Transportation

I've made two big transportation purchases:

(1) A bus pass for fall quarter. It means I get to hang out downtown for 10-60 minutes a week. It's like I'm a real city person. Once, I even saw a guy smoking a blunt at the bus stop. Drugs! What a crazy world.

(2) The best car in the world... or continent. Yes, maybe just continent. But look at this beautiful 2004 Toyota Matrix!

What it lacks in power locks and get-up-and-go, it makes up for in reliability and space for the dog to roam. I love it. So much. Drew's lucky I'm already engaged to him, because I totally want to put a ring on this thing. I don't know where it would go... maybe the door handle... but no matter. This car is mine always and forever and/or until it dies, but I hear Toyotas don't do that.

Now, as soon as our pupper realizes that we're not going to abandon her and leave her to be eternally frustrated by squirrels, I can actually leave the house via bus or car. Heeeey, mobility.

Fiance schmiance

Oh, what's that on my left hand? Ok, nothing. But what will be on my left hand after it's done being resized?

An engagement ring!

From Drew!

I am engaged to Drew. Here are some things that will be different after we're married:

-Drew will be less supportive of my signature, because to him it's ok that I blur "Walden" but not "Hambleton". Psh.

-Drew will be half responsible for cleaning up cat puke. Well, Abe's puke, not all the cat puke in the world. That's not how marriage works.

-I can say "father-in-law" and "sister-in-law" isntead of "boyfriend's dad" and "boyfriend's brother's wife". Hurrah for brevity!

-Maybe we'll get in a fight. I think married people do that sometimes. The angriest I've ever been at Drew was loosely related to chocolate chip mint ice cream, and within seconds, my rage went from "I'm never talking to Drew again!" to "I'm never talking to Drew again... for 24 hours!" to "I'm never talking to Drew again... for 8 hours!" which was how long I slept. So I totally kept that last one.

Happy engagement, us!

Houndstooth tears

I love Project Runway more than bee-loving bears love bees. I love the goofy fashion, I love Tim Gunn, and I love how it makes me cry even though it's kind of about fabric.

On another note, my left nostril is totally clogged.

RIP Busty Bust

Buster Walden has gone on the Eternal Car Ride.

He's in a world of chasable squirrels, unstealable Nylabones, and 30-foot, metal cows at which he can bark. We loved that rascal. Buster Walden, thanks for a decade of flops, leans, and snugs. Lovelovelove and treats.

By and by

Alki Beach is fabulous. Don't let the weirdos tell you otherwise. Look at it!

It turns out they were ants, anyway.

I owe Oats.

It started when I attended a meeting to learn how to make HL a therapy dog. As I listened to the sweet ladies with dainty poodles, my mutt was performing therapy by destruction on my passenger side seat belt. It's a weird kind of therapy. Very new age.

So, I'd been driving around like a weirdo with passengers in my back eat. "Enough is enough!" I said. (Actually, Boyfriend said that. And then I said, "I'll get a new seat belt when you set up an automatic transfer from your bank account into your IRA." Secret message to Boyfriend: I have secured my passengers, so it's time you secure your future.)

I did a little research and found a seat belt in a junk yard... in Spanaway. Grosssss, Spanaway! My dad, Oats, was a hero and picked it up for me. You da man, Oats! Then I drove down to Puyallup and he almost helped me install it. You almost da mechanic, Oats! Unfortunately, we lacked the seat belt tools. The neighbor had them, though, so took things apart and started reassembling them. You da tool-havingest, neighbor!

But all this was just background for why I owe Oats a blog post. He made a comment that made me giggle like my teeth were made of sparkles. The conversation went like this:

Me: Oats, there are termites around. Scary!

Oats: Well... don't come out here and be wooden.

Hahahahaha. I was talking about the house, but he was talking about Pinocchio or something

Termites. Being wooden. Bahaaha.

Invisibility Cloak

Here are things I'd do if I had an Invisibility Cloak:

-Win radio contests. I'd sneak into the radio station and eavesdrop as they discussed the winning trivia answers. Then I'd sell the prizes online to buy a year's supply of wasabi peas.

-Scare my dog. "Why is my gutted hedgehog toy flying? WHAT IS HAPPENING?" Harper Lee is so precious when she's nervous.

-Travel for free. How easy would it be to sneak on to a direct flight to Paris if you were invisible? So easy! And then I could sneak into fancy hotel rooms after the housekeepers left, and I could steal croissaints from bakeries. (Only ones they probably weren't going to sell, though. InvisiKelly isn't completely devoid of ethics.)

