Because I don't like drinking from styro-foam and having my feet stick to the floor?

Someone asked me a few days ago if I was "over" the bar scene in Montgomery since I haven't been spotted at Bud's or 1048 in a very long time.

Without being intentionally insulting, I explained that I've just finally decided to stand up for myself and say no.

I don't care how cool you are; if you want to hang out with me, we're going to La Jolla or Michael's Table or some similar place and we're acting like freaking ladies.

Cue my mother reading this and frantically searching for her phone so she can remind me that "ladies wouldn't say 'freaking' Lyndsey."

Anyway, I think I finally snapped some time about two months ago when I was deceitfully led to a place that shall remain nameless, located on Woodmere Blvd. Cough.

I was told later that I behaved melodramatically and that the place "wasn't that bad."

I, of course, denied this until I had the evening summarized for me from another perspective. Apparently my ardent insistance that I needed Purell was received poorly. Whatever.

I also took a radiation-exposure style shower as soon as I arrived home and kicked my clothes into a corner as though they desperately needed to be put in a "Burn in the Event of Cholera" pile... but nobody saw that.

Anyway, this traumatic event quickly led me to a solid conclusion: even if you're my friends, even if you can show up at 1048 at 2:00 a.m. on a Friday night and come off looking like a classy broad who is sure of herself and comfortable in any surrounding however trashy and undoubtedly filthy, I just can't do it.

This may go back to me being a snob, which I have admitted that I probably am, but I feel I had every right to be. I was raised right. I'm dainty for crying out loud. I'm pretentious. It's okay!

In brief, I'm a lady and I can't, won't, and shouldn't ever be surrounded by skanks.

I know, I know. It's counterintuitive to blog about being a lady. In the paraphrased words of Margaret Thatcher, if you have to tell people you're a lady, you aren't.

But I am, so forget that quote for now.

This isn't coming out right. If you take nothing else away from this blog post, please take this: you know what, forget it, I don't even really have a point here. I've had three large iced lattes and I don't even know why I'm blogging. Lord love me.

Somewhere Far From In Between

I finally have a moving plan.

I discussed it with my uncle and he said, at the end of our call, "Lyndsey, just remember: Escape Velocity. Very important. Escape Velocity."

I know exactly what he means. I'm the kind of gal who needs to continually keep up momentum in order to actually meet my goals. If I stop, even for a brief moment, things fall apart. I drop logic bombs on myself, get nervous, and chicken out.

I will leave in October when Rosemary returns. Obviously, I cannot leave before then because she has entusted me with the task of minding her house when Jay isn't there... and I'm pretty sure he would let the cats starve to death if left to his own devices.

I haven't decided yet if this means that I won't visit her in England after all. If I'm planning a cross country move, I should probably rule foreign vacations out of my budget. Of course, that will make me a loser.

Decisions, decisions...

Wanderlust Strikes Again

There is something very strange about living here.

Waking up very early to water all the plants is natural for me, but they aren't my plants; this is not my garden I'm tending to.

When I dust the sills, I know they aren't mine; everything belongs to a woman who is currently somewhere halfway around the world trying to put her life back together just as I'm trying to sort my own out.

The two, fluffy ginger cats know I'm not really their human and honestly, I think they resent me for it.

I recognize that it's temporary, that I'm only here because I'm in limbo between this place and the next big move. Leases and mortgages don't mix well with adventure. I know that. I have neither by choice... but God, what I wouldn't give to have a little house of my own right now.

As much as a person can love a place, I loved my house in Cloverdale. Speaking to Sarah Beth a few weeks ago I determined that we both still think of our times there frequently. We had scrubby post-college furniture and plants in dirty terra cotta pots. We wore cheap dresses and flip flops and walked to 1048 and the Capri. Our life there was just about as beautiful as it gets.

But then I had to get all wanderlusty...

... but just before things got exciting, I had to get all scared about the economy and decided moving would surely give me cancer or something awful like that.

I had visions (read: nightmares) of failing miserably in a foreign city, the language barriers adding accent to injury since nerves make me forget all my languages quite thoroughly. I looked at my bank account, I looked at my job prospects and I said "stay." I'm 24 years old... with a sense of responsibility that is crippling my childish desire to live a carefree life.

