Movin' on up.

I think pretty much everyone who reads this blog is going to kill me when I tell you that I've decided to move the blog. Again.

I KNOW.

But I've decided to move my blog to WordPress. They have significantly more privacy options, which I'm especially appreciative of, as I plan to spend the next several months going through entries from the last four years and privatizing those I no longer find suitable for public consumption (ie. anything related to my pre-Dan dating history).

So you can now find me here: www.aquaticbehavior.com

And the RSS feed here: http://aquaticbehavior.com/feed/

You may now commence with the murderous glances and angry emails.

UPDATE: I failed to mention that the new blog name is stolen from the fabulous and hilarious Yvonne, who goes by the moniker "Akratic Behavior" on Twitter and Tumblr. If you like cats, dim sum, and adorable drawings of dudes with beards, you should follow her immediately.

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Giving Up

I've blogged and tweeted and Facebooked incessantly about the war on women's rights for the last several months, especially with this being an election year and major decisions being made in that arena.

And now, sadly, I think that has to come to an end.

When I married Dan, I knew his thoughts and feelings on abortion. And he knew mine. And after we discussed at length the hypothetical situations in which abortion might be necessary - ie. a pregnancy threatened my life, or our teenage daughter became pregnant by consensual means or otherwise - I felt that I was comfortable enough with his proposed actions in those circumstances to move forward with our relationship.

But in recent weeks, it's come to my attention that I can't be both politically engaged and happy in my relationship. Yes, I disagree with Dan's views on a fundamental level. But assuming we never have to encounter the aforementioned situations, it's not a fight that needs to be fought. And yet, the current political climate leaves me feeling like I have to fight that fight all the time, because his views are misogynistic, or paternalistic, or blatantly ignorant, or all of the above.

Could I have gone running for the hills after that first date where I realized Dan was a legit Republican? Definitely. Did I? No. Why? Because political views aside, Dan was and is a good person. He is gentle and kind and respectful. He is responsible and hard-working. And he is going to be an amazing father when we finally get around to having kids. (Though in the meantime, he's an amazing father to our four furbabies.)

Could I have dated and eventually married some other guy who would have agreed with me on all things political? Sure. But would he have shared the TV with me when baseball season and football season overlapped? Would he have given me foot massages even though it had been weeks since my last pedicure? Would he have taken me out for sushi on date night even though all things fishy made him gag? I honestly don't know.

The man I married, like the relationship we share, is special. I don't want to see him or our marriage hurt because we can't see eye to eye on political issues that ultimately don't - and may never - affect us. And so as much as it pains me to do this, I am going to disengage myself from political issues involving women's reproductive health.

This means that I have to say goodbye to the dream of someday working for Planned Parenthood, goodbye to the dream of someday finishing all the books on abortion that currently litter our living room, and goodbye to following Feministing on Twitter. (Seriously, do they post about anything else?)

This may seem severe, but for me, this is the only way to handle this situation. My compulsive nature requires that I am consumed by my interests (puppies, baseball, Chinese food, etc.), so there is no way for me to have a relationship with politics and a relationship with my husband. I have to pick one or the other.

And I pick Dan.

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The results are in!

Those of you who follow me on Twitter know that I had Nix's DNA tested so that I could, once and for all, know what kind of dog he was. And not only is he neither a Pit Bull nor a Catahoula Leopard Dog (which was what I was telling everyone he was), but he's got a whole bunch of stuff mixed in there that I never would have expected.

I used the Wisdom Panel Mixed Breed DNA Test Kit to test him, which was incredibly easy - they give you two mouth swabs, you fish around in your dog's mouth for DNA, and then mail it off to the lab. After reading the reviews, I was careful to make sure that Nix hadn't put anything in his mouth (including his dog food, Leela, the couch, a bone, etc.) for several hours before swabbing, as one of the reviews mentioned that it could adversely affect the results. He was pretty mellow about the whole thing, though he kept trying to lick me, and I kept telling him to sit still.

Fast forward three weeks to this morning, and I get an email from Mars Veterinary (who run the lab where the tests are reviewed) to tell me that Nix's results are in. It's everything I can do to not stop my morning routine in its entirety to review the PDF, even though I'm dying to know. (But I'm also dying to not be late to work, so that ended up being winning out.)

At a stop light in Menlo Park, I finally had time to pull up the results on my phone. Here they are, for your viewing pleasure:


 CLICK TO ENLARGE

So not only is my dog not a Pit Bull, he's basically a Heinz 57. BUT, they were able to identify that he's approximately 25% Boxer, 25% Bulldog, and 25% Rottweiler. And those all make sense - he's got the lean build and gameness of a Boxer, but is sized down (and super snuggly!) because of his Bulldog ancestry. Meanwhile, the Rottweiler heritage makes him a total and complete beefcake (and can probably be attributed to his being dog selective), and all three breeds contribute to him having a head so gigantic that he gets tired from holding it up.

