Why is "Angels" considered RobbieWilliams's best song? At the last Brit awards, it was even voted the best British pop song of the past 20 years! Which it can't be, because "Eternity" is better. I'd buy it, but the CD/DVD on my computer just broke, and crashes my computer/prevents it from booting up whenever a CD or DVD is in the drive. And I don't have a proper CD player, and won't buy one right now, because it would just be another thing to lug back up to Scotland in a few months.

I know that no one wants to know about my academic life, but I'm in a celebratory mood this week because I've just gotten my second semester marks back, and they are rather good.

But I'd be in a celebratory mood anyway, because of all the codeine in my system...needles and surgery suck, but the fun painkillers you get to take afterwards are great fun! And the wound only needed two stitches - they're big stiches with about 5 strands of thread each, but still -

even my chin took 5 or 6 when I split it open as a kindergartener...right before Christmas, split it open to the bone on the arm of a wooden chair, went straight into shock, and skipped back into the kitchen to finish making cookies with my mom. She was so calm about it all, too. Looked at my face, probably raised an eyebrow, then told me to go to the bathroom mirror and take a look at myself. Then we drove to the emergency room andI looked ridiculous in all of the Christmas pictures that year because there was big band-aid stretched across my chin.

life rules so hardcore right now.

back to frantic research/ data entry.

Why am I allowed to even interact with boys? For serious--I mangle and manhandle everything that wanders unsuspectingly into my path--my romantic life is a series of events that revolve around me trying to make people better, sort of succeeding, then tripping and crushing them because I'm a cold heartless bitch who can't emote love no matter how deserving the individual. I've got to just stop intercting with people--I only make things worse, despite my good intentions.

In the model of my latest pledge to honesty, let's take my present relationship. While i've been whining about not having a man in my life, the truth is that I've been sort of seeing someone on and off for about 7 months now, though things have become more intense as of April or so. I use the phrase "sort of seeing" because there have been, from the get-go, several reasons why this is not a proper dating relationship:
1) said almost-boyfriend is deeply religious, and by religious I mean "not mormon"
2) said almost-boyfriend lives, like, 3,000 miles away, and we met over the internet, so I haven't actually met him in person
3) said almost-boyfriend is moving to Durham in a few months
4) being stubborn and icy, I am not in love with said almost-boyfriend
All of this being a shame, because said almost-boyfriend is the most darling, sweet, brilliant, funny man I have ever met, a man I trust and feel comfortable with and adore. But despite the fact that he is the closest thing I have found to what I'm looking for, I still have that old reoccuring problem of not being able to find that mixture of excitement, assurity, passion, completion, and obsession that can be loosely catagorizied under "love". Which makes no sense, really, and makes me question my own sanity.

So said almost-boyfriend and I have developed a medieval romantic ideal--a strange, goregeous romance of trust, devotion, and text-message eroticism. I am about to fly said boyfriend down to meet me and the family, and ask him if he will be comfortable with a physical relationship when he's here. And he's not. Which of course wasn't suprising, as i seem to attract boyfriends who want to have commitment, or things nailed down and just-so for the action of physicality to be moral. Which of course is how it should be, but I've never really believed that (for me) one must have a defined relationship to be phyisically intimate. However, said boyfriend gave his points and reasons, and I accepted them, and figured that since physicality was out of the question, perhaps the x-rated text messaging should probably stop as well. This got us into a discussion about "where this was going" and ended up with me (as usual) mangling feelings by being tactless or unecessarily brusque and after like 7 hours my lovely, darling almost-boyfriend has decided I am too painful to be around and has signed off on our weblog (see Literary Dissentary <---) and is refusing to answer my text messages. Which breaks my heart, as this man is the only person I ever talk to, and really the best thing to happen to me in ages.

It isn't as if, oh, every single relationship since 15 has ended this way. It's just that almost-boyfriend was such a gentle, fragile, beautiful find--and i tried so hard to be careful and supportive and calm, and now i've gone and hurt him more than if he'd never met me.

Which of course brings me back to the topic of: What's Wrong With Me? The closest thing to love I've ever felt was when I was 15, and that was with a girl, so it was emotional quivering and desire--a situation that where all the emotions felt right, but without much physical attraction. And then of course there was college, the most salient example of which is mark, who i wanted to jump at every opportunity for every conceivable reason but couldn't feel that sense of trust, obsession, comfort, and certainty that seems to be part of love. And now I have a man that is practically tailor-made for me and I don't feel whatever it is I'm rationally supposed to feel and it's killing me. And almost-boyfriend doesn't deserve it, because he's such a perfect example of chivalry and kindness that he might be translated at any minute. And I've ruined everything. Again.

I don't know why I'm incapable of proper feeling, why deep down I am incredibly hard and flinty, but as a romantic, it is a dichotomy that is creating a lot of problems. I'm going to end up like maureen and move into random friends' houses and eat all their food, messing up their kitchen and using their phones for long distance calls because i can't keep down a job and pay my own rent. I'll buy a hamster, which has moths in it's cage, and let these moths roam free in my friends' houses. I'll borrow things without asking, ruin antique furniture, and leave my socks everywhere. Then maybe, everyone will get sick of me and finally ask me to leave and i'll never have to worry about hurting anyone's feelings ever again.

That said, I'm not really angry or sad- just a bit disappointed in myself. I pulled myself out of my hate-mood, and mom found me a lovely sparkly shirt at marshall's. I am remarkably happy, as winter is over and my seasonal depression can end. I hope things will turn around. I don't want to spend summer alone.

It's too hot in here for hothouse flowers

Let's talk about my trip to Denver this weekend.

I'm going to preface this by saying I'm in a foul temper. I've been yelling and sulking all day over my trading platform malfuntioning, effectivly eliminating an entire day of work. Then I ended up going out for an 'errand' at the new center which devolved into a 6 hour marathon of assembling shoe racks and comparing carpet and tile samples with paintings. And don't even get me started on the stress that only 1 person has so far signed up for a scan when the opening of the center is next week, nor the fact that I returned from a 12 hour car trip to find maureen had trashed my antique furniture and (inexplicably) allowed 30 small moths to spawn and roost. I am one big ball of hate.

But Denver. Margaret had been commissioned to paint several large canvases for the new center, which meant good times when we tried to shove them in the back of her Mini and drive 8 hours to Denver to meet up with the Fam. This meant that the paintings kept hitting the back of my head, so I had to twist my body at an abhorrent angle to be able to sit in anything approaching comfort.

