Happy Halloween.

You can't tell from the picture, but the pumpkin is shorter than a soda can. (It's illuminated by a tea light.) I was doing some grocery shopping in Daiei, spotted the mini-pumpkins, and couldn't resist.

No definite plans for the day other than running a few errands (with my horns on of course).
I've spent an even amount of Halloweens between being out and about or settled in for the night. For some reason, this year I'm just itching to go out.

Matt is back and back to work. On his work days I barely see him, if at all. We leave notes on the mirror communicating information to each other: dinner is in the fridge, going out tomorrow, and (my latest) "While you were away, I broke the bathroom window and the smoke detector fell from the ceiling." (I think he was relieved that was all that I destroyed in his absence.)

He used to leave me notes on my time card at work. Post-its full of love and affection. In the beginning, he seduced me with words.

I write him emails while he's sitting a few feet away from me, knowing that he'll discover them later when he comes home from work and I'm asleep. I send him postcards and letters when we both know I'll arrive back in a few days. I trace the words "I love you" on his back with my fingertips when we're falling asleep.

Matt does not read what I write on this site. He knows it's here, he's seen it himself, but he doesn't read the words. He's not interested in what I say to others semi-anonymously. He doesn't understand why I even write here. I'm not sure if I understand either.

I'll admit to watching Trading Spaces, but the number of room makeover shows on air is becoming ridiculous. I want to see these shows makeover the room of someone who actually needs it: a single parent whose apartment and life is a wreck, not some upper middle class couple who thought their dining room needed a little "panache."

I've been living with Matt for about six months now, but I still refer to the apartment as his apartment. Earlier on the phone he asked me where I was and I replied, "Your apartment."

"Our apartment," he corrected me.

I do think of it as our apartment. It's where we live. But it still doesn't feel like my home.

A few things people never tell the bride about planning a wedding:

-- More strangers will see you in various states of undress than you've ever thought would.

-- If the ladies working at the lingerie shop don't know what a bustier is shop somewhere else because they won't be much help later on when you're standing in the dressing room wondering, "Is this how it's supposed to fit?"

-- The one knowledgable lingerie lady will provide you with a critical assessment of your body parts to help find the right garment for you. (Hey, not all bustiers are built the same.) You will walk away with exactly what you needed to buy, but be left feeling a bit self-conscious and hoping that you never see this woman again outside of a lingerie shop.

-- If your mother tells you she's not going to meddle, she certainly will. She is actually telling you this because although she wants to meddle, she will try her best not to. She will fail miserably.

There's more, lots more. If I could afford it, I would have hired a wedding planner. People say that planners are a waste of money since you can do everything yourself, but I think the money invested into a good planner is worth your time and sanity.

If I had one, at the very least I wouldn't be plaguing you all with wedding entries.

Of course the week Matt is gone is the same week that two of his siblings, plus their respective families, stop by the apartment to say hi, drop off gifts, and pick up items that we were planning on bringing with us when we visit them on Maui in December. In the past two days, I've had more interaction with them than he has in the past year.

I called him on his roaming cell to inform him of their visits. I told him that his niece has turned into a teenager. He paused (doing some calculations in his head) and said, "Well, she's about that age."

"No," I said. "She has turned into a trendy clothes, platform shoes, highlighted hair teenager."

All he could say after that was "oh." For the record, she's in intermediate school. (I'm not sure of her exact age, but I'm not sure of the exact age of most people other than my brother and people who I went to school with.) She has not become shallow or superficial. Talking with her she's the same warm and genuine girl that I remember, she just looks a hell of a lot different.

By the looks of teenagers these days, high school (and intermediate) must also be a hell of a lot different than I remember.

Matt left for his Vegas bachelor party this morning. Even with the time difference, I'm sure at this very moment he's at the craps table. If I were in Vegas right now, you'd probably find me sitting in front of a keno machine.

Despite my preference for it, I think keno is the least sexiest game in Vegas. It's an old man's game. When I was younger, I used to sit in the keno parlour sipping cherry colas watching white haired men play their numbers while their wives played slots and ordered white russians. To pass the time, I would fold blank keno tickets into cranes. People don't talk to each other when they play keno, nothing like the tables. If you try talking to my uncle during a game, he'll blame you if his numbers don't come up.

Matt thinks I'm bad luck. On our last trip, whenever I checked to see how he was doing the shooter would crap out. Personally, I like to think of it as extraordinary timing.

As far as gambling goes, we're pretty much opposites. He doesn't understand how I can play keno for hours on end. I'm sure by now you're also wondering, why keno? I think my answer pretty much applies for everyone's favorite game: I play it because I seem to be lucky at it.

I have a small burn injury on my right arm that's healing very nicely. I got it from the oven while I was baking cupcakes. It's about two inches away from a small burn scar that I got several months back from baking cornbread. Not that long ago I burned myself when I brushed by the rice pot, but that one was very minor and didn't leave a scar.