But what about that last that's labeled by the "Mixed Breed" dog tags? Well, they gave me a breakdown of that, too:



You'll notice that the primary contributor is the Australian Cattle Dog, which I'm sure contributes to Nix's spotted coat and those lovely herding instincts (aka. chasing Dan around the backyard and biting at his ankles) that we had to train out of him.

I'm sure a lot of people are going to be surprised that he's not a Pit Bull because he looks so much like one, but the reality is that Pit Bulls are technically a mixed breed. They were bred from terriers and Bulldogs, both of which Nix has in his heritage. So it makes sense that he looks the part without necessarily testing positive on the label.

Regardless, I love my Pooty Bean. He's an awesome dog no matter what his genetic make-up is. But I do love the fact that I'll now be able to answer with some certainty when people ask me what he is.

UPDATE: Raeann has brought to my attention the fact that I suck at math. Nix is actually 62.5% "mixed breed," not 25%. And now you all know why I majored in history.

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#marchphotoaday

I don't know when these photo challenges first started floating around the internet, but I first noticed them in late January. I didn't partake of the February Photo-A-Day Challenge, because YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME, INTERNET. But the more I think about it, the more I think it would be REALLY fun to document my life in a way that pushes my boundaries. Because check out these categories: When would I ever take pictures of my sunglasses, or of my keys, or of a piece of trash, if not prompted to by this project?

So starting tomorrow, those of you who follow me on Instagram (and let's be real - probably Facebook and Twitter, too) are going to get barraged with my #marchphotoaday contributions. And for the handful of you who are anti-social media, I'll post a wrap-up post with the full collection of photos on the blog at the end of the month.

Happy snapping!

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He must be really good at karaoke.

Why would I post this to Literally Unbelievable when I could post it here?

Conclusion: I'm a terrible person, and / or the internet is awesome.


CLICK TO ENLARGE.

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Back to Baysics

Once upon a time, I wanted to move to Chicago. And I almost did, until my parents told me that if I went out of state for college, I'd have to take out loans and be in debt forever and ever. So with my acceptance letter to UIC weighing heavily on my mind, I instead accepted admission at UC Santa Cruz, about an hour and a half from my childhood home in San Francisco, for which my way would be paid in full without my accruing debt.

I spent the next three years being homesick, every single day. Not so much for my family, but for the city of San Francisco. I came home at every opportunity, revisiting the places I had loved growing up and wishing I could make them a part of my daily routine.

When I graduated from UCSC in 2006, I was determined to move back to San Francisco. I had my heart set on becoming a journalist, and applied to every newspaper and magazine within city limits. But of course, with journalism dying off in favor of online print formats like blogs, none of them even called me back. So I instead took a staff job with the online education program I had worked for as a student in Santa Cruz, and then eventually my job in Merced, all the while wishing and wondering how I was ever going to make it back to San Francisco.

I was convinced for a long time that no one could leave San Francisco and ever make it back. Between the city's expensive living and competitive job market, it seemed the only way to spend both your childhood and adulthood in the city was never to leave at all. I kicked myself for leaving in the first place, wishing I had just gone to San Francisco State like so many of my peers.

Then I met Dan, and two years later, he got a job that would move us back to the Bay Area. I was sad about leaving my house and my friends in Merced, but ecstatic at the chance to get back to my hometown. Of course, we wouldn't be able to move there at first - the change in housing prices from what we were paying in Merced was too huge a jump to make suddenly, and Dan's job required that he live in the East Bay - but it was definitely progress.

But now that we're here, within striking distance, I'm finding that my husband is unwilling to strike. He "hates San Francisco," he says. He doesn't want to live there. And I just can't wrap my head around that.


IMAGE COURTESY OF DIGITALSIGHT.COM

I read Tina Fey's Bossypants last month, and she has a great line in there about city folk vs. country folk:

Trying to force Country Folk to love the Big City is like telling your gay cousin, “You just haven’t met the right girl yet.” They just don’t like big cities. It’s okay. It’s natural. They were born that way.

What this leads me to conclude is that Dan is gay. For the country. (Or at least the suburbs.)

But I need my husband to learn to at least tolerate San Francisco, if not like or love it. Because I want to raise my kids there. I want them to learn to use chopsticks before they can use a fork. I want them to attend one of the top high schools in the nation, against their will, just like I did. I want them to not learn to drive until they're forced to by the God-forsaken town they attend college in because why would they need a car when they have Muni?

In short, I want my kids to have the same opportunities and experiences that I did growing up in the city. Public school in one of the most diverse cities in the world taught me about different races, cultures, and religions. Riding public transit taught me responsibility and made me independent. Shopping on Haight Street taught me not to give money to runaway teenagers from Nebraska just because they harass you for it. And by the time I started college, I was better prepared to balance my schoolwork, part-time job, and underage drinking than any of my peers from suburban or rural backgrounds.

I know Dan's frustrated, because we've moved three times in five months. And I'm not talking about moving any time soon. I'm committed to what I said after our last move, which is that I didn't want to move again until we bought something. And I don't want to have kids until we buy something. So doesn't it make sense to buy in San Francisco?

I need to figure out a way to convince Dan that San Francisco is the right girl.

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