Anyhow. I’ve been really annoyed of late by CNN.com’s use of Oprah articles as “news” on their front page. I usually don’t like the articles either, but I’m more annoyed by the fact that Oprah articles, Entertainment Weekly stuff, and Lindsey Lohan are considered “hard news” which goes right up there with government corruption and people getting killed in the Middle East than I am by the content itself.

That said, I still occasionally read them, because I’m as much a victim of the content-surfing culture as anyone else. And today, I saw something which I actually thought was pretty awesome. Not news, but as essays go, something that was right down my alley.

The title was – and you’re not going to believe this from me – How (not) to get a man. Go ahead and laugh – even before I started dating my husband, I wasn’t exactly focused on “getting a man”, and that’s sort of the point.

The main gist of the article is that all of the game-playing, scheming, and “settling for less” our culture encourages in order to snag a partner is a pretty stupid way to find a date (what the article refers to as the “predator model of dating”). Now, folks who call me “lard ass” might say that I should shut up, because people like me don’t have much of a choice, but I beg to differ. Fervently.

What the article encourages, frankly, is to be yourself, worry about who you want to become, and everything falls into place. Or it doesn’t. But since you’re depending on you to figure out who you are and how your life’s journey is going to go, you’re probably going to be a lot happier being alone with a you that you know and appreciate than together in bed with some guy who was “better than being alone.”

My favorite bit, though, is this:

I suggest that you should be pickier, less accepting and more committed to the “bad attitude” that will make you seek people who are extraordinary in the same way you are.

That may sound like bad advice to you, but let me put it to you this way – I am much happier with my wonderful, eccentric, one-of-a-kind husband who I met when I decided I, quite frankly, didn’t really care much about dating anymore. I was much happier deciding I was much more interested in doing things I enjoyed and things which enriched my life than I ever was – even for a matter of minutes – with any of the so-called “great catches” I dated in the past. My worst morning in my marriage is, quite seriously, better than my best day with anyone I’d ever dated in the past – or even what I imagined dating the perfect guy would be like. Sure, there are times when we’re stressed, worried, annoyed, and not all that pleased with one another. That happens with any relationship. But in the context of a relationship where we respect each other for who we are, where the kind of jokes we make and stories we tell would perhaps not be understood by anyone but a handful of people outside of our relationship, and where we can work together and love each other even when things get hard, the annoyances cease to matter in the long run. They’re part of life. How often do you think you’re going to get that kind of relationship with that guy/chick you picked up at the bar last night only because you didn’t want to be alone? (I know someone will post an exception here, and all I will say is “good for you” I meant what I said for the rest of us mortals…)

I do know something about what I’m talking about here. I did plenty of what “didn’t work” before I realized it was stupid and was making me desperately unhappy (and unhappily desperate!). “Getting a partner” as a goal rarely works out, though some people certainly do get lucky. Sure, maybe my friends thought it was really odd that that guy I was always complaining about in compilers class ended up being the guy I married, and maybe my husband’s parents were really displeased that my husband didn’t find someone more to their social tastes, but the payoff of being with someone you really grok, and who really gets exactly what you’re about – no amount of desperate dating adds up to what that can add to your life.

And I should add: the payoff of being yourself, of knowing how to make yourself happy – even if you never run into the partner of your dreams – will bring you much more satisfaction in life than just settling for whoever comes along.

Or at least in my world, that’s true. Your mileage, of course, may vary.

N.B.: This doesn’t mean I want a subscription to “O”, so don’t get any ideas, Internets

Middle-aged woman in jogging attire #1: So what’d you do yesterday?

Middle-aged woman in jogging attire #2: Oh, I went out shopping…

Middle-aged woman in jogging attire #1: Oh? What’d you get?

Middle-aged woman in jogging attire #2: Oh, I just bought a whole bunch of stuff I know right now we’re never going to use, and that’s perfectly alright, I don’t care.

Middle-aged woman in jogging attire #1: (nods sagely in agreement)

Can someone please tell me what it is with people just going out and buying crap that they know at the time of purchase they won’t use?? I mean, I’ve bought stuff that I knew I could use that might not get used but that I at least intended to use – but buying something with the knowledge that it will never get used?