Almost all of my injuries and scars are linked back to embarassing household accidents. Left forearm, iron. Outside of my left knee, pair of scissors. I have a distinct scar on my right hand from when I dropped a bottle of iced tea and sliced my hand while I was trying to dispose of the broken glass. I remember the doctor being very excited over the prospect of using her new surgical tape (in place of stitches), while I was horrified by having seen parts of my hand that I never wanted to see and hope I never will again.

I don't mind the scars themselves. What I do mind is the embarassment from telling people about my accident proneness when they inquire about them. I can't think of anything creative and impressive that would produce such odd little injuries, so I just tell them the truth. Usually, after the laughter dies down, they take a closer look and nod as they match up in their head the household item to the scar. "That is shaped exactly like the tip end of an iron."

Matt has gotten used to it. The sight of me nursing a new injury no longer alarms him. He simply asks, "What happened?" as he hangs up his work clothes and nods as I inform him as to what household appliance assualted me.

Matt thinks I'm clumsy. I think I just wasn't made for housework.

When I was little apartments fascinated me, so many different lives all boxed in together close to each other, yet entirely seperate. Riding in the back of my father's car at night on our way back home, I used to glance up at the lighted windows and try to sneak of glimpse of someone else's life.

Some nights when I have trouble sleeping, I gaze out my window. Seeing the lights in nearby buildings, I wonder what others are doing or what's keeping them awake... A student pulling an all nighter. A parent worried over a child. A 24 hour supermarket employee getting ready for the early morning shift. A traveller suffering from jet lag. Or a girl, like me, typing at her computer because her mind refuses to lay still enough for her to rest at a proper hour.

I had to dig up my calendar/planner. After I graduated I had put it away in a drawer and never gave it another glance until now. One of the side effects of planning a wedding is forced organization. Matt finds it perplexing that I can be so disorganized at home, but on top of everything else. I can't remember where I left the TV remote, but I can tell him off the top of my head who we're meeting this month, how much our next payments are and when they are due, and who still needs to RSVP off the guest list. I guess I'm pretty on top of anything that involves money.

Yes, I'm a child of capitalism.

Actually, I'm my father's daughter. He rooted his financial values into me as I was growing up. Not only did he talk to me about his own savings, investings, and retirement, he taught me how to play keno and craps long before I was of legal age. Years of corruption later, I've become what my mother calls a "hard" gambler. Think of it like a hard worker, but used in a not so positive light.

Honestly, I'm not that fond of gambling in itself. I'm very fond of winning money, but sometimes gambling feels like work. My mother enjoys gambling, win or lose. My father, like me, is willing to go through the process of gambling for the possibility of walking away with a couple of suitcases full of money. Neither of us finds any pleasure in losing.

Maybe I actually enjoy it more than I'm willing to admit. I've been to Vegas twice this year and have plans for early next year. Definitely daddy's girl.

My wedding is almost two months away and only now have I decided to start folding cranes. I'm not aiming for the traditional 1001, although I'm not avoiding that number either. I'm going to fold until I can't fold anymore.

Every wedding that I've been to has their cranes mounted in some sort of picture. Family crest, kanji, or a decorative picture (like a tiger or bamboo). They are very pretty, but I can't help feeling a bit dissapointed not seeing all of those cranes in their full form: body full and wings spread, not a flat abstraction of something else. If I could, I'd make a huge floor-to-ceiling mobile of cranes like the display of butterflies in Neiman Marcus.

A thousand and one cranes in full flight.

I have issues about paying my bills with "love" stamps as postage. Instead I've been using Matt's "happy birthday" stamps when I mail out my checks. I'm pretty sure the money suckers don't even glance at the stamp, much less care, but I do.

I've recently started to collect stamps. I feel like I'm starting the hobby late in life. It's the kind of hobby that eight year-old boys growing up in the fifties used to have.

I like mail. Receiving. Sending. Stamps. Postcards. Mail art. I don't really wonder why I've taken up this hobby, rather I wonder why didn't I start sooner.

Happy Birthday Mom!

If you were a product you would be described as: Judith is a security camera that rotates at high speed! It is two inches tall.

And here's your kids:

Jennifer is a cricket bat! It tracks its position with GPS!
Keith is like a normal key-ring, but it can be used on the move.

Apparently my brother is confused as to exactly what time of day he should call me because everytime he does I'm asleep. The answer is pretty simple, but difficult: after his bedtime.

He's not six years-old, he's about seven years older than me. He works a regular job, faces traffic every morning and late afternoon, and has a 16 month-old daughter to chase after. His younger sister (that's me) has no job, doesn't bother with driving, and hasn't got anyone to chase after (well, maybe Matt). He wakes at 6a and sleeps at about 10p. My day starts somewhere around 5p.

