Par-tAy

So, we're planning the greatest Halloween Party. ever. There will be music, dancing, boys, girls, costumes, costume contests, friends, family, adults, college students, candy, chips, music, dancing, candy, cake, brownie-muffin-thingies, indoor activities, outdoor activities, limbo contest, music, hot cider, hot chocolate, pumpkins, jack-o-lanterns, fall leaves, scary music, and all around fun, in addition to a few other things. Now, there's only one problem: it started pouring last night and hasn't really let up; and I'm thinking it probably wont until Saturday or Sunday.

Bummer.

The Patch

It was lunch time, and I went into MyBoss' office to see if he was going to join us for lunch. RayOfSunshine was already there asking the same thing. We got to talking and joking around and somehow smoking was alluded to (I really don't remember, nuts!). I patted my left arm and announced, "Nahh, RayOfSunshine, I'm on The Patch." He laughed, and then MyBoss asked, "Are you really?"

"Yeah, Boss. I have a secret smoking problem that you don't know about." I dead panned. He seems to fall for my jokes more easily than the average bear. The thing of it was, I had a smile on my face when I made the announcement, so it was obviously a joke.

"Well," he was quick to defend himself, "There is more than one kind of Patch." He turned to RayOfSunshine for support on this one.

"Yeah, well, I'm not on that one, either!"

He threw his hands up and declared, "Woah! Way too much information there!"

RayOfSunshine just laughed, "I think the BOP was just violated there!"

MyBoss started blushing and said, "I didn't ask! You're my witness RayOfSunshine! I didn't ask."

"Uh, do you honestly think I would just throw that out there?" Oy! I suppose they don't know better, but they could assume better, at least. Sheesh! What kind of girl do they think I am?

Shave and a Hair Cut

GoateeBoy is going as a Confederate Soldier for Halloween, so he's growing in his mustache -- it looked so weird the first day. He's also growing in his sideburns and pretty much the rest of his beard. It will be a relief on Tuesday when he comes in with it all shaved off back the way he usually wears it.

MyBoss got a hair cut. Which is worth mentioning because his hair has been historically longer than the top of his collar in the back, and long enough to tuck behind his ears. Now, it's the short spiky bed-head look that is ever so popular. I'd be lying if I said it didn't look a ton better. Too bad that means he's even more attractive than usual. When we were teasing him about it he said that he told the development team that if we actually shipped on time everyone on our team would cut their hair really short. And, he informed us, that included me.

And, finally, last night when we were working late we were talking about how RayOfSunshine used to have a goatee and how different it looked. MyBoss announced that the new team dress code is, "We're all growing goatees. And, that includes you, Granola!" I objected, and was (thankfully) backed up on that one!

The more I think about it the more I am convinced that they have never had a girl on their team before, and the novelty is not going to wear off anytime soon. They often forget that I am a girl, but when they are reminded for whatever reason, they think it's funny to picture me doing things that are drastically "out there." I don't mind, I'm just glad that they generally forget my gender. I far prefer being 'one of the guys,' as it were.

Weird Food

At lunch the other day I was rinsing my mug out from the soup I had heated up in it. GermanGuy asked, "How was the tea?" Thinking I had just finished a cup of herbal tea.

"Oh, it's not tea. It was soup."

"Oh yeah? Anything weird?"

"I don't know. It's got some squash in it..."

"That's normal."

"Acorn squash?"

"Ok, that's a little odd."

After I left him I ran into Carnivore, "When," I inquired, "did I become 'weird-food girl'?"

"As soon as you started putting squash in your soup." He reassured me.

Great. Now I'm weird-food girl. The thing is, though —— I'm not changing what I cook and eat, so I guess I'm stuck with that moniker. Oh well.

Quandary Response

Today I was reading Mumsy's blog and came accross this post. I started a comment on her blog, but I felt it really needed to be a post on my blog, so I am putting it here.

Mumsy's Quandary, for those of you too lazy to click over to it, is the gay marriage question. Specifically, would she be morally able to attend the ceremony of a gay friend of hers with out giving the union her stamp of approval? As this is a question I have often thought about given the persuasion of some of my friends, I feel qualified to give her advice on this quandary.

