Mace v.1.3.10

Hooray. I was starting to worry that my upload hadn’t worked. But my very first project for Learning to Love You More is done and documented! I was going to make you all search through all the different assignments to find me, thus making everyone look through the site, but I guess I’ll be nice and let you know that it’s here. And don’t ask me who that woman is - you have to look it up yourself. I think that’s part of the point. Yay!

Today, at lunch in Fremont, at a nice little Afghan place, a man walked in who, from the back, looked exactly like my boyfriend Ryan from almost ten years ago. Ryan, who didn’t own jeans or believe in regular haircuts. Ryan, who taught me to do crossword puzzles in pen and how to drive. When he sat down, I got a good look at his face, and I’m 90% sure it wasn’t him. But who knows? Ten years can do a lot to a person. I got a hit on Friendster from a "Ryan" who lives in Longmont, CO. Which is doubly strange because that was the last known location of my very FIRST boyfriend, Ethan, who moved away and fell off the face of the earth, as far as I can tell. Until now*!

Seeing Ryanclone, or any other shadows of past loves, always leads me back to Google. I’m always curious about the lives of those I haven’t kept in touch with. It’s selfish, but I’m curious what impact I had on their lives. Then again, if it was a relatively positive impact, I’d probably still be on good terms with them and not have to sneak around on the internet to find out where they live, or if they’re married yet, or if I ever get mentioned on their blogs (I don’t).

I’ve had a project in the back of my head for a long time. In this, I write open letters to all of my boyfriends in order (haven’t figured out backwards or forwards chronologically). I want to thank each one of them for what they’ve given me. And probably apologize to a few that deserve it. I can kind of be a bitch.

* Thank you, internet! As I haven’t contacted him (yet), I’ll leave him his privacy.

Why on earth is the font changing halfway through my posts? I don’t get it. I tried to fix it, like, five times. Grrrrrr.

At the last Gril Movie Event, Becca Costello (who I adore, though I haven’t told her yet) mentioned her newfound love of Miranda July, and especially of her project Learning to Love you More. I’ve been lurking around this site for awhile. It is absoutely amazing.

Meanwhile, I found my cousin’s blog. I am floored by the 101 in 1001 project. I’d love to do somethin glike that, but I don’t think I’m ready just yet.

However, between the two of these, I am compelled to do SOMETHING. So I accepted an assignment from LTLYM. I’m not telling what, yet. I’ll let you know when I’m done.

I had some weird-ass dreams last night:

1. I arrive for some dance practice at a studio I have never been to before, although I seem pretty familiar with it. The room I’m using is down some stairs, with a huge paned window from floor to ceiling. Outside is a beautiful view of a small amount of beach and the ocean. As I’m warming up, the waves are getting larger and larger. I can see a tail sticking out of the water. Suddenly, a hammerhead shark the size of a city bus washes up on the beach. The undertow drags him back a little, but the next, bigger wave pushes him back up. I’m beginning to feel concern for the shark when the waves increase in size again and start crashing into the window. I start backing up towards the stairs when there’s a shattering sound and I look up. Near the ceiling, a great white shark has been caught in a window pane, halfway through. It’s holding still, but it’s eyes are looking around. In fact, its eyes were pretty human/cartoon looking, since they had pupils, and I’m pretty sure real sharks have little black beady eyes. I went running upstairs to tell the woman at the front desk that there was a shark halfway through the window, and she seemed pretty casual about the whole thing. My dance teacher, who had just arrived, apologized for being late, and I told her we should probably just cancel the class.
2. I’m driving city streets with Jesse. At some point, I pick up two more people who in reality I don’t know. We’re driving towards some county-fair looking place. Evidently there’s a wedding to take place there that I’m crashing. I keep trying to figure out how I know the bride and groom (who I never see during the course of the dream). I keep asking the people in the back seat, but they’re very vague. I pull into a dirt parking lot and try to find somewhere to park. Evidently it’s a wedding/swap meet, as there are people with booths or tables all over the parking lot with various kinds of wares. I find somewhere to park (after almost running over a piece of rope with a fancy “no parking” sign on it). We get out of the car and the back seat people open the trunk and start changing. I see Kathy Bates, who is evidently the mother of someone I know. I ask her is she knows how I know the bride and groom, and she doesn’t know either, and is in a hurry because the ceremony is going to start soon and she hasn’t changed either. I look back to the back seat people and they’re changing into Renaissance gear. I groan, and look up ahead of my car. There’s a huge amphitheater, almost straight up, and evidently breaking the laws of gravity because I can see into it, and it’s full of people in period costume. I decide maybe I don’t want to crash the wedding.