Mornin :)

I watch far too much television. It's on right now even as I write this. X-Files on Sci-Fi. Sometimes I wonder what I would be doing if I didn't have cable (TV and modem). I think I would be much more productive and get a little more sunshine. Or I would bury myself in books and visit the library more.

Since moving in with Matt I've been meaning to visit the nearby branch of the Hawaii state public library. I haven't been to any of the state libraries in years. Back in high school, for about a year or so, I remember spending a lot of afternoons with my friend Erin at the Mililani branch. I guess we were somewhat bookish, but rather than quietly reading we'd hang out and talk in the back corner filled with cushions enjoying the air-conditioning.

I think working at one of the university libraries for a few years had turned me off from libraries for a while. Hell, years of university turned me off from books altogether. Now only if I could find something to turn me off from the TV.

It's time to turn of the TV and see what happens.

About a week and a half ago I got a call from my friend telling me that she's getting married. I knew she was engaged so in my head I'm thinking, oh they've decided to set a date. I was rather shocked to hear that the date would be less than two weeks away.

(And for all of those who are thinking it: No, she's not pregnant.)

We (my friend, her mother, myself and another friend) had a girl's night out filled with green apple martinis for her bridal shower. Over dinner she declared my other friend and I to be her "pretend bridesmaids." That night ended with pineapples being given out as favors. Her wedding (which was just earlier today) was at the court house administered by a judge who was warm and friendly. Dinner, cake, and much fun followed. It was a wonderfully intimate affair, and I'm so happy to have shared in it.

Her wedding has renewed my energy in planning my own. Both Matt and I have gotten to the point where we think we should have just eloped, but we're too far in (that is put down too many deposits) to actually change our plans. We're doing the fancy-shmancy white dress, down the aisle, hotel reception kind of wedding. And believe it or not, the traditional wedding and reception is more for him than it is for me.

Originally we had planned on a very small bridal party with just a best man and maid of honor, but he wanted two more. So I agreed, but he was rather disturbed to find out that I had asked my brother to be one of the people on my side of the bridal party. (No, he's not wearing a dress.) "Girl! You were supposed get another girl!" And some people think that it's "interesting" that my bridal shower will be co-ed, even though I don't want to leave out my guy friends from any part of the celebration. Several issues have come up on top of those, especially surrounding my choice not to change my name.

Every person who has had an issue with my "non-traditional" plans has given me the same general arguement when they try to pressure me to do it the "traditional" way: "Because that's the way it is."

And I say to all of them, "But that doesn't mean that's the way it should be."

Halloween stuff has been out in the stores for a while now, but only in the past couple of days have I started to think about making plans. Mind you I'm not making plans, instead planning a plan.

I want to dress up, but unless I end up going to some sort of costumed bash I'd feel a bit silly going about my day in full costume. I'm rather tempted instead to do something subtle, like grow my own horns. Maybe one year I'll become ambitious and go as a Tusken Raider. But right now the only thing I have in the works is a black spider web skirt with red lining.

Yes, I can and do sew. I'm dissapointed that most people my age do not. (I'm 24.) Or maybe I just meet all the non-sewers. What's worse is when I do meet the rare seamstress and I discover her secret, she tells me that she doesn't see the point in it. Like me, they were sent by their mothers to learn to sew in the back of a sewing store, but unlike me they didn't find the same joy in the process.

I'm not good at it. My friend's mother can make a lovely tailored and lined jacket, and she has. I am no where near her skill level, but then again she's been sewing for much longer than I have. I consider myself a returning beginner. (Didn't do any sewing during most of my high school and college years.) I'm at the level where I can do zippers and buttonholes, but they still make me nervous.

Crickey, I don't know where I'm going with this. I guess I'm still getting a feel for this online journaling. Matt's channel surfing with the radio and it's breaking up my thoughts. I think I shall go wrestle control of the stereo...

Dream journal entry dated 28 February 1995:

I had a shotgun and I was standing outside with someone. I pointed the gun towards the cloud covered sky and fired. A ghost-like horse came down and transformed itself into a real one and ran away. I fired again and a man came down.

For years I had dreams like that one, bordering between fantasy and magical realism. Watching the moon transform into a lush molten ball. Angels in windows. I don't dream dreams like those anymore. These days when I do dream, I don't bother writing them down. They reflect my waking life, not so much mimicing it, but rather reminding me of my anxieties and worries. For months I kept having dreams that I was back at UH because I made some sort of a mistake and still needed three more credits. Only when I had my actual degree in my hand did they stop.

Matt has action packed dreams, as if he were the star of his own movie. Once in a while, his mind quiets down and he has a dream with me in it. Instead of telling me what it was about, he asks me if maybe I dreamed it too.

I never have, but I wish I could.