Thing is, I know for a fact it’s not just these ladies who do this. It’s bad enough that we have institutionalized debt in this country, but seriously, consumerism for the sake of merely consuming? I have brilliant friends who are struggling madly to make it from paycheck to paycheck, and there are still obnoxious folks who treat money as if it is disposable, as if that’s normal and good. And yet I’ll bet these two women are still paying off several thousand in debt on their houses and will be scratching their heads in wonder and dismay when they can’t make a payment. I am totally going to start a “Give Money to My Brilliant Friends Fund” and fund it by selling cheap worthless “cute” tchotchkes at an outrageous price – made in China, of course – that appeal specifically to over-50 females with disposable income and really bad dye jobs.

We are a sick culture, truly. Don’t people have anything better to do than spend an afternoon shopping for stuff they’ll only throw away?

Yes, I understand that once I have this baby, I’m going to be exhausted all the time. You can tell me that again and again, and I will understand it intellectually, but until you develop a sleep storage system, you’re not being helpful.

But anyway, in spite of being tired, it’s been a good week. My German class is great – it’s a seminar on the German experience of war, and it’s a good group of people in the class. It won’t help me with my “how to speak to the baby” German, mind you, but it’s challenging and it’ll be a good way to keep my brain in German mode before the baby comes. Yayyy…

This other thing I’m doing which I keep alluding to is something I’ve been a little reluctant to talk about. I don’t, in general, talk about religion publicly, and there are two reasons for this – from one side of things, having grown up around evangelistic bible-bashers and folks who use religion as a way to exclude, persecute, and generally antagonize people, I am particularly wary of either encouraging such people to come here to this little corner of the blogosphere or of sounding like one of those people (because if there is anything I am not, it’s that); on the other side of things, having grown up in a household and tradition where science and reason reign supreme (and this is still my viewpoint), I am reluctant to seem as if I have discarded these things (because I have not). My belief has pretty much always been that my spirituality is my own business, and that there’s nothing about spiritual beliefs and rational beliefs that must be mutually exclusive. (Note to the reader: the current sneaky method of saying “everything is a theory” (and subsequent misinterpretation of the word “theory”, something that drives my scientist father bonkers) as a way to get around the idea of things like evolution really gets under my skin…) And as soon as I mention religion, I end up with a long list of disclaimers and explanations I didn’t want to give in the first place. I don’t wear my religious beliefs on my sleeve – I wear me on my sleeve. And that doesn’t change.

So anyway, what I’m doing on Wednesday nights, in that context, is going to catechumenate classes – as a social thing, as a way of being part of a broader community, and because we’d like to give our son some sense of a religious tradition, even if that isn’t what he follows or believes later on. I was raised without a religious tradition, my husband was raised with one, and it turns out that while our own resultant beliefs are surprisingly similar, we want Small Monster to be able to make his own informed choices about what he believes, and no matter what he believes, to respect people’s spiritual and personal belief systems even if he doesn’t share those beliefs. So anyway, I spend my Wednesday nights these days meeting with some very nice people, having a nice dinner, and having interesting discussions. I really enjoyed it last week, and while I doubt I’ll say much about it (as I said, religion is an intensely personal thing for me), that’s one more thing on the schedule.

And that’s all I’m saying about that right now, but that was the cliffhanger #2, Mrs. Mustard

And, of course, there are the occasional meetings with the local pregnant women (which is fun and good and very nice), and the childbirth/baby preparation classes start up tomorrow. Tomorrow is the breastfeeding class, which my poor husband – support system for Haus Grothoff – is going to have to sit through. He’s insanely busy right now, but he’s being a good husband/papa and sitting through what will probably be the least exciting discussion of breasts he’s ever had in his life Poor man…

And that is what’s up and why I’m so tired right now. I’ve gone from lazy days and trips to the library to having stuff to do and an actual social life in the space of a week, all at the beginning of my third trimester.

Am I on crack, or what?

Better than “CAN I DRINK MILK IF IM PREGNANT” (in all caps, because we all know that in addition to making you wildly popular on mailing lists and in forums, all caps make the search engine understand YOU MEAN BUSINESS)…

Better than “krista fetish” (God, I hope no one has a fetish for me)…

Not necessarily better than “naked girls in mud”, which happened to be a common way to get to an old blog of mine and I still have no idea why, but at least more recent.

