...and, we're back!

Cut to work. "Work" today means being present, available, and on-call for any slew or onslaught of paperwork (because when it happens, the shit happens) when my superiors are on-site. However, they are off-site, and I sit here, appropriately clad, eating an embarassingly large banana with organic (true) crunchy-style (also true) "easy-spread" (LIE) peanut butter, with my hands. At my desk.

Hi.

When, I ask, is the shoe going to drop? I am told repeatedly that there most likely isn't one. That, pending BioMed's budget availability (which seems to be pointing in my favor, from what I can gather) and my being deemed both worthy and necessary (check, and check) I am here to stay. If not, I'm sure it will be because something else will be in my cards that I've got to not be here to find. And in either case, I'm okay with it. This is the part I always tried to explain to Raf about credit cards - that pending gap between paychecks that is an emergency, or a potential one, that, had I some sort of prudent reserve / savings account I would not hold my credit cards in waiting for - but I don't, so I do. A bat is not an emergency. Nor is a pedicure. But, once again, I digress.

Oh, what's that, gmail? I have a new message? Ooh. Let's see:

Hello Victoria,

-------------------------------------------------------------
Confirmed: Events - Seattle
Venue: Moore Theatre
Subject: The National with Menomena
Date: Friday, September 19, 2008
Time: 6:30pm to 11:15pm

Oh, okay. What's that? I live here? This is happening in real-time? OKAY! Sure. Let me just put some baby powder in my boots, they stink. I'll see you at six.

A-hem.

So I wrote earlier about a boy, all embarrassed with himself in the coffeeshop this morning, who couldn't sit still. I can relate. And I tried, in vain, to accurately convey the cringe-factor of Salon of Shame last night, but my words failed me miserably. I will just paint the scene, and let your imagination take you where it will - because the truth is, you just had to be there. You had to. I could say things like Jesus, fleshly, abortion-buster, I AM NOT GAY, balonied, yesterday's obscure underacheivements, love is a feeling, and so forth - but out of context, they don't mean much.

Picture this: you are in a little theater, about 125 seats, another 25 people sitting / standing / what have you all around. There are black curtains, a black painted floor for a stage down below about six or seven levels of rows of seats, a microphone, a spotlight, and you. You hold, in your hands, some form of diary, maybe a little frayed old notebook, maybe with a unicorn on the front, maybe not. And you begin to read. And you cringe. And we cringe. And if it's really shame-worthy, you can barely speak these poetic words that once held every ounce of truth you thought you knew, and we are applauding and crying all at once. You bow. We revel in the fact that we are not alone in our utter, total, complete shame. And we all burst out into the nighttime, relieved. Under fake-city backdrops, light-up laughing bull neon window signs, and real gaslight anthems.

The total and complete exhaultation of laughter, the joy of release, the bonding of the cringe - this is what we're here for. All of us, lined up around the block an hour before almost, with the promise of everything that stage and that spotlight and our worn, faded pages hold for us. As a girl put it in the bathroom, it may very well be one of the greatest and most favorite things she's done since moving to Seattle. One of - yes. I will wholeheartedly agree.

That was my night. To increase the awesomeness, I will make note of my child-free state - there was no one to feed (well, Kristin took care of the cats), no one to pick up and bring anyplace, no sporting event to attend, no guilt, no hate, no justification, nothing. The most pressing part of the night was getting there on time, which snacks to have, money to procure both entry and snacks, and whether or not Dick's was on the docket at 10:30 pm.

I. Love. My. Life.

I also have to end with the disclaimer / footnote, and possibly start every sentence from here on out, with the fact that I am aware and totally okay with bulk of the cool and awesome things that I experience and / or am exposed to are as a result of Kristin paving the way, and I am totally okay with that. It's kind of like guide-dog time, where the dog just does what it does, because it knows how and has all these skillsets it's learned, and the blind person is like, holy fuck, I've had like, this stick I've carried around, so I don't like, wander into traffic and stuff, but this guide-dog thing - it's changed my whole life. I can go to parks and cross streets and maybe even make dinner and go to the store and I'm not stuck, empty and frantic, in a dark little world, the cat carrier, whatever analogy you want to insert here - so, dog analogies aside, this is how she opens up my world for me, and yeah, I get it, the blind guy has to have the balls to like, leave the house and everything, but - I think you can pick up what I'm putting down here. That is how my life feels these days. I get asked about moving here and I start talking about her first, what happened to me second. And I know eventually I'll look back and realize I've been riding the bike without anyone steadying it for me for longer than I realized, but still.

People, you'd better all get ready. Previously mentioned capabilities for mountain-moving are buried somewhere in the delicious nuggets still to be viewed this season. And you don't have to wait until you're home sick to enjoy it. It could just be like, a Wednesday.

From the hiding spot between the mattress and the boxspring where you were sure no one would look, broken hearts all-too-unlockable with a simple twist of a bobby pin,
VVB