Margaret is the greatest mix-tape master known to man. Truly, i have never seen anything approximating her skills. She made a set of 15 CD's for the the trip, each CD containing the best in a particular genre or mood--leading to such compelling and fascinating mixes such as the "eurotrash-club CD", "all time best pop mix", "pop punk", "Intelligent hip hop", "ambiant icelandic", and "90's nostalgia". I was most impressed by the intelligent hip hop mix, which was of course all prefuse 73, aesop rock, atmosphere, and beck's spanish-hip-hop forays. Soooo delicious! Almost made up for my neck and the humiliation margaret made sure I felt for my insolance in asking for 2 bathroom breaks over the course of 8 hours. Yes, the horrible truth comes out: I have a small bladder. I would say a lrage portion of my time is devoted to hiding this fact from my family, friends, and loved ones, as it is a source of shame, living in a family of amazonian woman who only pee once or twice a year. This may be unsexy, but hey: I am sticking by points 2) and 3) in my resolution. I will lay the truth about my endocrinic track on the line for the good of the many.

Saturday we pick up dad from the airport and waste time shopping, puttering around the mall. Jordan and Zach wanted to go into Hot Topic, so I volunteered. The faux-gothy, very angry employee rolled her eyes at us--me in jeans and a magenta top, my little brother and sister in perfectly innocuous, preppy clothes. And then my sister goes behind the counter to coo at the spiked belts, and my brother asks her very politely where the studded collars are. I am not making this up. One of the good things about living in our family is that, by default of how all the elder daughters dress (goth indie punk whathaveyou) and the people we bring home (burly dykes, elegantly transgendered, indierocksluts, hip hop emo stars, homeless skaters, black coated philosophers), Zach and Jordan have seen, talked, and played with just about everyone, and as such, are completely unaffected when they meet strange-looking people. Thus, our angry Hot Topic employee, who was no doubt used to children staring at her, was positively charmed by my siblings. They walked around the store, eagerly pointing to the Invader Zim memerobilia, shouting out Napoleon Dynamite Quotes, and dragging me over to the Aqua Teen Hunger Force display. I doubt she had ever seen such with it kids who were so uniformally charming-they complimented her braclets and asked which skull rings she liked best. Totally cute.

Saw Bewitched. Was very cute, very sweet and innocent, like everything Nora Ephron touches (favorite line: "Don't be the mayor of Pussyville. Be the sherriff of Ballstown!"). However, nothing actually stayed with you. I left the movie theatre and immedialy forgot everything. It was a movie that left absolutely no impression on me whatsoever. And Will Ferrell wasn't allowed free reign. There needs to be more of that.

Before going to Casa Bonita, we decided to make a detour off Colfax to visit Theresa, an old friend of ours from our ward who moved to Denver to help nurse her mother. Theresa's a computer programmer who lives with her 10 cats in a small house in a cute, not-entirely-safe part of town. She has turned 87% of her yard into an herb/vegetable garden, and spends her free time as relief society president helping the poor become self-sufficiant. She is truly one of the greatest women I know. We spent a couple hours picking fruit and vegetables and chatting as she taught me all about the different herbs that grew about. She accepted our offer to be part of the festivities.

Last time I went to Casa Bonita (last April, with Allie, the late Mark, Margaret, and Andrew) we went on a weeknight, very late, so the place was practically abandoned and half the rides/activities were closed. Arriving 6pm on a saturday was an entirely different beast--dozens of people, all the photo booths open, puppet shows, tandem cliff divers. The staff was slightly less depressed, and the food was similarly terrible. I made my family dress up in Wild West clothes and take an old-timey photo because I am a tool like that. Margaret looks like she's in Vogue. It is not easy being the sister of an incredibly hot abnormality.

The ride back was a disaster. Julia had a habit throughout the trip of being very selfish and belligerent, and whenever she was called on it, she would become defensive and physically violent. This attitude continued in the car ride, where she complained about the music, hit everyone, and yelled. She made me turn off the Apples in Stereo. Apples in Stereo! Come on!

Then we came back home and maureen had torn our house apart like a frickin' bull in a china cabinet. I don't even have the strength to go into this today--i'll save it for later. suffice to say, that woman is killing me

I was going to post about being lonely, and then I realized it: I have been posting for almost 4 years. I secretly fear I'm sounding like a broken record. Let's be honest-my posts can be distilled to one of the following categories
1) I am so awesome
2) I hate myself and all of you
3) No really, have I mentioned how awesome I am?
4) I am fat
5) I am smarter and more socially aware than you

I haven't read the posts, so maybe I'm wrong--maybe there has been a slow evolution from self-indulgent whining to genuine struggle and strength. In fact, I know there's some development because I'm not as brutally honest as I used to be, I'm not as emotional, and I'm more secure, but freak--it's such a slow, circular evolution--what ol' Bob Pinsky would call the figured wheel. I can't believe people still read this.

Reading this Jason Mulgrew site has been inspirational to me and how I feel I should use this space. Yes, Jason Mulgrew is the complete polar opposite of every value I hold. Yes, I think he's sleazy and amoral, but dang it if it is not the most addictive and entertaining train wreck I've ever seen. I am resolved to try (good luck) to do more of the following:
1) more frequent updates.
--JM (we're on an initialism basis now) updates every day. I shall heretofor try and give anecdotes and stories at least once a day, no matter how trivial. You, the reader, deserve something to reward you for bothering to visit us in the first place.
2) be more honest
--After a couple of very nasty interactions with people, I started being very careful about who I was offending, who I was calling out, and generally what I was saying. So I would be less than honest, I would try and pretty up things or avoid mentioning developments in my life for fear that other's will judge them. This is not good entertainment. I will cease to lie to you. I will also not use the weblog as a weapon.
3) be more 'real'
--I suppose this is under the caveat of honesty, but still applicable. I tend, when relating stories, to try and embellish and smooth over edges in order to make myself look better--smarter, more indie, more polished and controlled. Now, while I will never be able to give up embellishment and poetics, I can promise to show you all the stupid things I do, think, or say. I believe I've finally reached the stage of development where I have the confidence not to care whether or not I look like a rational conservative or a religious objectivist. I have nothing to justify.

Now let's get back to talking about how awesome I am

I drove down to work this afternoon to finish up a few things. As I got out of my car, a fat white guy was wheeling a bicycle down the sidewalk. He stopped, looked me over, and said, "wow. you don't get outside much," commenting on the pale whiteness of my legs. I made a face and replied, "give me a fucking break, will you?"

I should have said, "wow. you eat a lot of cheese burgers."

When did it become OK to walk up to a complete stranger and criticize her appearance? And why didn't I have the smarts to throw that shit right back at him?

The world is full of stupid motherfuckers!

So The Catatonics played a show last night. Honestly? We've played better. But it went OK for our first go at it with Adam. It was nice to crank it up loud and have some space to rock out on stage. And there were a few moments where things really fell into place beautifully.

Adam let us put eyeliner on him, and Laks and I dressed up cute. So even if we didn't sound perfect, we looked fantastic. Pictures soon.