Less baffling than “he is cheating on his first lady” (ooo, I wonder which political leader this person was wondering about… more scandal!), and not really as funny as “when your husband says you are paranoid”

It’s… “hot cheetos bad for pregnancy“!!!!

Now I think we can all agree that bright red food coloring, puffed corn, and “cheez” powder is probably not ideal nourishment for your personal Mini-Me, but I am sort of amused that someone out there is currently stressing over a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, probably wondering if their kid is going to be born with an extra head I tend to worry about things like gasoline fumes, allergy medicine, and taking the wrong vitamin supplements simultaneously, but I guess if Chester Cheetah’s got you worried, you gotta do what you gotta do…

(N.B. If you’re the person who asked this question, I’m sorry I’m mocking you – I probably search for equally amusing things on the Internet, but it made me giggle, so… bad me)

I thought about writing about all of the ridiculous nicknames I gave my poor brother as a kid, or the fact that after having my cat for 9 years, she still had no stable name (most often, she was referred to as “Pumpkin”, in spite of being grey), but none of those really seemed like much fun to write. Then I realized there’s a quick story behind each of my own names, and some of them are vaguely amusing, so I thought “eh, what the Hell… I’ll write about that.”

So.

No one ever spells my first name right; either they decide I’m “Christa”, or “Krystal”, or, in the case of the cashier at Panera a few weeks ago, “Kkkkjjjjrijsta”. Um. Yeah. Annoying. But that’s not the interesting bit.

The interesting bit is who I’m named after. Every so often, I’ll get someone who says “Oh, that’s such a pretty name!”, or “Oh, my niece is named that!”, and I really, really want to tell them where it came from. Really. Especially conservative old ladies at the checkout counter.

You see, my namesake is… Miss September 1961. That’s right, I was named after a Playboy centerfold, Christa Speck. (That link is safe for work, and there’s a fully-clothed picture of her at the Playboy site; I don’t promise the other ladies on the page are fully-clothed, though, so if you’re squeamish, don’t bother.) See, even her name is spelled with a Ch.

And all I can say about naming me after a Playmate is that my parents were engaging in some extremely wishful thinking with that one.

My mom says they got my name from Playboy because they didn’t have the money to buy a baby book.

Um. Yeah. And you had the money to buy Playboy? Besides, whatever happened to the public library?

I make it sound like I resent where it came from, and I don’t – I think it’s funny, actually. I’m sure that went over well with the überreligious half of the family, which was probably part of why they did it, and it at least gives my name some character.

What’s funnier is what happened when I was about 12 or 13 and went over to a friend’s house. She came from a very, very conservative Irish Catholic family. Well, at least her mother was. One day, her father came up to me and said, “You know, whenever I hear your name, I think of a very beautiful woman I once saw.”

And me, with my big mouth, said, “Ah, was it in Playboy?”

The mother, as I recall, looked pretty annoyed. I suspect she always thought I was a bad influence on her daughter anyway. But anyhow.

Surprisingly, he answered that that was, in fact, where he had seen this woman. He looked rather shocked that I knew. And a little less embarrassed when I said I was named after her. I suspect, though, that he got a good ear-boxing from his wife once I was gone. My namesake must have made quite an impression – it had been a little over 20 years since she was Miss September by the time he met me.

But the name is alright, and it fits pretty well with my new and exciting German last name.

Ok, so that’s my first name. My middle name, well, is pretty common, and while it could be found via various search engines, I don’t really want to assist stupid identity thieves any more than I have to, so I’ll just tell the story. The name is generally not spelled with an ‘e’ on the end. My mother, apparently, also did not intend to put one there. However, I was born on a military base (this was during Vietnam, and my dad was drafted, so…). At that time, according to my mother, the way the military dealt with delivering babies was to drug the woman up as much as possible and get the baby out. My mom claims to have been so doped up on Demerol that she either put the ‘e’ on the end herself, or the nurses did because she was too drugged up to spell. I don’t remember which it was at the time, and I like it better with an ‘e’ (though in truth I hate the name), but it’s still sort of amusing.

And then… my last name. Before I got married, I was a Bennett. With 2 “t”s. I don’t care how many times you read Pride and Prejudice (or how great Colin Firth was as Mr. Darcy, which has no bearing on my story, but I just thought I’d state that for the record), my last name was still spelled with two “t”s. I have rarely, if ever (outside of Pride and Prejudice), seen it spelled with one “t”. Any other striking resemblances my immediate family has to the Bennet family are purely coincidental. I think. Maybe.