-Look for cheaters. Students are clever, and some like to glance at their classmates' tests. H no, students! Your teacher can see you, even though you can't see her!

It's a good thing HP took care of Voldemort. Otherwise, I'd have to focus my Invisibility Cloak privileges on fighting evil instead of eating croissants.

The Avett Brothers

Why hadn't I heard about these guys? I do not accept the blame. Someone should have my directed attention to The Avett Brothers. I want them to follow me places and sing.

"Oh, here I am buying dill pickle relish." The Avett Brothers!

"Now I'm strolling in Schmitz Park with my dogger." The Avett Brothers!

"It's time to sleep now." The Avett Brothers!

Get on my iPod, Avett Brothers!

It's a fluffball!

We have finch babies!

Congratulations to Alejandro and Lady Gaga, our resident House Finches. After frequent visits and tweets to the nest by our window, they have successfully brought their babies from eggdom to chickdom! If cheeping is any indication, these tiny, fluffy finches are thrilled to be alive.

Since I can't actually see the nest, I can't give you details about the number and/or appearance of these itsy bitsy birds, but Google thinks they look something like this:


Stunning, stunning creatures.

If there are 4 chicks, we figure these are their names:
-Freya (as named by the roommate)
-Beaky (as named by me)
-Tasty Snack (as named by Harper Lee, the dog)
-Constant Temptation (as named by Abe Lincoln, the cat)

We are thrilled to welcome these babies into the world. Feel free to send cash or money to us so we can buy things that will help them better transition into non-eggdom. I sense that they want me to have new Patagonia shorts and a faster laptop computer.

DOG

Remember when I said I'd save up thousands and thousands of dollars before I got a dog? And how I said I just wasn't ready to get a dog? Clearly I was a ding-dong. A few weeks ago, I adopted Harper Lee, and now my life is twenty-eight hundred times better.

Ok, I am as broke as a 24-year-old because she almost died and had to stay a weekend at the emergency vet clinic. And, all right, I am spending exorbitant amounts of money on reducing her separation anxiety and finding toys and treats she adores.

But really, I freaking love this dog. Let her drain my bank account! I have a new best friend, and she has a scruffy nose.

Harper Lee Basics:
-11ish months old
-Kind of sickly
-Lab/Airedale mix
-Way mellower than you'd think a Lab/Airedale mix would be
-Fond of chasing squirrels
-OMG SO PRECIOUS
-40 pounds
-Will accept fan mail. Email me for our address.

Spreading the Bechdel Word

Lots of movies are sexist.

The first person to clearly point that out to me: my old movie professor, Doug Something. (Learn about the male gaze!)

The second person to clearly point that out to me: my roommate, Baumity Baum Baum. She told me about the Bechdel Test, and now I am going to tell YOU about the Bechdel Test.

For a movie to pass the Bechdel Test, it has to have these 3 things:
1. Two female characters
2. Two female characters who talk to each other
3. Two female characters who talk to each about something other than men.

That shouldn't be so hard, right? Tell that to the stinking directors, producers, and writers!

Most of my favorite movies pass it, namely The Sound of Music, Sister Act, A League of Their Own, and I thiiiiink Moulin Rouge.

However, I love plenty of movies that sure as HECK don't pass it, including Star Wars, Up, Dogma, 40-Year-Old Virgin, Forrest Gump, Armageddon, When Harry Met Sally, and a billion more.

But I get it. Who wants to hear women talk about politics, puppies, money, or hot air balloons? It's unnatural. It shouldn't happen. Get out of here, dynamic female characters!

Words and herbs.

You guys. I have a plant posse.

I photographed my planter, but my camera is in the living room, and who wants to walk all the way out there and then upload them? Nobody. So I am going to describe it in words.

Herb Garden simile:
My herb garden is like a chorus of angels.

Herb Garden metaphor:
My herb garden is freedom.

Herb Garden personification:
My herb garden feels excited to be ripped apart and crushed in my summer beverages.

Herb Garden hyperbole:
My herb garden is filling the universe with its fresh, delicate scent.

Herb Garden alliteration:
My herb garden grazes Gary's* goblinesque grandmother.

Herb Garden assonance:
My herb garden sighs as it lies and waits for July.

Herb Garden cut and dry description:
My herb garden contains 4 herbs - oregano, cilantro, basil, and mint - and they're crammed in a 24"(ish) x 9"(ish) by 9"(ish) wooden box. They make me smile every morning.


*I don't know a Gary.