After we played, we drank a tad too much, and things got rather silly. At one point, Lakshmi hit on a collie. When the dog decided to abandon her to check out a chicken bone, she said, "oh well. I guess short skirts can only get you so far."

The weirdest part of the night was definitely when they paid us $30 on our way out. Holy moly. All those steeply discounted drinks plus getting paid .... I don't think you can beat the Red Line Tap.

Anyway, we're playing the Big Horse on Thursday. They love us there and they'll be nice to you all if you come. It'll be cool. Here is the poster for the show.

Suddenly, completing my Rotary required presentations in Chicago doesn't seem so bad. I've just been online checking club meeting times, and realized that they list the restaurants the clubs meet at, too. So, if I plan this right, I can go home next December and for two weeks have a free meal at the restaurant of my choice. After nine months of Yorkshire puddings and cheese salads *blech* with Nottingham clubs, I am really looking forward to visiting the BG club at LouMalnati's.

Check it before I forget:
The Catatonics, Tomorrow, June 25. 9 p.m. at the Red Line Tap. This will be cool. Our band is getting pretty good, so you should check it out.

I am fucking losing my mind trying to figure out what screwed up this blog. I cannot make it work again the way it was before. The css definition for "p" is not having ANY IMPACT on the way the blog entries look. WHYYYY? I added extra HTML to make it look normal. When did this happen? What set it off? Please someone tell me how this happened before I go absolutely nuts. I can't find anything. Did someone use a blockquote that I missed? Because sometimes that screws us up. But never to this extent. ARRRRRR.

April 29, 2004
A word about me and vodka: I love vodka. Those who know me well know I don't love anything, but I love vodka. Spinach is to Popeye what vodka is to me. I can't describe how it makes me feel, because I am not articulate enough. It completely transforms me, and fuels me like no other. If I ever get to be famous, I will have a whole room full of ice cold vodka, and I will die in that room peacefully, drinking that vodka, with my pants off, eating the world's biggest taco, with sour cream and guacamole smeared on my bare chest like it's an artist's palate, and Mazzy Star's "Fade Into You" blasting on repeat in the background.

May 3, 2004:
The horrible beauty of doing shots is the delayed reaction. Immediately after taking the shot, you might feel a little queasy, but the full effect hasn't really hit you yet. That doesn't happen until you try to get off the barstool to take a piss, and you fall down and break your wrist because your skimpy girlish wrist isn't strong enough to break your fall and can't stop 200+ pounds of drunken maniac and fury falling to the ground. Not that I've ever done that.

A couple weeks ago I stumbled across ThePhatPhree.com while wasting time On Tom Sherman's weblog. Since then, the mix of faux-irony, unaware self-embarassment, and genuine sexism has proved intoxicating. Then, People Magazine, who I trust more than any other tabloid, ran an article on Jason Mulgrew, one of their hottest Blog Bachelors. So I went to his website and have been instantly hooked--a feat no other weblog has been able to do for me yet. He's a bit like The--a humble background, a bit too smart, a bit sick of rich people, but confessionally honest about his self-perceived shortcomings.

There's something in Jason's style that is funny and sad--what I love the best (from a voyeuristic point of view) is that he's not trying to make himself come across as decent, relatable, or even dignified. Everything is presented: verbatium conversations, jokes that fail, addictions to Taco Bell. I don't know. There's something to be said for honesty, I guess. I can't get enough of it though.

I'm going to Casa Bonita tomorrow (again!), so I'll be seeing you when I'm back in Dallas. We'll see if Maureen and her boxes are out of my room by then.

And the I-Pod, well, I don’t think I need to go into its advantages. I feel like a dinosaur on the subway with my cd player. I can sense the I-Pod people looking at me with condescension as I fumble through my cd booklet, trying to switch cds from Color Me Badd to Tevin Campbell.

It kinda reminds me of that old anti-smoking commercial – remember the one? A bunch of young people are at a party, and this good-looking guy sees this attractive girl across the room and starts making his way over to her, but then retreats when she lights up. It works the same way with the I-Pod: all smiles with the cute girl who’s rocking out on hers on the subway, until I take out my Sony Car-Ready CD Walkman® and my Trex® cd carrying case, and she looks away in disgust.
---from JasonMulgrew.com

On Sunday i ran into Phillip Wensel, a boy who I was madly crushing on when I was 16. He moved out of our ward before I was able to embarrass myself by pursuing him (though his very German mother had expressed a desire to see us hook up). As I was leaving church, he was coming in for a later meeting. I stopped him and said, "wait, you were in my ward," and he looks at me and snaps his fingers, "Back in Dallas, I knew you. Phil Wensel." So I shake his hand and say, "Mary Jones. I had the biggest crush on you ever when I was 16." He laughed and got a bit embarrassed, talked to me a bit about his mission to Finland, and then I let him go so he wouldn't be late. I bring up this meeting to illustrate 2 important points:
1) When fate takes a hand, I never shake it
2) Always let your past crushes no, because it makes their day.

Chad was asking me the other day why I drink as much coke as I do (my intake is much, much heavier than it was in college, if you can believe that). I was searching for answers--stress at home, instant gratification, but then I stumbled onto a profound truth: I am torturing myself. Ever since I moved back at home, I've denied myself almost every type of pleasure, consciously or unconsciously. Look at the list:
DONT'S
I don't (either entirely, or for the most part):
-communicate with college friends
-go online
-go out with high school friends
-attend concerts, clubs, or bars
-seek out museums
-date, accept phone numbers, give phone numbers, meet new people
-shop for clothing
-buy music, patron record stores, purchase dvds
-exercise, wear makeup, shave, pluck, or buff anything
-dress up
-work on notebooks, collages, books
-read, write

DO'S
I do (more than the past, or excessively):
-watch television
-lie down for hours
-sleep
-text-message
-eat
-drink soda
-work
-tag along to errands
-babysit

Most of the things in the DO column that look restful--food, drink, tv, sleep--i indulge in to make me gain weight, to perpetuate unhappiness. Now, why do I do this? It isn't a conscious decision, as I am a person who embraces life. Rather, i think I'm punishing myself for living at home. On some level, I recognize that if I get comfortable, my life will not progress, I'll never move on and out and up. And so, while I live at home, I am forcing myself, my mind, into a state of painful, conscious hibernation--a bit like a mental straight jacket.

Now that i've realized what I've been doing, the question becomes should i change the process or not. I honestly think not. Every week I undergo this kind of mental torture, i become callous and tough in the best of ways. It's the ever tightening coil, and when I let it spring, my life is going to be extraordinary. I recognize that to have the best life I possibly can later, I will have to be flagellated now, and I will embrace it as much as I can. I'm just excited I've finally figured out why I've been so inert, unresponsive, both mentally and physically.

