Some of you still update?!

"So how do you like them?" my mom asked nervously. I was seven and had just been outfitted for my first pair of glasses. An elementary school teacher, she was familiar with the possible teasing I would face.

"They’re great," I exclaimed. "I can see!" She smiled, confident that I would be able to make lemonade out of genetic lemons.

Several weeks later, my own teacher tasked our second grade class with creating self portraits. I was a serious student who loved art, and I dutifully began to sketch what I felt was an accurate depiction, complete with my new spectacles. As I began to add color to my drawing, I felt a small tap on the arm. I looked up into the smirking face of Rolin Kuba and braced myself for one of his standard attacks about my weight or my hairstyle or my clothes.

"Did you get glasses because you need a shield for when your mom and dad punch each other out?" he asked. A natural crybaby, I responded with tears. I’ll assume he was punished. It was the first and last time I publicly cried about their separation.

When my parents split up, there was no nasty custody fight. By the time I was nine, my father had moved back to the suburbs into a house about five minutes away. After they decided that I should be sent to a private school twenty miles from home, he drove me everyday. I probably spent more time with him than many children whose parents were married, but the world viewed me as the product of a broken home.

In seventh grade, my class counselor formed a support group of "divorced kids." I resented having to give up a study hall for such a banal exercise and spent most of the sessions gabbing about my parents’ friendly relationship (true) and their divorce’s total lack of effect on me (maybe not so true).

Privately, I dreamed of having my own family someday – one that would be whole and complete. While my parents made their separation as easy on me as possible, I was determined to spare my future children the awkwardness of answering seemingly simple questions such as "do you have any siblings?" with paragraph-long explanations.

(For the record, I have a step-sister, a half-sister, and a half-brother. But I grew up as and have the classic demeanor of an only child. No, my step-mother is not evil, even if I won’t call her "mom." Yes, I consider them to be my real siblings. And….)

Some time later, I discovered that my elementary school tormenter was more accurate than he realized: physical abuse had been a part of my parents’ break-up. Undeterred, I dedicated my life to finding love, occasionally stumbling upon its approximations. In my desperation, I often ignored obvious warning signs, refusing to trust what I and everyone around me could plainly see. After all, who was I to say what real love looked like?

While I certainly hope that Rolin matured into a kinder and gentler man than his childhood self would otherwise indicate, I learned that not all boys outgrow their bullying. And during an especially cold New England winter spent trying to camouflage the bruises, I realized that poor vision may not have been the only thing I inherited from my parents.

Since I prescribe to the cliché of hindsight being 20/20, I find it appropriate that it has taken me twenty years to recognize the accuracy of my seven-year old instincts. If I could, I would stop into her second grade classroom and admire her drawing. I would make sure she ignored the jerks, give her a hug, and tell her, "Sweetheart, you were right all along. You can see."

All right, this is not at all timely, but I just have to say that watching the NLCS and hearing the Dodgers fans chanting, "Manny! Manny!" truly made me feel sick to my stomach.

On a somewhat related note...my boyfriend looks like the Asian version of Jason Bay, which did somewhat help alleviate the pain of that whole transaction.

Finally, what a crazy game yesterday. Go Sox.

Whenever I tell people that I work in an all-female office, the responses are always somewhere along the lines of, "Uh oh!" It invokes images of cliques, back-stabbing, endless gossip, and of course, PMS-induced fits of rage and hormones. Apparently, the women's movement has not done much to quell the pigeonholing of females as irrational, over-emotional types.

Unfortunately, at least in my personal experiences, these folks are correct. Furthermore, many of the people making these assessments are other women. I have known countless amazing women – women who are smart, successful, capable, supportive, warm, and confident. Yet, this tendency to have trouble when dealing exclusively with each other is real and problematic. It is a phenomenon that puzzles and saddens me, even though I am completely guilty of many of these unhealthy behaviors.

In contrast, my other half works with mostly men (engineering/construction). There is a definite maleness at his job site. But somehow this testosterone overload does not seem to inhibit or disable the work environment. In fact, it may even be beneficial.

When conflicts arise in my office, they are "solved" by people sniping behind each other's backs. Problems at his job sound more like, "'F@#$ you!' 'No, eff you!'" The first scenario may (or may not) have fewer expletives but seems to engender a more long-term cycle of resentment, hurt, and anger. Truly, both ways are unprofessional and inappropriate, but at least the second is honest and straight-forward. Perhaps that’s why, in its own crass way, it works.

