I’m in line at Starbucks when my phone rings. I still don’t recognize the iPhone ring tone, so I stand there thinking, Why doesn’t that person at least silence their phone if they’re not going to answer it? for a good ten seconds before I realize it’s me.

I don’t recognize the voice on the other end at first.

He starts talking. I answer, confused, thinking it’s S since it’s a Chicago number. It isn’t until he says, “I miss you. Are you in Denver?” that it hits me.

Old Dave!

I smile into the phone. I purr an “I miss you too” back at him. It’s ten o’clock on a Monday.

Old Dave is not a gentleman, but he is a great dresser. He looks like he woke up in a Banana Republic ad. No, better. He is the one who told me that “Birkenstocks are the sweatpants of the shoe,” and that no one would ever love me if I wore them. Old Dave never loved me.

He’s a character of his own creation. He’s part Mad Men, before Mad Men was cool. Every time I think of the Smashing Pumpkins, I think of Old Dave. His tastes are antiquated and disparate.  It’s all part of his shroud of mystery.

As the conversation winds down, Old Dave asks me about my romance novel. Yeah, that one. The one I never finished writing. I sent a few chapters to a few people, back in 2010. I hope they never read them. The writing was weak. Limp, if you will.

I tell less people about that now. Real adulthood seems to shun those with literary ambitions, especially the ones who want to write romance.

It’s the third time in a week I’ve been asked about my fiction. I haven’t written fiction since the bad romance bit. It may have killed my desire to put imagination to paper. It certainly killed my credibility as an author. Oh, I’m wincing now. I’ll dig some of it up and publish it – it’s so bad, but I promise you’ll have a good laugh.

I told J last week that I’d write some sci-fi based on a dream he had. I’ve never tried to write sci-fi, and personally don’t really care to, but hopefully this will turn out well. I’m excited. I already know where it’s going, so now it’s just a matter of sitting down and trying to make it work. This excites me. The prospect of writing again is secretly thrilling.

I love my friends.

I have friends who like knitting, libraries, philosophy, drinking, sports, adventure, techno music, rap music, nature…My friends don’t always like everything about each other. They don’t always like everything they like at one time.
But the one thing my friends have in common in their passion. They are all incredibly passionate about something. E is passionate about law. M is passionate about books, literature, and libraries. J is passionate about music and film. I am passionate about the human experience and how our sexuality plays a part in that.

I love having the kind of friends that you can really argue with. Not petty fights, but full-on actual factual arguments. There is a line between asshole intellectual and spirited debater that we all walk really well. I don’t ever feel as though anyone is being disrespected or talked down to, and that’s why I think our debates always end well.

M and I, even though we’re a thousand miles away from each other, spend a lot of our time doing that. She’s the logical side of the team, I’m the emotions. So when I’m hoping, she’s laying out figures. When she’s she’s following the facts, I try to sway her with feelings and gut reactions.

In that way, we are a really good team. Surprisingly enough, we travel really well together. She does maps, I do motivation. The two of us always find ourselves in wonderful, life-affirmingly insane situations.

Today, we’re chatting about the Occupy Wall Street movement.

We’ve talked Tea Party comparisons, the aim of both movements, the rise of the 53% as a reaction to the 99%. We differ on our opinions of the effectiveness of Occupy Wall Street.

I think that even though the movement has no official structure and that even though it supports a wide variety of interests, it has the potential to foster positive dialog about the political system in this country. A lot of people don’t know the specifics about corporate tax law (I certainly don’t know much), and a lot of people choose to ignore things they don’t understand.

My hope for the Occupy Wall Street movement is that it will raise the voting rates, particularly among the youth. I hope that these protests foster a sense of hope rather than the prevailing despair. Think  “peaceful progress” rather than “might as well keep slogging on.”

I am so pro-protesting. I may not agree with everything (and they’ve been very clear to say that no one has to agree – everyone is autonomous within this movement), but I agree that things need to change. As they chant, “corporate greed has got to go!” I feel proud of my peers, of my fellow citizens. Peacefully, they’ve mobilized a nationwide movement (granted, its origins are rather interesting) that aims to shed light on the current financial situation.

There are no quick fixes. There are no concrete solutions. But there is positive discussion, the spreading of information, the ability to feel as though your voice has been heard. And “this is what democracy looks like.”

There are Tumblr accounts that I’d like to highlight:

http://the53.tumblr.com/ and http://wearethe99percent.tumblr.com/

Both show people holding up signs talking about their statuses in the world. We are the 99 Percent talks about the struggle and The 53 is a reaction to the perceived “whines” of the 99 Percent.
I get that.

The We are the 99 Percent Tumblr is a constant downer. But it’s what really made me realize how difficult things are for people. I mean, I complain a lot, but I’m educated, employed, not drowning in debt, and stable. I’m happy. I’m not looking to drive a sick Aston Martin (or am I?) but I’d also like to really start buckling down on starting my IRA (2012, baby).
They talk about forgiving student loan debt. That’s impossible. You knew you’d have to pay those loans back someday, and you signed for them. Sorry, it’s true.
They talk about corporate bailouts. They’re completely correct.

The 53 talks about, as M put it, lying down and taking it. They talk about not being a part of the 99 percent. They talk about how Wall Street has no part in their lives.
They talk about how they have jobs and no tattoos. About how they’re sick of paying for the 99 percent.

But I argue that the 53 percent are conceding that the system is a mess, even if they don’t realize it.