I suppose in a way it's a bit sad--a bit like Roark being banished to the quarries, but things aren't nearly as dark as they were a few months ago. I now average roughly $20 a day on one contract. It doesn’t sound like much, but that's after a month of working off the simulator--my contemporaries got to that stage after 6 months. In order to move to New York, I need to average $100 a contract, and bump up the number of contracts i trade to 3. That would be $300 a day, $1500 a week, $6000 a month, enough to barely survive in NYC. So things are developing slowly, but they're developing.

Speaking of my short comings, I have to say: the geniuses at Taco Bell have done it again with this Crunchwrap Supreme. So get this: it's like a beef tostada, but with nacho cheese sauce and sour cream, wrapped in a tortilla and grilled like a quesadilla. It's the frickin, mothereffin' best thing since the Cheesy Gordita Crunch, I swear.

Billy Corgan has a new solo album out. Saw the video, was pretty gorgeous. Heard from nickd that he put out an ad in the trib (anyone want to be my best friend and send me a copy?) about putting the Smashing Pumpkins back together. I don't know, I shouldn't be giving his 'return' the cold shoulder, but I really don't need it. His music was my voice for most of high school, he spoke for me, to me, and created a strange intensity of emotion within me that I haven't yet replicated towards any person. But I packed him and those emotions up, but them away neatly and without drama after the Northwestern Zwan concert a few years ago. At a moment in my life where most of my loves are in the DON'T column, I don't want to get emotionally invested in Billy Corgan. It's a similar relationship to Lakshmi and Modest Mouse Isaac, or Adele and a pre-green album Rivers Cuomo (at least I'm guessing). Who knows? Maybe it'll be easier now that I'm a lesbian.

I mean, it makes sense I'm a lesbian right? I mean, I look a bit like one, I hate shaving and cuteness. I check girls out. I guess the only difference is, ummm, I really love cock, basically. I just hate dicks, and that seems to be all that there is on this side of Provo.

marriwinkle: i am looking at pictures of sicilian burros online
marriwinkle: and they are so f--ing cute
marriwinkle: they come up to your knees or so
AlexiaIscariot: do they?
AlexiaIscariot: eeee!
marriwinkle: http://www.birdexchange.com/donkeys_sold.htm
AlexiaIscariot: it's like having your own miniture llama/donkey hybrid
AlexiaIscariot: something i've ALWAYS NEEDED
AlexiaIscariot: the world needs this mary. I need it
marriwinkle: it does!
marriwinkle: nothing soothes a wounded spirit like a miniature donkey/llama

The CLT Conf. Round Two.

wow. I engaged in a record number of awkward conversations today. I guess that's what it means to "network." I even made successful small talk with some people I met at last year's conference or other events. I looked really lawyerly. Only three people commented on my piercing! huge success!

So remember what I said about wanting a boyfriend? I changed my mind. I'm totally becoming a lesbian. Walked to the store again, and within 2 blocks--2 BLOCKS--I had a guy in a truck make a u-turn and pull up beside me as I'm walking down the sidewalk. He follows me the entire 2 blocks honking, then pulls into the parking lot I have to cross to get to the store. When I glance over he waves at me while giving me air kisses. I put my head down and slump into the store, where I spend the next half-hour hiding in the bakery section near tears. When I come out later, I decide to duck behind some buildings so I wouldn't have to walk along the street, back alley's and such. As I'm walking behind a mechanics shop, these two hispanic guys are coming out, and they do this gross eye sweep, and then walk right towards me, both of them grazing my shoulder as they point at me. I haven't left the apartment since. But I hate men, I need glowering lessons from Adele, and I'm for sure not leaving the house again.

Today was a bad day for people. Mary South and I had a sad chat about the stresses of being adults and being out of school, and then mom calls and gives me the terrible news: Maureen is back.

For those of you just joing us, or those that need reminding, Maureen is my after-work boss (newsletters, computer work) and the divorcee who lived with our family last year for what was supposed to be 6 weeks and ended up being 9 months. Well, mom calls me today and says, voice shaken and panicky, "Mary, what did you say to Maureen?"
"Why?" I am on instant high alert.
"Did you talk to her about moving back in with us?"
I go silent and cold. I think back, and try to remember every instant we talked, and the best I can come up with is, "Maureen, if you're in trouble, you know my family will be there for you." I said this months ago, and yet it somehow got construed as "you may come and live with us indefinitly for as long as you wish without any notification whatsoever" in Maureen's mind. SO she calls my mom today and tells her, not only did I give her permission, but she needs to store some things at our house. She gave my mother no time frame, nothing.
"She said it was fine--that you gave her your room."
I am now starting to panic. "I did no such thing," I nearly yell into the phone.
My mother sounds weary. "Well, she's living in your room. I told her she can't stay, but we'll see. She swears she'll be out by July 8th."
I know she won't be. I know there's already rings on my antique wood furniture, and she's already put spyware on my computer. I know my mom, with a new center and unresolved court conflicts, will probably kill herself now that Maureen is back. I know I will kill myself without the privacy.
"Mary, our garage is filled with her boxes. She swore she only had a couple. There are at least 12 boxes, plus 10 totes and duffle bags. We can't park the cars."

Kill me now.


Finally finished season 2 of the OC. Saw the episode where Death Cab plays at the Bait Shop, and I have to say, Ben Gibbard has the hottest, most sincere expressive voice in the world, but man is he plain, I daresay even ugly, and it is the biggest injustice in the whole world. It literally tears up my heart.

I tried listening to "Everybody Who Pretended to Like Me is Gone" last night only to have the biggest wave of nostalgia hit me in months. It was terrible--it made me realize how truly wrecked I am not to have Mark in my life. Not even as a love interest, just as a companion. I want that effortless friendship back, the late nights and all the trappings of a best friend. I get overwhelmed by how truly isolated in time i feel, with no one around me who has witnessed the major developments of my adult life. I've got to get out of here and move on with my life, but I can't do it without money, and for now, I can only make money is at home. Sometimes I wish he were dead instead of this.

The quilt I've been working on--well, quilt/embroidery hybrid--is turning out better than I had expected. Do you ever look at something, incredibly suprised that such a thing came out of you? You know, like birth, but without the placenta. I'll take photos of it when I'm done, cause I'm like wicked proud. The man hours that have gone into it have been intense, dude. For serious, you have no idea.

Props about the shooting at the keg. I hated the mother effers that went there anyway. The only thing I'm worried about is people will steer clear of Louie's and Nevin's--those places were pretty cool.

I have other stuff, but i kind of have a headache. I'm going to cure it by listening to more Beck. This new album makes me want to be a better person

Disappeared because I was in Egypt for the past couple of weeks.
Now I am disappearing for a much needed shower.

