I go lots of places alone.

Last Sunday I went to a play that my friend was in, held at the semi-creepy Gershwin Hotel. And I went alone. My friend seemed even more flattered that I went out by myself to see her. The only other companionless people there were middle-aged men.

I like going places alone.

When I was in high school and through most of college, I had a big group of friends who all liked the same music and the same movies and the same books as I did. But then I broke up with my first serious boyfriend and the era of the big group ended. I started doing things on my own. I still remember how weird it was at first, how self-conscious I felt going to the farmers' market on Sundays, just me and my giant pink bag, how nothing felt as fun as when there was someone else there with me.

But somehow that changed.

Sometimes I go to movies alone. I've gone to parties alone (and found it so fun and freeing). I go to readings alone. I like not talking about what I think afterward, but just thinking about what I think and letting it all settle for awhile. I also like not worrying about whether or not the other person liked it. I went to Paris alone. (And had a miserable time, but that's not the point.) I go to cafes alone all the time and read or knit and listen to other people's conversations. That's one of the best things about being alone: no one to distract me from paying attention to what's going on around me.

I don't like going to restaurants alone and I've never been to a show alone. Long stretches of time when everyone else is standing around talking and I'm just standing there make me uncomfortable. Maybe in a few years I'll be over it. For now I am content to bring my latest Lemony Snicket book and just read through the pauses.

Overheard conversation between my two roommates:

A: Did you hear what Bajaj [the cat] just said?

R: No, what?

A: "Rarrrrrwwwrrr!" What do you think that means?

Pause.

R: Don't vote Bush!

That made me think how funny it would be if cats walked around spouting political slogans. And then I realized that if cats had to choose a party, they would no doubt be Republicans. Their you-mind-your-business-I'll-mind-mine attitude, the way they only give you what you want when it suits them, their love of the finer things in life...it all adds up. Dogs, on the other hand, are Democrats: at least they make you THINK they like you. They are also easier to cuddle and often smellier.

I am registered as a Green Party member. I think that makes me a chinchilla.

Found written on a piece of paper in my file marked "Stickers." (Apparently at some point I had enough stickers in my life to warrant a whole file.)

I had a long, crazy, very clear dream last night about reuniting with J. Her mom was still alive (she said they had made a mistake about her death) and I was so happy to see her. I gave her a hug and we both started crying and I knew that she didn't hate me for everything that had happened before she died. J was still mad though. Then I saw all these people with video cameras and I realized the whole situation was being turned into a reality TV show.
(June 1, 2002)

Last night I had a dream that I saw a mod boy riding past me on a scooter. I flagged him down and said,
"Excuse me, but do you
recommend owning a scooter in this city?"
He said,
"No."
But then he had to go somewhere, so I didn't find out why.
(March 27, 2002)

I like to think they might.

For some reason, I have begun contemplating NaNoWriMo once more. Maybe it has become something automatic in September, like a craving for apple cider or fresh school supplies. Some of it is nostalgia (oh, the late nights and early mornings, the million and two rotations of Chutes Too Narrow, the one section I wrote while drinking straight whiskey!) and some of it is the same excitement about the creative process that got me interested in the first place, the making of art just for art's sake, the destruction of that mean, niggling voice that makes one bad paragraph question my entire ability to write. (It took me at least four revisions to get the end of that sentence just right, by the way.)

It's true that last year I only got a quarter of the way through before giving up. But I still got something out of it -- two somethings, at least: 1) I now know I am physically and mentally capable of writing at least 1,667 words in one day and 2) those 1,667 words will sometimes manage to be okay.

I challenge anyone who as even for one split second thought about writing a novel to seriously consider at least doing the first week of NaNoWriMo. Also anyone who has ever questioned their creative ability. And anyone who likes Excel. (Because there is this really satisfying spreadsheet you can download that shows a bunch of different graphs of your progress as you go -- so gratifying!)

Also anyone reading this website right now. That means you!

I couldn't stop looking up today.

Man. I was feeling all grumpy about my job because the big boss is in town from the corporate headquarters and she always gives me lots of admin tasks, but when I came back from lunch, there was this incredibly nice card on my desk with a $25 gift check. Now I feel guilty about complaining.

Well done, Frighteningly Big Corporate Office. Well done.

Sixteen years ago today, my very pregnant mother locked herself in the bathroom after dinner, battling a bout of what she thought was gas. Half an hour later, she realized the abdominal pain was not caused by napa cabbage soup after all -- she was going into labor.

The overnight bag was pulled from the closet. My grandfather was called. As our parents drove away, my sister Joanna and I sat in the living room, waiting. She was six and I was nine. We both wanted a little sister.

And a mere two hours later, we got one.

Upon birth, Sonya became my favorite baby ever in the history of babies. She was cute and funny and would let me dress her in silly hats and take pictures. She made everything more fun -- in the throes of embarrassed adolescence, I was allowed to enjoy things like a kid again because I was experiencing them with my little sister. I used to cry at night imagining what it would be like if she died. I loved her so much.

And I still love her that much. A little over a year ago, at the age of fourteen, Sonya moved to India with my mom and stepdad to go to high school in the foothills of the Himalayas. I am proud of her for doing something so scary, but I also miss her SO much.

Sonya, if you were here today, we would shop for funny t-shirts at St. Vincent's thrift store, gorge ourselves on blueberry pancakes at Wild Thyme and spend the afternoon taking cheesecake photos of cute cats. Happy birthday!

Here we are attacking a little boy together.

I don't want to forget my other sister, Joanna, who is also in India now and who I also miss intensely. But it's not her birthday today, so she doesn't get a whole entry to herself.

Today at the lunch table, two co-workers were talking about how I would win Survivor if I was ever on the show.

"How?" I asked.

They said I would be sweet and quiet, but secretly scheming. No one would realize what I was doing.

As I sat there eating a delicious barbecued rib someone in the office had given me out of the blue, I realized they were right. "Yeah," I said. "How do you think I got this rib?"

And it was true.

Isn't it amazing how figuring something out on your own makes you feel like you can conquer the world? A couple nights ago, I spent a completely frustrating hour trying to understand the instructions for the twisted purl cast-on (that's knitting lingo, folks) and was left with only a twisted mess of fuzzed-out yarn. I actually couldn't sleep for a long time afterward because I was trying to visualize how on earth those instructions could ever make sense. I spent the next 48 hours daydreaming about solutions.

And tonight I sat down, determined to figure it out -- and I did! (The answer for those who care: You never slip the stitch onto the right needle! So simple!)

So yeah, I feel like I could triumph in a battle of needles against a small and relatively inexperienced army. It feels good.

On Saturday I visited a certain famous house in Pasadena with my architecture class. It was as exciting and inspiring as seeing a good movie or reading a great book. I'm not going to tell you what house it was because we were given special permission to take pictures inside and, although it wasn't specifically stated, they probably would not want me putting any of them up on my website.

Oh well. I am making the nice old ladies of Pasadena cry. It won't be the first time.

If you didn't want to be with me,
my heart would not turn to wood,
my bones wouldn't turn to ash.
I would still walk and breathe and live and laugh and eat.
I'd still like half and half in my coffee and the smell of new library books.

But oh, it would be sad not to hear your laugh
after telling the story of the scary Jersey girl who caught me looking in her car.
"What's her pwoblem?"
It just wouldn't be the same.
And oh, I'd miss dancing silly with you
to Outkast or the opening credits of The Sopranos.

So I've saved this seat for you.
See your name on the card in pretty font?
It wasn't a party until you got here, really,
just a roomful of people in fancy clothes,
all smiling and nodding and perfectly nice,
and
none of them you.