I love being female and all of the stereotypes that it may imply. The option to wear high heels and makeup thrills me. I cry freely during commercials. Getting my period may be a pain, but it is a reminder of what my body can do. Silliness aside, I value the openness of other women and the sense of community we share.

I have worked in several women-only environments, and each time I leave, I swear I will never do it again. Yet somehow, every few years I find myself drawn back in, seduced by the awareness of our incredible power and the hope that I will find an environment where we translate our best qualities into a way that inspires admiration instead of apprehension.

My mom is an awesome online bargain hunter! I had been drooling over this dress at Neiman's but was unwilling to shell out the $400 for it.



As noted on the website, if you use discount code ADD20, you will save an additional 20% on all sale items. Additionally, there is free two day shipping within the continental US. This normally wouldn't do me any bit of good, but since I will be heading over to the East Coast next week, suejung graciously let me have it shipped to her place. This brought my total to about $160 for a dress that is still showing full price everywhere else. It definitely cheered me up as I try to battle this horrendous illness. There are a lot of other cute things on sale, so go check it out!

So, I left work early on Tuesday after throwing up like crazy. Came home, ate some crackers, and promptly vomitted some more. Since then, I've had a major case of the runs.

I don't think I can handle the half hour drive to see my regular doctor. At my neighborhood clinic, three out of the four doctors are on vacation, and there are no openings until Monday.

I've lost six pounds in two days, and although this may be good for my bridesmaid dress, I have to fly out on Tuesday for msbean's wedding.

Help!!!

Everyone loves the beginnings of relationships, and I am no exception. That can't-get-enough-of-you-stay-up-til-all-hours-talking-anything-is-fun-as-long-as-you're-near-me craziness is probably the closest I'll ever get to taking drugs, and I (perhaps naively) assume it's an even better high. Although I should be old or at least jaded enough to know this may come back to bite me in the arse someday, I truly believe that I have never known love like this before.

So enamored am I that I literally disgust myself. I am embarassed by the way my brain will make obscure connections to him with everything I do and see. I hear his name peppering my sentences and try to shut up. It is as though I am physically/mentally/emotionally unable to control this ridiculous behavior.

I don't know whether this entry will prove to be something I cringe at in the future or a significant sign post in our relationship. But for now, I'm looking forward to finding out...

Tickets have been booked, and I will be spending nine lovely nights in Vegas.

The last time I really played with msbean and suejung, we created enough memories that we were practically forced to become friends for life, if only to insure that certain secrets would be kept safe forever.

We are a little older and wiser now, and nothing highlights this more than the fact that Rita is getting married - how adult! I have only been to LV once before, so any and all suggestions are welcome. Much thanks in advance! ;)

To know me is to watch a lot of television. For those of you that didn't spend the better part of the 90s watching Friends, here's some background information. A major roadblock in the Ross and Rachel saga is Ross' whirlwind romance with a Brit named Emily. Early on in their relationship, Ross rushes to the airport to tell Emily that he loves her. After making the declaration, she says, "Thank you," and hands him a giant bar of Toblerone before getting on the airplane.

A few months ago, my cousin Dawn asked me if I ever tell a guy I love him first. I replied, "Hell no! I don't want to get the Toblerone!" I figured that it's easy to understand - who wants to be set up for so much potential failure and embarrassment?

However, upon further contemplation, I realized I was not always so cautious about sharing my feelings. The risk of heartache was worth the potential glory of requited love.

In the past year, I have had more than my share of Toblerone moments, to the point that playing dead when someone tells you he loves you has become known as "pulling a full Kristen." I have been accused of being an indifferent robot incapable of falling in love. And although it makes for a few laughs, there is a part of me that is sad I have become so jaded.

Hearing "I love you" from someone you love should be the greatest feeling, and it should be so easy to say, "I love you" back. But I can't.

Does anyone out there have a cure for my Toblerone giving ways?

I have never liked Herman Frazier, but how many of the people calling for his head have actually supported UH athletics, especially in a losing season?

I don't disagree with his dismissal, but I find it annoying how judge-y these bandwagon fans are being. Money funds facility improvements and if you don't go to the games, donate to the team, or buy merchandise (before the 2007 season, please), how do you have a right to complain so bitterly NOW?