Quite frankly, I think that gay marriage is quite a loaded question social and politically. Certainly straight people don't have the whole "sanctity of marriage" thing figured out, as a prime example I would like to cite every Vegas wedding that ends in annulment when the parties involve sober up enough to realize what they have done. Or, barring that, the Brittney Spears 22 hour marriage. And, isn't the whole purpose of marriage supposed to be a formal commitment to each other? Surely there are many partnerships where one or both partners isn't fully committed to the union. What about basic social rights? There are many privileges granted to married couples that are denied unmarried couples, and rightly so, I think. However, when we forbid couples who want to be married is it fair to bar them from the same rights and privileges we grant to those we don't forbid the marriage bond.

Mumsy's quandary, however, is a moral one. I have to look at it from this angle. If I were to get married would I want GayPat there? Could I send him an invitation and tell him that he couldn't bring a guest because the guest he would be bringing would be, undoubtedly, his partner. Wouldn't inviting both of them be perceived as a stamp of approval on their union? How about going to a party they were throwing? Would that be seen as approval? What about going out to eat with them? Or dropping by and hanging out at their house? What if they dropped by my home, would I let them in? All of these activities could be perceived as my giving their union a stamp of approval, however, would I not engage in any or all of them for fear of them thinking that I approved of their being together?

Honestly, if I feel I have to answer “yes” to the last question, then I feel that I would end my friendship with them. It isn't fair to have a half friendship with him, or them. Given that, then what about straight friends who are living with their significant others? If I reject a gay couple because I don't agree with their moral choices, how hypocritical it would be for me to remain friends with a straight couple whose choices I don't agree with or condone.

In the end, I trust that my friends know how I feel about their choices, but they also know how I feel about them as people. If I reject everyone I know who makes different moral choices than I, I shall quickly be out of friends. Partially because I reject them, and mostly because they would reject me. I would be a much different person from the woman I am now. Would I like her? I doubt it. Thus, Mumsy, If GayPat gives me an invitation to his civil union I know I'll be there. If I am not willing to support him in what should be the happiest union of his life what business do I have being his friend in the sad and tough times.

Naming Conventions

In the world of programming there are all sorts of non-rules. Someone somewhere decided that doing X a certain way was a good way of doing it, and he showed it to other people who agreed, and after a time it just became a standard convention. No one knows where these rules come from, but they are (generally) good "rules" and so people stick with them. Possibly unbeknownst to you, you have all been subjected to such a rule, the method naming convention is what it is generally called. You, however, might know it as, Granola's weird name-thing. What I'm talking about is when one mashes a whole bunch of words together and capitalizes the first letter of each word, e.g. PuppyDogsAndBows. It works, and we all love it. Additionally, when referring to a sub-part of something one uses a '.' (dot). You're all familiar with dotcom, so I suppose I don't have to explain that any further. If you want more of a definition ask me and I'll detail it in the comments.

Wednesday we were sitting in a meeting looking at our product on the projector. The developer had not put in a normal name for something so we were all looking at the Web page that the user is supposed to use and seeing "Blah blah blah for NamingConvention." We laughed, and MyBoss commented that he thinks we should ship that to our customers. I "innocently" asked, "What's wrong with that? I use the java naming convention at home." Everyone laughed, and I continued with the geek joke, as he asked, "Oh, you do, do you?"

"Yeah," I smiled thinking fast, "refrigerator.TopShelf!"

GoteeBoy started laughing, and took the joke one step further by making a truth statement, "If (dishes == done) then (Granola = happy)."

"No," I corrected him, "If (dishes == done) then (Granola = did them herself)."

Ponderings

Sometimes when I'm all alone in my head to ponder life and my role in it my mind wanders back to ExOfNote and the wonderful times we had together. Tonight was no exception. Often I'm able to forget him, or at least not think of how much he meant — no means — to me. Tonight I wasn't so lucky.

I was sitting in a religion class listening to the teacher talk about how wonderful it is to be married, etc. I generally hate these lessons, the reasons I'm sure you can infer from previous posts. As I sat there listening thinking about nothing in particular a comment made by a class member reminded me of the only time ExOfNote and I ever prayed together.