And yet people always, always managed to spell it incorrectly. I got used to saying “two ‘n’s and two ‘t’s” every time someone was writing my name down, and it was annoying. Given that it’s such a common English name, you’d think people would be familiar with it. But noooooo…

I didn’t like it much anyway. I never really liked it, and it seemed so incongruous with my first name. So when my husband and I started discussing marriage a few years ago, there was never much of a question – I didn’t want to keep my maiden name. In fact, I couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. And this fact apparently offended some of my feminist colleagues… first of all, I was getting married (?!?!!!) – how could I, as a liberated woman, get married??? There are a lot of answers to that one, but this one should have been the kicker – you try staying together long-term with your committed foreign national partner without the benefit of some legal partnership, regardless of where you’re living. Especially if you don’t know where you’ll be living. Oh, and by the way? I love the guy, and I chose to do it. It’s not like I checked the box for “barefoot and pregnant” (though in point of fact, I am currently both at this precise moment…) by getting married. And let’s not even get into my mother-in-law’s reaction to the whole marriage thing…

But the name? Wooo… that didn’t just cause uproar with some of my feminist friends/colleagues (what part of “I don’t like my maiden name” is confusing?). Getting married in Germany, where the feminist movement was/is rather hardcore, was real fun. I had to sign something like a 4-page document at City Hall saying that no, I really did understand that I really don’t have to take my husband’s name, and I know all my rights, and really, no one was holding a gun to my head and making me do this thing. I actually felt like that was more condescending than any pressure I might have gotten to change it (of which there was none). It was like… a big deal. And the German government wanted to make extra, extra sure that I really knew what I was doing

What’s funny is that once my name was legally changed in Germany, it was still “Bennett” at the border and on all of my legal documents for some time after that. It took me a long time to get all of that changed once I got back to the U.S., and I was surprised at what a pain in the arse it was. I think I still have some documents and customer loyalty cards in the wrong name. Oh well.

Ok… so that was my best impromptu shot at blathering about names. I tag… anyone who reads the feed of this blog (or is an otherwise regular reader), I think. (That way I avoid exposing any private journals *grin*)

Write something interesting on names

I won’t get into the reliability problems with inherent in social networks, but in one particular case recently, I came across the profile of someone I worked with sometime during my many, many years in the workforce. Someone I’m not about to identify. Sorry. And if you happen to know me, don’t ask – I won’t confirm or deny anything. (N.B. I’ve been working on-and-off since I was about 18, and have probably worked with hundreds of people by now in many places not listed in my own profile, so if you think this is about you, it’s probably not. The only hint I’ll give is that it is not someone I worked with in my 3-week career at Hardee’s )

Anyhow, the unnamed person in question was a master bullshitter, and, more importantly, monarch of useless verbosity, with special emphasis on getting the semantics of the GRE words dropped into every sentence irritatingly wrong. By inserting as much speech as possible into any given situation, this colleague was able to effectively avoid getting much of anything done or having to actually understand the problems that needed to be solved. The icing on the cake is that this person was able to make other people feel like they were the ones with deficiencies in understanding. (The Peter principle – on steroids…) And the schmoozing? My God, the schmoozing. Ugh.

Anyhow, LinkedIn lets you write your own summary of your career, and allows acquaintances who are in your network of connections to write recommendations for you. So I came across this person’s profile, and was highly amused both by the summary of his/her career on the page and the recommendations left by other colleagues. If I were a recruiter, I’d think… wow, this person would be a great asset!

On the other hand, if I were someone who’d worked with this person, I’d just laugh. A lot. And if I were drinking something at the time, it would probably come out of my nose. But that’s just me. And then I’d start drinking something stronger, because people do actually buy this B.S. in industry…

And it got me thinking… not that this would ever work, and it would be used terribly maliciously, but… since, on a social networking site, one can give recommendations, one should also be able to give criticisms/warnings. Surely both pieces of information are equally valuable to an employer, and when it comes down to it, equally reliable when taken from an unknown person off of a social networking site. Unless you happen to know the recommender directly, in most situations, it is far too much legwork to trace the chain of connections with the recommender back to someone you can trust, so there’s really no reason to believe/disbelieve what the recommender has to say, unless he or she has an incredible reputation. There has to be some external verification of trust, and since that usually is not going to be available, a recommendation for someone is no more valid than a recommendation against him or her.