Bands that are banned from my car:

The Pretenders

The Beastie Boys

Green Day (after 2001)

Songs that I am not to be distubred during:

“Tear You Apart” by She Wants Revenge

“Jump Around” by House of Pain

Anything by Steely Dan

My, what a busy weekend I had. So busy, in fact, that I didn’t even get to write about it until Wednesday. Whoot!

Friday, I drove over to Santa Cruz to see Noche Flamenca at the Rio Theater. I was very worried about getting over there in time, since the night before it had hailed on 17 and SNOWED on 9. As it was still raining in good ol’ San Jo, I was convinced it was going to take forever to get over the hill, so I left nice and early. Well, once I got into the mountains, the sky cleared, the sun started shining, and traffic moved at quite the reasonable pace. Art said that it hadn’t rained at all that day! We had dinner at the Crepe place across from the Rio (which I highly recommend – the food there is hugemungous). Upon returning to my car, I found a nice flat tire*. With only ten minutes until the show started. Art, who will be forever known now as Art my Hero, took it upon himself to replace my tire in a poorly-lit, damp parking lot while I ran off and enjoyed myself at the show**. I called him at intermission and confirmed that everything had gone smoothly. Thank goodness Art lived so close! Three cheers for Art! Hip hip, hooray! Hip hip, hooray! Hip hip, HOORAY!

Saturday, I attempted a Flamenco singing workshop. Now, I’ve had NO voice training, in Flamenco or any other genre. I had an advantage over the other people in the workshop that I was more familiar with the general tune of the two songs we learned (an Alegrias and a Tientos). But it was really cool to see written down what I couldn’t parse out from hearing professionals sing. No, you can’t hear me sing. Wait until I am drunk.

Directly after the workshop, I bopped over to the Red Cross for some bloodletting. Because I am nice. And because it’s giving back to the community that takes neither money nor dealing with people face-to-face. I have no problem with blood, but I don’t really enjoy watching needles enter my arm. When the nice lady finished with the entry, I turned back to compliment her (I barely felt it at all) when I noticed that there was something on my jacket, which was over me because it was about twelve degrees at the Red Cross. It was me! Evidently when she put in the needle, I squirted. She said it’s a pretty common occurrence, but I’d never seen it before. I’m so glad I was wearing my raincoat, and may start bringing it every time I give blood. Luckily everything else went smoothly. But really, squirting. Ew.

Back home, Jesse and I decide to have people over to watch Mirrormask. The movie was good, but the temperature of the house was very distracting. We even had the heater on, but I was still snuggled under a blanket with a sweater and my mother. No one took off their jacket. So I received the answer to my oft-asked question: “Why doesn’t anyone ever hang out at our house anymore?” Then I was whisked off to dinner with my mother. Following that, I completely crashed and fell asleep before eleven. On a Saturday night. Because I am hardcore.

Also, my sister Willow is five! Which is crazy, because she was just born, like, yesterday. And now I’ve exhausted myself, so I’ll excuse myself. Think about the song “Abracadabra” by the Steve Miler band. I’ve been.

* Not that the flat tire was unexpected. On the way up to Fremont Elder, Jeremy, Kristen Jesse and I all noticed that my front right tire was making a strange noise at low speeds. Jeremy checked it out and I had three, THREE, nails in the tire. Yet it was holding air, and managed to do so for almost a week. Oops.

** “Enjoy myself” is not entirely true. I spent the entire first half worrying about Art! Plus the first half wasn’t as good as the second. In fact, I’d dare say Soledad Barrio alone was worth the ticket price, though I was also really impressed with the Martinete. Why is it that touring Flamenco groups don’t understand that less is more? I’d rather see a bunch of great, short pieces than sit through four, long, exhaustive dances. But the singing, oh, the singing. So wonderful.

Okay, I totally take back my complaint about Jesse.

I got home yesterday, and there was the backpack I’d been wanting, a rose, and two pounds of nuts and chews, the best See’s has to offer.

Best. Valentine’s. Ever.

Happy Valentine’s Day, peeps.

Of course, all this does is remind me that I asked Jesse to buy me flowers seven months ago, and still haven’t received them. Not that I want them today, because that’s kind of cheesy. Sigh.

I forgot to mention that I chopped off all my hair. Except for my hash browns.

Pictures forthcoming.