It was an amazingly tender moment. I don't remember what was the motivation behind it, I'm sure it was one of the many times when we were discussing the possibility of marriage. He said to me, "I think we should pray together. Would you pray with me?" What a sweet moment that was! Prayer is (and rightfully should be) a sacred and precious experience for those engaging in it. I'm not talking about public praying, you know, blessing the food before the Thanksgiving feast, I'm talking about those moments when one steps away from the world, and gets down on their knees and really communes with God. That was the kind of prayer he wanted to share with me, and in that moment, I knew it was the kind I wanted to share with him. I was so touched that I wanted to start weeping at the symbolism of what he was asking me to do. Never before, nor since, have I shared such a precious experience with another human being.

It was at night, and since he was staying at my Grandparents' home while visiting my family, everyone in the house was sleeping. Nevertheless, we stepped out onto their porch, and sat on the edge of some chairs they had out there. He took my hands in his, and bowed his head in humility and began to pray. I don't remember what he said, but I do remember when he asked me, ever so softly, "Granola, is there anything you'd like to say?" "Yes." and then I, too, began my own pleading with our Father in Heaven. I finished, and assumed it was the conclusion, so I said my amens. I was wrong, for ExOfNote took up where I left off, and continued to talk to the Lord. He finished, and said his amens. Then, we just sat there, our hands clasped in each other's each listening to our own heart beat, and feeling whatever it was we were both feeling. I remember the tears that rolled down my cheeks unchecked as my heart brimmed with the love I felt for him. After a time we slipped into a deep hug. It seemed I couldn't get close enough to him. All I wanted to do was hug him, and hold him, and sob into his chest.

It's memories like these that make me wonder if there ever will be another soul who can complete mine so fully. Will I ever find a man who loves me as deeply and helps me want to be a better person than I am? I don't know, but I can hope, can't I?

Questions

Well, it's official. For the first time in my life someone I know has honestly questioned my sexuality. OK then.

Last night PuppyDogsAndBows and I were talking about bulimia, and I mentioned a friend of mine from high school. Unfortunately, I made reference to her thusly, "The girl I was in love with in high school..." An old roommate of mine used to refer to this sort of emotion as a "girl crush." I wasn't really in love with my friend, but I chose to say that, I really don't know why. As soon as I said it I wished I hadn't.

"You really are gay, aren't you, Granola?"

"What? No."

"It's ok if you are. I mean, it's not ok to be gay, but, it's ok if you struggle with those feelings," she reassured me.

Uh, thanks, I think? But, "no. I like boys a whole lot too much to be gay."

"Not even just a little bit? Yes you are!"

Oh, boy. Whatever.

Today at lunch I told the guys that she had asked me if I was gay. MyBoss laughed, "Well, I'm glad she asked, I was kind of wondering myself!" We all sat around and joked about it for a bit (after I, unnecessarily, assured them that I am not), then the conversation naturally moved on.

The thing about it is, if I were gay I would feel much more comfortable "outing" myself to those guys than I would telling my roommates. I don't think that's the way it is supposed to be, but that's the way it is. However, given that I am not gay, it's not exactly an issue now, is it?

Valid Defect

As I have stated before, I work with a variety of geeks. Everyone on my immediate team is generally well adjusted. The same can't be said for the developers with whom we work. They are nice guys, but not always well adjusted. As we are rapidly approaching our Beta 1 ship date, with slips occurring, but not being welcome, you can imagine the stress level of all involved. The developers are more stressed than my team, which is understandable. It turns out in the world of geeks and nerd, when push comes to shove and something has to go, personal hygiene and civility seem to rank on the same level. Civility, I understand (I hate it, but I understand it), personal hygiene, however, I've had to adjust to. Some of the guys I work with, however, are lacking in both — generally.

One such individual, we shall call him SmellySmurf (I hate this name, if I mention him in future posts I'll have to come up with a better name), is a fellow I tend to avoid simply because his office doesn't smell all that nice, and his communication skills are a little sub-par. In addition to this, he thinks he's a genius. Now, he's smart, for sure. I would even venture to say he's very smart. However, he does not get my top vote for Smartest Guy in the Office. No, that distinction is shared between UberGeek (never before mentioned herein), GermanGuy, and GoteeBoy. Frankly, I cower in the shadow of their brilliance.