Again, I know why it wouldn’t work, but it’s easy enough to pull 5 guys you work with in and decide you’re all going to exchange glowing recommendations, so I don’t really think that works either.

It’s all silly, when it comes down to it. And mostly meaningless, most of the time.

But just for kicks… it’s been around 300 days since I wrote that post, and the average number of hits per day from around the beginning has been about 100. Even if you presume 30% of those hits were from people who absolutely love U3 or who were looking for something else (and I think the roughly 200 negative comments on the post indicate that’s probably being pretty generous), that’s still about 20,000 people who thought U3 sucked. You got that, SanDisk? Since this blog, right now, has just under 40,000 hits, that means that most folks who’ve bothered to come to my quiet little corner of the Blogosphere came here to find a way to get rid of your software…

What’s really funny is that the stats drop happened all at once. Like, Monday, it got 202 hits (pretty normal, lately). Tuesday: 56 hits. Wednesday: 28. All at once, I tell you …

Perhaps the U3 guys got annoyed and decided to try to do something about their search rankings Alternately, WordPress changed its stats counter again. (Or insert your own hilarious conspiracy theory here! )

Either way, I couldn’t care less – I do think it’s rather amusing that these guys got bitten for their bundled, involuntarily installed software that apparently messed up a lot of people’s systems.

But as a farewell to U3, I thought I’d give all you U3-haters a treat that my husband sent me a few weeks ago via Slashdot. Apparently there’s an Information Week article stating that Sandisk will abandon its U3 technology in favor of a partnership with Microsoft to “carry a complete image of their desktops around in their pockets.” From the article:

As part of the plan, SanDisk will phase out its U3 technology, which adds some smart features to USB devices. Independent software developers that have created U3-compatible applications will be offered help migrating their products to the new technology, which has yet to be named.

Now, I don’t know that the resultant Microsoft/SanDisk product will be any better – but it will probably be more clearly advertised, since these guys seem to want to make money specifically off of the technology rather than stealth-bundling (and yes, I do think that showing the “feature” in small print on an unbelievably cheap drive is stealth-bundling).

I’m not any more likely to buy one of these guys than I am to intentionally use U3, but I do have some advice for Microsoft and Sandisk this time: either let users install the new software themselves, or give them a very clear reference to how to get rid of it if they don’t want it. Preferably, if you preinstall your software on the drive, you should include the removal software with the disk and let users decline anything that might be installed on the desktop from the get-go, and give them the option to uninstall your software from the thumb-drive the first time they plug it in.

If you can’t do that, don’t advertise it as a thumb drive. People have certain expectations for what thumb-drives do, and screwing up multiple systems by installing software and messing up drive settings arbitrarily on every computer they touch isn’t one of them, unless they’re infected with a virus. Package it instead, in big letters, as a “Windows-only desktop replication device”. With a big warning that it will screw up your CD-ROM drive settings for no apparent reason. And possibly eat your dog when you’re not looking

I wanted to address one of them here, though, because on the off-chance the searcher sees this page again, I have something to say to her.

The search query was this: “How can I keep an eye on what my husband is doing on the computer?”

Now, you may think I’m going to answer her question. It’s a question that, for the majority of non-expert computer users, I could probably answer. All of those years in school have to be good for something, after all.

But no, that is not what I’m going to do. I’m just going to respond to her question.

Let me state upfront that I happen to know, in some detail, the story of a marriage (not my own) where the wife wanted an answer to that very question. Very badly. And she did, in fact, finally get one. Her husband had (probably correctly) assumed she was a novice and wouldn’t know how to observe his activities, but he had also underestimated his wife’s ability to find answers when she didn’t know them herself. So she did find out what he’d been up to. And the answer did not make her very happy.

There are two real possibilities if you’re the one asking the question the search query addresses, though: either 1) you’re paranoid, or 2) your husband is up to something on the computer. You may be surprised to note that neither possibility makes you feel very good about you or your situation. And that should tell you that regardless of whether your husband is up to something or not, there is already a problem that needs to be addressed.

