I am amazing. That's not just a general service announcement, but a quantitative evaluation of my handidness (handy-ness?). My AC started sucking - as opposed to blowing, ha - and gave me a house filled with warm, moist air that picked up all the bad smells from the depths of my room corners, various pleasant trash can odors reminiscent of dorm hallways, and gently tossed them across all my better-smelling areas. I didn't pay much mind since I was leaving for H-town last week anyway, and last night I didn't care since I was leaving for offshore this morning (the joys of rain delaying last flight until tomorrow!), but when I got home from the heliport this afternoon I decided the time for action was upon 1432 Orpheum.

I narrowed the problem down to outside; my air handler was fine, thermostat - check! -, and I figured out my compressor wasn't coming on outside. So after a quick call to Dad, I pulled out the ol' multimeter to check the fuses for the compressor. Sure enough, one was bad. A simple trip to Home Depot for two new 30A fuses, and I felt on top of the world: Look at me, World! I'm Handy! I'm fixing something all by myself! And a real something too, not just some silly towel rack or CD player!

Then came the fuse installation. Then came the hand-wrenching, towel-tearing, near-tears (ugh, I hate that Handy-ness could even bring me near tears. Reason #409 why I'm still a woman) part. See, there are these end caps on the fuses, which must be removed from the old fuses to be put on the new fuses to put them in their little plastic Happy Fuse Holder. But, the end caps are evil and have a tighter grip on the old fuses than Communism does on Cuba. I'll spare you the bloody details, and suffice it to say that the new fuses are happily residing in their holders outside, and my AC is briskly cool and fresh now. And I'm proud of myself, even a little bit of my roughed-up hands.

Know how when you hear something frequently you don't fully absorb its meaning? This morning on the drive to the heliport I noticed for the first time that the tag line for the pop music radio station here is "The all new B-97." How long can something be "all new"?? Because it's been the same ol' B-97 to me for the past two years. I don't think it's all that new anymore, especially when the playlist is about as long as Santa's list of presents for the Naughty and the music is recycled more than old episodes of Friends. I'd like to suggest, "The all trite B-97. To keep you listening again and again!"

I feel much more normal and whole today, having hung out with two of my favorite people and talking to a third. I like when life is satisfying and the emotional outliers stay outlying, undistracting, and unconcerning. They're still there, though, it's just easier to refuse credence when I'm distracted by better things.

Goodnight world!

It's alright if you don't love me. It's ok if you don't think you'll ever be able love me. But, do you like me? Because though I can relish the smiles, the little joys, the meant-just-for-me jokes, I don't think I could walk away whole if it was all a farce. So, make sure to tell me you like me. I deserve that much.

For me, though, I love when you look at me unabashedly, like the heavily draped curtain over your guarded thoughts has been lifted for the short soliloquy delivered just for me. When your eyes take me in. When the look of fierce independence that typically shrouds your face is temporarily gone, almost as if you don't realize you're letting me in.

Do you know when I let you in? Do you know when I'm telling you something I don't tell anyone else? Do you know how much I'm holding back from falling into you? Do you know how much I want to let go, but can't unless you let me? Do you know how worried I am that I am letting go, without realizing it, without telling you? But maybe you do know - you're very perceptive.

Do you know how much I think that you're going to tell me that it's just not worth it for you, that I just wasn't good enough, didn't capture you enough, that you're moving on.

Why do you like me now? Amidst all the sarcasm, what do you really mean? What do you intend for me to come away thinking? How do I reconcile your hypothetical answers to hypothetical questions with reality? Do you get the meanings I want you to from my barbed sarcasm?

When am I ever going to be ok relying on someone else? Not feeling like I'm intruding? Please understand how much I care, and don't make me regret it. Please accept the consequences to my heart of your words and actions. Please be gentle. I need you to tell me when your absence means something. I need you to understand how I need your words every so often to reassure me that you care. I need you to tell me that it's ok to expect some things, that I'm not out of line.

Because there's nothing like your arms around me.

We can lie here and talk for hours in my bed
Secondhand Serenade

When you're not here, I feel a little less full. I little less serene. A little worried that I know what's happening when it's not supposed to, not yet. I'm supposed to control it happening, and I can't.

Fists and fingers, tongues and teeth.
I want to see you, I'm tired of my dreams;
nights of wishing, I could open my mouth
and when I finally did speak, you were nowhere to be found.
...
Did I scare you off, by being honest?
how come we never see the end, 'til it's right there upon us?
Dog's Eye View

Sorry, Tommers. That makes me laugh, though, because I promise I almost said on IM yesterday morning, "gotta go give my arms a workout!" That's gotta be one of my favorite offshore jokes. Well, "Who's buyin' lunch today, guys?" is up there too. It's a tough call.