Tuesday I found a very interesting bug, which I discussed with Carnivore. He agreed that it was odd, and directed me to talk with SmellySmurf. Joy. I logged the bug, then went and talked to him. Unfortunately, I was having a retarded moment, so I referred to the speed on the network card (which is in GHz) as the memory. Now, as we're all computer dorks here, he should have been able to extrapolate what I meant. Tragically, he is lacking in social skills in general, and when I was chatting with him I said memory (again). To which he replied in a superior I-don't-have-time-to-teach-the-likes-of-you-everything-you-should-already-know-about-computers tone of voice, "There is no such thing as memory on a network card. It's speed." Well, duh. We all know that, thank you for insulting my intelligence. You shall now pay for this.

Later I was working on the machine that was having problems when he came over to me and asked me a question about my machine. I explained it to him, at which point he said, "So, the problem is with the machine? I can't do anything about that." Then he shrugged and said smugly, "So, it's not a valid defect."

Oh, no you didn't! Not only had he insulted my intelligence earlier, but he was now telling me that because he didn't want to fix the problem that it wasn't valid. I have never been emotionally attached to a bug before, but he had raised my ire to the point where I was going to make awfully sure he had to fix this bug as soon as possible. "No." I told him, "It is a valid bug. What if our users have the same problem and solution on their box? We can't just tell them it's not going to work."

He didn't like that answer, which was evidenced when he took the only recourse he could, he reassigned the bug back to me with the request for more info, he needed to see the box (that I had spent - literally - all day fixing) in the exact same state it was when the problem occurred. I got that request at 5:30, and I wasn't staying to do his bidding — though I'm sure he was hoping I would.

This morning I rolled up my sleeves and proceeded to break the box that I had fixed the day before. This time however I was armed with the exact two things one needs to be armed with in this situation: (1) The knowledge of precisely what went wrong, how it was fixed, and how to unfix it; and (2) Someone else who is a guy and therefore must know what they are talking about to explain the problem to SmellySmurf.

I returned my box to the desired broken state, and when SmellySmurf took a look at it all he could do was determine that it was, in fact, a valid bug. Ungh! Take that! He spent the better part of his day today working on it, and at this posting we think he may have it fixed. Wonderful.

Now, I just wish that he would acknowledge that it was a valid bug from the start, and realize that there is no call for being a condescending jerk to yours truly.

The moral of this story? No one, but no one maliciously slanders Granola and gets away with it. There will always be pay back, and when it happens you'll rue the day you messed with me. I was really pleased that he got his comeuppance so quickly, despite the fact that he doesn't think he did a thing wrong. Thankfully, I don't have to go back into his office for the rest of the day. My olfactory glands are singing my praises as I type this.

Interesting Read

PuppyDogsAndBows announced on Sunday that she is now keeping a blog. This should prove interesting. I am half tempted to post a link to it here, but I don't think it would be fair to open her up for such public ridicule. After all, she may be nuts, but she's a really nice girl, and she seems to be very genuine in her over-the-top-hyper-dramatic emotions.

However, if she posts bad-poetry on her blog all bets are off, and you're all going to be privy to it.

Middle C

All my life I have wondered what Middle C is, and what purpose it served. When I was a child I determined that Middle C was in the middle of the piano, and that was why it existed and why we called it Middle C. Made sense to me. On Friday I was asking some of the guys how to transpose something from Treble to Bass Clef. They were all unhelpful, until the guy who actually studied music in college walked in. He fixed my drawing on my white board and shed some light on that which we call "Middle C." It was quite an epiphany for me! I was shocked, and wondered why no one had bothered to let me in on this little secret. Why, oh why, did I have to wait until I was old and grey? What a beautiful thing this turned out to be. Now that you are all wondering either what is so great about Middle C or, how I could be so stupid as to not know, let me share the wonders of my discovery with everyone.

Behold!!!

Microwave Meltdown

Last week I was rinsing out my cup in the break-room while MyBoss was microwaving his lunch. We were having a rather stilted conversation, and had wandered into a lull when out of nowhere he mused, "I wonder if this styrofoam cup will melt in the microwave?"

"What!? You're microwaving a styrofoam cup?! You should never microwave styrofoam."