By the way, is that news clip about the cannibal abortionist real? Because I fell really hard for the manbeef scam, and I don't want to find out that what i thought was a real man microwaving fetuses just turned out to be anti-abortion propoganda

"The Master and Margerita" turns out to be one of those books which, while reading, you intensely disrust, but doesn't seem to leave you. I keep thinking about it, turning it over, a trick Joyce used to do, so bravo to Bulgakov for keeping me enthralled in a book after putting it down.

I don't know what's wrong with me. Being in Provo, the climate's just like Southern France--hot and dry, and all I want to do is sleep. In fact, anything less than 10 hours of sleep makes me exhausted and annoyed. Attempted topless sunbathing today, (margaret's apartment complex is now almost completely abandoned) and lasted less than 20 minutes in the blistering heat. Instead i came back inside and returned to "The OC". I hate Margaret so much for getting me addicted to garbage like this--it's seriously just a hip "Beverly Hills 90210". What I hate even more is the fact that all the music they play during each episode is completely awesome. Album Leaf, Interpol, Frou Frou, Death Cab, not to mention the guest bands--Rooney, the Killers, The Walkmen, Modest Mouse. I actually knew that what Hamilton Leifhauser and I had was real when I saw him on the OC and my skin began to crawl with lust and love. I do, it's true, I love him so much, and i my regret at leaving him outside a club is palpable. When I did Lakshmi's "Who is your Indie-rock boyfriend" test, Hamilton was my match. What more proof do you need?

Margaert's fiance's brother (heretofore Brett) stopped by last night and interrupted an episode where Ryan was going up to Portland to try and convince Seth to come back home. Brett came over simply to talk, which he did. Talk and talk and talk. One of the subjects that caused him to soapbox was the notion that society is crumbling because of the increase of sexual activity before marriage. Now, as many of you who know me more intimately may be aware, I have a habit of getting this look on my face when I'm specifically "entertaining someone"--ie, allowing them to prattle on while I look on condescendingly. This is not one of my better traits, and I've been trying to keep it in check in recent years, but when people really start entertaining delusions of intellectual superiority, the smirk comes out. Brett called me out, and asked me to explain what then was the result of a deteriorating society if not premarital sex, if I was so smart. I argued that it was the result of increasingly laziness and a societal emphasis on pleasure-seeking and leisure. We're taught instant gratification, to super-impose pleasure before work, and if relationships aren't tingly and fuzzy, we abandon them because we have no work ethic, we have forgotten that many of life's best rewards are quiet, soft, and require work to attain. AT least vis-a-vis marriage. I argued that really, outside of the mormon church, marriage is an arbitrary line, and sex in a relationship before or after that line isn't really as important as sex before or after a mutual melding of rational minds. I'll have to go into this theory another time, I'm not explaining it well, but i drew a distinction between relationship sex and recreational sex which Brett didn't appreciate. By the end of the evening i think he felt a little weird by how much I knew--i think he called me sexually liberal and someone who didn't respect the sanctity of sex, even though I think I respect sex more than anyone. Ah well.

But Brett suprises me by calling up this morning and asking for a ride to Logan so he can drive back his motorbike. Problem is, a) I woke up this morning realizing that Brett looks EXACTLY like Dave Kieley, and b) Logan is 2 hours away. But honestly, it's not like I had anything better to do than embroider, watch the OC, and read Hornby's "The Polysyllabic Spree" (the first chapter of which, delightfully, encourages the reader to pick up the collected poems of Robert Lowell). Brett improved during the drive, as he wasn't on any soapboxes, but he did have a habit of asking way too many questions as the result of not listening closely enough to what I was saying. He also took us to a diner in Brigham City called Dixie Grill which had some of the best burgers and fries I've ever had. Ever. I'm not being hyperbolic here--I honestly can't think of better burgers and fries. I also tried something called Apple Beer--a non-alchoholic hard cider. Mmmmmmm.

I realized, talking to Brett, that I've become very, very uncomfortable talking about most of the men in my life. Take for instance, Mark. We were only technically boyfriend and girlfriend for 4 months, but that doesn't mean for three years after we weren't something else. I refer to him as my best friend, but then when we're talking about relationship advice, I mention he's my ex, and people always want to know the back story of how my best friend can also be my ex and it's not a story I want to tell. I can't get into why Russ is being a tool without, well, explaining why Russ is really being a tool. I can't talk about Serge because, umm, I've never actually met him, despite he knows everything about my intimate life. If I refer to men like Mark as friends, I look like the fat girl with tons of guy friends. If I refer to them as ex's or 'situations', it's like they aren't part of my life anymore, or it looks as if I'm messed up and can't keep a real relationship from becoming a 'situation'. I just avoid talking about my romantic life altogether, or making vague allusions, but that isn't fair either.

And it isn't helping that after watching all these episodes of the OC, I am mad cruising for a boyfriend. It's insane--everyone is always making out, all of the time, with hot-yet-approachable boys who listen to awesome bands and wear wife-beaters around the house. I'm actually ready to lower my standards to the level of casual hook up--I've been scanning people I've met for potential candidates for dark-corner fumbling and I haven't found anyone except maybe Chad's roommate Chris who is tall and skinny and talks about econ and has nicely cut fingernails, but that's it! And Chris is never around when I'm at the house, so I have no chance to try and see if he'd be game for n.c.m.o. But really, as nice as a hook up would be, as lovely as it would be to just be kissed again, I really want a boyfriend. I want what Liz Phair wants: letters and soda. I want the guy who makes love because he's in it, who doesn't make me feel guilty, who doesn't regret it the morning after, who doesn't regret me. I want someone to spend saturday night with, someone to hold hands with, someone to go to all of these bloody weddings with me, someone who's a 15-minute car ride away. And yes, maybe, have quick lunch hook-up sessions in the bathroom of Chili's, but really, that's kind of a peripheral thing.

I did end up seeing "Batman Begins", and I did love it. I mean, I think I can speak for the majority of americans when I say that Katie Holmes was the weak link in that epic. Man oh man did she suck. Bonnie called it--what was that weird quasi smirk thing she did with her mouth? Why did I feel like she was a 12-year-old playing lawyer? I was ok with the slow first half, mostly because I'm a sucker for ninjas, and Mark got me all into this martial-arts thing, so I enjoy any gratuitous display of suck mad skillz whenever possible.

Listened to Tracey Chapman and the Ataris in the car tonight. "Fast Car" always kind of makes me cry.

My eyes are very hot. The heat is coming from inside my skull. I think I have a fever again.

Finished reading M. Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale this afternoon. Pretty good. I could have done without the last chapter though. No need to clobber us, there Margie: THIS IS A CAUTIONARY TALE. PLEASE TAKE NOTE.

I thought the most shocking part of the story was Atwood's bio at the end, which says she lives with a man and has a kid. I thought she was a lot more hardcore than that. But whatever. That was 1985. Maybe she's abandoned them both since then.

