I'm surrounded by your embrace.

The obsession with Glee continues. The show just fills me with sunshine. I am sort of a closet optimist, even after graduating high school, and it gives me hope for the sort of happiness achievable for young people. It reminds me a bit of when Book Club was nice. But that's a story for another time.

So work friends were teasing me about my non-existent boyfriend the other day (the bearded, biker one who I'm going to Europe with after meeting him a week ago) and I started thinking about the important men in my life. I can literally count them on one hand. I can't help if going to a girls' school and lacking interest in guys who can't string a sentence together (which is about 75% of them after the age of 13) means I don't really know many people of the opposite sex very well.

Two of my best friends are guys, but they've been around for so long that they don't really have a gendered aspect when I consider them as companions. Like my long term female friends, they're just friends. The only good use for boy friends as opposed to just friends is that boy friends are taller than I am which is more than I can say for most of my lady pals. Which is handy when I feel like leaping into their arms in an aggressive hug. Perhaps I should reconsider how often I do that? Hmm. Nah. Nick and Baker feel like home by now, though. Hugging them is like lounging on my couch. Just something comforting I like to do when I need some rest.

And then there's dear old Dad. He's easy to get along with half the time and excruciatingly difficult the rest of the time. But then, so am I. He was already forty when I was born so he got something of a jump start on the grumpy old man thing people find so frustrating/adorable in later life. I kind of like that, due to my older sister, my father was a Grumpa while I was still in high school. That being said, it also explains his persistent irritability and random acts of generousness associated with kindly older relatives.

It is a bit odd that these are the only men I spend any real time with. But what do I need more for? I figure there's no reason to create a need. If I meet someone awesome enough the need will just sort of form itself. Adolescence is coming to a close for me, I'm travelling next year and I'm sure all of my neuroses and prejudices are just waiting for the right Mr. Darcy (or Wickham, even) to break them down.

I mean, who says men and women can't be friends?

Like tryin' to tell a stranger 'bout rock'n'roll.

The order in which I do emotions:

1) Experience them.
2) Write about them online.
3) Deal with them.

A very set order these days, it seems.



I would use neutral language and all that except it seems everyone everywhere knows about my life so what are a few online readers?

So let's start at the very beginning. My Dad's been doing property settlements for over thirty years. He's like the Yoda of a very small industry where everyone knows each other. Seriously, it's a very backward and inbred community. I say this with love because I work in the industry too, as of a few months ago, and I'm actually quite fond of it and my job.

The one problem with such an incestuous community, though, is that everyone knows everyone else's business. All the time. My Dad and I didn't go into work due to H1N1 related issues for a week and everyone knew about it despite there being a very boring, non-descript party line about us just taking the week off.

So now you have three clues. I work with him. It's a small industry. And everyone knows everyone's business.

So the next piece of the puzzle is that my Dad likes to drink. To an embarrassing degree. Like, long winded stories and falling over and needing people to help him home and smelling like those aliens from the Simpsons hosed him down with alcohol so no one would believe he was abducted.

People at work like to make jokes to me about said drinking. And about the way my mother guilt trips my Dad about it. And about how he'd rather hit the pub to drink alone for an hour or two than come home with me at night.

Occupational hazard, I guess.

Tonight my father came home drunk again. For the first time this week, granted, but it is only Monday. My mother lost it at him considering she'd only just gotten off work (he finishes at least an hour earlier than she does) and she'd walked the dog, tidied the house and cooked them both dinner. My father, the eloquent speaker he is when he's intoxicated, started repeating the "F" word over and over again as loud as he could, threw his work bag to the side and stormed out of the house, slamming the door and calling "Goodnight" as he left. I presume he went back to the pub, probably to tell his workmates all about it. Or, at least, to infer it with his very subtle body language. I don't know if or when he's coming home this time.

I'm horrified, naturally. But the worst part of all this? Definitely that I'll have to go into work on Friday and there will be more jokes. Or worse, concerned whispers. I was hoping the thing they'd all be talking about is that I'm finally 18 this weekend. But hey, I've figured out that you don't get to choose why you're this week's gossip.