"That bad for you, huh?"

"Uh, yeah. It's worse than microwaving plastic. All those toxic chemicals it releases. Not safe." I sputtered. I can't believe he didn't know one isn't supposed to microwave styrofoam. He embarked on a hunting trip, looking for something else in which to put his lunch. He found a plastic cup which we both agreed was better than styrofoam. He transferred his food, put it back in the microwave, and I continued to rinse out my stoneware mug.

Succinct Advice

Monday was a really interesting day in the life of Granola A. Girl. I called my "twin" sister about it and we had a good talk. I've been debating not posting this, because of the ultra-personal nature, but I also feel I need to get it down, even if it's just so I can look at it and think, "What the heck was I thinking?" So, here's what happened:

I was sitting in my office early in the morning when MyBoss called me to ask me if I remembered when we were tracking down how to do thus-and-such four months ago. "Nope, sorry. I've slept since then." Normally that would elicit at least a chuckle, but I got nothing. Now, a few weird things about this moment, usually he wouldn't call me, he'd come over to my office to ask; and he sounded quite depressed. I wanted to ask him what was going on, and generally I would, except I figured it's really not my place to get involved in some things — like my boss' personal life. I answered his question completely unsatisfactorily, and let the moment go.

Later he didn't join us for lunch, which surprised me. When he finally did appear it was 1 o'clock and we were all heading back to our offices. I had to rinse out my cup from lunch, so I went into the kitchen part of the break-room and found him looking in the microwave at his lunch. "How are you?" I asked chipperly.

"I'm ok." he said with more than a hint of sadness in his voice. "How are you?"

"I'm fabulous." I declared.

"That's great."

"I'm also lying. What's going on?"

"Oh," he sighed, "just life. I guess." Well, the last thing I need in life is to get stuck trying to comfort my boss. I know I'm a good listener, and I apparently give good advice, or else people wouldn't keep coming to me. However, his best friend (aside from his wife, I assume) is GoteeBoy, so MyBoss can just talk to him if he needs something. Plus, it is never a good thing for a woman to be consoling a married man, about whatever.

"I'm sorry." I half mumbled, hoping he wouldn't confide in me. It's really hard for me to not offer the support that people seem to find in me, but I wasn't touching that one. I left him there, staring at his food, looking distraught.

Later that afternoon after our team meeting I caught him and told him I remembered how to do thus-and-such from this morning, and this was how. He thanked me and said he tried something else and that had worked for him. He still didn't sound like he was doing all that well, but I ran away before he had the chance to ask my advice on anything.

I called my sister later and vented at her about all of this stuff. Her advice was as sound as anything I could have possibly said, and more succinct than many people. In her most emphatic tone of voice she ordered me to, "Stay the Hell away from that, Gorp." Ya think.

Styrofoam

BigNameCompany has thoughtfully provided us with a coffee machine and a hot chocolate machine (since the vast majority of the people who work here don't drink coffee). They have also provided styrofoam cups for use with these machines. I really wish people would understand (and appreciate) the implications of continuing to use styrofoam. Every time I see it I want to cringe, and I do, internally.

One day I was visiting the office of one of my coworkers and I noticed he had a stack of these styrofoam cups sitting on his desk. I made some crack about him single-handedly filling the local landfill with his coffee cups. He laughed, but since then I've noticed that he uses just one cup a day. Frequently I joke with him that I'm going to go to the dollar store and pick him up the ugliest cup I can find, and "you'll use it, and be happy about it!"

To which he always retorts, "You're right. Just so I don't have to listen to your b----ing about it!"

All in good fun. The thing about it is, I'm glad that he's using just one cup a day, it doesn't seem like a big deal, but if everyone who is currently using 4 or 5 cups cut down to one, think of the huge effect that will have on everything. I think a lot of humanity's abuses against nature and the environment aren't malicious in nature, they are simply things people just haven't thought about. For that reason, "environmentalists" who always get in other's faces with out first trying the subtle approach really make me mad. I mean, honestly, I have effected a change, and I did almost nothing to elicit the desired response. Perhaps if we could all just strive to be friendly and help other's see our perspective the world would not only be cleaner, but a more peaceful place.

Happy Canadian Thanksgiving!!!