Watching the Scripps National Spelling Bee on ESPN yesterday reminded me scarily of Science Fair: the same generic plastic name badges with the flimsy, sateen ribbon hanging limply off, as if the gravitational pull of the earth is somehow stronger between the core and our ribbons. It's also stronger between the earth's core and our glasses, which seem to forever be slipping down our noses, requiring us to hastily, with energetic nerves, jam our over-sized spectacles back up to where our eyebrows meet in that space above our eyes. Our shirts are over-sized, too, and puff out in awkward angles from our pants. Our pants are too short (there might be a flood at the awards ceremony), and too big, and too yellow-brown. Our belts are pinched too tight (to hold up the too-big pants), and our shoes tap nervously on the floor, giving away the fear we all try to shroud with big words, big laughs, and camaraderie-filled smiles over sharing this experience.

Everyone stares intently at everyone else, when they're looking away: they aren't really that good. They're scared, too. They can't beat me (can they?). They just can't. They couldn't have worked as hard as me (could they have?). I just have to win, I just have to! And then the doubt seeps in: Well, there were those few days I should have taken a couple extra readings. And I really should have done my measurements with more specific digits. And - Oh God! - remember when I ran that regression and took the outliers out, what if that was WRONG?! And in those moments, the value of our little, fifteen-year-long lives is in complete question, and we don't know whether our parents will ever say "I love you" again or if that cute boy in class will ever look our way again (Oh God! Jimmy!). OR IF WE'LL GET B's FROM HERE ON OUT!!!

So we clap politely when we hear our competitor's names called out, (in the distance) "In third place, Jane Dough!" because that's the grace our Moms drilled into us for these types of occasions, but inside we're gloating with trembling nerves since it means we're both still in the running and eliminated from the possibility of getting one more prize up for grabs. In the Bee, that dinging! bell is the demarcation of the later rounds; in the Fair, that Name! is the continued defining of young pupil's science dreams.

My emotions haven't reveled in that sort of non-boy-induced tumult since. I kind of miss it, and maybe that's why I identify with the sport of the Bee, and why I like watching it with a sadistic inner glee in seeing each kid fall.

It didn't used to be like this

It used to be exciting, fun, exhilerating to go offshore. It gave my
life a sense of purpose and routine that I craved when I wasn't there.
It made me feel responsible to many someone elses. People would notice
when I wasn't there and I liked that. When I was home it wan't always
the same.

But now it's different. Is it because my friends are different? Or is
the job different? Or have my interests changed so dramatically, my
priorities have gotten all rearranged and what once made me happy is
now only passing time. I wish I could pinpoint what changed so I could
reinvigorate my enthusiasm, but I'm so close to being done anyway I
don't know that it matters. Or maybe I'm actually just scared of what
I think deep down the reason might be.

I am a woman. Nature makes me so, and it feels good to be reminded. It's empowering to feel the physics of what makes me.

Do you feel an exaggerated happiness like I do when I think about the next time we're going to hang out? I get excited, all big-smiled, when my mind hurriedly jumps from one memory we'll make to the next, envisioning the location, the timing, the old jokes we'll pull out to tease each other, the history-laden songs we'll put on in the car to reminisce. We'll rehash old stories, share new ones, and talk about how this time it won't be so long in between our conversations. It always feels like there was never a break, but when you leave it seems like we won't get to hang out again for a year. And at 23, a year is an eternity moving with the urgency of an incontinent octagenarian. D, H, K, 207...I want to share smiles in person again. That's all. I was reminded tonight as you all flited through my mind.

I'm hyper conscience of my stress level. I keep expecting it to spike, wondering if it is right now and I just won't realize it until I'm less stressed, questioning what's wrong if I don't feel stressed moreso than normal right now. I have to sell my house, find a new one (but where? what area of town? what if I can't find one right away, what do I do with my stuff? do I lease for a while?), finish an assignment, start a new position, entertain visiting family members, try to take vacation, pack, say my goodbyes and make them meaningful, send that email I've been meaning to the past 2 months that was going to tell everyone at the Moose how much the experience, and them, meant to me. Oh, and I'd like to sleep in, run outside, go swimming, and continue improving my health in general in the midst of all that. But I don't feel appreciably more stressed right now. I should, though, right?

A parents visit always throws my mind into a bit of reeling confusion about the emotions they illicit. I resent them for not being able to do anything fun like I see my friend's parents do, but then I feel guilty for feeling that way. I feel bad that we don't do much exciting, but feel helpless for not knowing what they want to do. I feel frustrated that they don't voice their opinions more and expect me to just entertain them. I'm still their daughter, I still expect them to take care of me. Maybe that's why it's so weird when they visit my house.

What's up with the prevelance of friends hooking up lately? And why, as a general rule, do girls always want to immediately be in a relationship with whoever they hook up with? Why are we so weak as a subset?

I think that's all for now. Oh, I love my car. A few days of not driving her always gives me that rush when I finally get back to her. She's just so pretty.