.on blogging.

i think because my blog is public, i am less likely to disclose the kind of strange, gross, and embarrasing things that i will in a standard paper journal. a journal can be hig under a pillow or mattress or stowed in an underwear drawer. it can be torn, crumpled, soaked with water, burned alive. but once typed, emailed, and documented online, confessions take off meandering on an unstoppable journey. embedded deep and firm in our collective database, we know that what shows up on a google search is only the tip of the iceburg.

i think this contributes to my reluctance to write on my blog about concerns that consume my mind for most of my waking hours. instead, i write posts about "reasons to quit smoking" or "hey, i should read more books!" these are not worries that wake me at 4 am, armpits damp and blankets twisted. those concerns should be shredded, hidden, or shoved down the garbage displosal. or at least i should have that option.

the humor here is that there's nobody in the world who reads – or even knows about – this pithy little blog. even if browsing the blogspot database, this is just a moldy pea in the vast and rich compost of internet diaries.

people get fired for blogs. for complaining about a coworker or work policy. myriad disastrous social dramas have been launched thanks to a snarky blog entry. but with a world population of 6.5 billion people, who the fuck cares?

i think therein lies the problem: there are 6.5 billion people in the world. and, so i was told on sesame street, age 4, we are each as unique and precious as a snowflake. no two of us are alike. and we are all created equal. and who the hell knows what coffee tastes like for the other 6.5 people in the world. who knows where the ink stain is on somebody elses coffee table. does anybody else's left knee ache shin splints? i don't just feel unique – from my perspective, i'm the only goddamn person here. i'm the only person here who can feel, touch, taste, see, and hear. and i'm overwhelmed on a daily basis by the tiny apartment i live in, the same 3.7 miles i drive to work every day on the same route, the same nine to five daily grind and email-checking and hello-how-are-you-i'm-fine-how-was-your-weekend-it-was-great-thanks bullshit. it sure feels important. it's my whole world. was that joke i made funny? was that a genuine chuckle, or just a polite, pitying laugh? and even if it wasn't – if my watercooler joke was a bomb, if i find a lump in my breast and it turns out to be cancerous, if the cancer has spread to my lymph nodes and there's nothing that can be done about it – it matters precisely as much as picking one grain of rice out of a vat of 6.5 billion rice grains and flushing it down the toilet. in short: it don't matter nothing at all.

which brings me to my point: is there really any reason to withhold the juicy details on my blog? probably not.

.you gotta have goals.

today, my goal is to make this sweater. it's in jo sharp's new knitting pattern book, saturday. every pattern knocked my socks off. so much so that i shelled out $14.25 to buy it, and this is the second ever knitting book i have ever purchased. i am a cheapskate, and i get all of my knitting books from the library.

splurge #2: i just ordered the actual yarn that the pattern called for from webs for $2.60 a skein. that's cheap. in the store, this yarn costs almost $8 a skein. i'm a cheapskate rockstar. the color i chose is called oyster, and looks to be a gray, ethereal cream.

if i ever get a digital camera, i might even show you how it goes.

.a day in the life.

today i woke up at 10:30. damn you, daylight savings. lost an hour already. i say goodmorning to my cat, who chirps with glee and hops down from his post to wait by his food bowl for breakfast. i slosh some dry, round kibbles in his silver bowl. a handful of strays spill and bounce on teh kitchen hardwood floor. i twist open the silver turkish coffee pot and dump yesterday's grounds. the sink is full of dishes, dried catfood in cermaic bowls, all but one of my spoons. i spill coffee grounds in a semi-circle on the counter, and put the pot on the burner.

i crawl back in bed with a full nalgene and turn on reruns of the oc. i think that i am too much like seth cohen, only he is skinnier and has a staff of talented writers to ensure impeccable wit.

after drinking half of pot of turkish espresso with sugar and rice milk, i lift my red night shirt over my head and toss it on a shelf in my closet. i throw my underwear in the laundry basket and turn on the shower. the water is cold and i shiver as soon as i step in. i use apricot scrub on my face and hope good skin holds out until tuesday.

sara picks me up at one, and i wait in her truck while she wipes off her windows. we drive north on i-5 to lila's basement apartment. we pet a beagle on the street: eight years old, pregnant, with no teeth. her nipples are swollen and stick out like fat, pink cactus buds. her name is harmony.

at lila's house, i pour myself a glass of water and start to cry. lila apologizes for being hard on me, and i lay my head on sara's skinny shoulder. sara and lila drink coffee with organic cream in diner mugs, and then we load up the couch in sara's truck. it sticks out, of course, a good two feet past the end of the bed. lila sits between us in the cab, with no seat belt. lila is hungover, and her hair is thick and shiny in a neat ponytail.

we leave the couch in the driveway of its new home. a black lab puppy whines from the backyard, and i open the gate to rub its ears. it pees and wags its tail. we cover the couch in a clean sheet and a muddy sheet of plastic, weighed down with a few dozen rocks from the garden.

we drive to the nursery and look at bird-feeders, watering cans shaped like ant-eaters, seeds and gardening gloves. i buy marigolds and a hose to irrigate the vegetable garden.

we stop for pho at the family dive down the street from sara's house: $4.25 for a small bowl.

at sara's house, i meet her two new roommates. jeff is tall, lanky, with a straight nose and clean skin. his close are clean, and his hair is blonde. he smiles easily and naturally. he is handsome and eager. i like him. james has slick curly hair and white teeth. he is skinny and shy. i like him as well, but he lacks jeff's warmth and ease.

we smoke sweet, giddy pot from jeff's bong and play a matching game recommended by mensa. sara drives us home. i pet gordon, and pour him more dry food. i fill up my nalgene and climb back into bed with my laptop. i watch 'the good girl,' staring jennifer aniston and jake gylenhall. the sun is just beginning to set. i think about having a glass of wine, but it isn't chilled. is it pathetic to start drinking whisky?

it's been raining all day.

.go it alone.

i've always wanted to be the girl who sits at the bar reading, sipping a beer, and feeling totally confident and independent: by herself.

the only solo public activity i've ever braved was eating pho in the late afternoon at the family-owned and half-empty dives on powell and killingsworth. the coming weeks call for more solo dare.

1. movie at the laurelhurst, a pitcher and a pizza.
2. after-work drink at a bar: goodfoot, amnesia, beaulaland, laurelthirst.
3. happy hour and cheap snacks. green papaya salmon skewers.
3.5 a real meal. sushi, candlelight, glass of wine.
4. hiking in forest park.
5. walk on sauvie island.
6. feed the ducks at laurelhurst park.
7. naked hot tub, sauna, hot springs.
8. yoga class.
9. estate sales.
10. spa, massage, waxing??
11. someday: travel. weekend trip to the coast, globetrotting.
12. camping, backwoods, awith garbage halfway up a tree and safe from bears.