Uh, yeah. That is all. Since I know you all care, this weekend also happens to mark the 7 year anniversary of when ExOfNote and I met.

Passive Aggressive

It's finally happened, I have become passive aggressive.

Sunday night I was doing the dishes for the n-teenth time while my roommate, Freeloader, watched yet another movie. It seems that when she is home the only thing she does is eat and watch movies. She most assuredly doesn't do her dishes when she's finished making tuna (yuck), or any of the other vial boxed creations she eats. While doing the dishes I gave Mumsy a ring and griped to her that I was sick of doing the dishes, and how I know I'm neurotic about them, but is it really that hard to rinse your damn dishes out? I went on to complain that I have yet to clean the washroom in the 2 months that I've lived with them, because I keep hoping that one of them will do it, since it's seriously vial. I wasn't sure if Freeloader could hear me though the door and her movie, but, frankly, I didn't care, and part of me hoped that she could.

Later, I was watching an episode of Alias (she has rented seasons 1-3, we're all addicted, but it takes me a bit longer to get through them all) and I wasn't sure where she was. I got up to get a glass of water and saw her cleaning the washroom.

This morning when I went to shower I noticed that she had not mopped or cleaned the shower. However, she had (thankfully) cleaned the toilet and the sink area. I know I should thank her for doing that much, but in the immortal words of Mumsy, "I shouldn't have to be proud, it should be expected."

Later this morning PuppyDogsAndBows stopped by my office for something, "Did you notice," she asked, undoubtedly having been prompted by Freeloader, "that Freeloader cleaned the bathroom last night?"

"I did notice that she cleaned the toilet and the sink, but she didn't mop or clean the shower."

"She mopped, I saw her."

"Oh, ok." I shrugged.

Great. Now I'm expected to pretend that, whatdoyouknow, she actually did mop! And, shoo wee! I sure am thankful. It really irks me that I have to do things like that.

I am thisclose to making a chore wheel. All this time I thought we were adults. My bad.

Tolerance Level

I have long maintained that I hate Stupid People. You know, those people who are too dumb to function. However, until yesterday I hadn't realized that my tolerance level for stupid people had diminished as far as it has. I think it's a direct result of working with such smart people, and being spared much interaction with the morons of the world. Rest assured, Stupid People are in a completely different category from the mentally challenged.

Now, you're all wondering what I could have possibly encountered that classifies as Stupid (more so than PuppyDogsAndBows who isn't stupid so much a nuts! (oh, and Blond)).

I was at the Sonic drive through and made my request right off the menu, "I'd like a Grilled Chicken Sandwich, please?" (I was craving the protein, step off, I never said I was full vegan).

"Would you like that as a 'Toaster' or a burger?"

"Um, a Grilled Chicken Sandwich." I repeated as I searched the 'Toaster' menu for something resembling the Grilled Chicken Sandwich that was prominently displayed on (what I was soon to learn was) the burger menu.

"As a 'Toaster' or a burger?"

Well, since she's too dumb to know her own menu I conceded, "A burger." Can a grilled chicken breast really be considered a burger? I still don't know.

I went on to order the rest of my meal, then she (thankfully) read my order back to me, "So, that's a Chicken Toaster, blah blah blah."

"No." I said, perhaps a bit too shortly, "I want a Grilled Chicken Sandwich. A Buurgeer." I guess you have to dumb things down for some people.

"I'm sorry, it's six thirty." I glanced at my clock, sure enough, it was right around 6:30-ish, but that's no excuse. As I made my way to the window I realized she had meant my total was 6.30. Whoops. Silly me.

I dug around in my purse and found a $10 bill, a $1 bill, and two quarters. When I reached the window I handed these to her. She took them, closed her little window, picked her nose (I think it helps her count) then she opened the window back up, "Um," she said in that way that indicates the next thing out of her mouth was going to be inane, "Your total is $6.30. You gave me $11.50." What the Hell? Do they expect exact change these days?

Assuming that the mental calculations were too strenuous I helped her out, "So, if you give me a 5 back..." I figured I could stop holding her hand at that point. Thankfully, I was right.

"Oh! You're right!" she exclaimed happily as she punched in the amount I had given her. Then she waited for the computer to do the calculations and tell her how much to give me back, and pulled the five dollar bill out of her till.

