The weekends....the weekends

I'm living a schizophrenic existence.
Weekdays = Dreary. Boring. Owned by The Man.
Weekends = Bliss.

Here's proof.
Me on a workday:


Me on the weekend:


Ok, so this weekend was superb. Brayden the Mighty Asian came to visit and...well...we get along great. This is us:





We hung out under here:


...which reminds me of this part in Baywatch where Hobie has his whole no-dialogue-bad-music-way-too-long scene with footage of him jetskiing and running shirtless and kissing a girl under a pier. Or maybe it was Saved By The Bell. Anyway, under the pier is hot.

We watched a progressively beautiful sunset:



And Brayden graciously offered to herd a bunch of birds my direction so I could pursue my wildlife photography career.
I think these are sandpipers, little baby ones. I like the big ones. I can watch them go all jack-hammer crazy in the sand for hours. I'm just waiting for one to strike oil, or, strike something hard and break off their skinny beaks. Gross.




He'll make a fine shephard some day.

So pretty much that's it for pictures. Blogging takes forever.

Other highlights:
--Delicious Japanese food, prepared by Brayden
--Sleeping in, sort of
--My first HB volleyball game!
--Chronic Taco
--Baby vegetables and mini cakes
--New basket for my bike. My bike! I forgot to get a picture of it!!! I will very soon.
--Dairy Queen. Don't ask me why, but Dairy Queen was my favorite part.

It was a good weekend. Thanks, Sir Brayden.

PS I had a lovely weekend with some of the girls last week, but failed to bust out the camera. If anybody provides me with pictures, I'll post those too!

Smitten Kitten

I was meant to be a cat.



All cats ask for is a spot in the sun, to be petted (not heavily), some independence, and baths only every so often. I want the same things. It’s so little to ask, really. I could take this analogy further, but I won’t…because I know it’s only cool to hate on cats. Suffice it to say that I find it easier to relate to the cat mentality than to that of, say, oxen.

The poor ox, beast of burden. He is stuck working his whole life, and for what? Oats? What the heck do oxen eat? And is there any other animal that gets an ‘en’ after it to make it plural? Point is, they do the same thing every day and it’s backbreaking, heartbreaking labor. Some would say “ah, but they’re beyond pity because they’re built for it. They’re made for that kind of work.” And that may be true. But therein lies my problem: I’m no ox. I’m not built for hard labor.

I like pretty things. While sometimes I credit myself with depth way beyond what is my due, when I’m honest I know that my interests only run about skin deep. For example, I’ve studied art--I know some stuff about why artists do the things they do, and what it all means and why we should care about it. Instead of caring about it, I roll my eyes. I am impressed by artwork I think is pretty. Pure and simple. If it’s nice to look at and I could look at it every day in my house, then I like it. I don’t care if it’s original Van Gogh, TJ Maxx clearance special, or back alley Stormin Norman. Same with music, lyrics, movies, speeches….people. Ha. Ok, not really people. Ahem. So. Here’s the key to any hope for my character: If it’s pretty, then I’ll think about it. Not always, but most of the time pretty things cause me to marvel at their prettiness and then either dig deeper to find out why they’re pretty or just let myself be filled with an intense desire to create pretty things or BE the pretty thing. I don’t move far beyond that, but at least I think about it.

This being the case, I’ve gravitated toward pretty careers. As my dad says, I draw the smiley faces on bombs used in the war. I love doing flowers, and I can’t really say it’s because I create the best looking arrangements or am uniquely gifted at it—often I just love being surrounded by beautiful flowers. But in the end, anything I’ve chosen that I try to make fit my enjoys-pretty-things mentality just becomes another job because I have to do it all day every day.

The real point of this randomness is that I’m not an ox. I’m really not. I’m not cut out for full-time work. I don’t know quite what I’m cut out for, but it’s not hard labor. I say hard labor because that’s what I feel this is. I’m not afraid of working hard—I’ve worked hard in school, I’ve worked hard at certain things I want, and I usually work hard at my jobs when I need to. I’m calling this—being stuck in an office, stuck in traffic, stuck depending on a paycheck that will never cover everything—hard labor. I’m not the career girl. I’m not an ox! I’m a cat! I’M A CAT!

I’ve alluded to this before, and I’m a little afraid of how intensely I’m feeling this currently. Call it a new job, call it stagnant career path, call it grass-is-always-greener-on-the-other-side, call it what you will. But I’m calling it quits with this whole career thing. I don’t care how pretty “design” is supposed to be. I’m marrying a rich philanthropist anthropologist (old money) and we’re traveling the world to look at pretty things. Then we’ll give people money so they can do whatever they want with it. Good plan, yeah?

The end of that diatribe. I'm long overdue for some pictures with my posts...but sadly I've taken none. Huntington is pretty. My weekends are the sublimest of sublime. So this weekend I'll get to the picture taking and leave the complaining behind! Huzzah! (In the meantime, enjoy these photos of delightful kitties doing what kitties do best)