One equal temper of heroic hearts

I think the stress of work has started to imprint itself on my subconscious. Last night I had a dream that Linda, our digital media supervisor, prescribed me Ritalin to help me remain focused during the day. I was so relieved. Like, in dream terms? I was as relieved by that as I am when the giant mutant shark (that haunts 80-90% of my other dreams) gives up chasing me while I'm swimming off Amity Beach. I think I've got a handle on my stress level. Of course, when a webbie gets an insta!medical degree and starts prescribing you medication, there might be some latent stress issues that require your attention.

I called Valparaiso this afternoon with some follow-up questions about financial aid. As of today, it looks like I'm good to go. Tuition is about $4300/semester for nine credit hours (which is considered "full time" for all graduate students) and I was told that books are about $400-500 on top of that. That leaves me with a nice cushion I can use to pay rent, utilities, and occasionally eat something outside of the Frozen Foods section. I won't get a check until I go through the financial aid interview process (read: fill out an online Promissory Note), but I should have enough money in my checking account right now to put down a couple months' rent when Todd and I go apartment hunting. Which was supposed to happen this weekend but, with the Obama thing, I don't know if I'm going to be able to go. Todd was talking about going by himself and photodocumenting anything of note, but I don't want to put all of that on his plate just so I can work the phones for a few hours. We can't really put it off much longer at this point, either, because we're so close to leaving (3 and a half months, approximately) and having a place to live is, you know, kind of important.

Being a grown-up is terrible. You have to make all of your own decisions. Balls.

The vinyl of Let It Bleed is, not unlike a paramasturbatory fantasy, one of those things you take with you into a dark room and work out until all manner of demons inside of you are exorcised. I like to listen to it when I'm alone.

Todd bought me the London LP today. Plus, I've always wanted an excuse to use the word "paramasturbatory" in an entry.

We went out at midnight last night to get House S4, and Dexter S2 on DVD. If you ever want to feel better about the direction your life is going or if, like me, your tastes run toward the mildly masochistic, check out the midnight crowd at Walmart. The lighting in that store never changes, so it's kind of like you're standing at the North Pole experiencing six months of blue-white daylight. And, like the North Pole, Walmart is filled with lumbering white creatures trying to stock up on their winter fat. Not that Todd and I set a very progressive example for our midnight run -- we weren't exactly equipped to pass the Grey Poupon while wearing our very function-tops-form pajama pants. While we waited for a sloe-eyed stockboy to unpack the goods, another customer standing nearby gave me a knowing look and said, "I bet I know what you're waiting for. Gossip Girl, right?"

I felt a little bad about myself.

I mean, I'm sure it's a great show and all, but, seriously, you guys --



-- good taste is nothing if not overt, desperate, and a little more than slightly pathetic once the pictures are developed.

Here's the second assembled part of our European travel log.

( DAY 4 : COAGH, COUNTY CORK, IRELAND )

( DAY 5 : DUBLIN, IRELAND )

( DAY 6 : LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND )

( DAY 7 : BELFAST, IRELAND )

Todd proposed to me in Trafalgar Square. I said yes.

Todd is pretty fantastic.

Even now, a year and four months down the line, he's still capable of surprising me. Last night, for instance, after we had spent most of the day shopping (I'm a little squeamish about all of my purchases today, especially about what it'll do to my checking account tomorrow), we went out for drinks at this little dive bar and, for about an hour, the conversation centered around 1) the logistics of panfandom roleplaying, and 2) how Michael Crawford will always be THE Phantom in Phantom of the Opera, no matter what Andrew Lloyd Webber says, does, or writes into a ham-handed sequel. The man let me talk about this kind of stuff and, what's more, he remained interested.

Even when I was on my second beer and I started to drop my consonants under the table and, for lack of a better option, resorted to using hand gestures to describe the end of the first act of The Phantom of the Opera because he's never seen it ("So, all of a sudden, the chandelier is like --" [pantomimes choking something with hands] "-- and everybody in the audience is like --" [panic face] "-- and the Phantom is like --") I could tell that he was still listening, still interested, and that's something about Todd that completely amazes me.

A lot of what goes on inside of my head ends up staying there, if only because you can't find many "normal" people around who're willing to listen to me talk, ad nauseum, about House, or roleplaying, or how my heart literally slaps against my ribcage when I hear the string section of an orchestra slide into a crescendo on a minor chord (like it does at about 5:14 during this song, thus giving us an audible emotional insight into the hero's conflicted heart.) See what I mean? Most people don't want to hear that kind of stuff. You're skimming right now, aren't you?

Todd is the first person, maybe in forever, that I've trusted enough to be able to share some of these things with. I mean, really talk about them, not just say something like, "Oh, yeah, I roleplay" and then immediately make amends for it with, "I know it's dorky, right? Order me another drink with one of those grown-up paper umbrellas in it."

I can be myself with Todd. Maybe the most real version of myself that I've been in years. To have that kind of freedom -- to be able to share ideas, thoughts, and passions with somebody else, and to not be afraid that you're going to looked down on for them -- has been one of the greatest experiences of my life. And, in less than seventy-two hours, Todd and I are going to embark on the biggest adventure of our lives to date. I can't imagine sharing that with anybody but him. I can't imagine doing a lot of things without him.