I double checked my order before I pulled away.

Granola — Trail Mix

This now in: We have received word that the CD someone *cough*me*cough* owes someone else *cough*Laziest*cough* has finally made it back from press. Anyone wishing their own lovely copy should email me with their snail mail address (tragically, this includes you, Laziest, since the CD makers took so long to press the CD I have lost your address). And be prepared to send one of your own creationg back, chalk-full of songs.

Exciting, isn't it!

Husband? Kids?

Friday evening PuppyDogsAndBows called me at work to see if I wanted to go up to Salt Lake with her. Not particularly, but it's a long drive and I figured she was desperate for company, so I agreed. I got home a little after five and we headed straight into rush hour traffic. The normal 45 minute drive took us almost 2 hours. With about 30 minutes left in the drive she said something to the effect of "when you get married..."

"Well," I replied, mainly because she is constantly bringing this up, and I felt like I had better re-address the issue while it was on the table, "I'm not sure I want to get married."

"Yes you do." Oh. Well, put that way, I guess I do. I don't know what I've been thinking all this time! "Don't you want children?"

"I'm not sure if I do or not?"

"Of course you want children!" Well, if you already know the answer why do you ask the questions?

This launched us into a long discussion on how I have to want to get married and have kids, because doing so it an intricate part of our religion. Ok, it is, but there are lots of things that are intricate parts of our religion and there are many good people who struggle with them. Just because I'm not sure if I want to be married or not doesn't make me a bad person.

"Don't you want to have sex? Can you imagine never having sex? Or having true joy? Or being married? Or having kids?"

"Maybe I have had sex before. Maybe I'm divorced, maybe I have kids that I haven't mentioned. Maybe I'm gay."

"No, you're not. You would have told us. It would have come out."

Now, this probably won't come as a surprise to you, dear reader, but apparently she was shocked to learn that I wouldn't tell her everything. Frankly, if I were gay, she would be the last person I would tell. My roommates are really nice girls, and I wouldn't say they are necessarily homo-phobic, but they are certainly not understanding of homosexuality, or remotely sensitive to those who are gay. I've been present for their jokes, and it is not exactly an environment that one would feel comfortable outing themselves in.

She continued to argue that there is no way that I could have hidden my sexuality, a divorce, or children from her.

As we were talking I thought of a good way to (maybe) get her to see my point and took it. "Maybe there are underlying reasons why I don't want to get married that you're not privy to? Maybe psychological reasons. I mean think about it. If I were gay the last thing on this earth I would want to do is marry a man and have sex with him!"

She really didn't like that response. We argued about that for a while, then she said, "You're not gay!" Oh, brilliant argument, tell me what you think I am, how I feel, based on what you are and how you feel. She seems to do this a lot. Finally, I pushed her to the point where she felt she had to ask, "Are you gay, Granola?"

"No, I like men too much to be gay, but that's not the point!" Right, like I would tell her anyway. Um, if I've lived a lie this long, I really don't think that I would have changed anything at this point just because she asked me out-right.

We talked on about how gay people should want to be married to members of the opposite gender (it's ok if you think that this statement is completely insane, I didn't claim it as my own). Her arguments were getting to be more and more inane. Finally I busted out my trump card. The one thing she couldn't argue with: Personal experience. "When I was dating GayPat (yes, I really call him 'GayHisName' — just not to his face) ..."

As it turns out, she feels that she can argue with personal experience, as she demonstrated when she every so politely (where by politely I mean rudely) interrupted me, "You were not dating him!" Like I said before, she seems to tell me what I do and don't do often.

"Yes, we were."

"You were not. You told me yourself that you never kissed him, or cuddled with him. You were not dating!"

Now, I hate to be the one to ruin this little fantasy world she lives in, but there are people out there who get married before ever kissing. Would you presume to tell them that they had never dated? Also, I said we dated, not that he was my boyfriend. I, apparently, have are slightly more firm grasp on the subject than she. "Yes, we were." I maturely argued back. "Oh, and we did cuddle. I never said we didn't. We did all the time, I just never kissed him. And, what do you call it when a guy picks you up from work every day and takes you back to his house where he cooks you dinner and then you spend the rest of the evening together watching a movie and cuddling?"