I argue that the 53 percent don’t understand the impact that the financial sector has on their lives. We are all tied together; there is no way that any single person is removed from the actions of their government. We are collectively responsible for the decisions that are being made, even if it appears that we have no say. As an American abroad, you will be subjected to questions about your president, your bills, your wars, your legislation. Don’t you think you’ll want to be able to explain it?

I attended a private college and graduated with no student loans. I have worked since I was 16. I got scholarships, grants, and am very blessed to have a family that adores me. I currently work full-time in a job I don’t want to do forever, but it pays my bills. I am constantly learning new things. I love the people I work with. I am respected. I babysit on the side because I don’t make enough to cover everything. I have no savings. I am fully responsible for every single one of my bills, except for healthcare, because my mom is awesome. I am financially independent. I belong to a credit union and maintain zero balance on my credit card.
I am not bitching or complaining (today) but I worry about my future. I want to be able to retire and to send my kids to college.

I want to live in a peaceful world. I want to be satisfied that my government has my best interests at heart. I want to believe that my representatives are competent. I want to have faith in our humanitarian efforts. I want to feel as though I am a productive member of society. I want to leave the world a better place than it was when I entered it. I don’t think that corporations should get to make the laws, or pay the people who make the laws. I don’t think that CEOs should receive multi-million dollar severance packages.

That’s why I am a part of the 99%. I believe in hope.

(Cue the Angels in the Outfield kid. That’s really what the world needs…)

This weekend is a Mom and Katie Away weekend. We’re headed up to Winter Park to use a Groupon I foolishly purchased in the summer. (Never buy Groupons that are for anything but food! The Tommy’s Thai Groupon: best purchase of my life. Weekend in Winter Park? Undecided.)

I am excited for hiking, for swimming, for sleep, and mostly, not to have to deal with anything for a couple of days.

I got my new phone today, so I’ll be testing out the camera on it. Be excited to finally have a blog with pictures on it again! (I know I certainly am!)

I play a lot of trivia.

It must have started with Knowledge Bowl in high school. Mullen did horribly at every meet we went to. We were never in the running for any trophy, but we did have a lot of fun. At that point in my life, I thought Knowledge Bowl was the greatest thing in the world. I still think that, actually.

I don’t necessarily think I know a lot of stuff (although, shameless self-promotion: officially in the 90th percentile for MAT scores, so I must know some stuff. Or be really good at guessing).

I suck at sports questions. I suck at science questions. I suck at 80s hair metal and geography.

I rock at weird stuff.
Once, the question was something along the lines of “What does Kim Jong Il have the world’s largest collection of?” And I knew it. Without even batting an eye I threw down the answer.

We played in Chicago at Hamilton’s. That’s where we met the first set of Irish. That’s where we drank, and lost, and drank some more. The Battle of Hastings. 1066.

We played at O’Donovon’s. Maddie and I were always Team We Put the “Rad” in Colorado. I still think it’s cute, but you’re welcome to disagree. Whenever I eat a miniature corn dog, I am immediately transported back to that bar. Miller Lite and corn dogs and mustard = my college heaven.

We played in Boston. “Frank Sinatra is not Daniel Craig.” That was a great night. That’s the night I learned never to yell anything about the Patriots coach. That’s the night we put Mickey Avalon on for the entire bar to hear. That’s the night we wandered around in the rain forever with no cab in sight.

We play weekly here.

I always save the answers I don’t know for S, and then he tells me the answers immediately. (They’re usually sports questions. Or questions about Australia or Chicago or history.) It’s our Thursday night thing.

We usually do well. I think a lot of it is a result of the team spreading the age gap between 21 and 60 (give or take a few years on either end). A lot of it is that some people are history majors, others communications, others do computer programming, massage therapy, medical work. All of us have different life goals and are passionate about a wide array of different things. But that works to our advantage. And that’s how we win.

The story goes like this:

I meet K, M, and J at a club one night.  A DJ dude who I’d been introduced to earlier walks over, proceeds to start talking to me (yelling at me, same difference), and then spills my drink on me. Nothing says I’d like to date you like gin on my skirt. So I give him my phone number. Mistake One.

I mean, he’s nice, educated, employed, but not really my type. Lately, my type is business-y men. You know, slacks and a tie to the office. Yum.

He calls me. We schedule date. After the breast cancer stress hell that was last week, I reschedule date.

You know when you push something off into the future because at that point, you can’t imagine anything except that exact moment in time and you think “next week” will never come? Yeah, it was like that.
Well, next week is tonight. It’ll be nice to get out, but I’m not looking to start anything until everything else sort of resolves itself.

Last week, B met up with us for “one drink, Katie, then we’re going home.” Of course, we run into the DJ dude who, coincidentally, has the same name. So I panic, hard. Dude I’m dating and dude I’m going a date with. Looking at each other. Naturally, I introduced them.

B1 met B2 and thought B2 was gay. Problem solved. No awkward explanations necessary.

Anyway, after I posted that blog about B(1) last week, I did some thinking. I took it down, because I thought, “Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s me. I’m not giving this 100%.” I realized that since I don’t know where I stand with him, I’ve sort of put him aside as something I don’t want to get too attached to. So I decided to be more attentive, more open, less cynical.

We’ll see. I’m still standing by my original thought, but I’m trying to try. I’ve been trying to be cute. Learning to bat eyelashes and whatnot. (Kidding.)