Aaaand if we can make it two weeks together sharing the same cramped cabin and not want to kill each other (at least most of the time), I think we'll be okay. I mean, we'll always have Paris, right?

On my way to the midnight showing of The Dark Knight in about a half an hour and, for serious, you guys, trying to plan for seat availability for a midnight anything is sort of like planning for an invasion in the Middle East (except that there's popcorn and, unlike WMDs, you know that the seats are there somewhere because a high-placed source at the CIA says so.) I'm ridiculously excited for this film. All of the reviews and feedback that I've read has said that the movie meets, if not exceeds, all the hype surrounding it. I came home from work and took a nap so that I'd at least bank a little sleep for tomorrow. I still want to be able to function, no matter how high on bat-fumes I get tonight.

Europe is officially less than a week away and the full force of what I'm doing is beginning to sink in. A co-worker of mine is going to New York City for the week to celebrate her twenty-first birthday. She was telling me about all of the wonderful places in the city that she plans to go (the club scene, of course, as well as a couple of chic little coffee houses and comedy bars) and, while she was talking, I found myself thinking, Wow, that sounds like an awesome time. I wish I was going to New York -- wait. This weekend has been dubbed Pack-A-Thon 08, with a subhead of Buy-Random-Crap-You-Don't-Really-Need-But-Imagine-Will-Be-Trendy-In-Europe. I'm texting Todd every morning, now, with a countdown report (7 days!; 6 days! Are you excited yet?), as if he has no concept of the Gregorian calendar. The More You Know...

My Blog A Penguin Classic book arrived today, as well, which means that I'll have reading material for the plane, and a conversation starter whenever someone at airport security looks inside my purse to see if the number of Tic Tacs I'm carrying jives with airline safety regulations:

Airport Security Personnel [passing the big whining wand over my hips]: "Rousseau, huh? Did you know that he was abandoned by his father at an early age and then went on to father five children by a servant girl?"
Me [WeeeeoOoOoO!]: "He also campaigned for independent thought in his literary works, and tackled such lofty subjects as organized religion, the societal imperative to conform, and the sleeping monster of an organized political state."
Airport Security Personnel: "I also hear he was a bit of a ponce. Would you remove your shoes, please?"

Or, you know. Something like that.

Also? This song uses the word "butt" a lot. HEE.

Todd bought The Dark Knight midnight showing tickets!

Also:

[Note on counter beside plate of cake - Mother's Handwriting]: Somebody eat this.
[Note to the left of empty cake plate - Father's Handwriting]: If I must.

Lulz. Family love cake.

Todd and I went to the mall last night to buy a couple pieces of incidental luggage for the trip. We both have suitcases, but Todd didn't have a carryon and, because it's virtually impossible for me to walk out a department store without at least two bags slung over my arm, I came away with a stylish little travel tote from London Fog, which will be perfect for the plane. As a birthday present, I bought Todd a messenger bag from Banana Republic, which adds up to, oh, about sixty cubic feet of bag space between us. Perfect. Not that either of us have too much to bring on the plane -- iPods, a couple of books, Hulk Hands -- but you can't plan for a trip like this without having the ubiquitous "honey, are you sure this will fit in the overhead bin?" conversation with your significant other. Just as it's required to participate in several other pre-travel rituals (the haircut, mani/pedi, language classes, underwear shopping) because, let's face it, everyone in Europe knows that Americans are 1) well-groomed, 2) fluent in the native language, 3) wearing very attractive lace knickers that, in retrospect, probably weren't the best thing to wear on the day of the all-walking tour of Dublin.

This trip is going to be surreal. It's hard to believe that, in less than a month, I'm going to go from

this:


to this:


If I've Googled correctly, I believe the gentleman on the right is none other than David Mundell, Conservative MP for Dumfriesshire, Clydesdale & Tweeddale.

[Text message conversation]

Me: My Astronomy Picture of the Day looks like two penises colliding.

Todd: They must be part of the Musical Theater Nebula.

Me: OH MY GOD YOU JUST KILLED ME.

My productivity is a lot like my wireless internet connection. In that it never works when I want it to, and that it's often waylaid by pornography. I'll be halfway through a project -- for instance, filling out the online forms for my federal student loans -- before I'm distracted by at least sixteen different trains of thought, each of which requires some form of immediate investigation and follow-up. For instance, as I was typing that last sentence? I was simultaneously thinking the following:

- Has Billy Zane done any quality movie since Memphis Belle?
- What would I look like as a blonde?
- What would Billy Zane look like as a blonde?
- Do Elvis Costello and Diana Krall share an iPod?
- What would happen if Todd and I had to share an iPod?
- Would I get more respect in Europe if I was a blonde?
- I think my iPod could take Todd's iPod in a fight

I did finish filing for financial aid. It just took me a couple of hours. And I've also been considering a nap for the last three hours, but now it's getting to that sticky point in the day where you end up having to forfeit any hope of napping because it's too close to bedtime. It's nap limbo.

I've got to go do something productive.

Like watch television.