"You were not dating!" She cried,dodgingg a very obvious question.

"Look," I exclaimed, realizing that she will never accept the fact that I did, in deed, date a gay man for four months, "I don't care if you think we dated or not. Frankly, it doesn't matter to me, and it doesn't change what happened. But, for the sake of this discussion, pretend with me that we did!" Ironically, she firmly agrees with me that despite the fact that there was no ring exchanged and no formal asking, ExOfNote and I were practically engaged. Funny how her tune changes when the male in question is of the correct persuasion. Also ironic is the fact that GayPat has referred to us dating before, as well. This is a fact we are both firmly aware of, and one she won't accept. Ok then.

The argument continued, with mesteeringg it away from my hypothetical homosexuality. Finally we just both shut up. Me because I couldn't care less, and she, because she couldn't be more pissed off. What I really don't understand is why she feels it her responsibility (and how she can possibly presume that arguing with me for 30 minutes is going to change my opinion) to make sure that I change my mind and decide right. this. second. that I am going to get married. I also have a hard time understanding what is so difficult about grasping the difference between, "I'm not sure if I want to have kids" and "I want to not have kids."

Oh, I almost left out my favorite part of the discussion. I said that I didn't think that God would hold my indecision about whether or not I wanted to have kids against me to which she replied, "Well, I want to have sex all the time, so I go out and have sex all the time. But, I don't think God will hold that against me." I tried to explain to her that there is a difference between action and confusion. If I were sure that I never wanted kids and took active measures to prevent myself from ever being able to conceive (I believe I used the term "hysterectomy"), then God may hold it against me (and, as we all know, there are some people who should never have kids. Is God going to punish them for being aware of that fact and making sure that they take actions to prevent it from occuring? I belive not. She, on the other hand, does. I asked.). It's all about actions. Being unsure is not a damn-able offense. Actively acting against what you believe to be true is (presuming that what you believe to be true is, in deed, true).

Happy Birthday, Pop!

Today is my Dad's birthday, and in honor of such a day, he gets a mention in my blog. Not that he reads it, but what can you do?

So, happy 59th Dad-do. Man, you're old.

Wedding Reception

A good friend of mine got married last weekend, so I got to drive all the way up to downtown Salt Lake for the reception at his parents' home. It's a beautiful place, frankly I wasn't surprised.

After I had wandered around all by myself for a bit I was about ready to head out, but as I was leaving I ran into a mutual friend from school. It's been ages, so it was wonderful to see him. He happened to have another friend with him whom I've never met before, but who is also friends with the groom. The three of us stayed glued to each other for the rest of the evening. The guy I just met was really fun, and we had a great time. As the evening wore on, it got increasingly more chilly out. In an effort to warm ourselves I linked arms indiscriminately with either man and we huddled close. I'm sure we made a really interesting group for those around us: two boys and one girl, who didn't care who she was clinging to. As I sit here typing this I keep thinking about the boys I was with. My friend is from Ghana, and his friend is from the Middle East somewhere. So the mental image is: this pale red head standing around with a dark Middle Easterner, and a very dark African. We were the most ethnically diverse people around (not that I had anything to do with the diversity). Funny, until just now I hadn't really thought about that.

As we were meeting strangers who we'll never see again my friend from Salt Lake introduced us to his mother. I was tucked close to my friend from Ghana as we introduced ourselves around. She asked him how he spelled his rather unique name and then what his last name was, and how he spelled it. I laughed and exclaimed, "I still don't know how to spell his first name!" She laughed, too. I'm sure she thought I was kidding, since she undoubtedly assumed that he and I were involved. I love that about Utah. Spend five minutes with someone publicly and you're assumed to be dating.

At the end of the reception my friend's new wife was tossing the bouquet. The boys encouraged me to join in the "fun." As she turned away from us I called out to her to throw it to the side that I wasn't on. Her loving husband told her to throw it in my direction. Surprising to us all was the moment that I actually caught the stupid thing. I tried to give it back to her before I left, but she told me to keep it. So, now I am drying it, and shall ship it back to them along with their wedding gift. I don't know if she'll want it, but I do know that he will. That boy is more of a girl than I am.