My feeling – and this is not all armchair philosophy here, I promise – is that if you’re asking that question, something is already deeply broken in your marriage. If you need to keep an eye on your husband and invade his privacy to satisfy your curiosity or concerns about what he does when you’re not watching, then there are serious trust issues in the relationship. Either you’re having problems trusting, or you know he’s not trustworthy. Either way, something’s already broken. The evidence isn’t going to make you feel better (custody and alimony battles excepted, I guess), and if you don’t find it, once you’ve entered someone’s private sphere, it’s awfully hard to stop doing it. You got away with it once – what is to stop you from doing it again? The lady I mention above is still, to the best of my knowledge, known to read her husband’s e-mail, and this is several years after they resolved the issues that led to her trolling through his computer files in the first place. Which says to me that there are still issues – they may be issues that both spouses are aware of and are willing to accept in the marriage, but it’s something you really need to consider before you walk down that road.

The questions you should ask yourself is what exactly do you intend to do if you find something you don’t like, and what you do if you don’t find anything. If you find something you don’t like, are you going to leave him? Hold it over his head? Keep it to yourself and beat yourself up with it? You’d better be damned sure you understand the possible consequences of whatever you do. And if you don’t find something, how are you going to feel about yourself? Will you keep looking, using your suspicions to continue to dig deeper into your husband’s private activities? Where does it end? Will you feel deeply guilty for having such suspicions? Or will you feel justified in having done so even if there is nothing to be found? And what if your husband finds out you’re doing it, especially if he’s not doing anything? I guarantee you, he’s going to be pretty pissed off.

Think very carefully about this. For many people, whether they find what they’re looking for or not, the consequence of the slippery slope of privacy invasion is that they can’t stop looking. You should really think of it like reading someone’s diary, though… if you read something that folks would generally consider to be covered under a reasonable expectation of privacy, the first person who has to accept the consequences of what you find is you.

Keep in mind that I’m a strong privacy advocate (and I do see the irony in my addressing a search query that the user probably thought was private… No one ever said I was perfect…). That does not mean, however, that I’m supporting people who cheat on their partners, or folks who are up to illicit activities behind their spouses’ backs. Far from it. I’ve seen a lot of relationships fall apart when the husband or wife decides to fool around with someone on the Internet, although I must say that I have yet to see one in which the relationship wasn’t already broken or headed for disaster before that happened. I can understand, when you know something is deeply wrong in your relationship, the compulsion to find out what’s going on. But don’t blame the Internet – whatever may be going on on the computer is a consequence of what is wrong, not the cause of it. Look at the relationship first. I have a very hard time stomaching folks who say that their online liasons are due to an Internet addiction, rather than the result of something missing or wrong in real life. As I said, I’m not a doctor, but I’ve seen it up close – a lot.

You seriously need to consider your motivations for doing what you’re thinking about doing when you ask yourself how you can see what your spouse/partner is doing on his/her computer, and what that may already say about your marriage. I’m not a doctor, but I’m willing to risk stating with a fair degree of personal certainty that you’d be doing yourself a greater favor by entering marriage counseling and confronting the issues that lead you to suspect your spouse (and confronting your spouse, if that needs to be the case) rather than sneaking around behind his back to get information.

Take the high road on this one. You’ll feel better about it in the end.

Now, I should have known this was going to happen from the very beginning – a couple of months after we started dating, he made me watch The Cube. I’m not saying The Cube isn’t an interesting movie, but… let’s put it this way. In the first scene, someone gets cut up into tiny meat cubes before the audience’s eyes. It gets worse from there. (And my husband is still in trouble for not following appropriate scared-girlfriend snuggling procedures with that one.) But it’s not just the gore that gets me. Let me just say this out loud right now: I don’t like scary movies.

Can I say that again? I don’t like scary movies. At all.

Ever since I accidentally walked in on my parents watching Alien on HBO when I was 8 (and you know which scene I walked in on – that’s right, the stomach scene), I have hated scary movies. I had fears of that damned alien in my room at night off and on until I was in high school. These movies are not for me. I saw one of the Friday the 13th movies in middle school, and was afraid of the dark for a long while afterwards. Skipping school in the 8^th grade to go see Nightmare on Elm Street? Really bad idea. And after that, I just knew better.

