediocrity. But this much is true: We are standing at the precipice of change...long-overdue, very necessary change. When Barack Obama took the presidential oath, I felt hope and promise where, for the past eight years, there was none.

So, call me naive, call me an idealist, call me an utter and complete patriotic cheeseball freak...but I, for one, cannot wait to see where this new era takes us. Onwards!

So, the new year began and my cat caught on fire.

It was an idiotic move on his part; instead of walking around a lit candle, NSP decided to walk directly over it. Fact: Cats are exceptionally flammable. We are relieved to report that the damage was limited to burnt(/stinky) fur, singed whiskers and emotional trauma. Still, standing in the shower on New Years Day, wearing soaked pajamas and clutching a similarly soaked feline, one wonders exactly how this omen should be interpreted.

Seriously, 2009...what's your game?

New Year: Week One(-Point-Five)
[+] Seeing the ever-badass Daddy Conlin play at Bangkok Blues last weekend. In a happy coincidence, benjiesque's swing dance group was also present and...
[+] ...thus inspired, I am bound for an inevitably disastrous (but well-intentioned) lesson tonight.
[+] Finally committing to plans with a series of long-neglected friends, notably minkey_winks and profwidow, the latter of whom not only shared veggie sliders with me on Thursday, but also embraced Jon's Pietasters gig with me on Saturday night. Quite the accomplishment, considering that 9.5 out of 10 of our scheduled rendezvous(es) end in utter and complete failure. (The lovely Ms. tommybarbarella once expressed an interest in attending, but later decided that she no longer loved me and stayed at home, instead. I think she was intimidated by my supreme height advantage. Understandably.)
[+] Incoming hedgehogs! DC escapees pieces2puzzle and toomai will be my co-pilots in Inauguration Day infiltration next week. And, quite possibly, Oprah infilitration, as well, because - holy shit! - she's totally renting Jon's friend's house, which is less than a mile away from my apartment. I repeat: Come next week, I WILL BE WITHIN 5,280 FEET OF THE OPRAH. And inevitably going through her trash. Because she is the Oprah.
[+] Related: Dude! New president! Sweet!

And on the other side of the spectrum:

[-] MY FUCKING CAT CAUGHT ON FIRE.
[-} Locking myself in a bathroom stall to cry not once, but twice last week. A better employment opportunity looms in the very-near future. In the meantime, however, this place is out to kill me.
[-] My car totally failed its inspection today. Anyone got a few hundred dollars that I could borrow?

For those of you keeping score at home:
Rachel - 5
2009 - 3

I didn't want to go out.

But Miellyn said that I would be sad when it was 11:45p and I was alone in my apartment and that kissing felines at midnight would only lead to hairballs and regret. Miellyn is right about many things, so I put on a polka-dotted dress and rhinestone belt and ordered Chinese food, as it is always a good idea to have leftover General Tso's tofu on hand to ease the transition back to New Year sobriety. (I call it foresight.) Although it was approximately eleventy-billion degrees below zero, I opted not to wear tights, as I did not want my legs to enter 2009 feeling resentful and unhappy.

A friend of a friend (of a friend, ad infinitum) was hosting a party at a hotel suite in Farragut, so we taxied down and consumed more shots than was age-appropriate and played drinking games best suited for 21-year old livers. At midnight, we screamed across the hotel atrium at other celebrants until hotel management turned up the lights and began ushering people back to their rooms. I grabbed Miellyn's hand and we ran a victory lap around the 7th floor, because it felt good.

And then I spied K-Fed. He was on the other side of the hotel and about two floors below us, so I grabbed a shot from [insert name here] and yelled at him to stay where he was. When I finally got to him, though, I was saddened to find that the person in question was not actually K-Fed, but a boy. Maybe he was nineteen. Maybe he was twelve. I gave him the shot anyway.

During one game, I made Shawn take sixteen drinks from a glass of Makers Mark. Despite his formidable build, this proved too much for the man, so we loaded back into a taxi and headed North. I hopped out at The Diner in order to wish my gainfully-employed Jonboy a happy New Year. He let me enter a table's order into The Diner's computer system, which filled me with utter and complete nerd-joy, because pushing buttons rules.