I am really not at all as angry as that sounds.

Anyway, like most books I've become involved with this year, I didn't go slowly and enjoy it, but rather read it in two voracious sittings, flipping pages furiously until my eyes burned. (this also may have something to do with my boiling eyes problem.)

And of course, now I've given over entirely too much of my weekend to page flipping, and haven't done the things I need to do. Like work. And reading that Property text I've yet to crack.

Oh, speaking of property. There are a lot of funky new words I've learned in this class. Property vocabulary rolls of the tongue quite nicely. Try these on for size: "escheat." "intestate."

As Lakshmi previously mentioned about thirty times, Sleater-Kinney freaking rules! They're probably my favorite band to see live -- fun and totally inspiring. They played two encores -- the show ended on "Entertain," the first encore on "Words and Guitar," and the last one on "Step Aside." My only complaint is that I could have stayed longer. Lakshmi and I danced and jumped around a lot.

"Entertain" is definitely the song of the moment. Seriously. Download this song legal/ free from their website NOW!

I think that the world is ganging up to try and make me as uncomfortable as possible. Take two incidents over the past 24 hours.

Yesterday Chad calls Margaret and me and asks us to go out to lunch with his cousin, Seth, who's in town. So Marg and I drive over to his house, and they cuddle on the couch while I finish up "The Master and Margarita." Chad gets a call, then gets up. "It's time to go," he says. So I walk outside and what do I see but Chad's brother Kevin in the car. He takes one look at me and says to Chad (not even addressing me directly) "we're going to have to take two separate cars--I didn't know the sister was coming." Then we go pick up Chad's cousin Seth AND another of Chad's brother Brett. Then it comes out--Seth is going on his mission to Mozambique and this is his last meal before he has to report to the MTC. So not only does everyone think that I've invited myself along (Chad and Marg don't tell them), but I feel awkward as the sister of the girlfriend of the cousin during this, the most important farewell dinner of the young man's life. AND, the cousins take Seth to a hot dog stand, so I am equally embarrassed on Seth's behalf for this rudeness. Then, all the Rasmussens sit at the plastic table behind the stand, leaving one chair left and Margaret and I standing. Then, I somehow get roped into participating in Seth's farewell orientation inside the MTC, something only intimate family usually participates in. The entire thing was sweet, but I mean, I'm a complete stranger and shouldn't have been there. So the entire day was spent on pins and needles, and I went home feeling like a complete reak of nature for no other reason than the extreme pressure cooker of awkwardness.

And as if that wasn't enough, today I had a fun debacle with Russ. Julia calls me the other day and says, "you know russ is in Salt Lake don't you?" The way she phrased it made me think that he had told her, or that it was a message for me or something--I don't know, I didn't put much thought into it, but i walked away with the impression that russ knew i was in town and wanted to see me. So I call him up and he's all, "how did you know I was in town" and I am immediately thinking--uh oh, this isn’t good. But I ask him if he wants to see me and he says yes, and tries for that night, which didn’t work out, so he suggested breakfast. Margaret and Chad had an exam at the BYU Salt Lake Campus at 11, and Russ had to be at the airport at 10, so we decided to get together at 830 for breakfast. So I get up at 745 for the 45 minute drive to SLC. I get in at 835, and meet Russ in front of his hotel. I show up with Margaret and Chad and Russ meets us outside. He tells us he wants to have breakfast in the hotel. Um, ok, I’m hesitant but agree. Then I go in and discover a) He’s almost finished with breakfast, b) he’s at a table for 2, and c) he’s sitting with a pretty young girl, 21 or so, who is preppy and smart (she’s sitting with a copy of Atlas Shrugged by her plate) and completely crushing on him. So immediately, I know that I am not wanted by Russ, or the girl, and I have been lured there because russ, as usual, is too much of a pussy to express what he really wants. So they have to get up and move tables, and then russ didn’t talk to me the whole time, and marg chad and I were forced to pay for an overpriced breakfast. And then there were all of these smaller awkward moments like the intern telling russ “when you come and visit me in college station” and him panicking because he obviously didn’t want me to know he was into her AS IF I STILL CARED ANYTHING ABOUT HIS ROMANTIC LIFE. I do not understand where this paranoia comes from, this constant fear that I am spying or analyzing his life. I have enough brilliant and sexy men to occupy my time without wasting a thought on Russell Riggins.

So while all of these things aren’t enough to make me angry or depressed, I feel like someone has it out for me. I want no more awkward situations—it’s awkward enough just being here with an engaged couple. Though Chad did get me into Beat Happenings. I knew I’d love them when I saw Charles Peterson was their photographer and the ever adorable Steve Fisk produced them. It made me aware of how I need to actually start investing money in a for real CD and DVD collection—not just burns and divx rips.

Anybody bother seeing Batman Begins? Worth my time?

It isn't as if I don't feel bad about it--I do. It's just that several factors have inhibited my posting as of late:
1) The nails on my left hand have become too long to facilitate typing. Cutting them is out of the question, as I would have to do something.
2) I have been in Utah for the last 5 days.
3) I've been trading in real money for the past three weeks, the stress of which is so intense I can only sleep or sew afterwards.
4) Summer vacay is in full swing, so invariably someone is in my room

Interestingly enough, when I'm not blogging, I'm dictating in my head what I should be blogging about, so it isn't as if I've forgotten you.

But yes, right now I am in Provo, typing in between a TV broadcasting "Behind the music: backstreet boys" and my sister and her fiancé making out on the bed. I'm reminded of the BSB's fabulous catalogue, and how much I enjoyed listening to "We've Got It Going On" on the way to school. Margaret's introduced me to the Bloc Party, who have that golden optimism vis-à-vis Marxism that made Rage Against the Machine so adorable. I feel about these rock bands the same way I feel about proselytizing Christians—they mean so well, they’re so earnest—why not let them think they can change the world? I’m not going to be the one to disillusion them.
The purpose of my trip here—ostensibly—is that Margaret needed help driving her car back to Dallas, so I was to come and help her so she wouldn’t have to do it alone. I hitched a ride with some very accommodating families in our ward, expecting the whole thing to be an uncomfortable and awkward experience, but was surprised to find that despite some logical inconsistencies (refusing to patron gas chains like chevron in favor of ‘independent petroleum dealers’; stopping in Moab at 7:30pm to check into a hotel when Provo is 2 hours away) the trip was actually pretty fun. The driver of my car was a cute little 18-year-old name josh. His big sister used to be my ride for seminary-she drove a huge suburban before it was cool, was into punk and ska, and was the only Mormon I could look up to as being cool in my fragile 14-year-old state. She had moved to Houston when I was 16, and now her brother was all grown up and moving up to BYU for college. His choices of road trip music were immaculate—elliot smith, built to spill, modest mouse, postal service, the shins, Johnny cash, and even some Tom Petty and late Beatles for nostalgia’s sake. He was a bit stand-offish, but warmed to me by the end of the trip.

