I'm pretty sure no one but me can read this and still love me.

I cannot stand hearing that ugly accent asking for a certain co-worker of mine when I pick up the work phone. Sometimes whoever it is mumbles, too, which I find very disturbing. Maybe it's not even the same person but it drives me nuts. Why does it bother me? I think partially it is because while English is associated (in my mind) with my own culture, that accent is associated (in my mind) with stupidity. So I somehow come out feeling that whoever it is just called my culture (and by extension myself) stupid. I think this makes me some sort of linguistical-elitist and/or socialist. Thoughts?

Also the mumbling seems disrespectful because it feels like whoever-this-is has decided he/she/it can be lazy about MOVING THEIR FRIGGING MOUTH and expect me to put forth extra effort to interpret the garbled message they give me. So I always say, even when I somehow manage to understand him/her/it the first time, "I'm sorry, WHAT??" That way this lazy, rude, mumbling him/her/it has to repeat the message and thereby expend more effort. Sometimes I make whoever-it-is repeat it multiple times. In other words, mumbling-throat: I'm totally messing with you, Suckah!

In other news, I'm dating a republican. Freaky, I know, right? Somebody call the X-files because an alien has invaded Cathlin's body and is making her do CRAZY stuff. Anywho, some random problems with the ideological differences in the relationship (unsurprisingly, all of these are my fault):

1. When I read political news and find myself trudging through the sludge of the comments section, I find myself reading every republican/tea party/gun-slinging, hate throwing, right wing meanie-head comment and then associated them all with him. This means at the end of the day, without even knowing it, he has managed to insult me and and my political opinions dozens of times, with a smattering of profanity, misspellings, and death threats thrown in for good measure. I honestly find myself thinking "How can I be dating someone who would write this sort of filth?" and then I find myself thinking "How can HE be dating anyone who is so obviously confused and delusional?"

2. Sometimes when he isn't around and my family starts joking about republicans I get this weird mother-bear instinct and have to restrain myself from threatening to leave the family if they don't STOP INSULTING MY BOYFRIEND! I. Am. Nuts.

3. I spend significant portions of our time together (while we are talking, driving, watching movies, and even eating) poking him in the face. This really has nothing to do with our political differences, and I can offer no real explanation for why I do it. I'm just putting it out there as further proof of that this post's title is an apt one.

Spelling Lessons

O is for Old, because he kinda looks it now.
B is for Barack, because it's his first name (duh).
A is for American. Or America. Or Armpit.
M is for Mayonaise, because it's almost lunchtime.
A is for American Armpit. I already told you that. What, you want a different word for each letter? Well, then you should have voted for Obami or Obamu or Obamt. Yeah. Obamt, I like that one.

Obamt: To be obalmost as obawesome as me.

Happy Friday, Everybody!

I am officially an April-idiot.

None of the following are in anyway related. This sentence is superfluous. China.

I've been slowly but surely developing a love affair with putting periods behind every. word. in. a. sentence. It makes me feel--relevant? Revelatory? Punctual?

I don't want to go into too many details here, but have you ever seen the movie "Meet the Parents"? I hated that show. However, it taught me a valuable lesson: I don't wanna "meet the parents". Oh wait, I already did that and it wasn't that bad at all. But still, I don't want to have the parents meet the parents! And since I am relatively sure none of the people directly involved in this situation read this blog (Except Mom. Hey Mom!) I'm gonna go ahead and admit that. Partially because I can feel the awkward now, but mostly because I'M NOT FRIGGING FRAGGING FROGGING ENGAGED SO DON'T GET ANY CRAZY IDEAS PEOPLE! Whew. That felt good. And just in case I was wrong about the whole "they don't read this" thing...erm...hey there Smoochy, how was your day?

In other news, can I just say, I love DC in the spring time? It's not just the cherry blossoms (But that's part of it, and it's awesome, so be jealous, obviously). But there are these flowers, and fountains, and festivals! And lately, waiting for my bus has been a little less like a strange form of freeze-the-snot-in-your-nose torture. Plus: can you say "Cardigan Season"? Not that every season isn't cardy season for me, just that the stores are selling them now so I can restock for the next few months. What? You think my ever-present cardigan is a bad fashion choice? You want I should don a medieval cape and dress instead? Because I've seen people who do that and it is SO MUCH WEIRDER than me!