Adams Morgan was packed and there were no available taxis, so I decided to walk home on foot. I made it to Lamont before the cold finally penetrated my cozy, alcohol-numbed senses and I observed that I had lost feeling in my feet and legs. Bravely(/Stupidly), I carried on.

A few short minutes later, I realized that my dress, legs and shoes were inexplicably warm...and saturated. Further examination suggested that, somewhere between Lamont and Park, I had peed myself. And I blame not the alcohol, but the fact that I had completely lost sensation in the lower half of my body - naughty bits, included - causing me to inadvertently "release" during my trek. Rachel is gross, y'all.

I ran the rest of the way home - difficult to do on numbed legs - and promptly chucked my dress in the washer. And then I washed down a Vitamin B/C supplement with several glasses of water and curled up in bed. We are pleased to report that, in spite of the odds, I am 100% hangover-free this morning. High-fives all around.

In any case, leftover Chinese food beckons, as do my poor, peed-upon red shoes. Happy New Year, everyone!

It's official: 2008 can kiss my ass. Onwards, ought-nine!

* My head exploded a few weeks ago and is currently under reconstruction. Please pardon our mess.
* Xmas was quite lovely, though. And I recently (read: last night) received some encouraging news about future employment. This bodes very well for the aforementioned headexplodey.
* Lou^2 keeps trying to eat my boyfriend. I really wish she wouldn't.
* After ten years of living paycheck-to-paycheck, I will be out of debt on January 5th. Older and wiser? Absolutely.
* I think 2009 will be better.

( Revisiting my end-of-the-year meme... )

Courtesy of the as-per-usual holiday-induced madness, comparatively unusual life-induced madness, a sudden onset of The Plague and one (1) uncooperative feline who refuses to see my artistic vision, holiday cards just ain't happening this year. Alas.

(Valentine's Day cards, on the other hand? Far more likely. I suspect that NSP and Lou^2 will be total besties by that time and far, far more agreeable to having a joint picture taken.)

In any case, the boy and I are heading South in a matter of hours. Hope everyone has a spectacular holiday!

No doubt that most of the crafty folks on my Friends List have already seen this, but just in case...

Save Handmade Toys From the CPSIA

"In 2007, large toy manufacturers who outsource their production to China and other developing countries violated the public's trust. They were selling toys with dangerously high lead content, toys with unsafe small parts, toys with improperly secured and easily swallowed small magnets, and toys made from chemicals that made kids sick. Almost every problem toy in 2007 was made in China.

The United States Congress rightly recognized that the Consumer Products Safety Commission (CPSC) lacked the authority and staffing to prevent dangerous toys from being imported into the US. So, they passed the Consumer Product Safety Improvement Act (CPSIA) in August, 2008. Among other things, the CPSIA bans lead and phthalates in toys, mandates third-party testing and certification for all toys and requires toy makers to permanently label each toy with a date and batch number.

All of these changes will be fairly easy for large, multinational toy manufacturers to comply with. Large manufacturers who make thousands of units of each toy have very little incremental cost to pay for testing and update their molds to include batch labels.

For small American, Canadian, and European toymakers, however, the costs of mandatory testing, to the tune of up to $4,000 per toy, will likely drive them out of business. And the handful of larger toy makers who still employ workers in the United States face increased costs to comply with the CPSIA, even though American-made toys had nothing to do with the toy safety problems of 2007. Toy makers won't be the only ones impacted by the CPSIA, the thousands of US businesses who offer clothing, jewelry and other gifts for children --in essence-- the entire children's industry will be as well.

The CPSIA simply forgot to exclude the class of toys that have earned and kept the public's trust. The result, unless the law is modified, is that handmade toys will no longer be legal in the US.

Thriving small businesses are crucial to the financial health of our nation. Let's amend the CPSIA so that all businesses large and small are able to comply and survive!"

See the Handmade Toy Alliance site for additional information.