Being in Provo sucks right now. My sister’s fiancé (heretofore named Chad) is very clean living, and has convinced Margaret that fast food, carbonated beverages, and sit down restaurants (he’s quite thrifty) are all terrible, and as a result, I’ve had to scrimp for pepsi. All of my requests for cokes are met with sighs and sarcasms, and to tell the truth, I’m getting very ticked off. My only source of sensual pleasure right now is obvious displays of flavor—so cheap food, sweet drinks, what have you. Yes, I know these things make me chubby, but to make little jokes and insinuations every time I reach for chocolate or mention taco bell is just super annoying. I may be getting all up in this joint and start shooting people.

Like Theron, I have become addicted to the VH1 reruns of season 1: America’s Next Top Model. Like Theron, Elyse is my favorite, as she is like a beautiful little porcelain doll. I was actually so obsessed with her I googled her when the show was over and was pleased to find she was a) still with her boyfriend and b) modeling in South America instead of wasting her beauty in medical school. Despite TV becoming increasingly terrible, vh1 always has something to offer. I am enamored of “Kept”, because I have secretly (or not so secretly) always desired to keep a man. I have come close to that fantasy with Serge—I hope he doesn’t mind being looked after. I kind of get off on it, to be honest—it’s a deviant motherhood

I’m glad Adele and Lakshmi let me do they’re poster art. It’s something I’ve been dying to do for so long, and no one ever asks me. When I was in high school, I used to do these little advertisements for the school literary magazine—8X11 handouts to attach to lockers or on bathroom stalls. I got kind of addicted, and would seriously come up with 10 or 15 a week. Then I got to college and there was no market for my fliers, so I had to give them up. But now my friends are in bands and I can finally do them again! It makes me so happy!

Russ has already managed to annoy and alienate my family after having only been in town 6 months. He told my dad he would sell him the benz, and dad tried to pay him the $1700, and russ turned it down, saying he didn’t have the title yet, but that he would be sure to have his father send it down. SO my dad says fine, we’ll give you the check when the title comes. So then, a week later, Russ sends me a text—doesn’t even call—and is all, “OH, btw, sold the benz.” My dad wanted to know why Russ was so immature, to which my mom replied, “honey, why do you think your daughter isn’t dating him?” to which my dad responded, “I don’t know—I thought it was because he wasn’t weird enough for her.” As if the only thing keeping me from marriage is the ability to find a man who shaves half his head and sends emails in palindrome-form.

Tom Cruise’s generally likeability has been smashed for me by a) dating a little girl and b) yelling at Brooke Shields about her Paxil usage. While I appreciate that medications are often over- or mis- diagnosed in this country, the truth is that in events like post-partum, depression can be life-threatening as a result of chemical imbalances that you cannot control. To assume that Paxil is universally damaging is frightening to me—having someone this famous using his celebrity as a platform to convince people that rational prescription drug use is evil…I mean, ahhh! Terrifying! I get the feeling that America—nay, the world—has gone completely insane, that there isn’t a rational person to be found anywhere. The political climate alone—the way the world buys the propaganda about American imperialism, the way the right buys this idea of hubris because of their power, hubris without any action to further the conservative platform, the way the left can do nothing more but take cheap shots and tear down religion, as if it’s religion that’s making the right act like a bunch of playground bullies. And don’t even get me started on how annoying the libertarian party is. I’ve had to stop reading the news.

What else has developed in my life? Saw a documentary on Enron, which made me do some serious thinking about the effects of a free-market economy when the bottom line becomes more valuable than the moral quality of work. It was as if James Taggart had gotten loose and decided to invest in California energy. Equally horrifying was the 5 minutes of gratuitous full-frontal female nudity IN A DOCUMENTARY ABOUT ECONOMICS. I could have vomited—it reinforced everything I hate about Hollywood. I am getting to the point where I may have to boycott movies as well as news until I can get some rationality and equality back into the fray. I throw around the word rationality a lot, but I honestly feel as if I have to make up for the lack of it. Every time I turn on the TV, pick up a magazine, I want to retreat. Celebrity trash mags are annoying and depressing lately. I feel oversaturated in pop culture, overwhelmed by things repeating the same crazy (and I mean crazy) colorful insanely wrong opinions all the time, everywhere. At the risk of sounding like a hippie, I feel dirty all the time, I feel stressed and frantic all the time—each month it gets a bit worse. I hate the fact that female performers I admire for their grace—women like Nicole Kidman—are botoxing their face into perpetually hard and corpse-like masks. Did you se Rene Zwelliger in “Cinderella Man”? she can’t move! Why is Lindsey Lohan trying out for the role of Skellator? Have you seen the weird eye-lift that Catherine Zeta Jones has in the new TMobile ads? Stop it! How can you be role models for women if you buy and sell the idea that youth is a preeminent virtue? But then, if you talk to men, I guess it is—Mark will date a woman seven years younger but not 4 years older. Russ has a problem asking out a 27 year old. And those are just two men I talk to the most. I could name a dozen guy friends who are fine dating 19 or 20 year olds, but blanche at the idea of dating girls only three or four years older. With otherwise perfectly rational men like these reinforcing all the stereotypes I’ve learned in sex ed, what choice do actresses have but to lie about their ages and freeze the hell out of their faces?

If I’m going to rant, let me go on. I hate Provo. I am currently in the only city in the world where I feel like a bona fide freak. Everyone either looks like they should be on the cover of In Style or, alternately, Ladies Home Journal. Women still curl their hair here! And then there are women like my sister—the indie rock girls, who are all a size 0 or 2 (I am no exaggerating—rare I know—they really are that tiny). So I just feel odd and strange and alien, but not so alien that I can’t walk down the street without random guys whistling or yelling mean things at me. My new figure has become pretty horrible in that respect. I went out to El Fenix with my family a few nights ago and a pack of waiters whistled at me, and here people honk if I go out to walk or drive really slow and yell things that usually involve the words “shake” “ass” or “that”, with different nouns for anatomical parts inserted sporadically. SO in a bit of dramatic irony, now that I do have the ability to get out of my house and go on walks, I don’t want to. I guess it would be different if I ever desired or asked for this sort of attention, but I don’t. I don’t know how to deal with it. Up until now I’ve only displayed a lazy nonchalant sexy for clubs or dates—not exactly the kind of vibe that’s begging people to yell things in public. And it’s summer, so it’s not like I can rock out the baggy sweaters.

I don’t know, this post has gotten kind of negative. Funny, because I don’t feel that negative. Mark sent me a very lovely necklace last week, and Serge has been texting me and keeping me happy. I’m lazy and sleeping well and generally happy. I don’t know—I guess when I’m nondescript I’m most likely to bring down the hammer.