I’m less squeamish now, but there’s a message here: I don’t get off on being scared. Or grossed out. At all. I’m not kidding. Even a little bit.

Knowing this, my husband, bless him, will occasionally pop in a movie like Pitch Black, or tonight’s film, Oldboy. And I end up leaving the room 5 times, or as I did with Pitch Black, going into the kitchen and putting my headphones on and trying to ignore what’s going on in the other room.

Oldboy features tooth and tongue extractions, stabbings, and beatings among other things. I mean, the film has a neat concept (and a very disturbing ending), but… step back. Tooth and tongue extractions, kids. Nasty. No way of knowing this upfront, mind you. And halfway through the movie, bam… there I am, covering my eyes and leaving the room. Remember that bit about not liking to be scared or grossed out? I think this qualifies. Next thing you know, there’ll be another documentary in the queue which sends me to bed weeping and despairing of the fact that I am American/Caucasian/a Westerner/a human being who does not live in a log cabin in the mountains miles from civilization.

So the man can’t be trusted. Clearly, one weekend soon, I’m going to have to make him watch Pride and Prejudice (both the A&E and the big screen versions), Sense and Sensibility, Chocolat, The Truth about Cats and Dogs, and any other girlie movie I can get my hands on. Some extremely sappy fare would be appropriate, if I can find it. The more kissing, the better. And afterwards I’ll make him watch MST3K, which is particularly painful for those with no American cultural background. And then, well…

Someday I’ll get my revenge!

In the meantime, I suggest a new addition to the ratings system: Rated WSTELCOOK (Will scare the ever-living crap out of Krista). I’m sure the MPAA will go for it.

I am a nomad. I didn’t particularly want to be one, but I am. I lived in my birthplace for less than a year. I’ve lived in nearly as many houses and apartments as I have years. I went to five different elementary schools (six if you count kindergarten), and have lived in 10 different cities just since I left high school (and many more before that). Aside from being cursed with wanderlust everytime the going gets rough, the major impact of this is that it makes it so much harder to make friends and find a social group each time I pack up and go somewhere new. Some of that’s age, but most of it is having lived through the mourning of old friends and the uncertainty of acquiring new ones over and over and over again. The idea of just waiting your time out in solitude in each new place becomes seductive, if not particularly happy or healthy.

Every time I move to a new city, I have to start over. It’s easier when you’re younger – you have a built-in peer group at school or in college, even if you do have to find a way to fit in with them, but it’s still starting over from scratch. Sure, you keep some of your distant old friends – for example, my dearest friend is a South African living in Bahrain who I met in Holland, and I still keep in touch with my best friend from high school – but it does become something of a burden to have to find like-minded individuals (since you can hardly depend on the bonds of shared past experience) to go grab a beer with.

Finding new people to hang out with, to be comfortable with, has its share of dangers too. At best, when it goes wrong, you just can’t find anyone you click with. At worst, you end up running into someone who shares a common interest, and who seems nice enough, but three weeks later is clearly desperate and wants a copy of your entire minute-by-minute schedule for the next month and starts getting pissed off if, you know, you want to spend time with your boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse. Neither situation is much fun, and I’m finding that the older I get, the less I’m inclined to risk either.

It gets really hard, and it seems like too much effort.

Now, I know that for me personally, it’s really a matter of just giving in to the permanence of my current situation and biting my lip, ignoring my (covertly) introverted nature, and getting off my butt to do social things. Nothing pitiful about it, it’s just a matter of being less lazy about it. It’s just that the inertia is a bitch. It’s something I always remedy over time, but it does kind of suck. It’s hard not to envy some of those people I know who’ve stayed relatively close to home for most of their lives, who have the benefit of old friends who know all of the old stories, and who are comfortable parts of the new ones. Us nomads get a little sick of trading our life stories with virtual strangers each time we’re transplanted, I guess.

So, anyway, the upside of being a nomad is that you get to see new places; the downside is that you end up with a massively dispersed social group, and finding a new one every couple of years is a pain in the ass. I am really glad we’re staying put for the foreseeable future – maybe that will help this time. But I do really miss my old friends I used to go grab beers with, whether in Indiana or Amsterdam or New Orleans. E-mailed beer just doesn’t cut it.

Listening to: Marillion – Kayleigh