So I set up shop 30 miles away. My goldfish mobile is twittering from my ceiling fan, my chalk board is on the wall. It's ridiculous that I can fill the backseat and trunk of my prius twice over with everything of consequence that I own. When I move, I won't even involve a moving truck; everything is already gone...

... so I guess I should stop complaining and start... moving.

Accidental Vacation

I'm going on an accidental vacation.

I had only intended to take off my birthday, Thursday, July 2nd, but was then told that our offices would be closed Friday for the 4th of July holiday and then things just sort of escalated from there until I realized I'd be off for a whole week.

Now I have to plan what I want to do for this vacation.

I want to go camping/hiking and go to the beach. Leave it to me to consider playing outside a vacation.

I've wrapped up all my projects to a point that they can simmer until I return. Leave it to me to only feel comfortable leaving the house once I've truly micro-managed my life down to its very core.

There is a very good chance that this trip will help revive my creativity and awaken my desire to write. I very much hope it will.

I need to take a few deep breaths, swim in the ocean, sleep in a tent, and come back to my keyboard with a more relaxed outlook.

And off I go.

What Comes is Better Than What Came Before

I might not blog much for a while.

There is so much more going on than I could ever aspire to talk about... which is reason #423094823948 I didn't go into journalism.

I spent the weekend minding Tank, Izzy, and Squeak. I blogged about them a few weeks ago.

This means that I spent a rainy weekend strolling through Cloverdale with a large umbrella and a Golden Retriever. It was fun and relaxing and it really made me want to buy a little house in Cloverdale and move back.

Coming back to the neighborhood always makes me feel that way.

You Are Free

Last night I had a rare "this is what it's all about" moment.

My little brother Sam has been home from college for the past two weeks and is going back to Kansas City tomorrow, so I decided we should get drinks.

Earlier in his visit he borrowed my dusty CD book that I hadn't touched in years (since the advent of iTunes) because he needed music. He found some real gems that I had totally forgotten about.

We rode across town with the windows down, singing (loudly) along to Dashboard Confessional. It was like being 16 again. People were staring at us, but who really cares? It was fun.

I got home early, took off my make up, brushed my teeth, picked out a work outfit, put some anti-wrinkle cream under my eyes, and went right to sleep like a good little working girl...

... and then around 3:00 a.m. I woke myself up crying because a migraine had developed while I was sleeping. How rude.

I've had four debilitating migraines in the past two weeks. They get exponentially worse each time. Today I covered my eyes with a pillow and cried for six hours. It's almost 2:00 p.m. and I've done nothing but try to think of new ways to keep from seeing light. Moving hurt. Talking hurt. I had plenty of free time to devise plans for going into my light-filled bathroom without dying. My plan to cover my eyes with one hand, feel my way around with the other, and wimper like a baby worked beautifully. I don't remember now how the wimpering was supposed to help, but it clearly did.

So now I'm weak from it. I feel like I just got beaten up and tossed in a lake of candy syrup. At least the hurting part is over... sort of.

What's a girl to do?

You're Just Living In It.

There is a slight chance that I've become moderately snobby.

Another possibility (and one that few consider) is that I've simply stopped wasting my time on people who are ardently self-destructive and prone to repeating obvious mistakes in their lives.

When people use the word cultivate in reference to relationships, I often doubt if they understand what the word actually means.

"I'm fairly new to this area, so I'm just cultivating good, solid friendships," would be a reasonable thing to expect someone to say if the person were developing and tending to the task of creating and sustaining new relationships; however, it wouldn't be if the person were just running around willy nilly befriending drug addicts and giving them various types of support.

I decided to cut out the ugly relationships because I felt that they were becoming a detriment to my life, my reputation, and my friendships with stable, wonderful people.

I tired quickly of the "I'm going to invite this person so I can't invite this person" game. I am bad at that game anyway. Does that make me a weak person?

Does that make me a snob?

I think it just means that I'm tired of using the precious word "friend" in reference to people who show poor judgment and who don't understand how to enjoy their amazing lives without hurting other people in the process.

The resemblance is simply coincidental.