I’m going to watch some chapelle show, Charlie murphy.

Attention: IT IS NO LONGER 1950. Please turn your calendars to 2005. THIS INCLUDES YOU.

(I'm bringing my insides to a nice organ-melting boil as I sit at my desk right now. I will tell you all about it later!)

This is a lot of weight for me to carry -- being the only poster to the CM. No Anne, no Mary for more than a week now. Where have they gone? I don't know. I only have time for these snippity posts these days.

on the porch in binghamton

As if just having a weblog wasn't narcissistic enough, I am now going to post a bunch of photos of myself and talk about how good I look in them.

Summer 2002: will I ever again be this cool?

Summer 2001: I will probably never look quite so good as I did when I went to Trystram's prom.

by the way, what the heck ever happened to Trystram?

Most of my family would agree, I peaked in 1996.

This is my 8th grade graduation.

I want to go to the next taping of this. I can't believe I didn't know about this before. It's freaking cool as hell. Adam's roommate's band, She's Your Sister, is the musical guest on the June 14 show. Lakshmi is in loooove with their lead singer, so I know she's going to watch it. (I'm just kidding Lakshmi. did I mention I miss you?) But we should all go be on the show sometime. It'll be awesome.

I have a terrible problem with google maps. The problem is called "addiction." The problem also has undertones of "stalking."

Here's a couple for you to stalk me by:

Home sweet home.

Home sweet binghamton.

Job sweet job.

School sweet school.

This webpage totally doesn't look like a vagina. Does anyone other than Theron think it looks like one?

Why do I get sick every time the weather changes? Esepcially now! I love the heat. This weather is my favorite. Why in the world do I have a sore throat and a fever? A fever! Of all things to get in the beautiful summer, a shivery/heatbox fever. Lame.

It's also lame that I'm at work on a Saturday again.

Booo.

stephen malkmus (pavement): he is clever, and you
are hot shit. go find a shady lane and fuck
off!


who's your indie rock boyfriend?
brought to you by Quizilla

my indie rock boyfriend is the second hottest guy in music right now. (the hottest is beck.)

It's window-breaking time again!

I can't believe I'm already back in school. And I can't believe how poor it's made me.

And I can't believe how effin busy I am again.

I'm sorry I can't stop to chat.
I'm on my way downhill; I'm going way too fast.

Yesterday totally ruled in every way.

I have nothing else to say.

Saw Lords of Dogtown last night. It's a really fun and sweet movie. And I'm convinced John Robinson is going to be a huge frickin star -- bigger than Jude Law and Brad Pitt combined. Seriously, you don't see a face like that every day. Plus, he's a good actor. Check him out here.

"I'm not your frickin' daddy warbucks."

Today I feel like I've been robbed of the things I deserve. My mood is not pretty. ARG.

Watched "Twin Falls Idaho" last night. It was really good. I like the Polish brothers' slow pretty weirdness.

I bought some cool flip flops this morning and had brunch w/ an awesome friend I haven't seen in a while. that was good.

I have nothing of substance to say right now that I have time to say it.

I think I'm going to go home, do some laundry, clean house and watch a movie. Maybe a polish brothers movie. Maybe "Jackpot" if my stupid blockbuster has it. It probably won't. Maybe I'll go to a bigger blockbuster in my car. the one on north ave maybe. hmm. that's good. there's a gas station over there too. I need to put gas in my car.

my brain is dying of bordeom and lonliness at the moment. that sounds sooooo melodramatic. I'll be fine when I get my stupid period on tuesday. Until then, I'm on the warpath!

Story from BBC NEWS:http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/1/hi/health/4606011.stmPublished: 2005/06/03 10:33:22 GMT© BBC MMV

Curvier women 'will live longer'

Curvy women are more likely to live longer than their slimmer counterparts, researchers have found. Institute of Preventative Medicine in Copenhagen researchers found those with wider hips also appeared to be protected against heart conditions. Women with a hip measurement smaller than 40 inches, or a size 14 would not have this protection, they said. The researchers say hip fat contains a beneficial natural anti-inflammatory.

Narrow hips 'detrimental'

They said this anti-inflammatory, called adiponectin, prevents arteries swelling up and becoming blocked. Fat on hips is different than fat on the abdomen Dr Berit Heitmann, Institute of Preventative Medicine. The hourglass figure has been made famous by women ranging from Marilyn Monroe and Sophia Loren to Kelly Brook and Catherine Zeta Jones today.

The Danish researchers examined almost 3,000 men and women aged between 35 and 65 from 1987 to 1988. They measured height, weight and body mass index - calculated by dividing weight in kilograms by the square of your height in metres. They then looked at Danish health registers up until the end of 1998 to look at how many of the men and women had cardiovascular problems, and up to 2001 to see how many had died. Compared to the group of women with the smallest hip circumferences, women with the biggest were found to have an 87% reduction in deaths. They also had an 86% reduced risk of having coronary heart disease and a 46% reduction in the risk of developing cardiovascular disease, according to the researchers.

Previous studies have found both men and women with small hips are at an increased risk of developing diabetes, high blood pressure and gall bladder disease. However the study, which has been published in Obesity Research, found a wider hip circumference was not linked with better heart health in men.

'Apple-shape' risk

Professor Berit Heitmann, who led the study, said: "It seems that the protection is not a matter of wide hips, it's the detrimental effect of narrow hips with a lack of muscle fat, or bone or a combination of both. She added: "Fat on hips is different than fat on the abdomen. If you do not have enough of this fat you may risk heart attacks."

Carrying excess fat around the stomach, being 'apple shaped', is already known to be potentially damaging to health. Fat cells in this part of the body pump out chemicals that can damage the insulin system, raising the risk of diabetes and heart disease. Belinda Linden, of the British Heart Foundation said: "It has been widely reported that if you are apple-shaped, your risk of developing cardiovascular disease is likely to be greater than if you are pear-shaped.

"This study provides additional evidence of the association between hip circumference and cardiovascular protection among women." But she added: "It is important to consider both your body weight and shape in tandem. Controlling both by eating less and being more active is the best way to reduce your risk of heart and circulatory disease."

Arg! I go back to school AGAIN tonight. no no no no no. And I have to give The Marsh all of my money.

Boo hoo.

Tonight we converge on our way to the coast

Funny. I listened to Jason's new CD last night and when I got to track 9 I thought, "this song is about Mary Jones." and then at the end of the song, Jason says, "lyrics provided by the wonderfully talented Mary Jones." And I thought, "told you so!"

You all should get Jason's CD.

Oh my god, Mary. That poster is freaking amazing. THANK YOU. Dudes -- isn't Mary Jones the coolest?

I like that this blog has turned into a place for people to talk about how hot we are.