Lastly, I bought this flavored water today (and visions of the plastic bottle spending an eternity in a land fill have been dancing in my head ever since.) But anyway, flavored water + vitamins. And, okay, so I don't really care what vitamins the stuff has as long as it tastes good. Which means I didn't read anything on the label other than "black cherry-lime" before whisking it through the self-checkout. Now, half a bottle into it I just checked the label again and actually looked at the vitamins it offers. Among vitamins c, a, and e you know what this little darling has been loading me up with for the past three hours? "40 mg caffeine". That's right. The girl who never drinks caffeine in any form just bought herself some buzz-juice that will have her awake and jiving to the beat of her own drum for the next 12 hours at least. I have April-fooled myself. Awesome.

Represent A. Tive, Esq.

Down 20th street to Constitution, I pass security guards at various checkpoints, though I've never taken the time to identify the specific buildings they guard. Eventually, after the stop-and-go rhythms of walk signals and traffic lights, I reach the footpaths. They are paved in concrete, in asphalt, in cobblestones, in sand. They twist and wind around each other, ordered in their disorder. Most days I choose a light concrete path and let it lead me to the white stone temple where Lincoln sits, enthroned and mildly menacing to us, poor tiny mortals gazing up at him. I've wondered, many times, what it is we worship in that temple; for we worship something, some vague American thing.

Rarely, in fact only once have a taken that first right turn onto another footpath sloping gently into disaster. On that path thick black stones rise slowly higher as I pass, first to my knees, then my shoulder until finally they tower over me, reflecting my image back to me through a haze of dead men's names. I feel strange there, guilty. It is not my war. I cannot reconcile with it, claim it, comprehend it. The other war memorials here are kinder to me. They splay out easily, telling me their tales of honor won and wrong defeated. They do not mix tragedy with victory. They do not bury me in dead men's names.

Washington's is as unambiguous as they come. I do not go too close to that memorial, of course. I am not welcome there, not really. I am American, yes, and a patriot too. But there is something uniquely unwelcoming to me, as a woman, about the towering phallic symbol.

On the way back, walking north again toward Pennsylvania Avenue, I pass Isabella Reina. She is surprisingly short, and almost crudely shaped in iron turned all shades of blue and green. Perhaps because her placard is in Spanish, perhaps because she stands just off the beaten path, or perhaps because she is a woman among so many men, I find I like her best of all.

Honor Code Rebellion....or not.

So I went to BYU. If you don't know what that is...google it. Anyway, I had this relationship of tension with the Honor code. On the one hand, I was desperate not to fit in. As a friend of mine likes to say, I needed to be different just like everybody else. On the other hand, I honestly liked the code and would have lived by it, or wanted to live by it, anyway. No boys in the bedroom? 'Kay, my bedroom is kinda messy anyway and it's nice to know I can walk into my room in nothing but a bathrobe and not find my roommate's boy-toy sitting next to my underwear drawer. (Yes, I just referenced partial nudity AND underwear in the same post. Are you freaking out? because I know I am.) No smoking? Awesome, I choose a cancer-free life whenever I can. No male visitors past midnight? Whatev' yo. I can handle a dude-free home after hours (see the above references to nudity and undies) and when I really did need some testosterone in my life past midnight no dorm-wide curfew could have stopped us. (Word to the wise for all you Zoobies out there, Rock Canyon park is not too far from DT and makes for excellent make out turf. Yes, Mom, it so happened. More than once...) Modest clothing? Great! The last thing we need is more uninhibited muffin-tops and cleavage rolling around in this country, and I've always been a fan of layers anyway. The day I discovered the cardigan, well, that my friends was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Even some of the "weirder" rules suited me just fine. Take the "clean shaven" rule for example: Have you ever tried to make out with an unshaven male? Trust me, clean shaven is the way to go.

Anyway, the point is I couldn't rebel against the Honor Code or even really be upset about it because it didn't ask me to do or not do anything I would have done or not done anyway. And the "we shouldn't have to be compelled" argument just doesn't hold water for me because when it comes bathrobes and panties I like to know my roommate is on board with the no-boys-in-the-bedroom rule. So how does one rebel against a system that neither represses nor even really annoys one?

Easy. Vote democrat.

Modern Conveniences or Why I Am a Spoiled Brat

I woke up Saturday morning to a white filled world. The snow continued to fall all day, trapping my in my own house. And of course, my internet wasn't working.

Four days later, it's finally working again. Come on, comcast, get it together! I can't survive four days without internet access.

Who do they think I am, George Washington?

Gloria McAwesomeface

80% of Americans claim they want to write a book.
5% of those get past the first chapter.
less than .01% of those get published at all.

Get this, one of those less than .01% of 5% of 80% people?

She's totally my sister.

I hereby claim awesomeness-by-association.